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to the Father in his manhood, is not the Christ who in all points was tempted as we are. Still we all profess to believe in one God the Father, and in one Saviour, Jesus Christ. With this imperfect consent we must at present rest satisfied. Imperfect as it is, it may be made the means of cherishing a better fellowship than has yet been cultivated among Christians. We come together on the ground of general terms, general subjects, general ideas;-it is enough-let us come together as brethren. Then, whatever may be the differences of our Christian belief, we shall answer the great purpose of Christianity, after all.

It is to be regretted that Christians do not meet, and never have met together, in so amicable a manner as this general agreement may not only justify but demand. And yet I think it may with confidence be asserted, that at the bottom of all the sectarian spirit, of all the mutual rancour and mutual abhorrence which they have displayed, there has still been preserved the feeling of a common interest and a common cause. Whatever he may have persuaded himself to believe, or to utter, the Christian has always looked on the Christian as standing nearer to him than the Heathen. All the religious persecutions which have arisen are but exceptions and partial interruptions to this feeling of a general union, which has been constantly in existence, and constantly in operation. Christians have hated each other, banished each other, and murdered cach other; and still throughout the Christian world there has been a prevailing sentiment of unity. After the whirlwind, and the earthquake, and the fire, have done their worst, a still, small voice has whispered the name of brother!

Now I conceive that one of the causes,-not the only, nor the principal cause,-but one of the causes of this community of feeling, has been the existence of religious rites. Certain forms, bearing the same name, have been observed by all, and observed because they were commanded by the same master. And it was, perhaps, one of the designs of our Saviour, when he instituted the ritual ordinances of our religion, to throw a chain round the whole body of his disciples, which, though its links were unseen, and its strength was un known, would yet serve the purpose of binding them together.

The benefits which I have enumerated, as resulting from prescribed religious forms, are sufficient to prove them requisite, reasonable and useful. But all the considerations which have been offered are of a general nature. When we come to the inquiry of what kinds of forms are best, how many should there be, and how should they be observed, the discussion will of course assume a more particular bearing. It must be laid down as a principle, that religious rites, in order that they may produce the most beneficial effects, prevent abuses, and be in harmony with a pure and spiritual religion, must be simple and few. I hope to establish the truth of this proposition by the following considerations.

Observances are so far valuable as they produce good dispositions, and no farther. Whatever, therefore, tends to make them valued for themselves tends to destroy all that is valuable in their efficacy. And they are even negative and harmless, only so long as they do not absolutely exclude good dispositions, and no longer. That is to say; whatever there may be in

them which diverts the attention from the objects to which they ought to have directed it; whatever there may be in the means, which takes away the thoughts and affections from the end, perverts the very design of those means, and renders them not only useless, but pernicious. Rites, therefore, should in the first place be simple; simple, both in their nature, and in the manner of observing them.

To this necessary simplicity two fatal enemies are opposed-mystery and splendour.

All the good effects which result from a simple manner of apprehending a religious ceremony are destroyed by mystery. To perform a rite, or to partake in it, with desirable effects on ourselves, we must understand what it means. We must have some knowledge of its object, before we can answer that object—at least if we have any thing to do with its operation; and if we have not, why engage in it at all? A mysterious ceremony is a waste of time, if it be not worse than a waste. It either overwhelms and stupifies the mind at the precise moment when the mind should have been unusually vigorous and active; or it absorbs those energies in barren astonishment, which ought to have been employed in practical reflection. A mysterious rite, as might be supposed, has some such influence as a magical spell, enchaining the best of the mental powers in an idle imprisonment, when they ought to be in pursuit of the worthiest achievements.

The necessary simplicity of religious rites is opposed likewise by splendour, which relates to the manner of performing them. Flaming altars, and bleeding victims, tapers, incense, and costly robes, are all but so many enticements to draw away the mind from

charity and duty. It has been said that they elevate the thoughts, and kindle a glow of devotion. It may be so. But what is the nature of the elevation and the glow? Is it the elevation which aspires after what is noble and useful in character? Is it the glow which warms the heart with benevolence, and sympathy, and love to man? Is it not rather an elevation bewildered in its own flight, and a glow exhausted in its own burning? These confused and tumultuous and undefinable sensations are profitless; they bring no good thing to pass. And if they stopped here it would be well. But they are not merely unproductive to the votary, they deceive him. They have a lie in their right hand. They say to his heart-it is enough. They permit him to depart from the service satisfied with himself, and thinking that the Deity is satisfied with what he has done-when he ought to have departed with a determination to do more than he has ever yet accomplished, and anxious to gain the divine approbation by every moral exertion in his power. And even this is not the extent of the evil. He comes to the sacrifice, or the ceremony, with the mistaken idea that its forms will relieve him of a burthen of sin; and he goes away fatally convinced that they have done so. And what follows? He feels himself at liberty to sin again, because he knows where to find a refuge for crime, however accumulated, and a remedy for guilt, however aggravated.

There are, then, two evils which result from splendour in the rites of religion. The one is, that it engrosses those feelings which should have received a practical direction; and the other, that it is an inducement to ascribe merit and power to what is arrayed

with so much show and circumstance, and requires so much trouble and cost.

We have seen that religious rites should be simple, both in their nature, and in the manner of their celebration. That they may produce the good ends for which they are adapted, they should also be few in number. A multiplicity of rites will be followed by evil consequences very similar to those, which arise from their splendour, and their mystery. Attention, value, merit, influence, efficacy, are all taken away from the ends, and given up to the means. Religion is naturally made to consist in its external institutions, when they present themselves so often, that there is no opportunity for attending to any thing else. The mind has no alternative; it must devote itself to guests who make such constant calls. They who are disposed to do any thing in the service of religion, are never prone to blame themselves for doing too little, in any shape. They are very unwilling to suppose that any labour, of any kind, will be labour lost. Of course that labour will be preferred, which is attended with the least real difficulty. It is easier to prepare a pageant than it is to overcome a rebellious propensity. Men will rend their garments, but not their hearts; they will bow their knees, but not their pride; they will tear the flesh from their bodies, but not their bad passions from their souls. They are very ready with their altar service, lip service, eye service-any service, but the service of the heart and the life. These corporeal acts, they vainly imagine, entitle them to a moral equivalent. "Wherefore have we fasted," say they, "and thou seest not? wherefore have we afflicted our soul, and thou takest no knowledge?" A natural

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