FOOTNOTES:[3]Indeed we see it change, with surprising ease of adjustment, within the limits of the New Testament itself. In its first form it was not of the essence of the new truth.
[3]Indeed we see it change, with surprising ease of adjustment, within the limits of the New Testament itself. In its first form it was not of the essence of the new truth.
[3]Indeed we see it change, with surprising ease of adjustment, within the limits of the New Testament itself. In its first form it was not of the essence of the new truth.
There is also the objection that too hard things have been said here about the turning to God under pressure of anxiety, and the expression in prayer of the natural desire for safety. After all, as a Jesuit fellow-padre reminded me at the front, Our Lord at His hour of trial, when "exceeding sorrowful even unto death," prayed in agony. And further it is plain that prayer to Him, and as He would have it be to others, was far more than a trustful harmony of self with the will of the Father. He urged men to take theirrequeststo God. "Ask and ye shall receive." I can imagine that theconception of prayer at times of emergency, as suggested in earlier pages, might be so full of resignation as to be reduced to the fatalism extraordinarily prevalent at the front—"If it 'its yer, it 'its yer," as the men say. Are we not to ask not to be hit?
It is nearly enough to recall the Lord's Prayer in regard to this objection. As I have said, men on service widely associate prayer with the expression of need or anxiety. To restrict prayer thus is to begin the Lord's Prayer half-way through, at "Give us this day our daily bread." It is a question of order and emphasis. Christian prayer begins with God. It turns away from self to the glory of God. It begins with praise and acclamation—the glad acknowledgment of what God is and is doing. It is only in the second place and because of what God is—because He is ourFather and is at work to bring in His kingdom and has a will for us and for all—that the prayer which expresses our need comes in aright.
Therefore I would say to a man going into battle—"Pray now if never before. Set God before you as you see Him, as you can clearly apprehend Him, in Christ. He is your Father, you are His son, however unworthy. Lift up your heart to Him Who, in and through all the turmoil around you, presses onward with the business of His kingdom and the fulfilment of His heart's desire. And commit all to Him. In trustful intimacy give utterance to your longing to be brought through the perilous hour for service in His kingdom to the glory of His Name. Commit all to Him, asking forgiveness. He knows what you have need of in life or in death—and let the rest go!"
For such prayer in the Name ofChrist—that is, prayer in accordance with His mind and founded on the character of God as made known in Him—there awaits undiscovered and unexhausted resources of power. So Jesus told men. So Christian experience testifies. We have to pray truly Christ-wise, not asking for stones to be made bread, not seeking to be hidden from life's storms, but to be brought through them in faithful endurance.[4]
We have to pray as Christ prayed in Gethsemane in fellowship with His sufferings. But we have also to pray as knowing the power of His Resurrection. We have to rise in faith to claim the supernatural power which neither He used nor we may use merely for self-preservation, which yet is to be set free in the service of the kingdom.
Prayer in the Name of Christ is not only the prayer of resignation, based on the self-committal of Jesus our Brother into the hands of theFather. Such would ever tend, as uttered by our trembling faith, towards fatalism. But it is also prayer in the Name of Him "Who was declared to be the Son of God with power by the resurrection of the dead, even Jesus Christ our Lord." It is the prayer of power—that power which was at Jesus' command, and was therefore the subject of His temptation, and was drawn upon by the faith of sufferers and yet was unused by Jesus to save Himself. This power is the power of God. It is "the exceeding greatness of His power, according to that working of the strength of His might which He wrought in Christ, when He raised Him from the dead and made Him to sit at His right hand in the heavenly places."
Here are heights where the air is charged with potentiality of new life, hardly dreamt of by our faith on its low stagnant levels. Here are heightsto be stormed by faithful unself-seeking love. This way lies deliverance and new creation, and the breaking of prison bars and the turning of our captivity such as shall fill all our mouths with laughter.
