Martinus: Livets Bog, vol. 5, sect. 1844

1844. Without this reality in the cosmic laws governing the universe, the materialistic terrestrial mankind's world picture, that is, "chance", would be a veritable nightmare. How could this mankind progress in culture and evolution, in joy and zest for life, with this modern worshipping of "chance" or this lifeless world picture? Of what use is the microbe's reason or logical sense when its source is but a mortal speck of dust under the universe's thousands-of-tons heavy elephant's foot? How can it assert itself in relation to this blind, dead god, this unadulterated false idol, which is identical only to this lifeless factor: "chance"? Of what significance is the speck of dust in the middle of an onrushing storm surge? How can it hope for anything humane or loving from this ocean of chance? What is the use of terrestrial human beings, these specks of dust in the ocean of chance, talking about creating a radiant world peace and a future happy golden age in which the war of all against all will be abolished when all these specks of dust are on a vessel that is blindly at the mercy of chance and could collide at any moment with another planet, or when the sun could suddenly explode, destroying all life within its own sphere? What is the use of one being happily married, earning a good living, having a venerated and highly esteemed position in society when the consuming, all-destroying, lethal flames of chance lick one's own organism and the lives of those closest to one every day, and, in a fraction of a second, can completely wipe out both them and oneself or turn us into invalids in great agony? Chance lurks on the chair one sits on, the train, the car, the ship or the aircraft one uses. Chance lurks behind our every breath, behind our every movement, and can make us stumble and end up in a fatal, miserable state. Chance lurks in the king's palace as well as in the poor man's hovel. This leaden elephant's foot of the universe lies in wait everywhere for the microbe, for the speck of dust. Can terrestrial mankind's future be built up on and buried in the belief in this culmination of hopelessness, this futility of life, this worshipping of chance, this fatal, disabling, lifeless Godhead or the chaos of the forces? Can life or the universe in a better way than through the darkness of hopelessness that we have pointed out here show mankind's great mistake, its limited, latent or dead cosmic consciousness, its worshipping or cultivation of death instead of life? Can one not soon realise that technology and chemistry, atomic bombs, war, killing and mutilation cannot possibly remove mankind's deadly enemy or this swearing by chance that keeps it bound to the vale of tears and the proletariat of strife, sufferings and sorrows? How long will one go on swearing allegiance to this great, imaginary dead Godhead, this glaring superstition that chance is the cause, the ruler, the builder and the destroyer of life?