He highly approved of brevity in preaching, and used to say that the chief
fault of the preachers of the day was lengthiness.
I ventured to ask how that could be a fault, and how he could speak of
abundance as if it were famine?
He answered: "When the vine is thick in leaves it always bears less fruit,
multiplicity of words does not produce great results. You will find that a
powerful and spirited horse will always start off promptly, and as promptly
pull up. A poor post hack, on the contrary, will go on several paces after
his rider has reined him in. Why is that? Because he is weak. So it is
with the mind and intellect. He who is strong leaves off speaking when
he pleases, because he has great control over himself, and readiness of
judgment. A weak-minded man speaks much, but loses himself in his own
thoughts, nor thinks of finishing what he has to say. Look at all the
homilies and sermons of the ancient Fathers and observe how short they
were, yet how much more efficacious than our lengthy ones! Wise St.
Francis of Assisi, in his Rule, prescribes that the preachers of his Order
shall preach the Gospel with brevity, and gives an excellent reason:
'Remembering,' he says, 'that: _a short word shall the Lord make upon the
earth_.'[1] The more you say, the less your hearers will retain. The less
you say, the more they will profit. Believe me in this, for I speak from
experience. By overloading the memory of a hearer we destroy it, just as
lamps are put out when they are filled too full of oil, and plants are
spoilt by being too abundantly watered. When a discourse is too long, by
the time the end is reached, the middle is forgotten, and by the time the
middle is reached the beginning has been lost. Moderately good preachers
are accepted, provided they are brief, and the best become tiresome when
they are too lengthy. There is no more disagreeable quality in a preacher
than prolixity."
Our Blessed Father sometimes surprised me by saying that we ought to be
pleased if, when going up into the pulpit to preach, we saw before us a
small and scattered audience. "Thirty years of experience," he said, "have
made me speak thus: I have always seen greater results from the sermons
which I have preached to small congregations than from those which I have
delivered in crowded churches. An occurrence which I am going to relate
will justify what I say.
"When I was Provost, or rather Dean, of my church, my predecessor in this
diocese, sent me, in company with some other Priests, to instruct in the
Faith the inhabitants of the three bailiwicks of the Chablais, namely,
Thonon, Ternier, and Gaillard. The towns being full at that time of
Huguenots, we had no access to them, and could only say Mass and give
instruction in some scattered and rather distant chapels.
"One Sunday, when the weather was very bad, there were only seven persons
at my Mass, and these few suggested to some one to tell me that I ought
not to take the trouble of preaching after Mass, as it was the custom then
to do, the number of hearers being so small. I replied that neither did a
large audience encourage me, nor a scanty one discourage me; provided only
that I could edify one single person, that would be enough for me.
"I went up; therefore, into the pulpit, and I remember that the subject
of my sermon was praying to the Saints, I treated it very simply and
catechetically, not at all controversially, as you know that is neither my
style nor is the doing so to my taste. I said nothing pathetic, and put
nothing very forcibly, yet one of my small audience began to weep bitterly,
sobbing and giving vent to audible sighs. I thought that he was ill, and
begged him not to put any constraint upon himself, as I was quite ready to
break off my sermon, and to give him any help he needed. He replied that he
was perfectly well in body, and he begged me to go on speaking boldly, for
so I should be administering the needful healing to the wound.
"The sermon, which was very short, being ended, he hurried up to me, and
throwing himself at my feet cried out: 'Reverend sir, you have given me
life, you have saved my soul to-day. Oh, blessed the hour in which I came
here and listened to your words! This hour will be worth a whole eternity
to me.'
"And then, being asked to do so, he related openly before the little
congregation, that, having conferred with some ministers on this very same
subject of praying to the Saints, which they made out to be sheer idolatry,
he had decided on the following Thursday to return to their ranks (he was a
recent convert to Catholicism), and to abjure the Catholic religion. But,
he added, that the sermon which he had just heard had instructed him so
well, and had so fully dispersed all his doubts, that he took back with his
whole heart the promise he had given them, and vowed new obedience to the
Roman Church.
"I cannot tell you what an impression this great example, taking place in
so small a congregation, made throughout the country, or how docile and
responsive to the words of life and of truth it made all hearts. I could
allege other similar instances, some even more remarkable."
For myself I now prefer small congregations, and am never so well pleased
as when I see only a little group of people listening to my preaching.
Seneca once said to his friend Lucillus that they themselves formed a
theatre wide enough for the communication of their philosophy, and,
speaking of those who came to hear his teaching, he says: _Satis sunt
pauci, satis est alter, satis est unus. A few are enough--two are
enough--nay, one is enough._ Why should not a Christian Philosopher be
content with what was enough for this Stoic?
[Footnote 1: Rom. ix. 28.]