The Service Was, As I Almost Invariably Find
It In A Village Church, Beautiful And Impressive.
Listening
to the music of prayer and praise, with some natural outdoor
sound to fill up the pauses - the
Distant crow of a cock or
the song of some bird close by - a corn-bunting or wren or
hedge-sparrow - and the bright sunlight filling the interior, I
felt as much refreshed as if kind nature's sweet restorer,
balmy sleep, had visited me that morning. The sermon was
nothing to me; I scarcely heard it, but understood that it was
about the Incarnation and the perfection of the plan of
salvation and the unreasonableness of the Higher Criticism and
of all who doubt because they do not understand. I remembered
vaguely that on three successive Sundays in three village
churches in the wilds of Wiltshire I had heard sermons
preached on and against the Higher Criticism. I thought it
would have been better in this case if the priest had chosen
to preach on Stonehenge and had said that he devoutly wished
we were sun-worshippers, like the Persians, as well as
Christians; also that we were Buddhists, and worshippers of
our dead ancestors like the Chinese, and that we were pagans
and idolaters who bow down to sticks and stones, if all these
added cults would serve to make us more reverent. And I wish
he could have said that it was as irreligious to go to
Stonehenge, that ancient temple which man raised to the
unknown god thousands of years ago, to indulge in noise and
horseplay at the hour of sunrise, as it would be to go to
Salisbury Cathedral for such a purpose.
Enter page number
PreviousNext
Page 244 of 298
Words from 66906 to 67188
of 82198
