Swords and Plowshares/Godward
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I
TRUTH—vague to the mind, invisible, elusive, impalpable—
Incarnate in life alone is it to be grasped and handled.
Only as love do I recognize truth, for truth precipitated in life is love.
Love is truth alive—quickened, concentrated, vivid, intense.
Do you yearn for intensity and concentration? You will find these only in love.
Argument, theory, speculation—these are false doors, and conduct us not to the citadel of truth.
They open upon the plains of diffusion, dissipation, disintegration.
They lead to the somnolent, hazy hinterland of life on the confines of the desert of death.
Stop babbling and live.
Love—and feel the truth.
Live Godlike and feel God.
II
GOD is to me a direction the way that I must I travel.
He is your direction, too.
We are one, and God is our unity.
III
NO wonder you yawn and know not what to do next if you have no God, for ennui is the mark of godlessness.
Nothing is worth while but God.
The very naming of God gives zest to life.
I love to feel God love the world through me, until I am fairly washed away by the current.
Of what moment is it whether I live or die so long as that goes on?
I transfer myself to it and say good-by to my old self.
Die? What is death? I no longer understand the word.
Come with me and forget its meaning.
IV
I WANT no Russian Czar of a God.
The only way to treat such a God would be to rebel against Him, and He would respect you the more for it.
I do not want a God that rules.
I refuse to be ruled, and there is that in me which will escape all rule.
I want a living God that will live through me.
I want no autocrat, but rather a democratic God, in whose counsels I shall count for something and with whom I can cooperate.
V
I WANT to be free.
There is nothing free but God.
The yearning for freedom is the yearning to be God.
The truth shall make us free.
The truth that God is in us makes us free with God's freedom.
I know God as I know my hand—He is there.
VI
AT the edge of the new-mown hay-field on the brow of the hill, late in the hot summer afterпооп
(A pair of enraptured wrens and countless other undistinguishable birds making the air throb with song),
I sit at the feet of a cool-leaved, stalwart white-oak, and gaze worshiping, questioning up into its branches.
TRUTH—vague to the mind, invisible, elusive, impalpable—
Incarnate in life alone is it to be grasped and handled.
Only as love do I recognize truth, for truth precipitated in life is love.
Love is truth alive—quickened, concentrated, vivid, intense.
Do you yearn for intensity and concentration? You will find these only in love.
Argument, theory, speculation—these are false doors, and conduct us not to the citadel of truth.
They open upon the plains of diffusion, dissipation, disintegration.
They lead to the somnolent, hazy hinterland of life on the confines of the desert of death.
Stop babbling and live.
Love—and feel the truth.
Live Godlike and feel God.
II
GOD is to me a direction the way that I must I travel.
He is your direction, too.
We are one, and God is our unity.
III
NO wonder you yawn and know not what to do next if you have no God, for ennui is the mark of godlessness.
Nothing is worth while but God.
The very naming of God gives zest to life.
I love to feel God love the world through me, until I am fairly washed away by the current.
Of what moment is it whether I live or die so long as that goes on?
I transfer myself to it and say good-by to my old self.
Die? What is death? I no longer understand the word.
Come with me and forget its meaning.
IV
I WANT no Russian Czar of a God.
The only way to treat such a God would be to rebel against Him, and He would respect you the more for it.
I do not want a God that rules.
I refuse to be ruled, and there is that in me which will escape all rule.
I want a living God that will live through me.
I want no autocrat, but rather a democratic God, in whose counsels I shall count for something and with whom I can cooperate.
V
I WANT to be free.
There is nothing free but God.
The yearning for freedom is the yearning to be God.
The truth shall make us free.
The truth that God is in us makes us free with God's freedom.
I know God as I know my hand—He is there.
VI
AT the edge of the new-mown hay-field on the brow of the hill, late in the hot summer afterпооп
(A pair of enraptured wrens and countless other undistinguishable birds making the air throb with song),
I sit at the feet of a cool-leaved, stalwart white-oak, and gaze worshiping, questioning up into its branches.
How wise were the Druids to seek God in the oak! He is so much nearer there than in sun and stars.
