and we may well ask: What in the whole range of human occupations
does this world hold worthy of being compared to it?
The battle-field, it is true, has its glories, but it has its
horrors also. Who can paint the pride with which Napoleon saw the
triumph of his skill crush two Emperors at Austerlitz or the
rapture with which he beheld the trophies of great kingdoms at
his feet? The fatigues of winter marches were forgotten when in
the fiery flashes of his veterans' eyes he read his own renown,
while their applauding shouts fell like music on his ears. But
blood soils the proudest trophies of war, and across the
perspective of victory the spectres of murdered men will stalk.
Human eloquence, too, has its conquests, the purest, the most
beautiful in the natural order. How the pride flush heightens on
the orator's cheek as he watches the crusts of prejudice melt and
hostile hearts surrender; when he marks the bated breath and the
hushed silence attesting his victory more eloquently than the
stormiest applause! He sees the varied moods of his own soul
mirrored in the faces around him, as he summons forth what spirit
he lists: tears or laughter, murmurs or applause answer to his
call.
What pen can picture the ecstasies that thrilled the soul of
Grattan as he gave utterance to the spirit of expiring freedom in
those orations that rank among the world's masterpieces? The
snows of age melted and the decrepitude of years was flung aside,
and his eyes gleamed with strange fires as he beheld sodden
corruption struck dumb and hang its guilty head; when he saw the
wavering drink fresh courage with each new outburst, and men of
commonest clay transformed into heroes by the blaze of his
genius. Glorious triumphs indeed; but, alas! human, and as such
doomed to die.
But in the sublimity of his purpose and the imperishable nature
of his conquests the preacher stands alone. Compared with his the
greatest trophies of the battle-field or the forum are feeble
trifles.
The preacher, in prayer and study, goes down over the green
swards of Calvary, and there gathers the ruby drops of
Redemption. He ascends the pulpit and pours them as a purple tide
over souls that are parched and perishing. As when the
Pentecostal fire rested on the Apostles' heads, a new light
filled their minds and a new flame sprung up within their hearts;
so when the same spirit breathes through the preacher's lips, the
clouds of ignorance dissolve and the light of truth divine
glorifies the minds and inflames the souls of his hearers. The
ears of faith can hear the applause of angels and the eyes of
faith can read Heaven's approval in the flashing glances of the
Blest, as with each stroke the preacher widens the empire of the
Precious Blood and piles palpitating trophies before the Sacred
Heart. Ah! here is a field worthy of the highest ambition that
ever burned within a human breast.
Hence, we should toil, toil, toil, and call no labour excessive
that we put forth in burnishing into polished efficiency every
weapon God has given us for the service of his pulpit.
CHAPTER FIFTH
A SOPHISTRY EXPOSED. ADVICE GIVEN
Theologian and Preacher--The Difference
It is amazing to think how often the offices of theologian and
preacher are spoken of as if they were identical. Now, the
functions of theologian and preacher stand widely apart. To the
reflective mind this sounds like repeating a truism; yet what a
world of confused thought and ignorant criticism would be cleared
from the subject if this fact were kept well in sight.
When you say that a young priest is becoming a good preacher you
are met by "impossible! he never got a prize in theology."
This is supposed to give your poor judgment its final _coup_;
argument after that is useless: _causa finita est_.
Now, I do not think our appreciation of an eminent surgeon is
lessened by our being told that he is a poor chemist; yet the
difference between these respective professions is scarcely more
radical than that which separates the office of preacher from
that of theologian.
To the ordinary public the theological treatise is a sealed book.
It is the preacher's duty to break that seal; to take out the dry
truths stored there; to render them palatable and inviting, and
bring them within the grasp of the plainest intelligence.
[Side note: Solicitor and barrister]
Few occupations more aptly illustrate this difference than those
of solicitor and barrister.
