I was present in a great church the other day at a service held at the
hour of sunset The dying light fell richly through the stained windows,
lending a deep and beautiful mystery to the scenes there depicted. The
pale faces of pictured saints, with their rich robes, were outlined
with a pathetic sweetness against backgrounds of solemn buildings or
confused woods. The lighted tapers of the choir threw a faint glow up
to the intricate roof, which seemed flooded with a golden mist; the
gilt pipes of the organ gleamed softly; the music began to roll and
stir, with a grave melodious thunder, like the voice of a dreaming
spirit. A procession of white-vested figures moved with a ceremonial
dignity to their places, and then the service proceeded through soft
gradations of prayer and praise, in words of exquisite and restrained
felicity, all haunted with the echoes of the ages. I sate alone, a
silent listener, and it seemed to me that every appeal which the beauty
of art could make to the spirit was here delicately displayed. Eye and
ear, emotion and intellect, were alike thrilled and satisfied. They
sang the 119th Psalm, that perfect expression of holy quietude: "Thy
testimonies are wonderful; therefore doth my soul seek them."
Wonderful, indeed, and gracious, sweet as honey. The heart, in that
glad moment, drew near to the tender Father of life, who seemed, as in
the old parable, to see the repentant son of his heart wandering sadly
a long way off, to go forth to meet him, and to fill the house with
light and music, that he might feel it to be home indeed.
That the instinct that has drawn all the treasures of art into its
service, and with them welcomes and sustains the wearied soul, is a
pure and beautiful one, I make no doubt. But then I thought of all that
lies outside: of crowded cities, of the ugly mirth, the sordid cares of
men and women; of the dark laws that wound and slay; of pain and shame;
of tired labour and cruelty and harshness, of lust and greediness.
I thought of how few there were of mankind to whom the sweet pomp which
I sate to see and hear makes any appeal, I thought that for one to whom
such beauty was desirable and satisfying, there were thousands who
would prefer the brisk interchange of life, the race-course, the
athletic spectacle, the restaurant, the tap-room. Was this, indeed,
religion at all? I wondered. It did, indeed, use the language of
religion, surround itself with the memories of saints, the holy wisdom
of the ages. But what was the end of it? Did it inspire those who heard
it with the desire to win, to sustain, to ameliorate other souls? Did
it inculcate the tender affection, the self-sacrifice, the meek
devotion that Christ breathed into life? Did it not rather tend to
isolate the soul in a paradise of art, to consecrate the pursuit of
individual emotion? It is hard to imagine that a spirit who has plunged
into the intoxication of sensuous delight that such a solemnity brings
would depart without an increased aversion to all that was loud and
rude, wife an intensified reluctance to mingle with the coarser throng.
Was it not utterly alien to the spirit of Christ thus to seclude
oneself in light and warmth, among sweet strains of music and holy
pictures? I do not doubt that these delights have a certain ennobling
effect upon the spirit; but are they a medicine for the sorrows of the
world? are they not rather the anodyne for sensitive spirits fond of
tranquil ease?
I could not restrain the thought that if a man of sensitive nature is
penetrated with the spirit of Christ first, if the passion of his soul
to seek and save the lost is irresistible, if his faith runs clear and
strong, he might win a holy refreshment from these peaceful, sweet
solemnities. But the danger is for those who have no such unselfish
enthusiasm, and who are tempted, under the guise of religion, to yield
themselves with a sense of fastidious complacency to what are, after
all, mere sensuous delights. Is it right to countenance such error? If
piety frankly said, "These things are no part of religion at all; they
are only a pure region of spiritual beauty, a garden of refreshment
into which a pilgrim may enter by the way; only a mere halting-place, a
home of comfort,"--then I should feel that it would be a consistent
attitude. But if it is only a concession to the desire of beauty, if it
distracts men from the purpose of Christ, if it is a mere bait for
artistic souls, then I cannot believe that it is justified.
While I thus pondered, the anthem rose loud and sweet upon the air; all
the pathos, the desire of the world, the craving for delicious rest,
stirred and spoke in those moving strains--round a quiet minor air,
sung by a deep grave voice of a velvety softness, a hundred mellow
pipes wove their sweet harmonies: it told assuredly of a hope and of a
truth far off; it drew the soul into a secret haven, where it listened
contentedly to the roar of the surge outside. But the error seemed to
be that one desired to rest there, like the Lotos-eaters in the
enchanted land, and not to fare forth as a soldier of God. It spoke of
delight, not of hardness; of acquiescence, not of effort.