"JAEL THE WIFE OF HEBER THE KENITE"
John has not written lately because the car has been running well!
He says you care only for "thrillers," and that there have been none
since he last wrote. "Laus Deo!" add I. So to-day, which is a
Sunday, I am writing in his place.
I am sorry to say I am not at all pleased with him! You know how
unconventional and outspoken he is; well, I have had to tell him more
than once that while his way of talking is well enough at home, where
people know and love him, and where, even if they do not know him,
they are more or less like him, and so understand that what he says
is not to be taken _au pied de la lettre_, here people are
different--their yea is yea, and their nay nay. The English are not
only matter of fact, but have an awful reverence for truth, and do
not understand what John means when he says that "Lying can be the
highest form of truth"! So when a man says a thing they not
unnaturally think he means it.
Well, all this introduction leads to the events of the day. This
morning we went to the cathedral. I must say it was a shock to find
that there were less than a hundred people in the choir--where the
service was held. However, all went well enough until the sermon:
the preacher announced--no, _sung_--his text, "Blessed among women
shall Jael the wife of Heber the Kenite be. Blessed shall she be
among women in the tent," and then proceeded: "We will think of Jael,
my dear brethren, not merely as the wife of Heber the Kenite, but
rather as a type of the Blessed Virgin." What followed I shall never
know, for at this moment John picked up his hat and umbrella and
left, and I, fearing he might be faint, quickly followed. When we
got outside, I said, "Are you sick, dear?" and he replied: "Not yet,
but I should have been had I waited a moment longer."
"Was the air close?" I innocently asked.
"No, it was as damp and drafty as usual, but I could not have stood
that creature another minute."
Then followed a diatribe on the Established Church, which I will
spare you. Before he had finished, there was not one stone left upon
another of the cathedral system! "Such an array of clergy, such a
choir, such an organ, such everything to make the service glorious,
and yet fewer people than could be found in a mission chapel--the
extravagance of it, the futility of it--why, half the people there
were American tourists! Why don't they take the money and use it for
some good purpose?"
"'This ointment might have been sold for much,'" I quoted.
"No, you don't," he growled. "Was the 'whole house filled with the
odor of the ointment'? Is England? Is this town? Was the great
cathedral? Was the choir even? There was no odor of ointment.
There was nothing but a _stench_!"
"John!" I protested.
"Well, perhaps that was too strong. But, honestly, was there any
feeling of the majesty of God there? I say nothing of his love--any
pity for poor struggling souls? 'A type of the Blessed Virgin,'
forsooth! If he must talk of Jael, why did he not tell the truth and
remind the people that if she were living to-day she would be in
jail--no, that is not a pun--waiting for the report of the grand
jury? Is it not due to Mary's Son that she can no longer be counted
'blessed'? It is not the blasphemy, it is the unreality of the whole
performance which is so dreadful. The preacher no doubt is a decent,
law-abiding Englishman, who would be horrified if he read such a
story in the _Times_, but because it is embedded in the Bible he
considers it his duty to find a mystic meaning in it. This sort of
talk is what leads to moral confusion, and is one of the reasons why
the church is losing its hold on thoughtful people. The day was when
the 'world' was full of darkness and the church full of light, but
now the 'world' has a clearer moral vision than the church--or, at
any rate, than that preposterous creature has."
By this time, as you may believe, there was not much of the "joy of
the sanctuary" left in me! We walked down to the river, and after a
long silence John began to recite:
"O Mary, go and call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
And call the cattle home,
Across the sands o' Dee."
The tears came to my eyes, and John said, now quietly and reverently:
"He was a man"--meaning Kingsley--"and there must be some like him.
But, not 'in king's houses'! Why did not the preacher call _that_
Mary a type of the Virgin? Why didn't he recite the 'Sands o' Dee'?
Is it not as truly inspired as Judges?"
By this time my ill humor had passed, and I said: "Perhaps because he
could not recite it as well as you."
John laughed, and then said, "I'm sorry. Let us try and forget him,"
meaning, I suppose, the preacher, who probably was at that moment
eating his Sunday roast and listening to his wife's praises of the
sermon!
In the afternoon I announced that I thought of going to even-song,
and to my dismay John said he would go with me! I thought it was
running into temptation, and intimated as much, but he said he was
going to do penance. Well, it proved to be a lovely penance! The
sermon was so beautiful and simple, on the words "I know where thou
dwellest." It was about home--where we dwell. "Is it such," said
the preacher, "as we should wish Our Lord to visit?" He was an old
man, and the sermon was like the talk of a father to his children.
It radiated love. Then came the anthem, "Love Divine," and as the
voice of the tenor was lifted up the boy's soprano followed, rising
still higher, till in one final "Love Divine" the great arches of the
roof re-echoed with the melody. I confess that I wept, and John said
softly: "How perfect it all was! I understand now why the
townspeople--the nave was filled--come to such a service."
So we wended our way back to the hotel, feeling that the day had not
been altogether lost.