THE PRIEST'S PASTORAL WORK
IT has sometimes been a matter of comment that in the ordination of a priest the Church seems to act in a different manner from what she does in the consecration of a Bishop. In the latter case, a man has to wait till there is a vacancy and his work is required for the good of the Church: in the former case, he offers himself for ordination, and it is not until after he is ordained that a suitable vacancy is sought where he is asked to work. In some respects this follows inevitably from the nature of the case; for a candidate for the Bishopric can go on working as a priest until his services are called for in the Episcopate. In some instances indeed that time never comes, and one who is apparently "Episcopabilis" never gets consecrated at all. In the case of a priest it is manifestly impossible to have candidates for Holy Orders waiting to be called to the ministry, and remaining laymen till that time comes. And indeed if it were otherwise possible, the length of time necessary to prepare for the priesthood necessitates the candidate being chosen some years before the need arises; while, on the other hand, there are so many openings where a priest's work is called for that one can usually be found for a newly ordained priest without waiting, and indeed the tendency is rather for there to be such need that a man has to be ordained before his time.
Nevertheless, the comment does express a real truth. Some men—in certain countries not an inconsiderable number—are ordained as what are often spoken of as "Mass priests," who having a sufficient competency of their own, have no intention of ever offering themselves for pastoral work of any kind. They wish to say Mass, and that is all. It is significant of the times that this is not to be so any longer. Although it is impossible to wait for a definite vacancy, the Bishops are directed in future not to ordain anyone unless they are satisfied that his services are necessary or useful to the Church, and an obligation is laid on every priest to accept any work from the Bishop which he is reasonably able to do. [1] There are to be no more "Mass priests." The movement was begun by Pius X in the city of Rome, when he only allowed those to live there who had definite employment: now the principle is extended, and has become part of the law of the Church. Hence pastoral work, in its broadest sense, has become an essential part of the vocation of a priest. It is proposed here to say a few words about the various offices of such work a priest ordinarily performs in this country. This naturally divides itself into two main categories, that which he does for the sake of his people as a whole, and that which he does for them individually. The former of these will form the subject of a later Conference: here we will consider the latter. [2]
The work of the Church is to sanctify the life of the Christian, and the priest's pastoral solicitude should extend to every individual of his parish. Many of them he comes to know intimately, through the sacrament of Penance, and all of them are his friends as they are friends of Christ. [3] His work is to apply to them individually the graces of the Church, throughout their lives, and more especially at the chief epochs—to baptise them when they come into the world; to provide for their Catholic training at school; to prepare them for Confirmation when the opportunity arises; to administer their first Confession and Communion when they are of a suitable age; when they enter the state of matrimony to prepare them for the sacrament, and to assist at it when the parties are solemnly married; and, finally, to watch over their death bed, to anoint them and administer the holy Viaticum when the last summons comes. But in addition to these main epochs, the priest has to keep perennial watch over their lives, to assist them in their troubles, to advise them and absolve them when they have fallen into sin, continually to stimulate them in the practice of their holy religion; to warn those who neglect Mass on Sundays, or who stay away from Communion at Easter; and to help them in countless other ways. A few words about each of these duties will be in place.
We begin with the solemn rite of Baptism. Many priests find this the least spiritualising of all their works in the Church. The fact that the recipient of the sacrament is unconscious of what is being done, and often in consequence behaves in a manner not befitting the occasion, undoubtedly detracts from the solemnity of the rite. Yet there is much to suggest itself of special interest, for the sacrament involves the whole history of mankind. The child arrives not a member of the Church, even in positive enmity—though unconsciously—to Almighty God, and in the power of the enemy of mankind. As a result of the priest's ministration, the devil is expelled, and the child acquires the state of one of the faithful. The command "Exi ab eo, immunde spiritus, et da locum Spiritui Sancto Paraclito" should surely bring home to one the power of the priesthood. So also the words that follow a little later on:—
"Exorcizo te, immunde spiritus, in nomine Patris et Filii et Spiritus Sancti, ut exeas et recedas ab hoc famulo Dei: ipse enim tibi imperat qui pedibus super mare ambulavit, et Petro mergenti dexteram porrexit.
