




                        Is The Bible Worth Reading

                             And Other Essays

                                    By

                            Lemuel K. Washburn

                                 New York

                         The Truth Seeker Company

                                   1911





CONTENTS


Dedication
Is The Bible Worth Reading
Sacrifice
The Drama Of Life
Nature In June
The Infinite Purpose
Freethought Commands
A Rainbow Religion
A Cruel God
What Is Jesus
Deeds Better Than Professions
Give Us The Truth
The American Sunday
Lord And Master
Are Christians Intelligent Or Honest
The Danger Of The Ballot
Who Carried The Cross
Modern Disciples Of Jesus
A Poor Excuse
Profession And Practice
Where Is Truth
What Does It Prove
Human Responsibility
Abolish Dirt
Religion And Morality
Jesus As A Model
Singing Lies
A Walk Through A Cemetery
Peace With God
Saving The Soul
The Search For Something To Worship
Where Are They
Some Questions For Christians To Answer
The Image Of God
Religion And Science
The Bible And The Child
When To Help The World
The Judgment Of God
Christianity And Freethought
The Brotherhood And Freedom Of Man
Whatever Is Is Right
The Object Of Life
Man
The Dogma Of The Divine Man
The Rich Man's Gospel
Speak Well Of One Another
Disgraceful Partnerships
Science And Theology
Unequal Remuneration
The Old And The New
Guard The Ear
The Character Of God
Not Important
Oaths
Dead Words
Confession Of Sin
Death's Philanthropy
Our Attitude Towards Nature
Reverence For Motherhood
The God Of The Bible
The Measure Of Suffering
Nature
Creeds
Don't Try To Stop The Sun Shining
Follow Me
Can We Never Get Along Without Servants?
A Heavenly Father
Worship Not Needed
Was Jesus A Good Man
How To Help Mankind
On The Cross
Equal Moral Standards
Authority
A Clean Sabbath
Human Integrity
Is It True
Keep The Children At Home
Teacher And Preacher
Fear Of Doubts
Bible-Backing
Beggars
Habits
Can Poverty Be Abolished
The Roman Catholic God
Human Cruelty
Infidelity
Atheism
Christian Happiness
What God Knows
The Meaning Of The Word God
What Has Jesus Done For The World
The Agnostic's Position
Orthodoxy
Ideas Of Jesus
The Silence Of Jesus
Does The Church Save
Save The Republic
A Woman's Religion
The Sacrifice Of Jesus
Fashionable Hypocrisy
The Saturday Half-Holiday
The Motive For Preaching
The Christian's God
Indifference To Religion
Sunday Schools
Going To Church
Who Is The Greatest Living Man






                             [Illustration.]

                            Lemuel K. Washburn





DEDICATION


The writer of this book dedicates it to all men and women of common
honesty and common sense.





IS THE BIBLE WORTH READING


That depends. If a man is going to get his living by standing in a
Christian pulpit, I should be obliged to answer, Yes! But if he is going
to follow any other calling, or work at any trade, I should have to
answer, No! There is absolutely no information in the Bible that man can
make any use of as he goes through life. The Bible is not a book of
knowledge. It does not give instruction in any of the sciences. It
furnishes no help to labor. It is useless as a political guide. There is
nothing in it that gives the mechanic any hint, or affords the farmer any
enlightenment in his occupation.

If man wishes to learn about the earth or the heavens; about life or the
animal kingdom, he has no need to study the Bible. If he is desirous of
reading the best poetry or the most entertaining literature he will not
find it in the Bible. If he wants to read to store his mind with facts,
the Bible is the last book for him to open, for never yet was a volume
written that contained fewer facts than this book. If he is anxious to get
some information that will help him earn an honest living he does not want
to spend his time reading Genesis, Exodus, Numbers, Kings, Psalms, or the
Gospels. If he wants to read just for the fun of reading to kill time, or
to see how much nonsensical writing there is in one book, let him read the
Bible.

I have not said that there are not wise sayings in the Bible, or a few
dramatic incidents, but there are just as wise sayings, and wiser ones,
too, out of the book, and there are dramas of human life that surpass in
interest anything contained in the Old or New Testament.

No person can make a decent excuse for reading the Bible more than once.
To do such a thing would be a foolish waste of time. But our stoutest
objection to reading this book is, not that it contains nothing
particularly good, but _that it contains so much that is positively bad_.
To read this book is to get false ideas, absurd ideas, bad ideas. The
injury to the human mind that reads the Bible as a reliable book is beyond
repair. I do not think that this book should be read by children, by any
human being less than twenty years of age, and it would be better for
mankind if not a man or woman read a line of it until he or she was fifty
years old.