A few know that these words are not rhetorical. They know, with St. Paul, the riches of the glory of Christ's inheritance in the saints. Such was Mary Slessor, pioneer missionary in West Africa, the leaves of whose biography I happened to turn over as I was writing these pages. She had frequently to take journeys through forests with leopards swarming around her. She wrote: "I did not use to believe the story of Daniel in the lions' den until I had to take some of these awful marches, and then I knew it was true and that it was written for my comfort. Many a time I walked along praying 'O Godof Daniel, shut their mouths,' and He did."[5]
This is the prayer of faith. It is the prayer which asks "not to be hit." It is more than resignation, it is the prayer of power. It believes that there are hardly-tapped powers and possibilities in God for those who seek first His kingdom and righteousness. We do not know much about such prayer in our present spiritual sickness. But it is there, a weapon to be wielded by dauntless, simple faith. There is an inheritance to be claimed by little-loving sons, who yet are sons—"heirs of God and joint heirs with Christ, if so be that we suffer with Him."
FOOTNOTES:[4]Prayer after the mind of our Lord depends greatly on how we think of Him. The following lines, written by a barrister, are, I think, a wholesome corrective of that which is too soft in our conventional thought about our Saviour. Despite a false or partial note here and there, they are nearer to Him than the thought underlying the first verse of the hymn—a great favourite among the men owing to its tune—"Jesu, Lover of my Soul." At any rate they suggest the right association of ideas in which our Lord should live in the mind of a young man:Jesus, Whose lot with us was cast,Who saw it out, from first to last:Patient and fearless, tender, true,Carpenter, vagabond, felon, Jew:Whose humorous eye took in each phaseOf full rich life this world displays,Yet evermore kept fast in viewThe far-off goal it leads us to:Who, as your hour neared, did not fail—The world's fate trembling in the scale—With your half-hearted band to dine,And chat across the bread and wine:Then went out firm to face the end,Alone, without a single friend:Who felt, as your last words confessed,Wrung from a proud unflinching breastBy hours of dull ignoble pain,Your whole life's fight was fought in vain:Would I could win and keep and feelThat heart of love, that spirit of steel.I would not to Thy bosom flyTo slink off till the storms go by.If you are like the man you wereYou'ld turn with scorn from such a prayer,Unless from some poor workhouse crone,Too toil-worn to do aught but moan.Flog me and spur me, set me straightAt some vile job I fear and hate:Some sickening round of long endeavour,No light, no rest, no outlet ever:All at a pace that must not slack,Tho' heart would burst and sinews crack:Fog in one's eyes, the brain a-swim,A weight like lead in every limb,And a raw pit that hurts like hellWhere once the light breath rose and fell:Do you but keep me, hope or none,Cheery and staunch till all is done,And, at the last gasp, quick to lendOne effort more to serve a friend.And when—for so I sometimes dream—I've swum the dark, the silent stream,So cold, it takes the breath away,That parts the dead world from the day,And see upon the further strandThe lazy, listless angels stand,And with their frank and fearless eyesThe comrades whom I most did prize:Then, clean, unburdened, careless, cool,I'll saunter up from that grim pool,And join my friends: then you'll come by,The Captain of our Company:Call me out, look me up and down,And pass me through without a frown,With half a smile, but never a word—And so I shall have met my Lord.[5]Mary Slessor of Calabar: Pioneer Missionary, p. 106. Hodder & Stoughton.