"Ergo maledicte diabole, recognosce sententiam tuam, et da honorem Deo vivo et vero, da honorem Jesu Christo Filio ejus, et Spiritui Sancto, et recede ab hoc famulo Dei, quia istum sibi Deus et Dominus noster Jesus Christus ad suam sanctam gratiam et benedictionem fontemque Baptismatis vocare dignatus est. Et hoc signum sanctæ Crucis, quod nos fronti ejus damus, tumaledicte diabole, nunquam audeas violare."
So also the profession of faith of the god-parent on behalf of the child speaks of the Christian home into which it is its privilege to be born; and this gives the full meaning to the Baptism itself. The sanctification of the child is completed by the two-fold anointing—by the Oil of Catechumens before Baptism, and by Chrism afterwards. It is the sign of a good Catholic tradition to wish for Baptism as early as possible so that the infant may be sanctified; and the Catholic practice is to give him the name of a saint, under whose protection he is placed. [4]
The next epoch in the life of a child is his going to school, which by a strange satire comes always before he has, theologically speaking, "come to the use of reason." From henceforth the school teacher, as the deputy of the priest, shares with the parents the responsibility for the child's religious education. A good priest is frequently in his school, and gets to know the children each and all. Much of the religious instruction is best done by the ordinary teachers, but the priest will supervise it and often participate in it; and when it comes to preparing the children for their First Confession, he will probably keep it in his own hands. Nevertheless, he must bear in mind that although according to the new Codex the final responsibility as to the child's fitness rests with the priest (Canon 854, §5), his final decision requires the consent of the child's parent or guardian (Ibid., § 4). This consent, however, is of course ordinarily assumed: with the large numbers at a modern school no other system would be possible. The children make their First Confessions in groups, on a date fixed by the priest. It is hardly necessary to remark that many a child in his first few Confessions experiences difficulty in finding matter to confess. Yet it is very important for such a one to form the habit of Confession in good time, so that when the need really arises by serious sin, the remedy may be ready to hand.
According to the modern practice, initiated by Pope Pius X, the First Communion follows immediately. In many cases the child only partly realises the sacredness of the act. Nevertheless, the surroundings, together with such knowledge as can be assimilated at that age, give plenty of scope for devotion; and with advancing years, the child realises more and more the privilege of receiving the Blessed Sacrament.
When the time comes for leaving school, a crisis is reached, and it is sad to note how many boys and girls, but especially the former, are carried away by the brightness and interest of life when they go out into the world, and lose sight of their religion altogether. Needless to say, many of them fall into bad company, and their souls become in a state of grave peril. Various works have been set on foot at different times to retain our influence on our boys at this time of life—the institution of clubs, or boy scouts, or boys' brigades, or the like, with varying success. It is a time when the priest with all his solicitude is often powerless to do anything. On this we can quote the experience of Canon Oakeley writing half a century ago:—
"No complaint is more commonly heard among our clergy," he writes, "than that those who have been educated in our schools are lost to the Church by scores, if not by hundreds, as soon as the school time is over. This complaint I fear is but too well grounded, but I think that it suggests some important topics of self-examination to ourselves. Are we sufficiently careful to follow with our eye the children of both sexes who have ceased to come under daily observation by entering on the duties of their secular callings? This enquiry applies most forcibly to the young men of our flocks, who for many reasons are less likely to come under the protection of watchful guides than young persons of the other sex, and who are at the same time exposed to a more dangerous class of temptations."
