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THE STORY OF MY MIND

How I Became a Rationalist

By M. M. Mangasarian

1909

DEDICATION

To My Children

My Dear Children:--

You have often requested me to tell you how, having been brought up by
my parents as a Calvinist, I came to be a Rationalist. I propose now to
answer that question in a more connected and comprehensive way than I
have ever done before. One reason for waiting until now was, that you
were not old enough before, to appreciate fully the mental struggle
which culminated in my resignation from the Spring Garden Presbyterian
church of Philadelpha, in which, my dear Zabelle, you received your
baptism at the time I was its pastor. Your brother, Armand, and your
sister, Christine, were born after I had withdrawn from the Presbyterian
church, and they have therefore not been baptised. But you are, all
three of you, now sufficiently advanced in years, and in training, to
be interested in, and I trust also, to be benefited by, the story of my
religious evolution. I am going to put the story in writing that you may
have it with you when I am gone, to remind you of the aims and interests
for which I lived, as well as to acquaint you with the most earnest and
intimate period in my career as a teacher of men. If you should ever
become parents yourselves, and your children should feel inclined to
lend their support to dogma, I hope you will prevail upon them, first to
read the story of their grand-father, who fought his way out of the camp
of orthodoxy by grappling with each dogma, hand to hand and breast to
breast.

I have no fear that you yourselves will ever be drawn into the meshes of
orthodoxy, which cost me my youth and the best years of my life to break
through, or that you will permit motives of self-interest to estrange
you from the Cause of Rationalism with which my life has been so closely
identified. My assurance of your loyalty to freedom of thought in
religion is not based, nor do I desire it to be based, on considerations
of respect or affection which you may entertain for me as your father,
but on your ability and willingness to verify a proposition before
assenting to it. Do not believe me because I am your parent, but believe
what you have yourselves, by conscientious and earnest endeavor, found
to be worthy of belief. It will never be said of you, that you have
inherited your opinions from me, or borrowed them from your neighbors,
if you can give a reason for the faith that is in you.

I wish you also to know that during those years of storm and stress,
when everything seemed so discouraging, and when my resignation from
the church had left us exposed to many privations,--without money and
without help, your mother's sympathy with me in my combat with the
church--a lone man, and a mere youth, battling with the most powerfully
intrenched institution in all the world, was more than my daily bread
to me during the pain and travail of my second birth. My spirits, often
depressed from sheer weariness, were nursed to new life and ardor by her
patience and sympathy.

One word more: Nothing will give your parents greater satisfaction than
to see in you, increasing with the increase of years, a love for those
ideals which instead of dragging the world backward, or arresting its
progress, urge man's search to nobler issues. Co-operate with the
light. Be on the side of the dawn. It is not enough to profess
Rationalism--make it your religion. Devotedly,

M. M. Mangasarian.




CHAPTER I. In the Cradle of Christianity

I was a Christian because I was born one. My parents were Christians for
the same reason. It had never occurred to me, any more than it had to
my parents, to ask for any other reason for professing the Christian
religion. Never in the least did I entertain even the most remote
suspicion that being born in a religion was not enough, either to make
the religion true, or to justify my adherence to it.

My parents were members of the Congregational church, and when I was
only a few weeks old, they brought me, as I have often been told by
those who witnessed the ceremony, to the Rev. Mr. Richardson, to be
baptized and presented to the Lord. It was the vow of my mother, if she
ever had a son, to dedicate him to the service of God. As I advanced in
years, the one thought constantly instilled into my mind was that I did
not belong to myself but to God. Every attempt was made to wean me from
the world, and to suppress in me those hopes and ambitions which might
lead me to choose some other career than that of the ministry.

This constant surveillance over me, and the artificial sanctity
associated with the life of one set apart for God, was injurious to me
in many ways. Among other things it robbed me of my childhood. Instead
of playing, I began very early to pray. God, Christ, Bible, and the
dogmas of the faith monopolized my attention, and left me neither the
leisure nor the desire for the things that make childhood joyous. At the
age of eight years I was invited to lead the congregation in prayer, in
church, and could recite many parts of the New Testament by heart. One
of my favorite pastimes was "to play church." I would arrange the chairs
as I had seen them arranged at church, then mounting on one of the
chairs, I would improvise a sermon and follow it with an unctuous
prayer. All this pleased my mother very much, and led her to believe
that God had condescended to accept her offering.

