be able to pray, I cannot will the attempt." Christianity has ever laid
stress upon its intellectual appeal. By the manifestation of the truth
its missionaries have, from Paul's day, tried to commend themselves. We
do not hear of "Evidence Societies" among non-Christian faiths. When the
Emperor Julian attempted to restore the ancient paganism, he did not
argue for its superior credibility, but contented himself with abusing
the creed of Christians and extolling the beauty of the rituals of the
religion it had supplanted. But the propaganda of the gospel of Jesus is
invariably one of persuasion, convincing and confirming men's minds with
its truth.

It would be as false, however, to neglect the part a man's willingness
has in his faith. To believe in the Christian God demands a severe moral
effort. It can never be an easy thing to rely on love as the ultimate
wisdom and power in the universe. "The will to believe," if not
everything, is all but everything, in predisposing us to listen to the
arguments of the faith and in rendering us inflammable to its kindling
emotions.

But no man can be truly religious who is not in communion with God with
"as much as in him is." Somebody has finely said that it does not take
much of a man to be a Christian, but it takes all there is of him. An
early African Christian, Arnobius, tells us that we must "cling to God
with all our senses, so to speak." And Thomas Carlyle gave us a picture
of the ideal believer when he wrote of his father that "he was religious
with the consent of his whole faculties." It is faith's ability to
engross a man's entire self, going down to the very roots of his being,
that renders it indestructible. It can say of those who seek to
undermine it, as Hamlet said of his enemies: