A Religion of Mere Taste

There is a class of minds that contemplate religion chiefly as a matter of taste Poetical and imaginative, they see every thing through the golden haze of fancy. They talk much of the religious sentiment, and appeal to the feeling of moral beauty as the persuasive to virtue. We confess the charm of their writings, and linger over the pages. But, after all, what do we find in their brilliant rhapsodies? It is the spirit of poetry which silvers the world with moonlight,—beautiful, but cold. Such reveries may fascinate the mind in its dreamy moods; but they cannot conquer the stormy passions, nor subdue the terrific depravity of a human soul. It is astonishing how little practical power a religion has, which depends on art, on painting, and music, and cathedrals. Sentiments of beauty have their place in the worship of God. They may attract to the porch of the temple; but when we enter, and become really interested, these light emotions give place to deeper feelings. Then we are not merely creatures of taste, but guilty and wretched beings, coming to God for mercy and salvation. No preaching can be really powerful, which does not touch these mighty chords of the human soul. No man ever preached with great effect, who did not feel that religion was something more than beautiful, and that life was more than a theatre for acting, or for the display of sensibility. No man can preach with power, who does not feel that existence is unutterably solemn; that it is a probation for eternity; and that he and his hearers are passing together to the tribunal of God. Nothing keeps the faculties of man strung to such intense action, as the conviction that he must give a stern and strict account to his God,—a feeling such as is expressed in that sublime hymn of Wesley—

"A charge to keep I have,
A God to glorify,
A never-dying soul to save,
And fit it for the sky."