“I don’t believe it, Billy! Because if God did know the numbers of the hairs on everybody’s heads, what good would it do Him? And what if He does know when some one shoots a few birds? What’s the use of Him losing sleep over tiny, foolish things like those when it’s lots more important to keep that frail, pretty evening star hung up there in space? Seems to me there’s too many folks want to make God a cranky old man, always finding fault with people because they don’t do things His way—or a bookkeeper like old Joe Nevins at the knitting mills who almost wrecks the place if he finds two cents off in his balance.” “And what kind of a person do you think God is? You believe there is a God, don’t you?” “I like to think God would be a kind old man. His eyes would laugh when people take Him so serious, and think He’s as fussy as themselves. And He’d have long white whiskers that it’d be lots of fun to pull—so long as it didn’t hurt Him—much.” “I’m glad you believe there is a God anyway,” I told Nathan, shocked with the _lèse-majesté_. “Oh, I don’t know. I haven’t said I really do yet. Oh, Billy—we don’t know nothing about Him—not a single thing! Then why is it we keep fooling ourselves that we do? Why not be honest and say we don’t? If there is a God, don’t you suppose He’s wise enough and big enough so He knows we don’t know nothing about Him? Why is it such a sin to refuse to take everything on faith, like old Doctor Dodd is always shouting about, on Sundays? We don’t think it’s any terrible crime to ‘want to be shown’ in business or science. Why should it be in religion? If we’re honest and ready to believe the right thing when we’re shown it is the right thing, why shouldn’t that be enough?” “You can search me!” I answered. “Well,” continued Nathan, “I don’t know there is a God—and if there is and He’s Pa’s kind of God, I don’t want anything to do with Him. And if He isn’t Pa’s kind of God, then Pa’s all wrong about all the other things. And if Pa’s all wrong in the other things, then he doesn’t know what he’s talking about in the first place and I’m not obliged to believe him in anything. Oh, Billy, I wish I could live in a world that would just be honest! I wish I could live in a world where people were brave enough to come right out and confess they don’t know anything—about God and religion, I mean,—but were willing to be shown.” “Don’t you believe in the church and the Cross and everything,—and Jesus Christ?” “I don’t know what I believe,” Nat repeated angrily. “And I don’t believe any one else does, either, if they’d be honest. I’m sick of being ordered to believe things whether I do or not!” “But if you don’t believe in the church and the Cross and everything, you’ll go to hell. The Bible says so.” “I don’t believe there is a hell,” snapped Nathan. “Everybody tells us hell’s a place where the wicked burn forever and ever. Who’s the wickedest man in this town?”