My dear mother is still living, and is still a devout member of the
Congregational church. I have not concealed my Rationalism from her,
nor have I tried to make light of the change which has separated us
radically in the matter of religion. Needless to say that my withdrawal
from the Christian ministry, and the Christian religion, was a painful
disappointment to her. But like all loving mothers, she hopes and prays
that I may return to the faith she still holds, and in which I was
baptized. It is only natural that she should do so. At her age of life,
beliefs have become so crystallized that they can not yield to new
impressions. When my mother had convictions I was but a child, and
therefore I was like clay in her hands, but now that I can think for
myself my mother is too advanced in years for me to try to influence
her. She was more successful with me than I shall ever be with her.

That my mother had a great influence upon me, all my early life attests.
As soon as I was old enough I was sent to college with a view of
preparing myself for the ministry. Having finished college I went to the
Princeton Theological Seminary, where I received instruction from such
eminent theologians as Drs. A. A. Hodge, William H. Green, and Prof.
Francis L. Patton. At the age of twenty-three, I became pastor of the
Spring Garden Presbyterian church of Philadelphia.

It was the reading of Emerson and Theodore Parker which gave me my first
glimpse of things beyond the creed I was educated in. I was at this time
obstinately orthodox, and, hence, to free my mind from the Calvinistic
teaching which I had imbibed with my mother's milk, was a most painful
operation. Again and again, during the period of doubt, I returned to
the bosom of my early faith, just as the legendary dove, scared by the
waste of waters, returned to the ark. To dislodge the shot fired into
a wall is not nearly so difficult an operation as to tear one's self
forever from the early beliefs which cling closer to the soul than the
skin does to the bones.

While it was the reading of a new set of books which first opened my
eyes, these would have left no impression upon my mind had not certain
events in my own life, which I was unable to reconcile with the belief
in a "Heavenly Father", created in me a predisposition to inquire into
the foundations of my Faith.

An event, which happened when I was only a boy, gave me many anxious
thoughts about the truth of the beliefs my dear mother had so eloquently
instilled into me. The one thought I was imbued with from my youth was
that "the tender mercies of God are over all his children," I believed
myself to be a child of God, and counted confidently upon his special
providence. But when the opportunity came for providence to show his
interest in me, I was forsaken, and had to look elsewhere for help. My
first disappointment was a severe shock. I got over it at the time, but
when I came to read Rationalistic books, the full meaning of that early
experience, which I will now briefly relate, dawned upon me, and helped
to make my mind good soil for the new ideas.

In 1877 I was traveling in Asia Minor, going from the Euphrates to the
Bosphorus, accompanied by the driver of my horses, one of which I rode,
the other carrying my luggage. We had not proceeded very far when we
were overtaken by a young traveler on foot, who, for reasons of safety,
begged to join our little party. He was a Mohammedan, while my driver
and I professed the Christian religion.

For three days we traveled together, going at a rapid pace in order to
overtake the caravan. It need hardly be said that in that part of the
world it is considered unsafe to travel even with a caravan, but, to
go on a long journey, as we were doing, all by ourselves, was certainly
taking a great risk.

We were armed with only a rifle--one of those flint fire-arms which
frequently refused to go off. I forgot to say that my driver had also
hanging from his girdle a long and crooked knife sheathed in a
black canvas scabbard. Both the driver, who was a Christian, and the
Mohammedan, who had placed himself under our protection, were, I am
sorry to say, much given to boasting. They would tell how, on various
occasions, they had, single-handed, driven away the Kurdish brigands,
who outnumbered them, ten to one; how that rusty knife had disemboweled
one of the most renowned Kurdish chiefs, and how the silent and
meek-looking flint-gun had held at bay a pack of those "curs" who go
about scenting for human flesh. All this was reassuring to me--a lad of
seventeen, and I began to think that I was indebted to Providence for my
brave escort.

On the morning of the 18th of February, 1877, we reached the valley said
to be a veritable den of thieves, where many a traveler had lost his
life as well as his goods. A great fear fell upon us when we saw on
the wooden bridge which spanned the river at the base of the hills, two
Kurds riding in our direction. I was at once disillusioned as to the
boasted bravery of my comrades, and felt that it was all braggadocio
with which they had been regaling me. As I was the one supposed to have
money, I would naturally be the chief object of attack, which made
my position the more perilous. But this sudden fear which seemed to
paralyze me at first, was followed by a bracing resolve to cope with
these "devils" mentally.