[4]Prayer after the mind of our Lord depends greatly on how we think of Him. The following lines, written by a barrister, are, I think, a wholesome corrective of that which is too soft in our conventional thought about our Saviour. Despite a false or partial note here and there, they are nearer to Him than the thought underlying the first verse of the hymn—a great favourite among the men owing to its tune—"Jesu, Lover of my Soul." At any rate they suggest the right association of ideas in which our Lord should live in the mind of a young man:Jesus, Whose lot with us was cast,Who saw it out, from first to last:Patient and fearless, tender, true,Carpenter, vagabond, felon, Jew:Whose humorous eye took in each phaseOf full rich life this world displays,Yet evermore kept fast in viewThe far-off goal it leads us to:Who, as your hour neared, did not fail—The world's fate trembling in the scale—With your half-hearted band to dine,And chat across the bread and wine:Then went out firm to face the end,Alone, without a single friend:Who felt, as your last words confessed,Wrung from a proud unflinching breastBy hours of dull ignoble pain,Your whole life's fight was fought in vain:Would I could win and keep and feelThat heart of love, that spirit of steel.I would not to Thy bosom flyTo slink off till the storms go by.If you are like the man you wereYou'ld turn with scorn from such a prayer,Unless from some poor workhouse crone,Too toil-worn to do aught but moan.Flog me and spur me, set me straightAt some vile job I fear and hate:Some sickening round of long endeavour,No light, no rest, no outlet ever:All at a pace that must not slack,Tho' heart would burst and sinews crack:Fog in one's eyes, the brain a-swim,A weight like lead in every limb,And a raw pit that hurts like hellWhere once the light breath rose and fell:Do you but keep me, hope or none,Cheery and staunch till all is done,And, at the last gasp, quick to lendOne effort more to serve a friend.And when—for so I sometimes dream—I've swum the dark, the silent stream,So cold, it takes the breath away,That parts the dead world from the day,And see upon the further strandThe lazy, listless angels stand,And with their frank and fearless eyesThe comrades whom I most did prize:Then, clean, unburdened, careless, cool,I'll saunter up from that grim pool,And join my friends: then you'll come by,The Captain of our Company:Call me out, look me up and down,And pass me through without a frown,With half a smile, but never a word—And so I shall have met my Lord.
[4]Prayer after the mind of our Lord depends greatly on how we think of Him. The following lines, written by a barrister, are, I think, a wholesome corrective of that which is too soft in our conventional thought about our Saviour. Despite a false or partial note here and there, they are nearer to Him than the thought underlying the first verse of the hymn—a great favourite among the men owing to its tune—"Jesu, Lover of my Soul." At any rate they suggest the right association of ideas in which our Lord should live in the mind of a young man:
Jesus, Whose lot with us was cast,Who saw it out, from first to last:Patient and fearless, tender, true,Carpenter, vagabond, felon, Jew:Whose humorous eye took in each phaseOf full rich life this world displays,Yet evermore kept fast in viewThe far-off goal it leads us to:Who, as your hour neared, did not fail—The world's fate trembling in the scale—With your half-hearted band to dine,And chat across the bread and wine:Then went out firm to face the end,Alone, without a single friend:Who felt, as your last words confessed,Wrung from a proud unflinching breastBy hours of dull ignoble pain,Your whole life's fight was fought in vain:Would I could win and keep and feelThat heart of love, that spirit of steel.I would not to Thy bosom flyTo slink off till the storms go by.If you are like the man you wereYou'ld turn with scorn from such a prayer,Unless from some poor workhouse crone,Too toil-worn to do aught but moan.Flog me and spur me, set me straightAt some vile job I fear and hate:Some sickening round of long endeavour,No light, no rest, no outlet ever:All at a pace that must not slack,Tho' heart would burst and sinews crack:Fog in one's eyes, the brain a-swim,A weight like lead in every limb,And a raw pit that hurts like hellWhere once the light breath rose and fell:Do you but keep me, hope or none,Cheery and staunch till all is done,And, at the last gasp, quick to lendOne effort more to serve a friend.And when—for so I sometimes dream—I've swum the dark, the silent stream,So cold, it takes the breath away,That parts the dead world from the day,And see upon the further strandThe lazy, listless angels stand,And with their frank and fearless eyesThe comrades whom I most did prize:Then, clean, unburdened, careless, cool,I'll saunter up from that grim pool,And join my friends: then you'll come by,The Captain of our Company:Call me out, look me up and down,And pass me through without a frown,With half a smile, but never a word—And so I shall have met my Lord.
Jesus, Whose lot with us was cast,Who saw it out, from first to last:Patient and fearless, tender, true,Carpenter, vagabond, felon, Jew:Whose humorous eye took in each phaseOf full rich life this world displays,Yet evermore kept fast in viewThe far-off goal it leads us to:
Who, as your hour neared, did not fail—The world's fate trembling in the scale—With your half-hearted band to dine,And chat across the bread and wine:Then went out firm to face the end,Alone, without a single friend:Who felt, as your last words confessed,Wrung from a proud unflinching breastBy hours of dull ignoble pain,Your whole life's fight was fought in vain:Would I could win and keep and feelThat heart of love, that spirit of steel.