He whispers there so much more gently such fragments of his secret as we may understand.
It is all the difference between the great bishop when he stands in his glittering vestments with his back to us at the marble altar, and again when he speaks to us so softly, so fatherlike, in the kindly dark of the confessional.
I feel the Druid blood in me this evening.
He whispers there so much more gently such fragments of his secret as we may understand.
It is all the difference between the great bishop when he stands in his glittering vestments with his back to us at the marble altar, and again when he speaks to us so softly, so fatherlike, in the kindly dark of the confessional.
I feel the Druid blood in me this evening.
I am here and the oak is here, and for a few minutes I would rid myself of the heavy incubus of the past which looms up between us.
I would forget all that has been thought and said and written, all habits of mind and preconceptions.
I would be alone with the oak like another new-created Adam with another new-born tree of life.
I would forget all that has been thought and said and written, all habits of mind and preconceptions.
I would be alone with the oak like another new-created Adam with another new-born tree of life.
I feel the green oak, I do not attempt to think it, for it transcends my mind.
My mind is but an insignificant part of me.
My mind does not in the least understand me nor fathom me, and is by just so much smaller than I am.
I do not apply my mind to the oak; I apply myself to it.
My mind is but an insignificant part of me.
My mind does not in the least understand me nor fathom me, and is by just so much smaller than I am.
I do not apply my mind to the oak; I apply myself to it.
And what does the friendly oak say to me?
It tells me nothing of creation or design, though I cross-question it ever so closely.
It says life, life, life;
Life, pushing its way through every outlet in plant and beast, insatiable of freedom:
Life, like the ocean, forcing itself into gulf and fiord and devouring the shore with eager, foaming lips;
The form of leaves and boughs and fruit indicating. like an undulating coast, the line of resistance, and produced by nothing but life and inertia.
It tells me nothing of creation or design, though I cross-question it ever so closely.
It says life, life, life;
Life, pushing its way through every outlet in plant and beast, insatiable of freedom:
Life, like the ocean, forcing itself into gulf and fiord and devouring the shore with eager, foaming lips;
The form of leaves and boughs and fruit indicating. like an undulating coast, the line of resistance, and produced by nothing but life and inertia.
God is life; and form and matter—ay, and thought, too—mark the obstructions in his path, the conditions which reveal him and make him take shape—the boundaries of life.
The oak-tree knows nothing but life, and teaches no other lesson.
VII
HOW proud we are of our self-consciousness!
As if a man walking down-stairs should begin to think of his steps, and straightway stumble and then boast of his stumbling!
As if it were not better to do the right thing without thinking, than to discuss it and worry over it and half the time spoil it in the doing!
As if a semidetached thinking apparatus, beating the air like a water-wheel out of water, were a grand acquisition!
As if the orioles, hanging their wonderful nest on the streamers of the old elm and talking to each other in music, were so utterly inferior to ourselves!
The oak-tree knows nothing but life, and teaches no other lesson.
VII
HOW proud we are of our self-consciousness!
As if a man walking down-stairs should begin to think of his steps, and straightway stumble and then boast of his stumbling!
As if it were not better to do the right thing without thinking, than to discuss it and worry over it and half the time spoil it in the doing!
As if a semidetached thinking apparatus, beating the air like a water-wheel out of water, were a grand acquisition!
As if the orioles, hanging their wonderful nest on the streamers of the old elm and talking to each other in music, were so utterly inferior to ourselves!
I wonder if God thinks out everything, or whether He does not do the right thing without thinking,
And whether instinct is so far below reason after all.
Perhaps, as there is an instinct beneath us which we have outgrown, so there is one above us to which we have yet to attain.
VIII
THE train of sleeping-cars is rushing on toward the broken bridge at fifty miles an hour.
The trusty, wakeful engine-driver peers ahead into the darkness.
The young mother in the upper berth turns over, presses her babe to her, and dreams again.
In five minutes they will all be palpitating masses of bloody flesh and bones, drowned in the water and burned in the fire.
And whether instinct is so far below reason after all.
