His nature is of the nature of thought and will.  Not only has he, in his essence, nothing to do with matter, but nothing to do with space.  He is not of matter nor of space.  He comes into them.  Since the period when all the great theologies that prevail to-day were developed, there have been great changes in the ideas of men towards the dimensions of time and space.  We owe to Kant the release from the rule of these ideas as essential ideas.  Our modern psychology is alive to the possibility of Being that has no extension in space at all, even as our speculative geometry can entertain the possibility of dimensions—­fourth, fifth, Nth dimensions—­outside the three-dimensional universe of our experience.  And God being non-spatial is not thereby banished to an infinite remoteness, but brought nearer to us; he is everywhere immediately at hand, even as a fourth dimension would be everywhere immediately at hand.  He is a Being of the minds and in the minds of men.  He is in immediate contact with all who apprehend him. . . .

But modern religion declares that though he does not exist in matter or space, he exists in time just as a current of thought may do; that he changes and becomes more even as a man’s purpose gathers itself together; that somewhere in the dawning of mankind he had a beginning, an awakening, and that as mankind grows he grows.  With our eyes he looks out upon the universe he invades; with our hands, he lays hands upon it.  All our truth, all our intentions and achievements, he gathers to himself.  He is the undying human memory, the increasing human will.

But this, you may object, is no more than saying that God is the collective mind and purpose of the human race.  You may declare that this is no God, but merely the sum of mankind.  But those who believe in the new ideas very steadfastly deny that.  God is, they say, not an aggregate but a synthesis.  He is not merely the best of all of us, but a Being in himself, composed of that but more than that, as a temple is more than a gathering of stones, or a regiment is more than an accumulation of men.  They point out that a man is made up of a great multitude of cells, each equivalent to a unicellular organism.  Not one of those cells is he, nor is he simply just the addition of all of them.  He is more than all of them.  You can take away these and these and these, and he still remains.  And he can detach part of himself and treat it as if it were not himself, just as a man may beat his breast or, as Cranmer the martyr did, thrust his hand into the flames.  A man is none the less himself because his hair is cut or his appendix removed or his leg amputated.

And take another image. . . .  Who bears affection for this or that spadeful of mud in my garden?  Who cares a throb of the heart for all the tons of chalk in Kent or all the lumps of limestone in Yorkshire?  But men love England, which is made up of such things.

And so we think of God as a synthetic reality, though he has neither body nor material parts.  And so too we may obey him and listen to him, though we think but lightly of the men whose hands or voices he sometimes uses.  And we may think of him as having moods and aspects—­as a man has—­and a consistency we call his character.