I would not to Thy bosom flyTo slink off till the storms go by.If you are like the man you wereYou'ld turn with scorn from such a prayer,Unless from some poor workhouse crone,Too toil-worn to do aught but moan.Flog me and spur me, set me straightAt some vile job I fear and hate:Some sickening round of long endeavour,No light, no rest, no outlet ever:All at a pace that must not slack,Tho' heart would burst and sinews crack:Fog in one's eyes, the brain a-swim,A weight like lead in every limb,And a raw pit that hurts like hellWhere once the light breath rose and fell:Do you but keep me, hope or none,Cheery and staunch till all is done,And, at the last gasp, quick to lendOne effort more to serve a friend.
And when—for so I sometimes dream—I've swum the dark, the silent stream,So cold, it takes the breath away,That parts the dead world from the day,And see upon the further strandThe lazy, listless angels stand,And with their frank and fearless eyesThe comrades whom I most did prize:Then, clean, unburdened, careless, cool,I'll saunter up from that grim pool,And join my friends: then you'll come by,The Captain of our Company:Call me out, look me up and down,And pass me through without a frown,With half a smile, but never a word—And so I shall have met my Lord.
[5]Mary Slessor of Calabar: Pioneer Missionary, p. 106. Hodder & Stoughton.
[5]Mary Slessor of Calabar: Pioneer Missionary, p. 106. Hodder & Stoughton.
There is also the objection that the view implied in the preceding pages leaves out or passes over too lightly our need as sinners in the sight of God all Holy. Is not our need for forgiveness to impel us towards God? Is not our need—our need in anxiety, our need in guiltiness—to be a motive in our religion?
Yes, a motive, but not the motive. It is a question of order. What must come first is not our need, whether as anxious or guilty, but God's need, or else our religion will be at the level of natural religion and below the Christian level. It is because men are poor towards God and think coldly andungenerously of Him that they 'are not worrying about their sins.' Men are not sorry for sin (except with the seedy remorse of 'the morning after') until their sin has come into contact with love. The more vital a young man is, the less will he brood in self-regard over his wrongdoing. "Anyhow, I have lived," he will say. But if it comes home to him what his wrongdoing has done to another who loves him, then he begins to be sorry. "I didn't care," he will say, "for myself. I had my fling. But now I see that what I did has broken my mother's heart. I wish to God I hadn't done it."
Our religion must begin from God. It must spring out of love fuller and more hungry than our desirous hearts. It must spring out of love, not—how could it?—out of our love for God, but out of His love for us. If God's love for us, manifested in the utterly real andsuffering love of Jesus, and in no insipid fancy of our sentimental moments, wins its way past our guard and over the barriers of self, hatred of sin and sorrow for sin will follow. But it is a question of order: first, what God is; second, what we are. The more vivid the first is to a man, the more inevitable his candid consciousness of the second. The more he is taken captive by the assurance that God is his Father, the more glaring it will be to him that he is an unworthy son. And the more men set out to give effect to their sonship in service for the kingdom of God, the more they will realise their strange impotence. The dreadful hiatus between aspiration and performance, between acknowledged and realised ideals will widen. The eager impulse to disregard self and to serve God with love and praise and joy, will be found horridly at variance with a natural and rooted impulse towardsself-devotion and indulgence. The worship and praise of God, not only in thought and word but in deed, will stumble and fall short of its goal—and then the tears of tragic failure will start and the cry of despair ring out. It was so with Peter in the porch and Paul beaten down in bondage under the Law. "Who shall deliver us from the body of this death?"
I think there is no fear but that, if we do set out to put into practice our inheritance as sons of God, we shall come to the Cross of Christ in genuine "Rock-of-ages" fashion, bringing nothing to it in the end, except our lovelessness. His, after all and in fact, was the one, free, utterly loving and obedient offering of self to the Father. He did something others could not do—He died for them, and in Him and through Him alone did they come unto the Holy Father. I cannot work it out here, but along this way I seem to travel homeinto the great evangel of the Atonement.