What I want to say is this, that there is nothing in the Bible that is of
the least consequence to the people of the twentieth century. English
literature is richer a thousand fold than this so-called sacred volume. We
have books of more information and of more inspiration than the Bible. As
the relic of a barbarous and superstitious people, it should have a place
in our libraries, but it is not a work of any value to this age. I pity
men who stand in pulpits and call this book the word of God. I wish they
had brains enough to earn their living without having to repeat this
foolish falsehood. The day will come when this book will be estimated for
what it a worth, and when that day comes, the Bible will no longer be
called the word of God, but the work of ignorant, superstitious men.

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The cross everywhere is a dagger in the heart of liberty.

                  -------------------------------------

A miracle is not an explanation of what we cannot comprehend.

                  -------------------------------------

The statue of liberty that will endure on this continent is not the one
made of granite or bronze, but the one made of love of freedom.

                  -------------------------------------

Take away every achievement of the world and leave man freedom, and the
earth would again bloom with every glory of attainment; but take away
liberty and everything useful and beautiful would vanish.





SACRIFICE


The sacrifice of Jesus, so much boasted by the Christian church, is
nothing compared to the sacrifice of a mother for her family. It is not to
be spoken of in the same light. A mother's sacrifice is constant:
momentary, hourly, daily, life-long. It never ceases. It is a veritable
providence; a watchful care; a real giving of one life for another, or for
several others; a gift of love so pure and holy, so single and complete,
that it is an offering in spirit and in substance.

This is to me the highest, purest, holiest act of humanity. All others,
when weighed with this unselfish consecration to duty, seem small and
insignificant. There is, in a mother's life, no counting of cost, no
calculation of reward. It is enough that a duty is to be done; that a
service is to be rendered; that a sacrifice is called for. The true mother
gives herself to the offices of love without hope, expectation, or wish of
recompense. A mother's love for her children cannot be determined by any
earthly measure, by any material standard. It outshines all glory, and is
the last gleam of light in the human heart. A mother's love walks in a
thousand Gethsemanes, endures a thousand Calvaries, and has a thousand
agonies that the dying of Jesus upon a cross cannot symbolize. This
maternal sacrifice is the greater that it is made cheerfully, without a
murmur, and even with joy. If it is not sought; it is never pushed aside.

A mother's sacrifice for her family makes a chapter of suffering, of
patient toil and strife, of heroic endurance and forbearance, that
religion is not yet high enough to appreciate; and this sublime devotion
is not in one home, but in _hundreds of thousands in every land_
everywhere on earth, and it is real, true, heart-born, and the utmost of
renunciation that human life has revealed.

The brief martyrdom of Jesus was not voluntary, was not lasting in its
pain or in its service to mankind. His death was cruel, his suffering and
agony terrible to think of, but it was all soon over. A few hours of
torture make up the tragedy of the cross. But the story of this
crucifixion may be fictitious, imaginary; most likely is such. Perhaps no
such man died such a death in any such way. Then how vain and foolish to
waste our sympathy on a fanciful sufferer, an imaginary martyr, who never
existed outside of the brain of the writer of the story, while there are
actual, real beings living who are making a greater sacrifice, doing a
holier duty, within our reach!

We need not go to a Bible to find those who deserve our tears, or who have
earned our admiration. The bravest heart that ever author wrote into
being, fails to come up to the lofty height of endurance, of a life
inspired by love, of heroic sacrifice, that can be found in hundreds of
homes in our land.

Far be it from my intention to paint less any deed of mortal that has
brightened the lot of man, or to throw discredit upon aught that is worthy
of human gratitude and praise. I yield most ready sympathy and most
willing admiration to every noble soul that has lived or died to make
earth better and happier, but I do not believe that greatness, goodness
and love are all dead, and that our whole duty is to stand and weep around
a tomb. I believe in living men and women, in living hearts and souls, in
living greatness and goodness and love, and I tell you all that the earth
never bore more loving, more humane, tenderer, braver, or truer hearts
than beat today in the living breasts of mankind.

And I place above all that is brave and true, great and good, in the past
or present, the mothers of our age.--What man cannot see that silent,
patient mother in her home, the victim of a multitude of trials, crosses,
annoyances, day after day and week after week, meeting all, bearing all,
with a saint's look and manner; and what man, seeing her there, at the
side of the sick, worn out with watching and waiting, and then at the bed
of death, faithful and true to the last, though wounded in heart and
spirit never faltering in the way of duty, that would not say if there be
one sacrifice that is above, and greater than, all others, it is that of a
mother's love?





THE DRAMA OF LIFE


With the passing of the season we are reminded of the rapid flight of
life. It seems but yesterday that the first bluebird of spring lit on the
bare bough of the apple-tree in the orchard near by, and the early robin
sang his welcome notes in our glad ears, and yet the bluebird and robin
are seen and heard no more, and the green promise of spring has changed to
the brown harvest of autumn, which will soon be stored for winter's use.
This is the way every season comes and goes; a little long in coming
sometimes; but never long in going; and every year grows shorter as we
grow older, and every year goes more quickly as we near the border of old
age. Life soon changes from a glad look ahead to a sad glance behind. From
baby to boy, from boy to man, from man to tottering age;--how swiftly the
scenes change, and life comes and life goes, and the door of death opens
almost before the door of birth closes. The cradle and the grave touch,
and the blithe youth that lends his strength to feeble age finds himself
ere long leaning upon the arm of youth and strength. The circle of years
soon rolls round, and life is but a day of toil and a night of dreams. As
we look back upon vanished time and see the happy scenes of childhood
mingled with the surroundings of later life, days and months shrink to
hours, and years seem to be spanned by a sunrise and a sunset with a
little laughter and perhaps some tears between.

