izing hastily, there may be seen the born Philistine, who does not know, and has never heard, what generalizing is, who becomes uncomfortable when he hears a principle enunciated, as if he had been addressed by a foreigner in some language unknown to him, and whose homely talk never willingly travels beyond what time the train starts, and whether it happened on Monday or on Tuesday. Lastly, by the side of the brilliant Utopian, who overlooks the greatness of the necessity with which he has to contend, there is the Utopian without brilliancy, the enragé the mere restless disturber.
As atheism is but another name for feebleness, so the universal characteristic of theology—if we put aside for the present the rare belief in an utterly hostile or thwarting Deity—is energy. He who has a faith, we know well, is twice himself. The world, the conventional or temporary order of things, goes down before the weapons of faith, before the energy of those who have a glimpse, or only think they have a glimpse, of the eternal or normal order of things. And this vigor of theism does not much depend on the nature of the God in whom the theist believes. Just as atheism does not consist in a bad theory of the universe, but in the want of any theory, so theism consists not in possessing a meritorious or true or consoling theology, but simply in possessing a theory of the universe. He who has such a theory acts with confidence and decision, he who has no such theory is paralyzed. One of the rudest of all theories of the universe is that propounded by Mohammed, yet it raised up a feeble and dispersed nation to vigor, union, and empire. Calvinism presents assuredly a view of the universe which is not in any way consoling, yet this creed too gave vigor and heroism. The creed of the earliest Romans rested upon no basis which could for a moment pass for philosophical, yet while it was believed it gave order to the state, sanction to morality, victory to the armies. Whatever kind of theology be in question, so long as it is truly believed, the only danger is of its inspiring too much energy—of its absorbing its votaries too much, and driving them into extreme courses.
And so if the Nature recognized by Science be not benevolent, and have provided no future life for men, it does not follow that her votaries are not theologians, and it is quite clear that their theology gives them energy. Many theologies have had no future life; indeed, it is well known that our own, in its earlier Judaic form, laid no stress upon any future life. And it is not the benevolence of his Deity which gives so much energy and confidence to the convinced theist; it is rather the assurance that he has the secret of propitiating his Deity. It was not because Jupiter and Mars were benevolent beings that the Roman went out to battle confiding in their protection. It was because all sacrifices had been performed which the pontiffs or the Sibylline books prescribed. Just of the same kind is the theistic vigor which we see in modern science. Science also has its procuratio