The attorney works up the materials for the case: he groups
statutes, discovers principles, tabulates references, supplies
dates. While he does not plead himself, a man so armed is
invaluable at the elbow of an able advocate; without the
barrister, however, especially where the prejudices, interests,
and the imagination of a jury have to be worked upon, his load of
learned lumber would be of small value. The theologian makes out
the brief: the preacher pleads it.
To render this distinction clearer let us take one more
illustration. No animal can exist on air and clay and sunlight
alone. Though these contain the elements on which it is fed; yet,
though surrounded by them in most ample abundance, he must perish
if a third power is not brought into play. The vegetable world
comes intervening between the raw chemicals and the hungry man.
Out of earth and air and light it builds the ripened sheaf, the
succulent apple and the savoury potato. So, though bookshelves
groan under calf-bound tomes hoarding the hived treasures of the
masters of theology, the common minds of the multitude would
starve did not the preacher interpose as interpreter of the
theologian's message, drawing forth from his storehouse truths
and principles out of which he manufactures the daily bread on
which the ordinary man must live. Without his aid the richest
repository ever clasped between the covers of a book would remain
a _fons signatus a hortus conclusus_. The prophet of God saw the
dry bones scattered over the valley of desolation till the breath
of a new power passed over them, and lo! (I) "the bones came
together each one to its joint; (2) the sinews and the flesh came
upon them . . . (3) and the skin was stretched out over
them . . . and the spirit came into them and they lived."
The attorney and the theologian gather the dry bones, but on the
preacher and the barrister lie the fourfold task of mortising the
joints into each other, binding them with the sinews of argument,
clothing them in living beauty and vitalizing the whole structure
with the flame of impassioned earnestness. Only when this has
been done will they live.
So thoroughly distinct are the two offices it rarely happens that
a professional theologian becomes an efficient preacher. The
concentration and exclusive exercise of one faculty unfits him
for a task demanding many.
People do not come to church to hear spoken treatises or witness
dissecting operations on subtle distinctions. They come to be
instructed, pleased and moved.
Again, for the perfect fulfilment of the preacher's task, amongst
other gifts he must have imagination; but to the master of an
exact science like theology an exuberant fancy might prove a
fatal dowry.
A clear statement of this truth holds out hopeful encouragement
to the man whose theological attainments could not be described
as "brilliant": it teaches, too, the man who has distinguished
himself in theology that if he ambitions being a preacher he has
an entirely new set of sciences to master, but, best of all, it
breaks into small bits an oft-used weapon in the hands of the
young preacher's arch-enemy--the critic.
[Side note: The critic at work]
How often do we see this self-constituted oracle rely for his
sole support on this sophistry?
You turn from a church door filled with admiration; there is a
glow of rapture around your heart; every nerve is tingling; you
have been enthralled. A truth, old indeed but now dressed in a
new robe, lives before your mind with a meaning and a richness of
colour never experienced before. Your will is swept captive on
the crest of that subtle tide of unseen fire that seems to fill
the air. You are bracing yourself to a heroic resolve. The
preacher's voice, like ceaseless music, is still thrilling down
through the avenues of your soul. When the critic comes and in
pity asks you--"Do you really think that a good sermon?" he
compassionates your poor judgment, leads you to the library,
takes down a volume of Lehmkuhl or Suarez, and with a triumphant
wave of his hand assures you that every idea in that sermon may
be found there.
You are now face to face with the most perplexing of
sophistries--the half truth.
Your judgment is staggered by two apparently contradictory
facts--it was a fine sermon, yet every idea may be found in the
theological treatise.
To enable you to extricate yourself from the puzzle, ratify your
first opinion and confound the critic; picture another set of
circumstances. You stand before St. Peter's, wrapped in
admiration at this world's wonder.
"Power, glory, strength and beauty, all are aisled
In this eternal ark of worship undefiled."
You are marvelling how did human brains conceive and human hands
embody this mighty dream of art. One of the pest tribe yclept
"critic" comes pitying your simple heart; he leads you to a
quarry, and triumphantly pointing says: "Here every stone of that
building was found. Now, what becomes of the glory simple people
like you bestow on Bramante and Michael Angelo?" How would you
answer him? Easily enough. Make him a present of the quarry, and
ask him to produce another St. Peter's. The challenge is
conclusive. You have him impaled.