And he gives his own experience as to a possible remedy:—
"The interest which both sexes alike demand at our hands consists not merely in using means to preserve them in the practice of their formal religious duties, but in keeping up their attachment to the Church to which they belong by engaging them in some practical form of connection with it, such as association with confraternities, or participation in offices or works of which it is the centre and spring. I have myself" (he adds) "witnessed in various ways and in more than one place the incalculable advantage of maintaining by some such definite and practical bond of union the tie between young persons, but especially young men, and their church. I have found that the privileges of the sanctuary or the choir have been prized as the most precious of distinctions, and that the Offices of the Church have proved successful rivals, not to say powerful antagonists, of the theatre or the music-hall. I have known young men who have been, to my undoubting belief, kept harmless amid the manifold temptations of the metropolis through influences directly received in, or by means of, the Catholic Church." [5]
In many cases where men have allowed their religion to lapse, the steadying influence required is happily supplied when the time comes for a man to marry and to devote himself to bringing up a Christian family. The wedding-day is a day of rejoicing; it is the priest's privilege to assist at the ceremony in church, and in many cases to join in the festivities afterwards. It is much to be regretted that the nuptial mass has almost died out with us—this being apparently in great part due to our Protestant surroundings; the two ostensible reasons being the custom of having the ceremony at a late hour, in order to enable people to come, and the wish for a short service so as not to overburden the non-Catholics present. It is the more to be regretted because it is such a beautiful service that if people were accustomed to seeing it, few Catholics would be content to omit it. However, taking the service as we find it, short though it is, it can be made very devotional [6] and joyful.
It has been said by some cynics that such joy is misplaced, and that if the young couple realised the anxieties and trials before them they would look on it as a day of sorrow rather than joy. Such remarks are surely out of keeping with the spirit of the followers of Him who assisted at the wedding feast in Cana, and worked His first miracle lest the rejoicings should be marred. In point of fact, marriage is a subject for joy as life is, with all its sufferings and anxieties, for it is the means of achieving a great and joyful work. If ever there is an occasion in life when people stand in need of the joyful sympathy of their friends, it is when they are beginning the main work of their lives. In later years, when storm and stress is on them, they will ever look back to their wedding-day for comfort and hope which will carry them through their trials. If God bless their union with children, the priest is at hand to minister to the mother in childbirth, to baptise the offspring, and to perform the solemn rite which is the mother's act of thanksgiving for successful childbirth.
Alas, however, many people lose sight of their religion after as before marriage, and their defection affects not only themselves, but their children. It destroys the character of the home, and is an injustice to those whom they have brought into the world. To them the solicitude of the priest will be continually applied. "I came not to call the just," said our Lord, "but sinners to penance";[7] and the priest's work in continually visiting his flock—house to house visiting, if circumstances permit—is chiefly directed towards rescuing those who have fallen away, or are in danger of doing so. The special efforts, the Lenten sermons and missions then or at other times, and the long hours spent in the Confessional are directed primarily towards getting back the sheep who have gone astray. No satisfaction of the priest can be compared with that when he brings back a lost sheep to the fold, and perhaps creates a holy home which but for his efforts would have been a home of perdition. If he has imitated the Curé d'Ars and done penance to himself in order to obtain such a conversion, the penance will appear to him small indeed compared with the blessings he has obtained.
The solicitude of a priest must not be limited to his own Catholic people. We have surely a mission to all, and we should try to reach all. "Other sheep I have," said our Lord, "that are not of the fold; them also I must bring, and they shall hear My voice, and there shall be one fold and one shepherd." [8] One learns by experience how little we have personally to do with making converts. "The Spirit breatheth where He will," and a new convert will come from some unexpected quarter as though dropping down from the skies. It is often assumed that the chief school which produces converts is the High Church party of the Church of England. This may be so sometimes; but in the small experience of the present writer, both in the four years spent on the mission and in granting faculties as Bishop, this has not been universally the case. He can recall receiving Low Churchmen, Dissenters, Quakers, or unbaptised persons with no religion at all, as frequently as those of the High Church. They come at all ages; and often without any very definite apparent reason. It has no doubt been a case of corresponding with the grace of God, and even when it was originally set in motion by something in one of our sermons, or when difficulties have been chased away in like manner, the priest feels clearly enough how little one has had personally to do with it, beyond being the representative of God. Nevertheless, it is one of the signs of God's blessing on our work, and if it is absent, and no converts are coming, we may well take it as a warning that we are not doing our work as well as we might.
