12. I was first convinced that Christianity was necessary to the happiness of man, and to the regeneration of the world, but had doubts as to its truth. I now saw that much of it was true. In course of time I came to be satisfied that the religion of Christ was true as a whole; that it was a revelation from God; that Christ Himself was a revelation both of what God is, and of what man ought to be; that He was God's image and man's model: that He was God incarnate, God manifest in the flesh, and the one great Saviour of mankind. My objections to miracles gave way. They seemed groundless. I saw miracles in nature. They were wrought on every emergency, even to secure the comfort of the lower animals. What could be more rational than to expect them to be wrought in aid of man's illumination and salvation? My moral and religious feelings got stronger. My skeptical tendencies grew weaker. I continued to look at Christ. I studied him more and more. My heart waxed warmer; my love to God and Christ became a mighty flame. I got among the followers of Christ; I gave free scope, I gave full play, to my better affections, and heavenward tendencies. I read, I prayed, I wrote, I lectured, I preached. I gave free utterance to what I believed, and while doing so, came to believe still more, and to believe with fuller assurance. I used no violence with myself, except my lower self. I went no further in my preaching than I had gone in my belief, and I accepted no doctrines or theories which did not present themselves to my soul as true and right. But I came at length to see, not the perfection and divinity of any particular system of theology, but the perfection and divinity of Christianity, and the substantial perfection and divinity of the Sacred Scriptures.
13. I examined the popular objections to Christianity and the Bible. Some were exceedingly childish; some seemed wicked; some, it was plain, originated in ignorance; some in error. Paine, Owen, Parker, and certain students of nature, came to erroneous conclusions with regard to Christ and the Bible, because they tried them by false standards. Jesus said nothing on the value of representative and democratic forms of government, so Paine considered Him ignorant of the conditions of human happiness. It was Paine however that was ignorant, not Jesus. Jesus was so wise, that Paine was not able to appreciate His views or do Him justice. Owen believed that man was the creature of circumstances; that his character was formed for him, not by him, and that he was not responsible therefore for his actions. Christ taught a contrary doctrine. Owen therefore considered Christ to be in error: but the error was in himself. Parker did not believe in the possibility of miracles: but the Bible contained accounts of miracles. The Bible therefore must be pronounced, to a great extent, fabulous. But miracles are possible; miracles are actual, palpable realities, and Parker's objection falls to the ground. Many smatterers in science object to the credibility of the gospel history on the same ground, and are answered in the same way.
Some objections to the Bible and Christianity originate in misinterpretations of portions of the Bible. The Scriptures are made answerable for foolish doctrines which they do not teach. Some objections seem based on a wilful misconstruction of passages of Scripture. Many objections owe their force to wrong theories of Divine inspiration, and to erroneous notions with regard to the design of the Sacred Scriptures put forth by certain divines. These are obviated by the rejection of those unwarrantable theories and erroneous ideas, and the acceptance of better ones. Many get wrong notions about what constitutes the perfection of the Bible, and look in the Scriptures for a kind of perfection which is impossible in a book written in human language, and meant for the instruction and education of imperfect human beings. There is not a language on earth that is absolutely perfect, nor is it likely that there ever was, or ever will be, such a language. An absolutely perfect book therefore in any human language is an impossibility. But no such thing as an absolutely perfect book is necessary or desirable, any more than an absolutely perfect body or soul, or an absolutely perfect church or ministry. There is a kind of imperfection in God's works which constitutes their perfection. There is a kind of perfection talked about by metaphysical divines, which would be the extreme of imperfection. We have reason to be thankful that there is no such perfection either in Nature or the Bible. Nature and the Bible would be worthless if there were. But there is a practical perfection, a perfection of usefulness, in both; a perfection of adaptation to the accomplishment of the highest and most desirable objects: and that is enough.
The principal objects for which the Bible was written were, 1. To make men wise unto salvation through faith in Christ Jesus. 2. To furnish God's people unto every good work. 3. To support them under their trials, and to comfort them under their sorrows, on their way to heaven. No higher or more desirable ends can be conceived. And it answers these ends, whenever its teachings are received and obeyed. And this is true, substantial perfection. This is the reasoning of the Psalmist. "The law of the Lord is perfect," says he, and the proof he gives is this, "it converteth the soul." "The testimony of the Lord is sure, making wise the simple. The statutes of the Lord are right, rejoicing the heart. Moreover by them is Thy servant warned, and in keeping of them there is great reward." This is all the perfection we need.