Come back now to the library. Present the preacher's critic with
a hundred tomes, give him all this raw material multiplied ten
times over out of which that masterpiece of sacred eloquence was
built, and ask him to enthral those thousands that hung
spellbound on that man's lips, whose thrilled hearts were aflame,
who left the church examining their consciences and vowing better
lives. Alas! he who was so eloquent in tearing others to rags
when he himself essays their task himself--angels well might
weep.
No department of life is secure against this sophistry.
You listen till you are dazed with admiration at one of those
masterpieces of forensic pleading that have flung a deathless
glory around the names of Russell and Whiteside; but the critic,
with a superior toss of his head, assures you that this can be
found in Magna Charta and the Statute book. Here is the
tantalising half truth.
To be sure the principles and groundwork of reasoning are there;
but the office of the advocate was to draw them from the dust and
darkness, to gather these scattered articles, statutes and
precedents into his capacious brain, and from them evolve a
framework of argument to fit his purpose. He moulds them into an
impregnable bulwark of law and reasoning to shelter his client.
So naturally does he bend them to his case that every listener is
impressed with the conviction that surely the framers of these
statutes and principles must have a case like this before their
minds when they committed them to parchment.
Yet in the judgment of the critic the variety of talents brought
to this complex task count for nothing.
Here we see what a distinction must be made between the office of
theologian and preacher, and what a confusion of thought is saved
by keeping this line of demarcation in view.
[Side note: Parting advice]
Now that the subject of pulpit oratory is swept clear from
misleading theories and set in its true light before the young
preacher's eyes, let us see how further we can assist him to
discharge his high office with honour and efficiency.
[Side note: I.--Be natural in development]
"To thine own self be true" is the soundest of advices.
From the beginning the young preacher should aim at developing on
his own lines, thinking in his own way and expressing his
thoughts in their own native dress. No matter how eminent the
paragon you admire, do not become an understudy of him. Remember
he is great only because he is himself and not the imitation of
another. Try, however, to get at the secret of his greatness.
What is it? He discovered his strong points and cultivated them.
Go and do likewise.
You see a man with clear sequence of ideas and easy expression,
but without those exceptional gifts that go to make the born
orator. He could attain even eminence as a lecturer or
instructor, but lecture or instruct he will not, for he has read
Ventura and become smitten. He tries to imitate the Padre's lofty
style, and succeeds in "amazing the unlearned and making the
learned smile." "Failure" is written large over all his efforts.
David could not fight with the gorgeous but cumbersome arms of
Saul: with his own homely sling and the polished stone from the
brook, the weapon to which he was accustomed, he achieved
victory.
I knew a priest who had a marvellous charm as a storyteller. He
invested the merest trifles of incident with resistless
fascination. Hours in his society flew like moments.
He became a distinguished preacher. I went to hear him, and
quickly discovered the secret of his success. He knew his strong
point, and staked his all on it. He preached his sermons as he
told his stories--in graphic, familiar narrative. The
congregation felt they were taken into his confidence; they were
hypnotised. You forgot that you were sitting in stiff dignity in
a church, and imagined yourself one of a group around the
winter's log listening to a delightful _raconteur_, and you
willingly surrendered to the pleasing delusion.
Every play of fancy, every flash of thought, every clinched
conviction passed from him to his hearers till the souls of
preacher and listeners became like reflecting mirrors. There was
always regret when he finished.
Now, had that man attempted to become Demosthenes instead of
himself he would have succeeded in becoming ridiculous.
[Side note: 2.--Be natural in composition]
The natural outpouring of thought has a relish and a
resistlessness of force that no art can rival. The scent of a
sprig of wild woodbine holds a charm beyond all the perfumes of
the chemist's shop.
In order to be natural there is no necessity to ignore the
elegancies of style; for what is style? _Le style est l'homme_.