As I look back now upon the events of that day, I am puzzled to know
how I got through it all without any serious harm to my person. I was
surprised also that I, who had been brought up to pray and to trust in
divine help, forgot in the hour of real peril, all about "other help"
and bent all my energies upon helping myself.

But why did I not pray? Why did I not fall upon my knees to commit
myself to God's keeping? Perhaps it was because I was too much
pre-occupied--too much in earnest to take the time to pray. Perhaps my
better instincts would not let me take refuge in words when something
stronger was wanted. We may ask the good Lord not to burn our house,
but when the house is actually on fire, water is better than prayer.
Perhaps, again, I did not pray because of an instinctive feeling that
this was a case of self-help or no help at all. Perhaps, again, there
was a feeling in me, that if all the prayers my mother and I had offered
did not save me from falling into the hands of thieves neither would any
new prayer that I might offer be of any help. But the fact is that in
the hour of positive and imminent peril--when face to face with death--I
was too busy to pray.

My mother, before I started on this journey, had made a bag for my
valuables--watch and chain, etc.--and sewed it on my underflannels, next
to my body. But my money (all in gold coins) was in a snuff-box, and
that again in a long silk purse. I was, of course, the better dressed
of the three--with long boots which reached higher than my knees, a
warm English broadcloth cloak reaching down to my ankles, and an Angora
collarette, soft and snow white, about my neck.

I rode ahead, and the others, with the baggage horse, followed me. When
the two Kurdish riders who were advancing in our direction reached me,
they saluted me very politely, saying, according to the custom of the
country, "God be with you," to which I timidly returned the customary
answer, "We are all in his keeping." At the time it did not occur to me
how absurd it was for both travelers and robbers to recommend each other
to God while carrying fire-arms--the ones for attack, the others for
defense.

Of course now I can see, though I could not at the time I am speaking
of, that God never interfered to save an _unarmed_ traveler from
brigands--I say never, for if he ever did, and could, he would do it
always. But as we know, alas, too well, that hundreds and thousands have
been robbed and cut to pieces by these Kurds, it would be reasonable to
infer that God is indifferent. Of course, the strongly-armed travelers,
as a rule, escape, thanks to their own courage and firearms. For, we ask
again, if the Lord can save one, why not all? And if he can save all,
but will not, does he not become as dangerous as the robbers? But really
if God could do anything in the matter, He would reform the Kurds out
of the land, or--out of the thieving business. If God is the unfailing
police force in Christian, lands, he is not that in Mohammedan
countries, at any rate.

As the two mounted Kurds passed by me, they scanned me very closely--my
costume, boots, furs, cap and so on. Then I heard them making inquiries
of my driver about me--who I was, where I was going, and why I was going
at all.

My driver answered these, inquiries as honestly as the circumstances
permitted. Wishing us all again the protection of Allah, the Kurds
spurred their horses and galloped away.

For a moment we began to breathe freely--but only for a moment, for as
our horses reached the bridge we saw that the Kurds had turned around
and were now following us. And before we reached the middle of the
bridge over the river, one of the Kurds galloping up close to me laid
his hand on my shoulders and, unceremoniously, pulled me out of my
saddle. At the same time he dismounted himself, while his partner
remained on horseback with his gun pointed squarely in my-face, and
threatening to kill me if I did not give him my money immediately.

I can never forget his savage grin when at last he found my purse, and
grabbing it, with another oath, pulled it out of its hiding place. I
have already described that my coins were all in a little box hid away
in my purse, hence, as soon as the robber had loosened the strings he
took out the box, held it in his left hand, while with his right he kept
searching in the inner folds of my long purse. While he was running his
fingers through the tortuous purse, I slipped mine into his left hand,
and, taking hold of the box, I emptied its contents into my pocket
in the twinkling of an eye and handed it back to the robber. The Kurd
incensed at finding nothing in the purse which he kept shaking and
fingering, snatched the box from my hand, opened it, and finding it as
empty as the purse, flung it away with an oath.

"Are you Moslems or Christians?" inquired one of the Kurds, to my
companions.

"We are all Moslems, by Allah," they answered.

In Turkey you are not supposed to speak the truth unless you say, "by
Allah," which means "_by God_."

