Belief Of Some Sort Is The Lifeblood

Love, The One Supreme, Unceasing Source Of Human Felicity, The One Sole Joy Which Lifts The Whole Mortal Existence Into The Empyrean, Was By It [christianity] Degraded Into The Mere Mechanical Action Of Reproduction.

Christianity ... Has Produced The Iniquities Of The Inquisition, The Egotism And Celibacy Of The Monasteries, The Fury Of Religious Wars, The Ferocity Of The Hussite, Of The Catholic, Of The Puritan, Of The Spaniard, Of The Irish Orangeman And Of The Irish Papist; It Has Divided Families, Alienated Friends, Lighted The Torch Of Civil War, And Borne The Virgin And The Greybeard To The Burning Pile, Broken Delicate Limbs Upon The Wheel And Wrung The Souls And Bodies Of Innocent Creatures On The Rack; All This It Has Done, And Done In The Name Of God.

Fancy Tortures More People Than Does Reality

The Christian Religion, Outwardly And Even In Intention Humble, Does, Without Meaning It, Teach Man To Regard Himself As The Most Important Of All Created Things. Man Surveys The Starry Heavens And Hears With His Ears Of The Plurality Of Worlds; Yet His Religion Bids Him Believe That His Alone Out Of These Innumerable Spheres Is The Object Of His Master's Love And Sacrifice.

We Do Not Want To Think. We Do Not Want To Hear. We Do Not Care About Anything. Only Give Us A Good Dinner And Plenty Of Money, And Let Us Outshine Our Neighbors. There Is The Nineteenth Century Gospel.