“THE SOOTHING IDEA OF GOD.”
How dear, how soothing to man, arises the idea of God, peopling
the lonely place, effacing the scars of our mistakes and
disappointments.—_Emerson._
That grand sin of atheism or impiety, Melancthon calls it
_monstrosam melancholiam_, monstrous melancholy; or _venenatam
melancholiam_, poisoned melancholy.—_Burton._
It would be very far from the truth to say that when people cast off
their orthodox creeds they turn their morals out of doors. Some of the
noblest and most beautiful souls maintain their pure and lovely lives
in spite of their having long ceased to be Christians—that is, as far
as they can tell—for sure it is that many such follow Christ and know
it not, perhaps follow Him very much closer than more orthodox
believers. Still, it must be confessed from an impartial view of the
question, that these cases are quite exceptional, that they cannot be
claimed as the fruits of atheism. For one such opponent of Christian
teaching who lives an exemplary life in spite of his want of faith, a
thousand quiet, self-sacrificing men and women could be found. Of
course, philosophy and high culture will do something for mankind. It
did something for the pagan world, it does much for the Buddhist and
Confucian peoples. But the note of all these philosophers is
Melancholy, and the note of all true Christian folk is Cheerfulness.
“Christianity alone stands between the human intellect and madness.”
Elsworth could not but notice the despair which at times and in moments
of confidence was so manifest in Dr. Day and his daughter, and Linda
and her brother; they were “without hope and without God in the world.”
They often lamented that they could not believe, and enjoy the peace of
God that passes all understanding. How often in the wards of the
hospital or at the bedsides of out-door patients had he been moved by
the contrast offered by the simple, sublime faith of some poor
suffering Christian man or woman, whose sick-room was illumined by a
light that never sprang from the human intellect, but rayed forth from
the face of God Himself. Peace that yet was not indifference,
cheerfulness that was not stoicism, made the chambers and the couches
of these men and women unspeakably different from those of their
unbelieving neighbours. Prayer, “the window that opens towards the
infinite,” as a great writer has beautifully expressed it, brought
light and warmth and joy to these poor souls; and his atheist friends
would not have made proselytes of them on any account. They said that
for these folk their religion was philosophy made easy, and thought
this accounted for the matter satisfactorily.
The chaplain of a general hospital should be a man of liberal ideas and
wide sympathies; he should be capable of taking an interest in the
daily life of his charges, and try to see the things that interest them
as much as possible from their own points of view. Here he will meet
with people who have perhaps had no instruction in religion whatever,
and whose sole knowledge of its working has been gathered from the
misrepresentations of a street infidel orator or the ignorant
distortions of an atheist journal. To such he cannot be too human and
unecclesiastical. He must not talk “Church” to them, but the simplest,
most loving human words. One of the St. Bernard chaplains made a great
mistake when he asked everybody “if they had said their prayers.” He
never got to their hearts, and no wonder. The new chaplain, Mr.
Anderson, was a man of very different stamp; he was of Charles
Kingsley’s school, and seemed familiar with every calling and phase of
the life of his people. He was a devoted son of the Church, but you did
not find it out by any symbols or tone. The fact that no patient,
whether heathen, Christian, or “unattached,” left the hospital without
being the better for knowing him, proved his fitness for his work.
He taught many an indifferent one the true spirit and method of prayer,
and many thanked God for the accident or malady which had brought them
under his happy influence. In him they had secured at least one friend
for life, for discharge from the wards was not the usual termination of
the friendship of Mr. Anderson. Before he came the chapel was seldom
attended by the resident students; their pews were conspicuous by their
emptiness, but he won even them, and helped many out of difficulties
with the authorities. Mr. Horsley, the late chaplain of Clerkenwell
prison, tells us he learned thieves’ slang, the better to acquaint
himself with his flock. Mr. Anderson had some very curious specimens of
humanity to deal with who required almost as much skill on his part,
for many men injured in unlawful proceedings are taken to hospitals and
watched by the police till their recovery permits their removal. He
neglected not even these.