Of course it was not true that I was a Mohammedan. My companions told
the Kurds a falsehood about me, to save my life. There was no doubt the
Kurds would have killed me, but for the lie _which I did not correct_.
When I reached my destination many of my co-religionists declared that I
had denied Christ by allowing the Kurds to think that I was a Moslem.

As I feel now, my conscience does not trouble me for helping, by my
silence, to deceive the Kurds about my religion. In withholding the
truth from these would-be assassins I was doing them no evil, but
protecting the most sacred rights of man, the Kurd's included. Here was
an instance in which silence was golden. But I would not hesitate,
any moment, to mislead a thief or a murderer, by speech, as well as
by silence. If it is right to kill the murderer in self-defense, it is
right to deny him also the truth.

But young as I was, what alarmed me at the time was that we should
have been led into the temptation of lying to save our lives. Why did a
"Heavenly Father" deliver us to the brigands? And of what help was God
to us, if, in real peril, we had to resort to fighting or falsehood for
self-protection? In what way would the world have been worse off without
a "Heavenly Father?"

About a month after I arrived at my destination, I received a letter
from my mother, to whom the driver, upon his return, had related my
adventure with the Kurds. Without paying the least thought to the fact
that we had to lie to save our lives, my mother claimed that it was her
prayers which had saved _me_ from the brigands. _Sancta Simplicitas!_

But my hospitality to new tendencies did not in the least diminish the
anguish and pain of the separation from the religion of my mother. Even
after I began to seriously doubt many of the beliefs I had once accepted
as divine, it seemed impossible to abandon them. Ten thousand obstacles
blocked my way, and as many voices seemed to caution me against sailing
forth upon an unknown sea. In a modest way, I was like Columbus,
separated from the new world I was seeking, by the dark and tempestuous
waste of waters. How often my heart sank within me! I was almost sure
of a better and larger world beyond Calvin, or Christ even, but the huge
sea rolled between and struck terror upon my mind.

But if there are difficulties, there is a way out of them. I am glad
that the difficulties, great and insurmountable as they seemed at
the time, did not succeed in holding me back. Between Calvinism and
Rationalism flowed the deep, dark sea of fear. I have crossed that sea.
Behind me is theology with its mysteries and dogmas; before me are the
sunny fields of science. Born in the world of John Calvin, baptised
in the name of the Holy Trinity, and set apart for the Christian
ministry,--I have become a Rationalist. The meaning of both these words,
Calvinist and Rationalist, will, I hope, become clear to all the readers
of this book. The difference between the Calvinist and the Rationalist
is not that the one uses his reason, while the other does not. Both
use their reason. It is by using his reason that the Calvinist is not
a Catholic, for instance, or a Mohammedan. In the same way the Catholic
reasons for his church and against Calvinism. To say that Christianity,
or Judaism, should be accepted on faith, without first subjecting
its claims to the strain of reason, is also reasoning. Such is the
constitution of the mind, that even when men seek to suppress reason,
they are compelled to offer reasons for doing so.

But there is reasoning and reasoning. The Bushman has his reason for
trusting in his amulets; the civilized man, his, for trusting in
self-help. Just as the eyes must have light before they can see, Reason
must have knowledge before it can reason truly. But it is possible to
possess knowledge and still reason badly, just as a man may be in the
light, and still not see--by keeping his eyes shut.

Nor does it follow that if a man opens his eyes he _will_ see. The eyes
obey the will; if we do not wish to see, we will not see even with
our eyes open. There are many educated people who allow motives of
self-interest, if not to blind, at least to blur their vision.

Finally, it is not enough to see for ourselves. We must show to others
what we see: My object for telling the story of my mind--how it passed
from Calvinism to Rationalism,--is to help others see what I see.




CHAPTER II. Early Struggles

As I look back upon the period of mental conflict and uncertainty which
marked the closing years of my pastorate in the Presbyterian church, I
am comforted by the thought that I did not wait until I was accused of
heresy, tried by an ecclesiastical court and dismissed from the church
before I severed my connection with the Presbyterian denomination. On
the contrary, as soon as I had fully persuaded myself that I was no
longer a Presbyterian, I, of my own accord, offered my resignation,
after stating publicly the reasons which had led me to renounce
Calvinism. It was not the church that expelled me; it was I that
renounced the church.

