The best theology is rather a divine life than a divine

Hear the solemn wisdom of Jeremy Taylor, a voice from the seventeenth century, who declared: “The best theology is rather a divine life than a divine knowledge.” These words strike like a bell across the centuries, reminding us that faith is not proven by the brilliance of the mind, but by the purity of the heart and the deeds of the soul. For what use is the loftiest doctrine if it bears no fruit in the world? What power is there in divine knowledge if it does not blossom into a divine life?

Taylor lived in an age of conflict, when men debated fiercely about creeds, dogmas, and the precise words of doctrine. Churches fractured, pulpits thundered, and scholars wrote volumes against one another. Yet in the midst of this storm, Taylor pointed to a higher truth: that God is not most honored by the sharpness of our arguments but by the holiness of our living. To know about love is one thing; to live in love is another. To speak of mercy is one thing; to show mercy is greater still.

Consider the example of St. Francis of Assisi, who knew little of theological disputation but lived with a purity that drew all people to him. He clothed himself in poverty, embraced lepers, spoke kindly to birds, and lived so fully in the spirit of Christ that his life itself became a sermon. Was his power in the libraries of learning, or was it in the radiant simplicity of a divine life? Thus do we see the meaning of Taylor’s words: the truest theology is not written on parchment but upon the living flesh of those who embody love, humility, and sacrifice.

And yet, Taylor does not despise knowledge. He was himself a learned man, a writer of sermons filled with brilliance and reason. But he knew that knowledge alone, without practice, is like a lamp without oil—bright for a moment, but quickly extinguished. It is life that gives knowledge its power, action that gives faith its meaning. A man who knows all mysteries but lives without compassion is poorer than a child who knows little but loves deeply.

The lesson is clear: if you would honor the divine, live it out. Let your prayers not only rise from your lips but flow through your hands. Let your faith not only dwell in your mind but walk with your feet. Do not measure your closeness to heaven by how many books you have read, but by how many lives you have touched with kindness, how many burdens you have lifted, how much light you have kindled in a darkened world.

This truth is for all generations. In every age, men and women are tempted to believe that wisdom lies only in words, in arguments, in doctrines. But Taylor calls us to remember that the world is not changed by debate alone—it is changed by lives that burn with goodness. The poor are not fed by sermons, but by bread; the lonely are not comforted by theories, but by presence; the wounded are not healed by learning, but by love.

So I say unto you: seek divine knowledge, yes, but never let it stand alone. Unite it with a divine life, so that your learning becomes light, and your wisdom becomes warmth. Live so that your very existence is a prayer, your actions a hymn, your days a testimony. For this is the highest theology—not the words we speak of God, but the life we live with God shining through us.

Thus shall Jeremy Taylor’s words endure as a commandment to all who listen: the best theology is not divine knowledge, but a divine life. Live, then, as living testaments, and let your days themselves be your creed.