John Tyndall Quotes

Professor [John] Tyndall once said the finest inspiration he ever received was from an old man who could scarcely read. This man acted as his servant. Each morning the old man would knock on the door of the scientist and call, 'Arise, Sir: it is near seven o'clock and you have great work to do today.

In fact a favourite problem of [John Tyndall] is—Given the molecular forces in a mutton chop, deduce Hamlet or Faust therefrom. He is confident that the Physics of the Future will solve this easily.

His [Faraday's] third great discovery is the Magnetization of Light, which I should liken to the Weisshorn among mountains-high, beautiful, and alone.

In fact a favourite problem of Tyndall is—Given the molecular forces in a mutton chop, deduce Hamlet or Faust therefrom. He is confident that the Physics of the Future will solve this easily.

As a rule, theologians know nothing of this world, and far less of the next; but they have the power of stating the most absurd propositions with faces solemn as stupidity touched by fear. It is a part of their business to malign and vilify the Voltaires, Humes, Paines, Humboldts, Tyndalls, Haeckels, Darwins, Spencers, and Drapers, and to bow with uncovered heads before the murderers, adulterers, and persecutors of the world. They are, for the most part, engaged in poisoning the minds of the young, prejudicing children against science, teaching the astronomy and geology of the bible, and inducing all to desert the sublime standard of reason.

Underneath his sweetness and gentleness was the heat of a volcano. [Michael Faraday] was a man of excitable and fiery nature; but through high self-discipline he had converted the fire into a central glow and motive power of life, instead of permitting it to waste itself in useless passion.

In the firmament of science Mayer and Joule constitute a double star, the light of each being in a certain sense complementary to that of the other.

The logical feebleness of science is not sufficiently borne in mind. It keeps down the weed of superstition, not by logic but by slowly rendering the mental soil unfit for its cultivation.

To him [Faraday], as to all true philosophers, the main value of a fact was its position and suggestiveness in the general sequence of scientific truth.

Taking him for all and all, I think it will be conceded that Michael Faraday was the greatest experimental philosopher the world has ever seen.

The brightest flashes in the world of thought are incomplete until they have been proved to have their counterparts in the world of fact.

William Tyndale, and Miles Coverdale, both voluntary exiles from their country for their aversion to popish superstition and idolatry.

Knowledge once gained casts a light beyond its own immediate boundaries.

To Nature nothing can be added; from Nature nothing can be taken away; the sum of her energies is constant, and the utmost man can do in the pursuit of physical truth, or in the applications of physical knowledge, is to shift the constituents of the never-varying total. The law of conservation rigidly excludes both creation and annihilation. Waves may change to ripples, and ripples to waves; magnitude may be substituted for number, and number for magnitude; asteroids may aggregate to suns, suns may resolve themselves into florae and faunae, and floras and faunas melt in air: the flux of power is eternally the same. It rolls in music through the ages, and all terrestrial energy—the manifestations of life as well as the display of phenomena—are but the modulations of its rhythm.

Those who are unacquainted with the details of scientific investigation have no idea of the amount of labour expended in the determination of those numbers on which important calculations or inferences depend. They have no idea of the patience shown by a Berzelius in determining atomic weights; by a Regnault in determining coefficients of expansion; or by a Joule in determining the mechanical equivalent of heat.

[Louis Rendu] collects observations, makes experiments, and tries to obtain numerical results; always taking care, however, so to state his premises and qualify his conclusions that nobody shall be led to ascribe to his numbers a greater accuracy than they merit. It is impossible to read his work, and not feel that he was a man of essentially truthful mind and that science missed an ornament when he was appropriated by the Church.

But modern man, unlike Christian [Pilgrim's Progress], has no book in his hand, he has no faith in Evangelist, and a heavenly city seems to him much more likely to be a mirage. The God-dimension is missing, and he does his thinking in a curious parody of Christian verities.

He was alone and shackled by his neck to the wall. And he had no hope. How did a man live without hope? [You hope is in Jesus Christ. Pray to your Father in that name and he will ease your pain or shorten it]. That's what Tyndale had said in his last letter. And that's what John tried to do, though he could not kneel or even bow his head from his fixed position on the wall. (p. 365)

Your printers have made but one blunder, Correct it instanter, and then for the thunder! We'll see in a jiffy if this Mr S[pencer] Has the ghost of a claim to be thought a good fencer. To my vision his merits have still seemed to dwindle, Since I have found him allied with the great Dr T[yndall] While I have, for my part, grown cockier and cockier, Since I found an ally in yourself, Mr L[ockyer] And am always, in consequence, thoroughly willin', To perform in the pages of Nature's M[acmillan].

He thinks of Tyndale in the bleach fields, his human sins whited-out, speaking from within a haze of smoke. He thinks of the river at Advent, its frozen path. There is a poet who writes of winter wars, where sound is frozen. The soil beneath the snow seals in the noise of stampeding feet, the clank of harness, the pleas of prisoners, the groans of the dying. When the first rays of spring warm the ground, the misery begins to thaw. Groans and cries are unloosed, and last season's blood makes the waters foul. Now Tyndale has put on the armour of light. On the last day he will rise in a silver mist, with the broken and the burned, men and women remaking themselves from the ash pile: with Little Bilney and young John Frith, with the lawyers and the scholars and those who could barely read or read not at all but only listen; with Richard Hunne who was hanged in the Lollards Tower, and all those martyrs from the years before we were born, who set forth Wyclif's book. He will clasp hands with Joan Boughton, whom he, the Lord Privy Seal, saw burned to bone when he was a boy. In those blessed days the whole of creation will shine, but till then we see through a glass darkly, not face to face. Somewhere - or Nowhere, perhaps - there is a society ruled by philosophers. They have clean hands and pure hearts. But even in the metropolis of light there are midden and manure-heaps, swarming with flies. Even in the republic of virtue you need a man who will shovel up the shit, and somewhere it is written that Cromwell is his name.