Of course, even then there were those, who demanded a public trial and
my formal deposition from the ministry. The Philadelphia Presbytery met
to discuss whether I should not be summoned to appear before them, to
receive their censure. But wiser counsel prevailed, and a sensational
public trial was avoided. The district attorney of the city of
Philadelphia, Mr. George Graham, himself a staunch Presbyterian,
explained to the ministers that my resignation had deprived them of all
ecclesiastical jurisdiction over me. I had, he explained, unlocked the
door and walked out into the open, and it was too late now to talk of
expelling me. On the other hand, although my complete severance from
Calvinism had been fully announced, still for many days and nights my
house was filled with members of my church urging me to remain with them
as their pastor, and to hold on to the church building. I am very happy
to think that I was able to resist this temptation too. Had I yielded to
their entreaties, or allowed myself to be swayed by their arguments,
I would have been placed in a position where I could neither be
a Rationalist nor a Calvinist, but a preacher of ambiguities,
contradicting in one breath what I had said in another. From such a
career of duplicity and arrested growth, I was saved by a fortunate
decision on my part to give up Presbyterian property as well as the
Presbyterian creed.

The first Sunday after my resignation, I spoke in a hall on Broad
street, in Philadelphia. It was quite a change from a handsome church
edifice to a secular hall. I could see that those who followed me out of
the Presbyterian denomination felt ill at ease, on a Sunday morning in a
public hall. But that was not the worst shock in store for them.

When I reached the hall on Broad street it was so densely packed that
it seemed impossible for me to reach the platform. In the meantime, my
trustees were getting anxious about my failure to appear in the
pulpit. The audience too was showing signs of discomfort in the crowded
auditorium. It was only by announcing my name, and begging those who
stood up in rows at the entrance,--all the seats being occupied--to help
me reach the stage, that I could make any progress through the crowd.
When at last I faced the audience to deliver my first address from a
free platform, I thought of the advice given me by my trustees, that, as
much depended upon the impression of my first talk, which would in all
probability be extensively reported in the papers, I should take care
not to go "too far." What they meant by not going "too far," was that I
should let the public know that in the essentials I was as Christian as
ever. I do not blame my friends for this advice. They trembled for me
and for the organization which was to be launched for the first time on
that day. Besides, they were themselves, Presbyterians still, at heart,
and had no clear understanding of the meaning of my renunciation
of Calvinism. Sentimentally they were with me, but by training and
conviction they were still for the creed of their ancestors.

Speaking frankly, I had myself agreed to the wisdom of being careful and
conservative in my opening address, believing that radical utterances at
this time would make me more enemies than friends. But when I began to
speak, in the enthusiasm of the moment, joyous over the first taste of
freedom of speech, I forgot my caution, and gave my thoughts as
they welled up within me, full scope. "To the winds with policy and
calculation! Whether I win followers, or lose the last man, I must not
stammer,--I must speak!" Under the spell of this thought, which seemed
to seize me without at all consulting me, I said many things which
changed the color on the faces of my Presbyterian supporters.

Unused to freedom of speech, and brought up to believe certain beliefs
as sacred, the attempt on my part to subject these to the strain of
reason was in the nature of a painful disappointment to them. Thus
many of my followers lost heart and quickly returned to the cradle from
which, in a moment of excitement, they had leaped forth. But new friends
took the place of those who deserted the young movement, and in a very
short time, a larger hall was secured. This was St. George's hall, on
Arch street, one of the largest halls in Philadelphia. But up to this
time we, including myself, believed ourselves to be still Christians,
though no longer Presbyterians. As long as we held on to the name of
Christian we continued to sail in comparatively smooth waters. We made
the word "Christian," of course, to mean what we wanted it to mean.

But very soon new perplexities arose. The people who came to hear me,
and who paid the expenses of the new organization, as well as
directed its policy, while they progressed sufficiently to renounce
Presbyterianism, they were very reluctant to part with Christianity
altogether. I could criticise Calvin to my heart's content, but I must
not, Christ. The church, or churchianity, certainly deserved to be
investigated, and its errors exposed, but Christ and Christianity were
too sacred to be handled with equal freedom. My trustees felt that as a
liberal _Christian_ organization, there was a great future before us;
we would soon become one of the largest and most prosperous religious
bodies in the city; but if we "attacked" Christ--they called examining
the teachings and character of Christ freely "attacking" Christ--we
would be disowned by all respectable members, and lose our standing in
the esteem of a hitherto friendly public.