Only, I plead, this propitiatory work of Christ must come second in the imagination, and His Love-of-God-revealing work first. And I think in the course of the history of Christianity an inversion has come about. In hymns and liturgies theprima facieand predominant emphasis seems rather to rest on our sinfulness than on God's goodness. Before they do anything else the Prayer Book, as it is at present used, asks men to embark on the overloaded phrases of the General Confession. I know that this may be justified by arguing that the Prayer Book assumes that the other parts of the Christian religion are in the minds of 'the faithful' members of the Church. But this assumption is unwarranted as regards the mass of soldiers whom we keep on inviting to use the more or lessmutilated forms of Morning and Evening Prayer.
And even when we come to the Eucharist, though everything can be found in it, I often wonder whether there the Church has not come to lay more stress upon the Cross as the offering for sin than as the disclosure of the Divine pity for the sinner. If so, is it that too much has been taken for granted, namely, the Love of God which alone can evoke sorrow for sin and be worthy of the offering for sin? Has familiarity tended to disguise and overlay the wonder-compelling revelation of God? In the Eucharist has He been thought of rather as the Father sitting back in reception of placation, than as the Father Who, while we are a great way off, runs out to fall on our neck and bring us home?
I think that a re-ordering is needed. For Christianity, stressed as it appearsto be at present, will never catch the souls of men. I think of the flying boys who, more than any one else, are winning our battles (I have been chaplain to a squadron of them for a little time). They are far from unsinful, but they will nevertheless, I am sure, notbeginwith the avowal "that there is no health in them"; they will not sing "that they are weary of earth and laden with their sins." For as they live almost gaily and unconcernedly on the edge of things, they know that that is not the primary truth about themselves. Yet Christ, if in Him they see the all-hazarding and all-enduring Love of God, can win the love and worship of their eager hearts. He can catch those living creatures alive.
There must be a re-ordering and simplification and correction of emphasis. It is possible, now that historical science is unravelling the Bible andChurch history, and extricating from their many levels and complexities what is simple and specific in the glorious truths of God and of man in Christ. Some exaggerations must be sloughed off. I think a little of the sepia, for instance, that was in the brush of Paul must be washed away. Has not he, or rather have not the great men of his school, over-obsessed us with the dogma, derived from Scriptural literalism, of human corruption flowing from Adam?
There is, by contrast, a more radiant and yet as realistic view of the world as Christ saw it, to be recovered. Some of His glories, dimmed by the veil of inadequate conceptions in the minds of His witnesses, will shine as never before, as the Holy Spirit takes of Him and shows it unto us.
Finally, I would say a word about the charge of pessimism which this report from the front may evoke. Both pessimism and optimism are rather moods in us than qualities which really belong to the facts of a situation. The main point is to try to get down to reality and not to flinch. Anyhow, I do not feel pessimistic about our holy and glorious religion. Far otherwise. It is coming again. Actualities at the front, as I try to learn from them, do seem to me to show a very widespread and deep ignorance of the good news of God in Christ. But that seems only to make more wonderful and precious those treasures of truth and joy in Christwhich God has ready for those who seek them. They are the more wonderful because one knows that, in the silence which has fallen on many loud voices amid the thunderous cataclysm of war, the Word of God in Christ alone rings out anew. It is the truth of God in Him for this mysteriously muddled and cruel world, and yet the truth which includes every partial element of truth or goodness in the world. And there are such elements. Only second to the wonder of the Gospel of the Cross are the achievements of the souls of very ordinary men under unparalleled afflictions. Without knowing it, they are seen to be worthy of Jesus, Who loves them and gave Himself for them. If there are nearly virgin resources in God, there are also deep unused treasures of potentiality in men. There are in them excellences and simple heroisms which make plain that Christianity is noartificial thing superimposed on human nature, but is the laying bare and setting free of its inmost native quality. There is everywhere about, over here, a diffused Christianity in men who are better than they know. It seems like so much material that needs but a spark to set it ablaze. May there be a great conflagration—the flaming out of the Light of the world, to illuminate, to cleanse, to fill it with the heat of love, both human and divine!Amen.
THE END
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