IN OUR PARISH.

Pukekohe & Waiuku Times, Volume 4, Issue 16, 26 February 1915, Page 1 (Supplement)

IN OUR PARISH.

THE SHADOW. (Note. —The parish of those sketches is nowhere; yet in these days, it is everywhere throughout Britain.) From "The Scotsman." The churchyard of our parish lies in a deep hollow, and a little river half encircles it. In the midst of it stands tho church beneath whose shadow the parish has garnered its dead for centuries. There the generations have lain down to sleep, thrr hearts reconciled one to another, and the beadle has drawn the coverlet of green over their heads. As he go?s about his allotted task he pats a mound here and there gently wUh the back of his rtpade—for roadmen and Lord of Session are at one here. The last time I wandered do>vn to the hollow it seemed as if eternal peacs brooded over the living and the dead. The l?ave<s, russet and gold, glowed in the sunlight. At the stirring of a gentle breeze, like the dropping of a sea-bird's feather leaf after leaf fluttered silently down 0 n the craves. The great bank of trees across the river glowed with rivubts of dull flames running hither and thither. In its stony bed tlie river sang its endless song. The immemorial yews, beneath whose branches successive generations of children have played with a thrill of pleasing terror now and then because of the overhanging graves, stood regarelless of all the yeans. The crows, sated with the glean'ngs of harvest fields, fluttered in heir rookeries with scarcely a sound. It seemed as if no sound of d'ecord or strife could ever break in that enchanted hollow.

As I turned to retrace my steps through the gate I came on a woman sitting on the mort-safe, a handkerchief moist with her t?ars in her hand. She had come up from the quarries and she had visited her dead. And she came because yesterday she received word that on the battlefield of Marne her son was killed. He was her eldest. The others were not old enough yet to fight. Her husband was killed m an accident, and .she had reared h?r children, refusing all help from the parish. The pride, of the blood which her father from a far Hebridean isle sustained her. And now that her son was dead she came hither, driven by an irresistible instinct to visit Her husband's grave. It was as if she wanted to tell litm about Donald, and how he died a hero, trying to carry a wounded comrade through tho hail of the shrapnel. She was weary, and from her husband's grave sho turned to the church. She would go and sit in the corner under the gallery, where Donald used to sit. He had sat with her there at his first Communion. The memories wrapped her round, and sho would feel her son near her there. But the door of the church was locked and barred. With an added ache in lu?r heart she turned away, and weariness compelled her to sit on the iron mort-safe, which the parish provided in a former eentury to protect their dead from sacrilegious hands. " But. tho church used to be open," I said. "Aye," she replied tremulously, gathering up her handkerchbf into a round ball: " but the elders did-na like it; tho boots on the week-days are na sao clean, and they dirtied the kirk. That must ba why t-ney lockit the door." It was not that she complained. The elders were wise men, and no doubt they knew best. So she sat on the mortsafe. "I have other sons, and when they are older they'll go, too," she said. "I'll no' keep them back. And if they d : o it'll be for God's great cause." Her lips quivered as .she spoke. The moist ball in the right hand was clenched tight—there were no more tears to shed. And as I looked at the worn, lined face., the bent shoulders, the faded rusty black mantle with its fringe, and the sunken lips that quivered now and then, there came a sudden realisation. I saw no longer the one griefburdened figure sitting dejectedly on tiie mort-safe —I saw the unnumbered host of mothers throughout the world who have given their sons over to carnagel, and who are as Rachel wee.p:ng for her children, refusing to be comforted because they are not. Millions of men locked in the death grapple means millions of mothers given tears to drink in great measure, bound in affliction and iron. The song of tho river went on ceaselessly, the russetleaves fell softly, and the sun shone on a world lapped in peace —all iiaturs utterly regardless of the millions of Rachels that weep. Ten million hearts may break, but nature silences not ono note of its jovousness. And as she sat there, Ix'lrind her. under the campanile, showed the church door, locked and barred. Nature was heedless of her; the church shut its door upon her. She seemed to me the 1 .Mater Dolorosa. li.

As I went up the brae there came- thp memory of a school lesson long ago. Out of the subconscious it leaj>.'tl as a diver might eomo up from the depths of the sea with a gKaming coin in hks hand. Among tlio temples of ancient .Home there was one temple always kept open m 111110 of war. There the .Roman General clashed the sh'eld and the spear, invoking th 0 god c-r-v lie went to tlio battle-line. and its door was shut not djy or night. And 1 have 110 doubt but that tlio Eternal I'uler heard that clashing of spear on sh eld. and marked that open door. Hut her" in Scotland wo have left these pagan habit, tar behind us. We shut the doors ot our temples alike in war and in peace ---ex.. 'pting two hours on one day ot the we. k. or in inanv oases one hour in tk.. \w v. Nor d:'. 1 doubt but that the same HuH" marks these doors now shut on th.> mot in is of sorrow, and tlies. sail -tuai ies locked and silent. The glory was now gone from the day, nor could iorgei how the iron inort sal > gave t-ie resi that the church refused. 1 i- shadow |:i V I,"aw over the valley, and the m'nd tried to g ve the shadow a name. Hut li could nr.!. So up tlio lonsz "'- jt 0 stone ,sb '|>s I climbed, ancl turnul along .1 tree-shaded road. There, where three n.ads meet. stand■; a little cha;vl w'.thin w bos ■ walls a si,.all section of our [lari.sbioii 'i's uorsh p._ I have passed it times out of mind without so much aw glancing :-t >t. Hut to-day 'ts open do'.r arrested niv At. and I stood in the roadwav and gazojd. I have never been iiml •' it- f<" - * souynvlu ,n me a drop of dour Covenant m" b d and Kullion Green is not so far awav. "But there came to me then n sw.den ppn=i-> of thankfulness for that th <r one open door in our pnrsh which witl Besses to the fact that the power and