Perhaps, as there is an instinct beneath us which we have outgrown, so there is one above us to which we have yet to attain.
VIII
THE train of sleeping-cars is rushing on toward the broken bridge at fifty miles an hour.
The trusty, wakeful engine-driver peers ahead into the darkness.
The young mother in the upper berth turns over, presses her babe to her, and dreams again.
In five minutes they will all be palpitating masses of bloody flesh and bones, drowned in the water and burned in the fire.
The Atlantic liner plows her way through the fog.
There is a babel of merry voices in the saloon where the passengers are at dinner.
No one knows that a fishing-schooner is heading directly for her.
Suddenly there is a crash, and a great gash is torn in her side.
The sea pours in, and she begins to settle.
In a few seconds all are on deck—pale, appalled, frantic.
The captain on the bridge sees that there is no time to lower the boats, but he gives the order notwithstanding.
Mothers are searching for their children; children are looking to their parents for consolation, but the stream of consolation is dried at its source.
Strong men are sobbing, and nothing is left but dread.
Instinct tells them that no one will survive to tell the tale.
There is a babel of merry voices in the saloon where the passengers are at dinner.
No one knows that a fishing-schooner is heading directly for her.
Suddenly there is a crash, and a great gash is torn in her side.
The sea pours in, and she begins to settle.
In a few seconds all are on deck—pale, appalled, frantic.
The captain on the bridge sees that there is no time to lower the boats, but he gives the order notwithstanding.
Mothers are searching for their children; children are looking to their parents for consolation, but the stream of consolation is dried at its source.
Strong men are sobbing, and nothing is left but dread.
Instinct tells them that no one will survive to tell the tale.
I can not love the God who might have warned the engine-driver and the captain of the danger, and who would not.
I love the God who weeps over it within me and whose tears I feel.
IX
I HEARD a horrid cry in the dark—
Was it an owl flitting from tree to tree?
It said, "The life can not be lived.
Go on," it said, "and you will come to grief amid impassable obstacles.
Your soul is crucified upon your body.
You are nailed to a rigid, perverse world.
All nature turns thumbs down at your combat."
I love the God who weeps over it within me and whose tears I feel.
IX
I HEARD a horrid cry in the dark—
Was it an owl flitting from tree to tree?
It said, "The life can not be lived.
Go on," it said, "and you will come to grief amid impassable obstacles.
Your soul is crucified upon your body.
You are nailed to a rigid, perverse world.
All nature turns thumbs down at your combat."
And my soul saw that it was true, but it felt stronger and prouder than ever.
"Then the world and nature must go under," it answered, calmly.
"I will create a world and a nature to suit myself."
"Then the world and nature must go under," it answered, calmly.
"I will create a world and a nature to suit myself."
But can I live the ideal life here?
Why, Christ Himself could not do it.
At every step that He took on the dear Bethany road He crushed to death a thousand wondrous, life-loving insects.
Can I do more than He?
Why am I a mere helpless creature in the midst of such a creation?
Why, Christ Himself could not do it.
At every step that He took on the dear Bethany road He crushed to death a thousand wondrous, life-loving insects.
Can I do more than He?
Why am I a mere helpless creature in the midst of such a creation?
I am tired of being a creature; I will be a creator.
I am tired of adapting myself to my environment; I will make an environment to my own taste.
The world no longer satisfies me.
I can not rest content with a Providence which calls into being beautiful does and fawns, and then whets the wolf's tooth to rend them limb from limb.
I have no sympathy with a Design that fashions fleas for the torment of faithful dogs, and men who delight in preying on each other.
I have outgrown this world and its forces, and I must create another for myself.
I am tired of adapting myself to my environment; I will make an environment to my own taste.
The world no longer satisfies me.
I can not rest content with a Providence which calls into being beautiful does and fawns, and then whets the wolf's tooth to rend them limb from limb.
I have no sympathy with a Design that fashions fleas for the torment of faithful dogs, and men who delight in preying on each other.
I have outgrown this world and its forces, and I must create another for myself.
I complained to the World, but it laughed and said:
"Are you angry with my creator? You are my creator.