This is not the place to write at length on the treatment of converts. Let it be sufficient to say that we should extend to these the very utmost charity and sympathy. We who were born Catholics can hardly realise the extraordinary mental anguish which some of them go through in their search after truth, and in confronting the call to break with the most sacred associations of their lives. Yet it is no charity to them to receive them when they are only partially instructed or when they have not really grasped the essentials of an act of faith. The modern discipline of requiring a faculty before receiving anyone into the Church is some check on this, but not a complete one. The judgment of the priest is practically always accepted and the instructions laid down are often curtailed.
When the convert has been prepared, the priest has to complete the work, and it is no small consolation both to him and to the convert. But after the seed is planted comes the time of growth, and the anxiety about the early Catholic life of his converts is not the least among the pastoral solicitudes of the priest. In their early days as Catholics they have a right to frequent visits from their father-in-God.
We come finally to a large number of subjects for the priest's visits—the sick of every kind, whether in hospitals or workhouses or infirmaries or in private houses, and from those who are stricken with comparatively light ailments to those who are chronic invalids: and, lastly, those in danger of death. Of the sick in general Canon Keatinge at the outset calls attention to the essential difference between the sick men "letting the priest know" and "sending for the priest"; and he rightly points out that even when the former state is reached, there is a great opportunity for his soul, and the very protraction of his illness, wearying as it is to flesh and blood, may be—whether he recovers or not—the grace of his life. How many a man has been called back by illness to serious thoughts, and has made his peace with God, which may last for the rest of his life, perhaps for many years. "His illness," writes Canon Keatinge, "may be nothing less than a retreat for him and his whole house, if you happen to be a man full of the spirit of your vocation." [9]
When an actual sick call comes, there is of course no room for choice; one must go, and at once. The ministration to the dying is a part of the priest's office, which is sometimes viewed with some apprehension before ordination. The surroundings of death are unattractive to nature; the sight of the struggle for life which ends in defeat is painful to watch; and there is often trying physical discomfort in the surroundings of poverty and disease. Yet when it comes to the actual fact, any priest will confirm the statement that it is one of the most consoling duties of his office. The very fact that he is attending for purposes of ministration seems to carry him through all that nature revolts against in the sight and surroundings, while he gains for himself a valuable lesson on the frailty of human life and the nearness of eternity. It is indeed exceptional to be present at the actual moment of death, though this sometimes occurs. But one frequently sees the body very soon afterwards, with the familiar death expression on the countenance, before it has been laid out and assumed the calm sleep-like appearance with which most people are familiar. The thought is inevitable: a few moments ago the soul was here; we were speaking with him; now he has seen Almighty God and been judged. May he always remember us who helped him to die as a Christian should!
We are often asked by the future priest for our experience of death-beds. The description of the final struggle between good and evil, the last assaults of the devil, who knows that with this soul it is now or never, are often depicted in vivid colours in books of devotion or in sermons, and this forms one of the features of death of which ordinary people are most afraid. It may be a good thing to have brought before them as a warning a picture of what presumably is a possibility; but truth compels us to say that in the ordinary case it is not so. The late Dr. Coffin, Bishop of Southwark, who had had a long career as a member of the Congregation of Redemptorists, of which he was Provincial, once admitted frankly that although he had often preached it, he had never seen it; and his experience of death-beds was very large. The ordinary rule is that in the later stages of illness all is calm, and the fear of death, even in cases where it has been prominent in life, disappears before the end comes. And—a fact which can never be too strongly enforced and which will be corroborated by any priest who has ministered to the dying—when the patient is told that death is imminent, in nearly every case the announcement is received with resignation; and the last Sacraments give no small consolation. This has to be firmly insisted upon; for ordinarily a non-Catholic doctor, who has not the same outlook on death that we have, will deprecate or even forbid informing him as to his condition. The priest has to resist this order, and he can do so with perfect confidence. The physical effect such as it is will be, as experience shows, all in the direction of calming the mind and rather assisting than retarding recovery. And to us who believe in the efficacy of the Sacrament of Extreme Unction, "even to restore health when God sees it to be expedient," this thought appeals with special force.
