p. 10 | Danger of Dabbling in Higher Criticism

Review and Herald Publishing Association · Takoma Park Station, Washington, D. C. · Sep 10, 1908

Danger of Dabbling in Higher Criticism

By B. G. WILKINSON

B. G. WILKINSON

It was late at night. We sat together upon the band-stand in the park where our camp was pitched. The day had been filled with earnest labors in behalf of the people, yet I felt that I could not leave early in the morning without spending a little time with him. He had been a former student of mine, and I longed to say something to help him.

“It is this way, Professor,” he said, as he looked out on the bright, shining stars above, “that great university is saturated from ceiling to cellar with the theories of evolution and Higher Criticism. I was there only one year, but I studied hard. When I went there, I determined to resist their attacks upon the Bible, and for the first two or three months I thought that I was succeeding. But gradually I found new ideas entering my head. As I listened to Professor — lay down his points and sneer at the Old Testament; as I listened to the lectures by Dr. —, in which he cut to pieces the New Testament, and held up to ridicule its divine inspiration, O, the struggles I underwent! I saw my faith slipping, I began to lose the comfort I used to find in prayer; and to-day, terrible as it is to say so, I don’t know where I stand. I have no settled faith in God, in prayer, or in the Bible. Yet a few weeks before I left for the university, I had hundreds of people coming out every night to my tent-meetings. O the mental agony I have suffered the last three months!”

He then presented to me some of the Bible-destroying theories he had received in the great university. They were not new; I had met them before, only under the leadership of great scholars who believed in God and his inspired Word. Point after point we discussed them upon the ground of philosophy, ethics, and revealed religion. And after all arguments had been fully covered, I finally asked him: “Now leaving aside the ground of argument, with all the work of Higher Criticism before you, tell me how much hope beyond the grave it gives you.”

Rising from his seat, and lifting his hand toward the stars, he said, “Before God, not any. It destroys the last ray of light which shines beyond the tomb, and leaves me wretched, hopelessly wandering in the dark. But how can I give it up?” he added; “how can I get rid of these doubts? Shall I ever be happy in God again?”

“Well,” I replied, “there is one hope for you, and only one. You are still a young man. You are still impressionable. Begin again to sow the seed of faith and good works. Sow in earnest; sow all the time. Sow until there springs up in your heart and life a new crop, so thick and so strong that it will choke down the evil growth which has begun to poison your experience. But it means a race for life. Are you willing to try it?”

He was. As a drowning man grasps at a straw, he was thankful for even this ray of hope. We knelt, and both lifted our voices in prayer to God.

I left him, feeling in my soul more deeply instructed than ever concerning the terrible experience which awaits those who seek to know the meaning of Higher Criticism. Let us beware; let the world beware.

Takoma Park, D. C.