He has hard words for such as get only the form of religion, or but little of its substance.

“There are some Christians whose secular life is an arid, worldly strife, and whose religion is but a turbid sentimentalism.  Their life runs along that line where the overflow of the Nile meets the desert. It is the boundary line between sand and mud.”

“That gospel which sanctions ignorance and oppression for three millions of men, what fruit or flower has it to shake down for the healing of the nations? It is cursed in its own roots, and blasted in its own boughs.”

“Many of our churches defy Protestantism.  Grand cathedrals are they, which make us shiver as we enter them.  The windows are so constructed as to exclude the light and inspire a religious awe.  The walls are of stone, which makes us think of our last home.  The ceilings are sombre, and the pews coffin-colored.  Then the services are composed to these circumstances, and hushed music goes trembling along the aisles, and men move softly, and would on no account put on their hats before they reach the door; but when they do, they take a long breath, and have such a sense of relief to be in the free air, and comfort themselves with the thought that they’ve been good Christians!

“Now this idea of worship is narrow and false.  The house of God should be a joyous place for the right use of all our faculties.”

“There ought to be such an atmosphere in every Christian church, that a man going there and sitting two hours should take the contagion of heaven, and carry home a fire to kindle the altar whence he came.”

“The call to religion is not a call to be better than your fellows, but to be better than yourself.  Religion is relative to the individual.”

“My best presentations of the gospel to you are so incomplete!  Sometimes, when I am alone, I have such sweet and rapturous visions of the love of God and the truths of his word, that I think, if I could speak to you then, I should move your hearts.  I am like a child, who, walking forth some sunny summer’s morning, sees grass and flower all shining with drops of dew.  ‘Oh,’ he cries, ’I’ll carry these beautiful things to my mother!’ And, eagerly plucking them, the dew drops into his little palm, and all the charm is gone.  There is but grass in his hand, and no longer pearls.”

“There are many professing Christians who are secretly vexed on account of the charity they have to bestow and the self-denial they have to use.  If, instead of the smooth prayers which they do pray, they should speak out the things which they really feel, they would say, when they go home at night, ’O Lord, I met a poor curmudgeon of yours to-day, a miserable, unwashed brat, and I gave him sixpence, and I have been sorry for it ever since’; or, ’O Lord, if I had not signed those articles of faith, I might have gone to the theatre this evening.  Your religion deprives me of a great deal of enjoyment, but I mean to stick to it.  There’s no other way of getting into heaven, I suppose.’