Science is the one voice that condemns in these days the self-destroying madness of a world set on seeking to live habitually in the lower life.  Sometimes journalism may light a candle of reason in our darkness, as when The Times recently pointed out in a leading article that the half-humorous interest of the world in the murderer Landru had its rise in a profound instinct of the human spirit, namely, that horror must be laughed at if it is not to be feared—­to fear it is to be overwhelmed by it.  This instinct is “an unconscious refusal to believe in the ultimate reality of evil; it is the predecessor of the scientific spirit which says that evil is something to be overcome by understanding it.”

Out of such a lethargy as that which now holds her captive, I do not think the Church can be roused except by the trumpets of war.  Let her, then, consider whether there is not here, in this world of false values, of low ambitions, of mean pleasures, of dark materialism, and of perilous superstitions, a world to be fought, as the doctors fight it, and the best kind of newspapers, if only for the sake of posterity, a world against which it is good to oppose oneself—­the Children of Light against the Children of Darkness.

What is the good news of Christianity if it is not the news that “the spiritual alone is the real,” that there is freedom for human life and mastery for the human soul, that faith in the spiritual is power over the material?  Even in the tentative form which M. Bergson uses to reveal the reality of the spiritual world there is such joy that one of his interpreters can exclaim: 

Here we are in these regions of twilight and dream, where our ego takes shape, where the spring within us gushes up, in the warm secrecy of the darkness which ushers our trembling being into birth.  Distinctions fail us.  Words are useless now.  We hear the wells of consciousness at their mysterious task like an invisible shiver of running water through the mossy shades of the caves.  I dissolve in the joy of becoming.  I abandon myself to the delight of being a pulsing reality.  I no longer know whether I see scents, breathe sounds, or smell colours.  Do I love?  Do I think?  The question has no longer a meaning for me.  I am, in my complete self, each of my attitudes, each of my changes.  It is not my sight which is indistinct or my attention which is idle.  It is I who have resumed contact with pure reality, whose essential movement admits no form of number.

How much greater the joy of him who knows that Reality is God, and that God is Father.

     The open secret flashes on the brain,
     As if one almost guessed it, almost knew
     Whence we have sailed and voyage whereunto.