Doctor Who_ The Sleep of Reason - Martin Day [34]
At the heart of the congregation I spied a clutch of people from Mausolus –
noble yet unbelieving Christie, evil Fern, young Charles – and marvelled at their faces. Christie, all politeness, but a hint at the back of his eyes that he 57
wanted to be elsewhere, doubtless continuing the struggle with the weight of his responsibilities; Fern silently expressing his boredom and irritation, and poor Torby, a dove perchance amongst a brood of vipers.
I admit my heart dropped a little. Christie and Fern had doubtless spent their entire lives pushing God away; what could I do in the face of Christie’s great learning, Fern’s great apathy? Could not even the beauty of the church imply something of the wonder and majesty of God?
The ornate pulpit, the bronze eagle that carried the lectern Bible on huge arched wings, the stained glass windows of the hierarchy of angels, the flawless complexity of the roof and the weighty majesty of the supporting columns – what did they matter to a man like the good Dr Christie? He would see any such trappings as church extravagance in a world of need – and yet the Lord said that the poor will always be with us! What place does beauty have in a world of death?
I do not have easy answers for such questions. All I know is that to even begin to understand the Incarnation we must see that the stable rests under the shadow of a cross of death and torture.
‘This sweet babe,’ I continued, ‘was killed, rose from the dead – and will one day stand in judgement over us all. Let us not be Herod, and murder all plans for life and love and mercy and peace – but let us all, like the shepherds, run to Him in whom is life free from fear and pain.’
I almost sighed rather than enunciated the ‘Amen’, and clutched my own Bible to my chest as I descended the steps. I wondered still if anyone would miss me if I never spoke again from the pulpit, if any tears would be shed for my death – if it is time! – at the hands of the impending evil?
But I must not look for reward this side of heaven. There are good men and women in this parish who serve the Lord diligently, and my role is merely to help and encourage and pray. I am no more accountable for the sins of my congregation than they are for mine!
As we sang the next hymn I felt warmed, for such worship is an example of real progress in the modern world. When my father was a boy the law still prohibited the singing of hymns. Ah, the perversity of God’s people!
I remember glancing outwards, through one of the unadorned windows, and reflecting on the beauty of the sky at night. Within my own heart, the feelings of dread and terror seemed to have eased. Was I wrong? Was the dream that I had had of no real consequence, a simple, random act of the unconscious mind?
I prayed silently that my fears were groundless.
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Extract from the Diary of Dr Thomas Christie Thursday 24th December 1903 (continued)
I emerged from the church feeling slightly moved – albeit, I am sure, by human sentiment, and no more. Macksey greeted me warmly enough – pleased, perhaps, by my simple hypocritical attendance – and a number of us stood out in the thin, crisp air, scuffing our feet against the gravel pathway, watching our breath merge with the onward-marching fog.
Torby seemed pensive – with any other man I might think it was the temporary effect of Macksey’s sermon as one strove in one’s own power to live a better life – and Fern was sullen, like a child whose latest prank has been exposed.
We talked of little of consequence until a ghostly owl swooped overhead, giving Mr Torby in particular quite a shock. He wondered aloud whether the craft of the brothers Wright was as silent or if, indeed, it sounded not unlike a steam engine or some other modern man-made miracle. I said I suspected the latter, for the newspaper had