We who have travelled more than half way on the road cannot look backward
without a sigh, cannot think backward without a pang. Many of us have left
the graves of father and mother behind, perhaps the smaller graves of
children, where some of our heart lies buried too. The storms that beat on
us make life seem shorter; make the days go faster, and the night draw
nearer; and all of us have already, or must sometime, bow our heads to the
blast.

One human being in the great world of man, and in the greater world of
Nature, plays but a small part. Of but little account is a human life in
the vast, limitless universe. A man fills but a little space while alive,
and touches but a few hearts when he dies. We are fortunate if we make
during life, one true, loyal friend who stands by us while that life
lasts. We reckon this, after all, the grandest triumph of the human soul.
It is not difficult to gather dollars--quite a number, at least,--nor to win
a measure of fame, but to live, to be, to act, in such way as to bind one
true heart to ours, is a victory which we may be proud of. Some lives have
larger circumferences than others, radiate farther, influence more, but
none can win the rare tribute of perfect friendship from more than one or
two. Yes! man plays but a small part in the great drama of life. He is on
the stage but a few short hours, and most men are but poor or indifferent
actors at best.

Who cares when a man dies? Not the sun, for it shines just as gaily when
he closes his eyes to its golden light; not the birds, for they chatter
and sing over his coffin, and hop and sing on his grave; not the brook,
for it runs laughing on and never stops its gambols and song; not any of
the things of earth, but man.

When man dies, a few say, Is he gone? and then forget that he ever lived;
a few go to help carry his dead body to the grave, and then turn away to
join the business and pleasure of life, and forget that they have buried a
man; a few, some days after, call at the house where he lived and drop a
tear of sympathy for the weeping widow and tearful children, and then
forget that the husband and father is no more. But does no one care?
Perhaps a wife, who will carry his dead image in her heart as long as it
beats; perhaps a daughter, who will remember him a year or two, or a
little longer, who will miss his happy greeting, his loving kiss, his
proud, kind look as he lifts the heart's dearest idol to his knee; and
this is all. And this is enough. We care for only a few; and why should
many care for us?

Though life is short and not always heroic; and though, when it ends, the
world goes on just the same, we love life and it is sweet while it lasts.
Though we travel quickly over the road, we enjoy for the most part, the
journey of life. We have pain, it is true; we learn of sorrow and grief;
we feel the pang of parting and weep on the white face of some loved one,
and yet, we find happiness, we enjoy living, and we regret when the
curtain is rung down and our part is played and the lights turned out.
When we strike the balance between pleasure and pain, joy and sorrow,
happiness and misery, most find that life is worth living.

                  -------------------------------------

A dogma will thrive in soil where the truth could not get root.

                  -------------------------------------

The measure of liberty which man enjoys determines the civilization of the
age in which he lives.

                  -------------------------------------

The person who can make a loaf of bread is more to the world than the
person who could perform a miracle.

                  -------------------------------------

The indifference to Christianity may well alarm the men who live on the
credulity that gives it the show of life, but to those who delight in
actions of sincerity, it affords the greatest encouragement, for it
promises to the world a day when intelligence and integrity will be
respected more than ignorance and hypocrisy.





NATURE IN JUNE


We can hardly look anywhere in Nature without having the conviction grow
in the mind that there are more or less superfluous things on this spot of
the universe where our lot is cast, however it may be in Mars, Venus,
Saturn, or any other of the Greek-named planets or any heavenly
constellations with or without names. Just at this particular season of
the year, the presence of weeds in the garden or on the farm raises a
colossal doubt as to the fact of any wisdom guiding the divine voice when,
in a majestic sweep of its omnipotent power on the third day of the drama
of creation, it called into being the grass, the herb, the tree and
whatsoever bears leaf or blade or flower. To those who have to pull the
weeds out of the ground they are a curse of the first magnitude, and how a
creator, who had common sense, could take pride in making such vegetable
abortions as weeds we cannot comprehend. The most worthless things in
Nature are the most prolific. Chickweed will cover an acre while clover is
considering where it is best to go into business, and every pesky, nasty
little weed will live and laugh when the queenly corn droops its head in
the sun, and the beet and turnip cannot get nourishment enough to keep
them alive.

It is just the same in the animal world. An immense quantity of useless
beings go about on two and four legs or on none at all. The only excuse
for the snake is that he was made to eat the toad; for the toad, that he
was made to eat insects; for the insects--well, nobody has yet made a
wholesome excuse for