Are we to understand then that there are no bad deaths, or no death-bed conversions? Alas, many a death is evil and Godless, and many people refuse to see the priest at all. Even in such a case there is not necessarily a struggle, for a man may have surrendered himself to evil. There may, indeed, be cases of a struggle between the right and wrong at the end, but they are rare. But with respect to death-bed conversions, there is more to be said. The expression may be used in a broad or a narrow sense. In the strict meaning of the term, that a man after an evil life changes his disposition at the very end, this is of course the rarest event in the world, and if it occurs, must be looked upon as a very extraordinary grace. But many a person puts himself straight in his confession when in danger of death. Some ancient criminal attachment or some unconfessed sin may have kept him away from the sacraments for years without having destroyed either his faith or his general wish to serve God. To such a one his last sacraments form a great grace, which show that Almighty God has not been unmindful of his general aiming at good, and that whereas during life this aim has not been strong enough to overcome the special difficulty which came upon him, the stimulus of approaching death has been providentially afforded him to strengthen his will sufficiently for true sorrow.
But apart from death-bed struggles, the judgments of God are often manifestly shown by a sudden death. It has sometimes been remarked how many priests die suddenly; but to them surely sudden death should have no terrors. A man who has given his whole life and strength to ministering for God should surely welcome a short and swift transit from this vale of tears to our home above. But in the case of those not so prepared, it is otherwise, and often the sudden death of one whom we have known and loved may come upon us as something truly solemn and awful. The following story of his early priestly days, even though more than thirty years ago, has never been forgotten or lost its effect on the present writer, and he makes no apology for reproducing it here; though no doubt most priests might have similar experiences to recount.
A certain Mrs. X., a widow of about forty to fifty years old, who had been brought up in the Church of England, became convinced of the truth of the Catholic religion. She attended mass every Sunday, and was always at the evening service both Sunday and weekday—she never missed—and she had ceased entirely ever going to the Anglican Church. After a while she was asked whether she would not like to see the priest and be received into the Church. She answered that she would do so later on; but she wished to wait till after the death of her aged mother, who was much opposed to Catholics, and who, she feared, might suppress her allowance and leave her nothing by will. Mrs. X. added that there was no danger in waiting: she lived next door to the priest, and in case of illness she could and would at once summon him. So matters remained until one day in the summer, when the school children had their annual outing, and the priest accompanied them. On his return, he found his housekeeper almost in a state of hysterics. Mrs. X. had been taken suddenly ill at midday, and had sent across to ask the priest to come; but he was out with the children. About half an hour before his return Mrs. X. had died. The final scene of this remarkable story was the funeral service of Mrs. X. in an Anglican Church, at which her aged mother assisted. Such are the facts, and without taking any too rigid a view of the final lot of Mrs. X. in the next world, we can at least see a punishment for her want of generosity in hesitating to give herself into God's hands as a Catholic until she should have (as she thought) made sure that she would not be the loser in this world's goods. At the lowest estimate, she was punished by being deprived of countless graces which she could have had. "God is not mocked...what things a man shall sow, those also shall he reap." [10]
The pastoral work for the individual does not end with his death. First there are the funeral rites to perform. According to the new Canon Law, being a parochial function, it must take place in the parish church: the ordinary cemetery chapel, when there is one, will not suffice; still less the recital of the service in the open air, which is often the only function possible in the case of a public cemetery, and the parish priest or his deputy must perform the actual burial. This law is perhaps more important than it seems. The time of a funeral is one when the hearts of the mourners are open to influences to which at other times they are impervious; and frequently also there are non-Catholics among them. The beauty of the ceremonial cannot fail to be a real consolation to those who are bereaved, if only it is performed in a devotional manner; but a priest who is continually doing it day after day can hardly fail to go through it somewhat mechanically. The parish priest, on the other hand, or the curate, who has assisted at the death will himself share the emotion of the mourners. The custom prevalent in this country of adding some vernacular prayers when the ritual or official prayers are over helps very much at such a season, and not infrequently affects the non-Catholics present, for some of our funeral prayers are remarkably beautiful.
