DOUBTING THOMASES AND NATURE-WORSHIPERS.
THOMAS doubted. When those grieving disciples assembled in that upper room in Jerusalem, he was conspicuous for his absence. Whether he knew of that little meeting or not, we cannot certainly say; the probabilities are that he did; but here was the first church service, and Thomas did not attend. He had doubted at the first, as the other disciples had, and when they learned to believe, he still had only his bundle of doubts. There are a great many doubting Thomases today, and, although they claim a place in the church, their beliefs are few, and their doubts many; and these, instead of passing away with time, as the dew is dissipated by the rising sun, rather grow with their growth. When you enter the homes of these doubting Christians, there is nothing to indicate to the superficial observer that they are not as firm in the faith as others are. You will find the customary legend hung on the wall—"God Bless our Home," or, "The Lord will Provide"; you will see a Bible of the best flexible morocco, bearing the Bagster imprint, on the table. Nor is it wholly a closed book in that family. They read in it, "How amiable are thy tabernacles, O Lord of hosts!" They read in it something about "not forsaking the assembling of ourselves together," but they never appropriate the rebuke which the apostle metes out to them for forsaking the service of the church. On the contrary, they continue to stay away, and, if in these summer days you search for them, you will find them in green fields, or pastures new, or in leafy woods, or by purling brooks. From casually omitting their attendance upon church worship, they have finally grown more and more indifferent to eternal437verities; doubts which now and then flitted across their paths like a cloud shadow have found permanent lodgment, and been nurtured till they have covered the truth. Later still, a callous indifference to doctrinal truth has supervened, and lips that used to move in prayer now cease to pray; instead we hear them declare that "it doesn't matter much what a man believes." They tell us, too, that they have come to the conclusion that no pent-up church can circumscribe their religion, and so they court the recesses of Nature. The trees, they say, are their preachers, and the birds their choir. There are few pursuits more pleasurable to man than meditating on the beneficence of God, as shown in the works of Nature. But there is such a thing as seeking Nature simply for the pleasure which she gives; and even where there is a devout spirit of contemplation, still this is not religion. It needs something more than this to exemplify the obligations of religion. How long would be required for Nature-worship to make men better, and women better, and children better? In what measure of time would it be possible for a religion of external Nature to lift up humanity, preach hope to the poor sinner, comfort all that mourn, give beauty for ashes, the oil of joy for mourning, and the garment of praise for the spirit of heaviness? Ah! The Nature-worshipers never ask these questions; or if they do, we never have the answer. But sometime—sometime!—will not these questions have to be answered sometime? Is not every Nature-worshiper making up the answer in the record of his own failure to do the highest good that religion demands of him,—we say demands of him, for does not God require of every man to live up to the highest standard of his possibilities? And these doubts, confirmed by continued absence from the preached Word, just as mushrooms grow in the night, when light and heat are withdrawn; these doubts, which have crystallized, just as a solution of iron will crystallize when put away in a cool, dark place,—will not these doubts refuse to be put down sometime? Is there not a grim Giant Despair in Doubting Castle, ready to put his victim into "a very dark dungeon"? It is true there have not been wanting poets to build their fanes in the solitude of the woods, and to worship at the shrine of Nature. But no matter by whom tendered, however wooing the voice that courts us, we can only refuse to accept such a specious philosophy offered us for religion, though the voice of the charmer charm never so wisely. Indeed, the mighty Wordsworth himself may tell us— "One impulse of yon vernal wood
May tell you more of man,
Of moral evil and of good,
Than all the sages can." Or, he may say of the little daisy, as he catches its appealing eye— "Thou wouldst teach him how to find
A shelter under every wind,
A hope for times that are unkind,
And every season,—" But the Christian will be slow to accept such a specious philosophy, such metrical sophistry, in place of the sure promises, the eternal hope, the joy and comfort of a pulsating, living Christianity. Not by swelling buds, nor blossoming trees, nor singing birds, nor perfume of flowers, nor music of the running brooks, however lovely and refreshing all these may be, is the redemption of a sinning world accomplished, or the soul lifted up to the plane of its highest duties. God help us, if we must look to Nature to smooth the rough places of life, and give us a hope sure and steadfast for eternity! No; it is only by worshiping God in his appointed ways; by drinking in the truths which bubble from the fountain that never fails; by reading and meditating on His revealed word; by obeying His precepts, and making the Christ-life, with its obedience, and sacrifice, one's own, that the soul is carried up to Heaven, and Heaven brought down to the soul. The man who seeks in dumb, passionless Nature the will of God, hunts the wind and worships a statue. The religion of perfect joy is not to be found in a May-day saunter; it is not hidden in a bunch of anemones, or blushing hepaticas, or in song of birds, or babble of brooks; it lies in the revealed will of God, in knowing that will, and doing it. Had Nature sufficed for the world's redemption, we should never have had Revelation, and there would never have been the awful tragedy of Calvary. Nature alone offers us only her thanatopsis; Christ it is who has burst the barriers of the grave, and who says, "Because I live, ye shall live also." Wherefore, "AWAKE THOU THAT SLEEPEST, AND ARISE FROM THE DEAD, AND CHRIST SHALL GIVE THEE LIGHT."—Christian at Work.