14. Spiritualism had something to do with my conversion. I know the strong feeling prevailing among many Christians against spiritualism, but I should feel as if I had not quite done my duty, if I did not, to the best of my recollection, set down the part it had in the cure of my unbelief. My friends must therefore bear with me while I give them the following particulars:—
As I travelled to and fro in America, fulfilling my lecturing engagements, I met with a number of persons who had been converted, by means of spiritualism, from utter infidelity, to a belief in God and a future life. Several of those converts told me their experience, and pressed me to visit some medium myself, in hopes that I might witness something that would lead to my conversion. I was, at the time, so exceedingly skeptical, that the wonderful stories which they told me, only caused me to suspect them of ignorance, insanity, or dishonesty; and the repetition of such stories, to which I was compelled to listen in almost every place I visited, had such an unhappy effect on my mind, that I was strongly tempted to say, "All men are liars." I had so completely forgotten, or explained away, my own previous experiences, and I was so far gone in unbelief, that I had no confidence whatever in anything that was told me about matters spiritual or supernatural. I might have the fullest confidence imaginable in the witnesses when they spoke on ordinary subjects, but I could not put the slightest faith in their testimony when they told me their stories about spiritual matters. And though fifty or a hundred persons, in fifty or a hundred different places, without concert with each other, and without any temptation of interest, told me similar stories, their words had not the least effect on my mind. The most credible testimony in the world was utterly powerless, so far as things spiritual were concerned. And when the parties whose patience I tried by my measureless incredulity, entreated me to visit some celebrated medium, that I might see and judge for myself, I paid not the least regard to their entreaties. I was wiser in my own conceit than all the believers on earth.
At length, to please a particular friend of mine in Philadelphia, I visited a medium called Dr. Redman. It was said that the proofs given through him of the existence and powers of departed spirits were such as no one could resist. My friend and his family had visited this medium, and had seen things which to them seemed utterly unaccountable, except on the supposition that they were the work of disembodied spirits.
When I entered Dr. Redman's room, he gave me eight small pieces of paper, about an inch wide and two inches long, and told me to take them aside, where no one could see me, and write on them the names of such of my departed friends as I might think fit, and then wrap them up like pellets and bring them to him. I took the papers, and wrote on seven of them the names of my father and mother, my eldest and my youngest brothers, a sister, a sister-in-law, and an aunt, one name on each; and one I left blank. I retired to a corner of the room to do the writing, where there was neither glass nor window, and I was so careful not to give any one a chance of knowing what I wrote, that I wrote with a short pencil, so that even the motion of the top of my pencil could not be seen. I was besides entirely alone in that part of the room, with my face to the dark wall. The bits of paper which the medium had given me were soft, so that I had no difficulty in rolling them into round pellets, about the size of small peas. I rolled them up, and could no more have told which was blank and which was written on, nor which, among the seven I had written on, contained the name of any one of my friends, and which the names of the rest, than I can tell at this moment what is taking place in the remotest orbs of heaven. Having rolled up the papers as described, I laid them on a round table, about three feet broad. I laid on the table at the same time a letter, wrapped up, but not sealed, written to my father, but with no address outside. I also laid down a few loose leaves of note paper. The medium sat on one side the table, and I sat on the other, and the pellets of paper and the letter lay between us. We had not sat over a minute, I think, when there came very lively raps on the table, and the medium seemed excited. He seized a pencil, and wrote on the outside of my letter, wrong side up, and from right to left, so that what he wrote lay right for me to read, these words: "I came in with you, but you neither saw me nor felt me. WILLIAM BARKER." And immediately he seized me by the hand, and shook hands with me.
This rather startled me. I felt very strange. For William Barker was the name of my youngest brother, who had died in Ohio some two or three years before. I had never named him, I believe, in Philadelphia, and I have no reason to suppose that any one in the city was aware that I had ever had such a brother, much less that he was dead. I did not tell the medium that the name that he had written was the name of a brother of mine; but I asked, "Is the name of this person among those written in the paper pellets on the table?"
The answer was instantly given by three loudish raps, "Yes."