Then when the last rites are over, the priest will wish to commemorate his dead and to offer prayers for them. The time is unhappily over when the tombs of those who have departed were grouped round the church, to be remembered for many years by those who knew them. This practice was specially in accordance with the Church's spirit. Nowadays the growth of populations and the sanitary considerations have demanded the creation of large cemeteries outside the towns. All the more reason therefore that the clergy should continually call the attention of their parishioners to the Catholic doctrine of the Communion of Saints and to their duty to pray for those who have gone before them. This is one special feature of an Episcopal visitation, and the solemnity of the Bishop's act should serve to remind both pastor and people of the duty and consolation of offering prayers and masses for "those who have gone before us in the sign of faith, and sleep the sleep of peace."
[1] Canon 969: "Nemo ex saecularibus ordinetur qui judicio proprii Episcopi non sit necessarius vel utilis ecclesiis dioecesis." Canon 128: "Quoties et quamdiu id judicio proprii Ordinarii exigat Ecclesiae necessitas, et nisi legitimum impedimentum excuset, suscipiendum est clericis ac fideliter implendum munus quod ipsis fuerit ab Episcopo commissum."
[2] See also remarks on the Pastoral Office as a source of sanctification in Conference II.
[3] St. John xv. 14.
[4] The modern practice of giving secular names is, it need hardly be pointed out, of Protestant origin. It is to be noted that in the new Codex of Canon Law it is definitely enacted that one name at least must be that of a saint (Canon 761).
[5] The Priest on the Mission, p. 87.
[6] In the case of "mixed marriages" some restrictions are necessary; and it is one of the sad drawbacks of our state in England that practically a large proportion of our marriages are "mixed."
[7] St. Luke v. 32.
[8] St. John x. 16.
[9] The Priest, etc., p. 243.
[10] Gal. vi. 7.
[CONFERENCE VIII]
THE PRIEST'S PASTORAL WORK (continued)
THE LITURGY
ONE of the regrettable symptoms of present-day Catholicity in London is the decay of liturgy. It is true that we have in our midst now the great Cathedral of Westminster where the full liturgy of the Church is carried out daily with a completeness unknown in modern times; but it seems as though its existence has become a sort of centre of specialisation in that line, while one after another the parish churches have put their Sunday high mass into a secondary place, or abolished it altogether.
This is a great change on past traditions. At the beginning of the last century, when the modifying of the Penal Laws first made it possible, a great effort was made to have high mass in all the churches of London—then about eight in number. The memories of Webbe at the Sardinian Chapel, and Novello at the Portuguese Chapel became part of Catholic London; and in later times, though the singing at the various churches was of a type which we should not now approve—notably at Warwick Street, which gained for itself the title of the Shilling Opera, for all the best singers of the Italian Opera were to be heard there on Sundays—nevertheless, this indicated much care and attention in the carrying out of the liturgy at high mass. Vespers were also common as an afternoon service on a Sunday, which was probably in great part due to the thousands of French émigrés priests and laymen who were in London in the early years of the century; for in France the singing of vesper psalms has always been popular. Even in the country churches it was the rule, not the exception, to have a sung mass on Sundays. Here again one recalls a stamp of music with which we should not now be content—such as Mozart XII sung in unison, already alluded to in a former Conference—but it evidences considerable trouble to be able to have a sung mass.
We may well enquire what has caused the London tradition to change. One reason may possibly be that the increase of population has led to the people being more evenly distributed between the various masses, so that no single mass is the principal one in the sense that it used to be, and that seems expected in the liturgical rubrics. At present in many places the ten o'clock mass draws the largest congregation, and since the introduction of a twelve o'clock low mass, the high mass has been further depleted, so that the sermon, is often put at the former instead of the latter.
Another reason may be the coming of the tradition from Ireland. There are no people on the face of the earth to equal the Irish in their devotion to low mass, or in the number of the mass-going population. Dublin may be compared with any city in Catholic Europe, and for the number of people who go to mass on a Sunday—and even on a weekday—could put that city in the shade. But since the suppression of the liturgy by the Penal Laws, the Irish have never recovered their taste for high mass or other functions. Even at the Pro-Cathedral in Marlborough Street, Dublin, though the singing is excellent, the people do not take to high mass: they prefer to hear a low mass which may be going on at a side altar at the same time, and at its conclusion the church empties, though the high mass is not half over. Here in England we have not got the Irish devotion to low mass, and to us therefore the decay of high mass is a greater loss.