And the public was indeed friendly at this stage of our evolution. The
press of Philadelphia, as well as of New York City, reported daily,
for some time, the doings of the new organization. The majority of
the editorials in the daily papers commended the course I had taken
in avoiding a "heresy trial," and in resisting the great temptation to
resort to shifts and subterfuges to enable me to remain at a lucrative
post. In these days * departures from Orthodoxy were rare, and
naturally, my case created a great stir. But as I have intimated,
the preponderance of criticism and comment was favorable. Encouraging
letters from Henry Ward Beecher, Lyman Abbott, Prof. David Swing, and
other prominent leaders gave the new society an enviable prestige.
But my trustees protested that this "good will" of the public, which
constituted our best asset, would be lost, and its sympathy turned
into antagonism, if I spoke as freely of Christ as I did of Calvin,
and subjected the Bible to the same strain of reason that I did the
Westminster Catechism. In other words, I was politely made to feel that
while it was respectable enough to part with Presbyterianism, it would
spell ruin to part also with Christianity.

     * 1880.

In justice to my supporters I must state that when I resigned from the
Presbyterian church I had no idea that the step would eventually carry
me beyond Christianity itself. "A purer Christianity" was my plea at
that time, and I sincerely believed that with Calvinism out of the way
there would be left no serious obstacle for reason to stumble over.
I was not prepared at that stage of my evolution to perceive the
impossibility of separating Calvinism from Christianity without
destroying both. Calvinism was a symptom and not the disease itself.
The disease was supernaturalism, of which the different sects are
the manifestations. It is the disease and not its manifestation that
required suppression. I was unable to see the relationship between an
infinite God, sovereign of all, and Calvinism, and fancied in my mind
that I could keep God and let Calvin go. But faith in a God who knows
everything and is absolutely sovereign, spells Calvinism.

The step out of Christianity was infinitely more difficult than the
step out of Presbyterianism. Had my followers been trained to think
rationally, they would have seen that since I did not resign from the
Presbyterian church, for a different form of baptism, or communion, but
because of its failure to recognize Reason as the highest authority in
religion, I was bound, by the very stress and logic of my premises, to
drop Christianity as I had been led to drop Calvinism.

My trustees were quite unconscious of giving me dangerous advice, or of
trying to make of me an example of arrested development. They were
my friends, and the friends of the cause, but they could not think
logically, and that is why they could not appreciate my reply that we
are not free to command the truth,--we must obey the truth.

Matters came to a crisis when I delivered a lecture on "Was Jesus
God?" I can still see the painful expression on the faces of many of my
hearers on that Sunday morning. Did I bring them out of the Presbyterian
church to make "infidels" and "blasphemers" of them? A number of my
hearers rose and left the hall. The strain upon me was severe. When I
sat down I was in a profuse perspiration. When all was over, I must
have looked ashen pale. I had hardly any strength left to announce the
closing hymn. But my audience suffered perhaps even more than did I. To
part with Jesus is not the same thing as parting with Calvin, and that
morning I had told them that if Calvin goes, Jesus must go too.

_C'est le premier pas qui coute._ "It is the first step that costs."
But I found my second step even more costly. Voltaire speaks of the
inevitableness of the second step if the first is taken. They told him
how St. Denis had picked up his own head after it had been chopped off
by the executioner, and walked a hundred steps with it in his hands. He
replied, "I can believe in the ninety-nine steps, it is the first step I
find difficulty in believing." Granted the first step, the ninety-nine,
or nine million steps are very easy. Would it not be wasteful to argue
that St. Denis took the first step, but no more? Is it not equally
superfluous to accept one miracle in the Bible, and deny the rest?
If one miracle, why not a million? But the aim of the training we had
received in the church was not to help us to think logically but how
not to think logically. The state of the Christian church, divided,
sub-divided, and voicing doctrines diametrically opposed the one to the
other, while they all claim to be and are, equally scriptural is a proof
of this. I do not blame therefore, the members of my society for taking
offense or for withdrawing, as many of them did after the "Jesus"
lecture, their support from my work. They could not see the incongruity
of accepting one part and rejecting another of a "divine" revelation.
If the texts upon which Calvin based his theology were doubtful