THE RADICAL. SEPTEMBER, 1865. RELIGION. THE Word Religion, has, we believe, a broader significance than the Christian world has been accustomed to allow for it. We shall not, therefore, accept the limitations so commonly recognized. Instead of considering religion as a single, separate department of life, we hope to reveal its legitimate right to consecrate all departments; to be in fact inseparable from all of real life or character in man, and that with no reference to time or place. We are more and more convinced, that the manner in which the world is willing as yet to regard Religion, is low and trifling. What Religion is there in seeking private gains? What is the difference between the sowing of fields for bread, and the sowing of God for heaven-when both acts are for the same exclusive, private end? We seek "this world," we seek the "next world," the poor thought of self inspiring to secure both the one and the other. What wonder that Jesus cried: "Take no thought! is not the life more than the meat? Which of you by taking thought can add one cubit to his stature?" It is Sunday morning, August 13th, on which we write. An inspiring day it seems — out on Boston Common. Already, at seven o'clock (early for Sunday), faces begin to appear, and the seats around the Fountain hold each their one or two unconscious worshipers. Some of these people have already been to Church. Other portions of them will go before the day is done. But where are their thoughts now? Think they now of God as related to themselves? Of the fate he will award them in the hereafter? We venture to affirm that none of them are now troubled with any such "religious thoughts." They do not seem to be thinking of themselves at all. They are resting in selfforgetfulness; resting from the week-day's work, refreshing them selves in the quiet presence of Nature. On one seat there sits an Irish woman. She has worked hard through the week to buy and make up cleanly and neat, a new dress, a summer shawl; and she has a good looking bonnet on. But just now she appears to have forgotten all about these things. All her troubles, too, are asleep. If we can read her face aright, Mary McGlaucklin has lost herself. But she is most truly living, nevertheless, as she sits there alone, without even herself for company. Her religious nature is expressing itself: she is worshipping God in Nature with devoutest spirit. But she does not know it, and will not, when her reverie is broken. She will then start up quickly, and hurry away to Church, where, what she calls her religion, will find the manifestation she has been instructed to give it. She will cross herself with holy water, courtesy to the Virgin, say her prayers, and count her beads: all this to save her soul. Beside the fountain on the Common, she stole her hour, to forget herself and rest with Nature. And shall we hesitate to say that there the truest life given her was, for the moment, lived- that there poor Mary was really saving her soul, and not at the Church? The illusion, which so blinds us all, was the veil over her wisdom, not yet taken away. When she lost her life, she found it. When at Church she found it, and saved it for eternity-how much of life did she find or save? Now let no one of our readers despise the humble woman we have thus instanced, nor her methods for becoming religious. For this whole Church-going world of ours has methods not unlike hers, seeking not unlike ends. What signifies the extra ceremony which Catholic Churchpeople accept? Methods, ceremonies of all kinds, many or few, are of one sort, in this Self-seeking Religion which every soul new-born into the world is expected to celebrate. It is a matter of habit and taste. There is no degree in which to distinguish senseless or sensible. Things of this sort are senseless or sensible as the sense is supplied. It is as sensible to kneel in the broad aisle, and cross yourself in prayer, as to stand solemn and still in your Church pew. What we feel impelled to question is the value of any of these methods for getting religion. They are so plainly, simply external. They are foreign to any natural expression of full, deep life. The absence of real life and character, always suggests the necessity of performance. Ever it is true, that a mere performance is a self-conscious trick, seeking ulterior purposes. That method is sanest and best which is nomethod, of ours. The Spirit does not deal with methods. It bloweth where it will-born of your own veracious life. The truest life is everywhere and always religious of its own accord. It is not re-married to God, as Dante has written, but married. It is the life of his life. The twain are ONE. |