solace of relig'ou are not shut >n within tho confine* of only two hour.; of one day in the week. And as I stood there came forth from the little chapel an honoured portioner of our parish, who is passing the golden evening of a useful hfo in researches regarding Calvin and tho Pope. Amazement possessed mo. for lie is a ruling tl'ler in the parish church, whose door i s locked and barrxl. We walked together towards the hills. There was a trace cf apology in his explanation. Since this dreadful cataclysm has burst and the boom of the guns has come drifting from the sea across the high-perched city, he has felt thi3 need of quiet meditation. Thus ho has often on h's walks slipped through the open door of the chapel that (standi by the roadside. "And you have locked the door of the parish church," I cried, "and yon deny to the poor the privilege you yourself enjoy." H 0 stopped and faced me in the roadway, blinking at me. "Wc never locked tho church door," he said. "It used to ho open." I answered ; " 1 remember being glad to sit in it myself." "Ohl 1 remember," he exclaimed, "it was open every day for a few years, but the elders were never consulted when it was thrown open—a most lawless proceeding!—and when a suitable opportunity occurred the beadle locked it up. Law und order have to be vindicated, and miry feet soiled the church." "What you did then," 1 replied, "was to allow the beadle to deprive the, poor parishioners of a privilege which you and a few others enjoy elsewhere." At that ho walked on quietly. "You see," said lis, waving a deprecatory hand. "I am only one among many, and I was so absorbed in these old Reformation controversies that I never gave it a thought, and it is only since the war began that I realised. . . And a-j lie 6poke I realised that my old friend, learned in many controversies, had experienced a revolution. The p-reat tielo had swept him past all controversies right up to the fountain reach. He had learned that man's high calling i 6 not to disputo, but to pray. 111.

As we walked under the darkling hills I told him of that shadow which had so suddenly fallen upon me that clav, and he at once gave it a name. "It i.s the shadow of the Cross," said he. And thereupon he began to explain out of the wisdom and ripened experience of seventy years how across nineteen centuries the shadow of the Cross lies still over all the world. One thinks so seldom of these things, and if occasionally one hears them spoken of, familiarity with he words has deadened tho hearer to their significance. It was because I listened to him talking in the lane that his words gripped me. They might have made no impression if he wero in a pulpit.

We are accustomed to th : nk of th** greatest of all tragedies as an event consummated in six hours. It is. however, far from consummated, for it is an ace-long tragedy. Its roots lay in self-interest. A degenerate priesthood in an obscure Syrian town saw nothing in the Greatest of Teachers but an unbalanced enthusiast, who struck at their ill-gotten .gains, and whose triumph would make an end of them and their office. So self-interest cried "Crucify." And though the Roman Governor saw through them and wanted to save Him, self-interest again was brought into play, and when threatened with an awkward complaint to Rome, lis said "Crucify." And ever s'nee then self-interest on innumerable lips has cried Crucify, Crucify. Not only cred. but did it. For this Teacher identified Himself with His followers, saying that He waft the Vine and they the branches. It follows that whatever is done to the branch i.s done to the Vine. He declared it to b? so. "Whosoever receiveth you receiveth Me," anel it follows that whosoever crucifies you crucifies Me. And tho history of the centuries is the history of how'the poor and unlearned and the toiling have lieen persecuted, harried by war, driven to death. Generation after generation have raised tho Cross anew, and in tlie crucifying of the. dumb multitudes have crucified Him. Ho confronted to-day the mighty of the earth as Ho did that blinded priesthood of old. and He declared that there is only one way of conquering, and that by love; that gaining the whole world was a miserable bargain if in exchange a man parted with truth and righteousness and purity —those things that constitute the soul's very breath. But selfinterest answered with cold disdain •'What sickly sentimentalist is this? Let him be* crucified. And that hunian'ty which named his name was driven once more to the holocaust of war —ten millions of men consigned to the hell of reeking trenches. In the m dsr of the world the Cross stands as never before, bearing its awful woe. In the seeing of tho whole world the Eternal Love is crucified. It was its shadow that fall on her whose lips trembled as vho sat on tho mort-safe over aga nst the locked and barred door of the House of G'Jel.

