The Infidel and the Work of God.
ONE Sunday evening, a young man was walking along the streets to some scene of pleasure, when he was accosted by a person who stopped him and thrust a small bit of paper in to his hand. The young man took it and read by the light of the nearest lamp the words, “Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.” A sneer passed over his handsome face as he read, and, throwing the paper from him, he hastened on. “‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow,’ doesn’t apply to me, at any rate; for I am an infidel, and do not believe anything of the kind.” Thought he, “‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Hang the thing, I can’t get rid of it. ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Sins? Conscience? Yes; but I acknowledge neither a future, nor a God, and therefore am not responsible. What do I care to have my sins made white, seeing that I owe no duties beyond those necessary to natural human existence. ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ I am an infidel” (stamping his foot). “I do not believe in the Bible, the God of the Bible, the future, nor anything beyond the still, dark grave. So here’s for a short life, and a merry one . . . ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Confound it! . . . ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Confound it, I wish I could get it out of my head! . . . ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ It is very forcible. Very poetical. Certainly that Bible is a wonderful work. Granted, for the sake of argument, that it is true, and that a God exists, I can easily understand religious people who believe in a future, either of joy or suffering, clinging to such sentences with a tenacity proportioned to their belief. ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Admirable writing. Terse, forcible language. I wonder who wrote it? God, I suppose. God?—Why, there is no God. I forgot myself. If I could only remember my principles, and how logical and well founded the arguments are which support them, I should be all right. . . . ‘Though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow.’ Confound the thing. Will nothing put a stop to this? There is a church; I may as well turn in and see what they have to say.” He entered and was shown quietly into the pew by the door. A solemn silence reigned. The preacher had just read the text from the pulpit, and paused a moment, before repeating it. Then, in a gentle voice, he pronounced the words: “Come, now, and let us reason together, saith the Lord; though your sins be as scarlet, they shall be as white as snow; though they be red like crimson, they shall be as wool.” The vestry of that church was always open for a short time after service for the reception of those whom the message of the Lord had touched. That evening there was one who prayed with tears, “Jesus, though my sins be dyed deeper than the deepest scarlet, do thou make them whiter than the purest snow.”