The style is the man. A perfect style, then, is attained when the
written page is the exact expression of the train of thought as
it lies in the writer's head. A style is absolutely perfect when
it is absolutely natural.
Artificial embroidery, purple patches, and golden vapour are
often the defects and not the perfection of style.
Language can be simple, however, without being vulgar or
commonplace.
What book will ever equal the Bible for simplicity, yet what
dignity? What preacher ever approached OUR DIVINE LORD; and,
humanly speaking, what was the source of His strength?
He accommodated Himself to His hearers. From the open book of
nature He made the realms of grace familiar to the minds of
children. He pointed to the lilies of the field, to the ravens of
the wood, to the ripening bud and the angry cloud. "_Ut ex iis
quae animus novit, surgat ad incognita quae non novit_."[1]
[1] Third Nocturn for Non-Virgins.
He used the world around us to lift our thoughts to the world
above us.
When He spoke to fishermen His illustrations were taken from seas
and nets. When He preached to farmers the word of God was the
seed falling on rocky soil or the fertile furrow. When the
merchants with caravans and silken tunics surrounded Him it
becomes the pearl of great price. When amongst simple villagers
it is the lost groat in search of which the housewife sweeps the
floor and searches each nook and cranny.
Here is language coming down to the level of every hearer,
abounding in familiar pictures, yet never losing dignity.
While composing sermons for factory hands Cardinal Wiseman
employed a weaver to teach him the technicalities of the loom
that he might reach their hearts through the only channel of
thought they understood.
It is wonderful how the natural world around us can be used to
bring even the most sublime truths within the grasp of the
plainest intellects. Why do we not draw more frequently and more
abundantly from this source?
When we hear of a man whose discourses "are too sublime for the
ordinary intelligence" it is hard to forbear a smile. Our pity
goes out not to "the ordinary intelligence," but to the cloudy
dweller in Patmos. Mystic obscurity is used more frequently as a
cloak for muddle-headed thinking than as a robe with which to
drape sublimity of thought. Hence, if people do not understand
the preacher, blame not the people, but let the preacher look to
it.
Our nimble-minded imaginative people will rise to and grasp the
most elevated ideas if properly presented.
I listened to a sermon in an English church preached before a
congregation of Irish poor. The keynote was lofty, but
beautifully sustained throughout. The range of thought was high,
but the truths clarified by an abundance of happy illustration.
That discourse was so classic in its beauty that it might be
preached before an Oxford audience, yet not an idea was lost on
that breathless congregation, where every female head was covered
by a shawl. The speaker possessed in an eminent degree three
gifts that must command success:--He could think clearly; he
could so express his thoughts that his language became the mirror
of his mind; he made a large demand on the familiar scenes of
nature with which to illustrate his ideas and send his reasoning
home; he possessed a mind at once logical and imaginative and a
manner of expression that formed a definition of perfect
style--_Le style c'est l'homme_--the style is the man.
[Side note: 3.--Be natural in delivery]
The faintest suspicion of art immediately sets your audience up
in arms. Their teeth are on edge; their heart locked against you.
"This is acting and not preaching" seals your fate.
Do not imagine for a moment that I advocate the neglect of
elocutionary graces. So far from that I hold that every young
priest leaving college should be a past master of all rhetorical
arts. Gesture, articulation, voice production and inflection
should be at his finger tips. No book on the subject should be
unread. No year of college life should pass without contributing
materially towards the elocutionary equipment of the future
preacher. The college that neglects this training and permits
young men to go into the ministry without this needful art is
guilty of a most serious sin of omission.
What I do mean is _preach_ your sermons and do not _declaim_
them. How is this accomplished?
For the first year bend all your powers to capturing the
intellects of your auditors, holding in reserve, for the time
being, the elocutionary forces. Then, when you have acquired the
habit of convincing the intelligence, let the elegancies of
finished declamation insinuate themselves gradually into your
delivery. Thus art will so engraft itself on nature, the
rhetorical graces so entwining and dovetailing into your
convictions and passions that they will appear as growing out of
and not added on to them. Here is perfection--
_Ars artium celare artem_.