The most wonderful thins in history r, th.it from a peasant done sluur.oiinly to death in a r c mot-? corner of the hasteru world there should flow througii the a."es such an inexplicable power. Ann vol there must he some explanation ot 'it "Why should a passion for right.'ousIrc'evoked in the human heart by t!i o fact that a Galilean was crucified by a petty Roman official? J here can hx\ iiv> explanation but this—that the Cross rc waled to mon the of that power wlrch wrought so shameful .1 deed That power was solt-intoi-esi-,c-Ilishne;-:s. The word sin became a word of hoiror. For the «dhshiv-ss th it erucii; 'd was only one fruit ot sin. O.it ci that realisation of the horror ot sm tlier. sprang an ethical pass on-a passion which in the heart and in the wu w r rp ( | ceaseless war oil <vlhshnoss and a 11 "th > dev'Ve.i of evil. Tin:-; humanity w ;is 1 i'ted out of the m>r'• • hev g.i .- ed themselves to fight tj'.at <!n ad 1 <1 hateful power winch crucuicd the Holy One. And thus it c«i;*o» thai "'e-el-vat ion of mankind came through a li--1! is for ever rotating itm- 1 !'. and the same result will eiisin toil a v". I'or the-" millions of men grapwith death, what are tln-v h"i humanity's s : n-boa.-rs ? On them 's 1,-d I he hurd 11 of 111- sins of tins nenoral'oll. The selfishness, .greed, ambit on. lust-all the passions win eh swven m,. n I - wars of conquest—ha v;> primal • ho v : nls of I heir mis ry 011 their heads. The so*i of the widow fotfng on t'.o mtr-i-Paf" win now l'es 11 a namel-ss t r-r, V o he l>or- H. Tho liearing of n Irlled hint. And as humanity will realis r'vors of blood the horro r C.f thai selfishness, the word sin will

[ once mol'e bum red before men's eyes, and tliero will arise that passion for righteousness which will lay sin low even as the dust. There will ring round th 3 world the compelling cry that this power of hell must not for ever hold humanity in its grip—that ruthless ambition, militarism, despotism must be made to cease from the face of the earth. Once more the shadow of tho Cross will mean salvation to men.

There was another power also that stirred tho world under the shadow of the Cross, and that- was the power of s?lf-sacrifice. There came to men an overwhelming realisation that a*; tho heart of tho universe was the Spirit of self-sacrifice, and tliat this Cross was but tho expression of it. They realisxl that the greatest, tiling a man can do with his life is to lay it dawn. And under the shadow of the Cross now lifted up a nation that sought life's pleasures has suddenly thrilled with the same glory of self-sacrifice. What is it that sustains the men who go down to tho earthly hell of ruthless war? It i.s just this—the consciousness, newly wakened, of how glorious a thing it is to die for King and country, for home and kindred. Tlioy are content, to be blotted out if only the race will live, to descend t 0 tho abyss that the nation may be exalted. Under the shadow of the Cross once more self-sacrifice has become tho only rock on which our feet can stand secure. Men charge across fields of death with the- light of it in their eyes. They are raised into the fellowship of the Cross. And we are raised with them.

If I could only tell the bowed widow sitting there on the mort-safe the glorious fellowship with which h?r son is numbered, she would again lift ;ip her face t<> the light. He has died that wo may live. Greater love haih no man than this —nor yet greater glory. IluE she needs not to be told; slip knows it already. Sho knows it far better than you or I do, for sh© feels it. In the deep places of life where words are meaningless, her dumb heart feels the mystery of sin-bearing and the glory of self-sacrifice. And because she feels it, she is ready to greet the day of still greater sacrifice.

In tho evening, whsn the curtains wer 0 drawn. I took up a magazine and read an article. It- was a bitter inveitivo against Christianity and the Church. Nineteen centuries of the j*.ligion of the Cross;—and this holocaust aa the fruit. It is amazing the blindness of the jaundiced eye. It would bo as reasonable to blame tho Founder of Christianity for His own crucifixion as to bl«me Christ'anity for the fact that the wicked have continued to crucify Him. These things ar e so not because, but in spite, of Christianity. Galilee ia conquering Cors'.ca, and will at last conquer. Outside of one area the whole, of Christendom is to-day of one mind, with but one prayer that freedom and right may prevail. Therein i-3 tho proof of the triumph of the Galilean spirit. And when these days are past there will be a greater triumph of that sp'rit than ever before. The passion for righteousness will again work moral revolutions in tho midst of humanity. And as a symbol thereof the doors of the sauctuaries of peace will be filing wide open, and no burdened' heart will find tho House of God lorked and barred against tiro groping hands. One fruit of these grievous days may well be that the Church w'll realise that it does not beoome her to occupy a lower plane than that heathen temple in ancient Rome, whose door was shut not day or night while men were dying in battle. In the conrrg days when tho mothers of sorrow como to their dead, over whoso gravis the falling leaves flatter with a benediction, they will not be 1-rit sitting on tho iron mort-safe. The op?n door will invite them into the sanctuary of peace, and they will croon the coronach of their woe 'in the holy place. For they are the priesthood of th s geneiation offering up the mostprecious sacrifice —and the door of the holy place must be open to them. And there sorrow will l>e transmitted into joy.