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Benjamin Disraeli was right when he said he was on the side of
the angels。 He was indeed； he was on the side of the fallen angels。
He was not on the side of any mere appetite or animal brutality；
but he was on the side of all the imperialism of the princes
of the abyss； he was on the side of arrogance and mystery；
and contempt of all obvious good。 Between this sunken pride
and the towering humilities of heaven there are； one must suppose；
spirits of shapes and sizes。 Man； in encountering them；
must make much the same mistakes that he makes in encountering
any other varied types in any other distant continent。 It must
be hard at first to know who is supreme and who is subordinate。
If a shade arose from the under world； and stared at Piccadilly；
that shade would not quite understand the idea of an ordinary
closed carriage。 He would suppose that the coachman on the box
was a triumphant conqueror； dragging behind him a kicking and
imprisoned captive。 So； if we see spiritual facts for the first time；
we may mistake who is uppermost。 It is not enough to find the gods；
they are obvious； we must find God； the real chief of the gods。
We must have a long historic experience in supernatural phenomena
in order to discover which are really natural。 In this light I
find the history of Christianity； and even of its Hebrew origins；
quite practical and clear。 It does not trouble me to be told
that the Hebrew god was one among many。 I know he was； without any
research to tell me so。 Jehovah and Baal looked equally important；
just as the sun and the moon looked the same size。 It is only
slowly that we learn that the sun is immeasurably our master；
and the small moon only our satellite。 Believing that there
is a world of spirits； I shall walk in it as I do in the world
of men； looking for the thing that I like and think good。
Just as I should seek in a desert for clean water； or toil at
the North Pole to make a comfortable fire； so I shall search the
land of void and vision until I find something fresh like water；
and comforting like fire； until I find some place in eternity；
where I am literally at home。 And there is only one such place to
be found。
I have now said enough to show （to any one to whom such
an explanation is essential） that I have in the ordinary arena
of apologetics； a ground of belief。 In pure records of experiment （if
these be taken democratically without contempt or favour） there is
evidence first； that miracles happen； and second that the nobler
miracles belong to our tradition。 But I will not pretend that this curt
discussion is my real reason for accepting Christianity instead of taking
the moral good of Christianity as I should take it out of Confucianism。
I have another far more solid and central ground for submitting
to it as a faith； instead of merely picking up hints from it
as a scheme。 And that is this： that the Christian Church in its
practical relation to my soul is a living teacher； not a dead one。
It not only certainly taught me yesterday； but will almost certainly
teach me to…morrow。 Once I saw suddenly the meaning of the shape
of the cross； some day I may see suddenly the meaning of the shape
of the mitre。 One fine morning I saw why windows were pointed；
some fine morning I may see why priests were shaven。 Plato has
told you a truth； but Plato is dead。 Shakespeare has startled you
with an image； but Shakespeare will not startle you with any more。
But imagine what it would be to live with such men still living；
to know that Plato might break out with an original lecture to…morrow；
or that at any moment Shakespeare might shatter everything with a
single song。 The man who lives in contact with what he believes
to be a living Church is a man always expecting to meet Plato
and Shakespeare to…morrow at breakfast。 He is always expecting
to see some truth that he has never seen before。 There is one
only other parallel to this position； and that is the parallel
of the life in which we all began。 When your father told you；
walking about the garden； that bees stung or that roses smelt sweet；
you did not talk of taking the best out of his philosophy。 When the
bees stung you； you did not call it an entertaining coincidence。
When the rose smelt sweet you did not say 〃My father is a rude；
barbaric symbol； enshrining （perhaps unconsciously） the deep
delicate truths that flowers smell。〃 No： you believed your father；
because you had found him to be a living fountain of facts； a thing
that really knew more than you； a thing that would tell you truth
to…morrow； as well as to…day。 And if this was true of your father；
it was even truer of your mother； at least it was true of mine；
to whom this book is dedicated。 Now； when society is in a rather
futile fuss about the subjection of women； will no one say how much
every man owes to the tyranny and privilege of women； to the fact
that they alone rule education until education becomes futile：
for a boy is only sent to be taught at school when it is too late
to teach him anything。 The real thing has been done already；
and thank God it is nearly always done by women。 Every man
is womanised； merely by being born。 They talk of the masculine woman；
but every man is a feminised man。 And if ever men walk to Westminster
to protest against this female privilege； I shall not join
their procession。
For I remember with certainty this fixed psychological fact；
that the very time when I was most under a woman's authority；
I was most full of flame and adventure。 Exactly because when my
mother said that ants bit they did bite； and because snow did
come in winter （as she said）； therefore the whole world was to me
a fairyland of wonderful fulfilments； and it was like living in
some Hebraic age； when prophecy after prophecy came true。 I went
out as a child into the garden； and it was a terrible place to me；
precisely because I had a clue to it： if I had held no clue it would
not have been terrible； but tame。 A mere unmeaning wilderness is
not even impressive。 But the garden of childhood was fascinating；
exactly because everything had a fixed meaning which could be found
out in its turn。 Inch by inch I might discover what was the object
of the ugly shape called a rake； or form some shadowy conjecture
as to why my parents kept a cat。
So； since I have accepted Christendom as a mother and not
merely as a chance example； I have found Europe and the world
once more like the little garden where I stared at the symbolic
shapes of cat and rake； I look at everything with the old elvish
ignorance and expectancy。 This or that rite or doctrine may look
as ugly and extraordinary as a rake； but I have found by experience
that such things end somehow in grass and flowers。 A clergyman may
be apparently as useless as a cat； but he is also as fascinating；
for there must be some strange reason for his existence。 I give
one instance out of a hundred； I have not myself any instinctive
kinship with that enthusiasm for physical virginity； which has
certainly been a note of historic Christianity。 But when I look
not at myself but at the world； I perceive that this enthusiasm
is not only a note of Christianity； but a note of Paganism； a note
of high human nature in many spheres。 The Greeks felt virginity
when they carved Artemis； the Romans when they robed the vestals；
the worst and wildest of the great Elizabethan playwrights clung to
the literal purity of a woman as to the central pillar of the world。
Above all； the modern world （even while mocking sexual innocence）
has flung itself into a generous idolatry of sexual innocence
the great modern worship of children。 For any man who loves children
will agree that their peculiar beauty is hurt by a hint of physical sex。
With all this human experience； allied with the Christian authority；
I simply conclude that I am wrong； and the church right； or rather
that I am defective； while the church is universal。 It takes
all sorts to make a church； she does not ask me to be celibate。
But the fact that I have no appreciation of the celibates；
I accept like the fact that I have no ear for music。 The best
human experience is against me； as it is on the subject of Bach。
Celibacy is one flower in my father's garden； of which I have
not been told the sweet or terrible name。 But I may be told it
any day。