Reverse this: make declamation your first concern, and let us
even suppose the artificiality is not detected, which is
supposing a great deal. What is the result? Your sermon is
declamation and nothing else. This means failure, for no matter
how the passions are aroused, if they are not upheld by the
pillars of conviction, your finest effort is a fire of chips: a
blaze for a moment, then ashes.
Though elocutionary powers are of so much importance as to be
almost indispensable, yet they are subordinate to the sermon:
they are the aids and auxiliaries to drive it home. A graceful
gesture or musical inflection of voice will not convince the
intellect or move the passions: they are not the arrows: they
lend wings of fire, however, to send the arrows to the mark.
I know no more fatal blunder, or one that militates more strongly
against a speaker, than the adoption of an artificial accent.
[Side note: The Irish gift of oratory]
God has not only given our race a special mission--the apostolate
of the English-speaking world--but he has singularly endowed us
with those gifts that go to make successful preachers of His
Word--logical minds, imagination and sensibility.
[Side note: Logical minds]
That we possess this in an eminent degree is evident from a
striking fact. There are three avocations to which the faculty of
close reasoning is a first essential--law, politics and
theology--and in each of these our countrymen excel.
[Side note: Law]
We are as essentially a race of lawyers as the Jews are a race of
moneylenders.
For eleven years I watched the sons of Irish parents going from
an Australian college to professional careers. Ninety-eight per
cent., following the natural bent of their minds, turned to the
lawyer's office.
From the year 1858 to the present hour the robes of Victoria's
Chief Justice have been uninterruptedly worn by Irishmen. From
1873 the Chief Justiceship of New South Wales has been
exclusively held by sons of the green isle. But, above all, turn
to the lawyers' streets in the new worlds of America and
Australia and see the amazing number of brass plates adorned with
O's and Mac's.
[Side note: Politics]
The political organisations in the labour world of England to-day
are mainly captained by Irishmen. Two of them have been sent to
Parliament, and two more will probably join them in the next
Parliament.
The rapidity with which the Irish emigrant, following the law of
natural selection, plunges into politics has passed into a
proverb in America and furnished a humorous parody on a
well-known stanza:--
"There came to the beach a poor exile of Erin,
The dew on his thin robe was heavy and chill,
The ship that had brought him scarce from harbour was steerin',
When Senator Mike was presenting a Bill."
[Side note: Theology]
The great Cardinal Franzelin said to one of his most
distinguished pupils[2]--"As a professor of theology at Rome for
many years I had every day opportunities of studying the
character and mental equipment of various nations, and, though in
favour of the Germans, I give it as my opinion that the Irish, as
a race, have the most theological minds of any people." Judgment
from such an authority is conclusive.
[2] Dr. Croke, late Archbishop of Cashel.
The first essential for a preacher is the power of lucid
reasoning. That this faculty is ours is now abundantly
established. The next talent requisite is imagination. That we
have imagination, often teeming in tropical luxuriance, but
shared in great or less degree by all, has never been questioned.
One more requisite and the oratorical outfit is complete.
[Side note: Sensibility]
On this score it is sufficient to say that we are Celts, endowed
with the ardent nervous temperaments. But suffering has given to
ours an acute refinement that nothing else could impart.
"Never soul could know its powers
Until sorrow swept its chords."
"We give preference to Jews and Irishmen on our staff," said the
proprietor of a leading journal. "Both have suffered, and a man
with a grievance writes passionately. He dips the pen into his
own heart and electric energy thrills his sentences; hence the
crisp pungency and compressed fire of our columns."
What gift that goes to make an orator has God denied us? Reason,
fancy, passion, a pathos and humour where the smile trembles on
the borderland of tears.
Why then this barrenness? Mainly because of the criminal neglect
of colleges in the past to cultivate the abundant material placed
at their disposal; other contributory causes are cynical
criticism and want of courageous ambition.