29. It seems strange that I should have been permitted to wander into doubt and unbelief, and live so long under its darkness and horrors. There is a mystery about it that I cannot understand. But what I know not now, I may know hereafter. The mystery of Job's trial was explained when his afflictions were at an end. The mystery of my strange trial is still wrapt up in darkness. True, my strange experience has not been an unmixed calamity. It has brought me advantages which I could not otherwise have enjoyed. I know things which I never could have known, if I had always remained within the enclosures of the Church, and under the influence of Christianity. And my heart is more subdued to the will of God. I am more at one with Him than I ever was before. I love Him more. I love Jesus more. I love His religion more. I have a clearer view and a fuller knowledge of its infinite worth. I have, of course, a fuller knowledge of the horrors of infidelity. And my faith in God and Christianity rests on a firmer foundation than it did in my early days. Many things which I once only believed, I now know. Many things for which I had formerly only the testimony of others, I now know to be true by my own experience. There are quite a multitude of things on which I have greater certainty, and on which I can, in consequence, speak with more authority than in my early days. There are, too, cases of doubt which I can meet, which formerly I could not have met. I can make more allowances too, than formerly, for those who are troubled with doubt, or ensnared by error. And my preaching, in some cases, is more powerful. And I am more free from bigotry and intolerance. While I see more to love and admire in the Church generally, I love all hard-working churches without partiality. I think less of the points on which they differ, and more of the points on which they agree. They appear to me more as one church. There are many points on which I might once have engaged in controversy, which now appear of little or no moment. While I have more zeal for God, I have more charity for men.
There are many things in Wesley's hymns, and many things in other hymns, which formerly I did not understand or appreciate, or understood and appreciated but very imperfectly, which now I understand more perfectly, and prize more highly. And so with many things in the Bible.
30. And I have, at times, and have had for years, strange glimpses of the magnificence and wondrousness of the universe; startling views of the awful grandeur and movements of its huge orbs, and of the terrible working of its great forces, and an overpowering sight and sense of the presence and power of the living God in all, which I never had in my earlier days. And I have often had, and still have, at times, strange feelings of the fact and mystery of existence: of my own existence, and of the existence of other beings, and of God.
31. And I have, at times, strange feelings with regard to the infinite value of life and consciousness, and of my intellectual and moral powers. And I have pleasant and wonderful thoughts and feelings with regard to the lower animals, as the creatures of God, my Father; and as manifestations of His goodness, and wisdom, and power; and as sharers with me of an infinite Father's love. And I love them as I never loved them in my earlier days. I feel happier in their company. I listen with more pleasure to the songs of birds, and gaze with more delight on every living thing. The earth and its inhabitants are new to me. The plants and flowers are new. The universe is new. I am new to myself. All things are new. It seems, at times, as if the new, enlarged, and higher life of which I have become conscious through my strange experience, were worth the fearful price which I have paid for it.
32. But then again I think of the time I spent in sin and folly,—of the mischief I did in those dark days,—of the grief I caused to so many good and godly souls,—of the sorrows I entailed on those most dear to me, and of the terrible disadvantages under which I labor, and under which I must always labor, in consequence of my unaccountable errors, and I am confounded and dismayed. But then, on the other hand, I am reminded that I did not sin wilfully,—that I did not err purposely or wantonly,—that what I did amiss I did in ignorance,—that I verily believed myself in the way of duty when I went astray,—that I was influenced by a desire to know the truth,—that I believed myself, at the outset, bound as a Christian, and as a creature of God, to use my faculties to the utmost in searching the Scriptures, and exploring Nature, in pursuit of truth,—that when I advocated infidel views, I advocated them believing them to be true, and believing that truth must be most conducive to the virtue and happiness of mankind. True, appearances were against me; but I felt myself bound, even when an unbeliever, to "walk by faith,"—by faith in principles which I supposed myself to have found to be true. My life, even in my worst condition, was a life of self-sacrifice for what I regarded as eternal truth. When I gave up my belief in a Fatherly God, and my faith in a blessed immortality, I believed myself to be making a sacrifice at the shrine of truth. I thought I heard her voice from the infinite universe demanding the surrender, and conscience compelled me to comply with the demand. I felt the dreadful nature of the sacrifice, but what could I do?
I remember the words I uttered, and I remember the mingled emotions which filled and agitated my soul, on that occasion. I was distressed at the terrible necessity of giving up the cherished idols of my soul, yet I was filled for a moment with a strange delight at the thought that I was doing my duty in compliance with the stern demands of eternal law, and the dread realities of universal being. And I hoped against hope that the result would all be right.