You made whatever is good or bad in me.
Every man creates his own world, for the worlds are born of cravings.
You craved lust and hate and cruelty and violence, and now you have them.
You will be a creator? You have always been a creator.
You designed the universe that is and you are to-day designing the universe that is to be, and do you deny Design?
You provided pain and sin for yourself and all the results of them, and do you attack Providence?
There are no idle thoughts; each one of yours is creative and rushes forth to clothe itself in fact.
You have no desire so slight but that it registers itself in the constellations."
"Are you angry with my creator? You are my creator.
You made whatever is good or bad in me.
Every man creates his own world, for the worlds are born of cravings.
You craved lust and hate and cruelty and violence, and now you have them.
You will be a creator? You have always been a creator.
You designed the universe that is and you are to-day designing the universe that is to be, and do you deny Design?
You provided pain and sin for yourself and all the results of them, and do you attack Providence?
There are no idle thoughts; each one of yours is creative and rushes forth to clothe itself in fact.
You have no desire so slight but that it registers itself in the constellations."
And then again, like a strange reminiscence, I felt my ancient power and trembled at it;
And forthwith I set to work in the workshop of my soul at a new heaven and a new earth.
X
NEVER talk about Providence and Design. I do not presume to pray for victory over my enemies, or even for rain or fair weather.
I have not the slightest explanation to offer of the origin of envy and appendicitis and rattle-snakes.
I know as little about God as the new-born infant knows about its mother.
I only feel something infinitely warm and caressing and sustaining and nourishing around me—and am content.
XI
I SAW a child in a garden looking for his father.
The father walked behind the child, and the child was in his shadow without knowing it.
At last the father gently lay his hand on the child's head, and the child recognized his touch without turning his eyes;
And he stretched up his hand, and his father took it and they walked on together.
XII
THE soul of the world is abroad to-night—
Not in yon silvery amalgam of moonbeam and ocean, nor in the pink heat-lightning tremulous on the horizon;
Not even in the embrace of yonder pair of lovers, heart beating to heart in the shadow of the fishing-smack drawn up on the beach.
All that—shall I call it illusion? Nay, but at best it is a pale reflection of the truth.
I am not to be put off with symbols, for the soul of the world is itself abroad to-night.
And forthwith I set to work in the workshop of my soul at a new heaven and a new earth.
X
NEVER talk about Providence and Design. I do not presume to pray for victory over my enemies, or even for rain or fair weather.
I have not the slightest explanation to offer of the origin of envy and appendicitis and rattle-snakes.
I know as little about God as the new-born infant knows about its mother.
I only feel something infinitely warm and caressing and sustaining and nourishing around me—and am content.
XI
I SAW a child in a garden looking for his father.
The father walked behind the child, and the child was in his shadow without knowing it.
At last the father gently lay his hand on the child's head, and the child recognized his touch without turning his eyes;
And he stretched up his hand, and his father took it and they walked on together.
XII
THE soul of the world is abroad to-night—
Not in yon silvery amalgam of moonbeam and ocean, nor in the pink heat-lightning tremulous on the horizon;
Not even in the embrace of yonder pair of lovers, heart beating to heart in the shadow of the fishing-smack drawn up on the beach.
All that—shall I call it illusion? Nay, but at best it is a pale reflection of the truth.
I am not to be put off with symbols, for the soul of the world is itself abroad to-night.
I neither see nor hear nor smell nor taste nor touch it, but faintly I feel it powerfully stirring.
I feel it as the blind heaving sea feels the moon bending over it.
I feel it as the needle feels the serpentine magnetic current coiling itself about the earth.
I open my arms to embrace it as the lovers embrace each other, but my embrace is all inclusive.
My heart beats to heart likewise, but it is to the heart universal, for the soul of the world is abroad to-night.
I feel it as the blind heaving sea feels the moon bending over it.
I feel it as the needle feels the serpentine magnetic current coiling itself about the earth.
I open my arms to embrace it as the lovers embrace each other, but my embrace is all inclusive.
My heart beats to heart likewise, but it is to the heart universal, for the soul of the world is abroad to-night.