A major sub-theme of America at the Crossroads (Tyndale House, 1979) was that as bad as things seemed in America there was still hope. Hope that if we heeded God’s call to repentance (II Chronicles 7:14), that we would be healed, and we would survive coming difficult times. That message is still operative, as America can still be healed, if we humble ourselves, pray, seek God’s face and turn from our wicked ways, He will heal our land. That’s His promise and He will do it – that is, if we do what He has commanded us to do.

I’ve read and reread William Tyndale, David Daniells’s substantial biography. Thomas More was a great defender of Roman Catholicism in England, and he felt himself the servant of God in taking on William Tyndale and doing everything he could to destroy his work. Tyndale did what More thought was an absolutely horrible thing: he translated the Bible into a language people could read, in defiance of the Catholic hierarchy of the time. They were afraid the church would lose its influence if any common person off the street, and not just the official interpreters of the church who knew Latin, could read and understand the Bible. More’s contemporaries relentlessly persecuted him, forcing him to live in exile with the knowledge that if he went back to England, his enemies would kill him, as they were killing the people who read his New Testament. Eventually they hunted him down, then imprisoned and executed him in France. His crime? Translating the Bible into English.

That faith the mother of all good works justifieth us, before we can bring forth any good work: as the husband marrieth his wife before he can have any lawful children by her. Furthermore as the husband marrieth not his wife, that she should continue unfruitful as before, and as she was in the state of virginity (wherein it was impossible for her to bear fruit) but contrariwise to make her fruitful: even so faith justifieth us not, that is to say, marrieth us not to God, that we should continue unfruitful as before, but that he should put the seed of his holy spirit in us (as saint John in his first epistle calleth it) and to make us fruitful. For saith Paul Ephes.2 By grace are ye made safe through faith, and that not of your selves: for it is the gift of God and cometh not of the works, lest any man should boast himself. For we are his workmanship created in Christ Jesu unto good works, which God hath ordained that we should walk in them.

A recent George Barna poll revealed that only 1% of Christians interviewed in his poll subscribed to all thirteen listed basic doctrinal principles of our Christian faith. Only one percent. Colson notes that in most churches today, “Biblical illiteracy is rampant.” As I detailed in America at the Crossroads (Tyndale House, 1979), cultures historically have only improved when God’s people get serious and experience spiritual revival. America has not witnessed a nationwide revival since early in the 20th century, over one hundred years ago. Americans really shouldn’t be too surprised that our culture continues to spiral downward. If we are “blind” to our true spiritual condition as an end times Church, our prayer should be that we see our true spiritual condition, as God sees it.          The literal translation of the word “sin” is missing the mark. Are we blind to how far we are from ‘hitting the mark’? Since current polls and demographic studies show that Christians living in America are divorcing, abusing, over-indulging, bankrupting or adultering at rates that don’t differ from non-Christians, we have to admit our blindness.

... though he [Michael Faraday] took no cities, he captivated all hearts.

Unger, Merrill F. Demons in the World Today. Wheaton, Ill.: Tyndale House Publishers, Inc., 1984.

This is Northumbria, spanning Durham, Yorkshire, and Northumberland, the northernmost county in England. Here was once the frontier, the last place, where, in the second century, the Romans built their vast fortifications to hold back the Scots and the Picts: first Hadrian’s Wall, running from the banks of the Tyne in the east to the Solway Firth in the west; and later, in a fit of optimism – or arrogance – the more northerly Antonine Wall, from the Firth of Forth in the east to the Firth of Clyde in the west, before abandoning it in favor of a consolidation of the southern defenses. In time, the remains of the Antonine Wall will come to be referred to as the Devil’s Dyke, but by then the Romans will be long gone, their fortresses already falling into ruin, leaving the blood to dry, and the land to bear their scars. Because the land remembers. So the Romans depart, and chaos descends. The Angles invade from Germania, battling the natives and one another, before eventually forging two kingdoms, Northumbria and Mercia, only to see them fall to the Norsemen in the ninth century, who will themselves be defeated by the kings of Wessex. More blood, more scars. In 927 AD, Northumbria becomes part of Athelstan’s united England. In 1066 William the Conqueror lands with his Normans, and crushes the Northumbrian resistance to Norman rule. The Norman castles rise, but they, like the Romans and the Angles before, are forced to defend themselves against the Scots. They leave their dead at Alnwick and Redesdale, Tyndale and Otterburn. The land has a taste for blood now. More conflicts follow – the Wars of the Roses, the Rising in the North, the Civil War, the Jacobite rebellions – and the ground makes way for new bones, but the blood never really dries. Dig deep enough, expose the depths, and one might almost glimpse seams of red and white, like the strata of rock: blood and bone, over and over, the landscape infused by them, forever altered and forever changing. Because the killing never stops.

Love for God is not an emotional experience so much as a moral commitment.

To solve the mystery of the future, you must engage what Holmes, and nineteenth-century Irish physicist John Tyndall before him, called the “scientific use of the imagination.” It’s actually a skill that you are already adept at doing, because all humans are skilled experts in this technique. It’s simple pattern recognition.

I want you to see persecution and opposition and slander and misunderstanding and disappointment and self-recrimination and weakness and danger as the normal portion of faithful pastoral ministry.