I weep when I read the strange words which I uttered on that dark and terrible occasion. I said to myself, "The last remains of my religious faith are gone. The doctrines of a personal God, and of a future life, I am compelled to regard as the offspring, not of the understanding, but of the imagination and affections." It is no easy matter to wean one's-self from flattering and long cherished illusions. It is no easy matter to believe that doctrines which have been almost universally received, and which have been so long and so generally regarded as essential to the virtue and happiness of mankind—doctrines, too, which have mingled their mighty influences with so much of the beautiful and sublime in human history, and which still, to so many, form all the poetry and romance, almost all the interest and grandeur and blessedness of human life, have no foundation in truth. To persons who believe in a Fatherly God, and in human immortality, pure naturalism is terribly uninviting. It was always so to me. I well remember the mingled horror and pity with which, when a Christian, I regarded the man who had no personal God, and no hope of a future life. I remember too how I wrote or spoke of such. I mourned over them as the most hapless and miserable of all living beings. Yet I myself have come at length, by slow degrees, after a thousand struggles, and with infinite reluctance, to the dread conclusion, that a personal God and an immortal life are fictions of the human mind. Yet existence has not quite lost its charms, nor life its enjoyments. There is something infinitely grand, and unspeakably exciting and elevating in the consciousness of having made a sacrifice of the most popular and bewitching of all illusions, out of respect to truth. It was an enviable state of mind which prompted, the grand and thrilling exclamation, "Let justice be done, though the heavens should fall." And that state of mind is no less enviable which can sustain a man in the sacrifice of God and immortality at the shrine of truth. Such a sacrifice, accompanied, as it must be in the present state of society, with a thousand other sacrifices of reputation, friendships, popular pleasures, and social favor, is an exercise of the highest virtue, a demonstration of the greatest magnanimity, and is accompanied or followed with an intensity of satisfaction which none but the martyr-spirit of truth can conceive. It is often said by Christians, that the reason why persons doubt the existence of God and a future life is, that they have good cause to dread them; or, as Grotius expresses it, that they live in such a way that it would be to their interest that there should be no God or future life. This was not the case with me. My unbelief came upon me while I was diligently striving in all things to do God's will. My virtue outlived my faith.
"Born of Methodist parents, and reared under Christian influences, and a Christian myself, and even a Christian minister for many years, I was brought slowly and reluctantly, in spite of a world of prejudices, and in spite of interests and associations and tastes all but almighty in their influence, to the conclusion, that pure, unmixed Naturalism alone accorded with what was known of the present state and the past history of the universe. I say I was brought to these conclusions in spite of a world of opposing influences. While a Christian, all that the world could promise or bestow seemed to be within my reach. Friends, popularity, wealth, power, fame; and visions of infinite usefulness to others, and of unbounded happiness to myself in the future, were all promised me as the reward of continued devotion to the cause of God and Christianity. As the reward of heresy and unbelief, I had to encounter suspicion, desertion, hatred, reproach, persecution, want, grief of friends and kindred, anxious days and sleepless nights, and almost every extreme of mental anguish. Still, inquiry forced me into heresy further and further every year, and brought me at length to the extreme of doubt and unbelief."
It was, then, in no light mood that I gave up my faith in God, and Christ, and immortality. The change in my views was no headlong, hasty freak. It was the result of long and serious thought—of misguided, but honest, conscientious study. And hence I have sometimes thought, and am still inclined to think, that God had a hand in the matter—that He led me, or permitted me to wander, along that strange and sorrowful road, and to pass through those dreary and dolorous scenes, and drink so deeply of so dreadful a cup of sorrow, for some good end. "He maketh the wrath of man to praise Him," and perhaps he may turn our errors also to good account. I am not disposed to believe that my life has been a failure. It may, for anything I know, prove to have been a great success. "Men are educated largely by their mistakes," says one. It hardly seems likely that God would suffer a well-intentioned, though weak and erring child, to ruin either himself or others for ever. God is good, and the future will justify His ways, and all His saints shall praise Him.
My business meanwhile is, to do what I can to promote the interests of truth, and the welfare of mankind. I must, so far as possible, redeem lost time. I have a thousand causes for gratitude, and none for complaint. I am very happy in general; as happy as I desire to be, and as happy, I expect, as it is good for me to be. I sometimes feel as if I were too happy. And I certainly never ask God to make me more happy. I ask Him to make me wiser, and better, and more useful, but not more happy. At times my cup of joy runs over. It is strange it should be so, yet so it is. But joy and sorrow are often found in company. Paul says of himself, "Sorrowful, yet always rejoicing." The author of Ecce Deus says, "The good man's life is one unbroken repentance. Throughout his life he suffers on account of his sins. What, then of joy?" he asks: and he answers, "It is contemporaneous with sorrow. They are inseparable. The joy that is born of sorrow is the only joy that is enduring." It may seem strange, but it is true, the last year of my life has been the happiest I ever experienced.