But probably the reason that would be given is that the stress of modern life has made people unwilling to face long services. No doubt there is some truth in the contention that they would not tolerate the length of services current last century. The great Requiem for Pius VI in 1799 lasted, together with the Dirge, from ten in the morning till nearly four in the afternoon: people certainly would not sit through that to-day. In much later times, and within living memory, the ordinary Sunday high mass, with sermon, lasted the greater part of two hours. But that is not so now. With the present length of sermon, and with simple music, the high mass need not last more than an hour and a quarter, and it may well be questioned whether people would really find this too long. The plea about length is heard perhaps more often from the priest, professing to voice the mind of the people, than from the people themselves.
In more outlying parts, it would seem that the regulation issued by Pius X insisting on the singing of the "proper"—introit, gradual, etc.—in some cases has had the opposite effect to that intended, and has caused many to give up the sung mass altogether; for although it may be urged that the "proper" can always be sung either in psalm tone, or at least monotone, in practice people will not attempt it; and indeed often when it is attempted, the difficulty of reading Latin to laymen who are not accustomed to it in a country where the language is so different in sound and rhythm produces a result the reverse of devotional.
Then again restrictions on the class of music from a false reading of the well-known Motu Proprio of Pius X has had the same effect. There is no document more frequently misquoted than this Motu Proprio. The lover of Gregorian music speaks as though universal plain chant was prescribed; the admirers of Palestrina quote it in favour of polyphonic music; while those who are opposed to the masses of Mozart and Haydn, once so popular, appeal to the Motu Proprio as though it were a condemnation of this whole class of music. In point of fact if anyone will actually read the text, he will find it most broad in outlook. Undoubtedly the Pope extols plain chant as pre-eminently the music of the Church and calls for its restoration; but he also speaks highly of polyphonic music; and with respect to modern music, he only stipulates that it should not be theatrical in character. Those who are familiar with the very light and trumpery music in vogue in the Italian churches—which is the instance actually quoted by the Pope—will readily understand this restriction. That it condemns masses such as Haydn's Imperial may perhaps be fairly argued; but most of Mozart's masses would seem to come within the scope of what is allowed. A possible exception is the well-known No. XII, which many maintain to have been written not by Mozart at all, but by his pupils. At any rate it is of a distinctly more operatic character than the other Mozart masses. But even if Mozart and Haydn are excluded, there are plenty of simple masses often sung which are entirely within the line drawn. Indeed, on the important point emphasised by the Pope, of the words being sung so that the listeners can follow them, music of this kind is superior to polyphonic, in which the syllables in the different voices so overlap that it is often impossible to follow the words. It is true indeed that these masses sometimes include the "needless repetition" of the words of the liturgy which the Pope condemns; especially in the Kyrie, where the number of invocations is never the proper nine, and is simply adapted to the exigences of the music; and in the concluding phases of the Gloria and Credo, in which the Amen is often repeated many times; in the beginning of the Gloria also, or in the Sanctus or elsewhere some repetition is found; but as a general rule in the masses we have had in this country the repetitions have been less pronounced than is often implied, and a good many masses are practically free from them. The abuse current in Italy of having all the chief parts of the Gloria—the Gratias agimus, the Domine Deus, etc.—as separate pieces which is condemned by the Pope has never found its way into England. [1]
Then with respect to details, although the ideal put forward is for a choir of men and boys, it was apparently not intended to exclude women altogether: it was only meant to stipulate that they should not be "admitted to the choir," which according to the authorised explanation, is complied with provided that they are grouped apart and not mixed with the men. Indeed, solos are expressly allowed, provided that they do not monopolise the singing. The chief instrument is to be the organ or harmonium, but with leave of the Bishop other wind instruments may be added on special occasions. The only prohibition is against instrumenta percussionis, specified as pianoforte, drums, kettledrums, cymbals, triangles, etc.—a list which is in itself a sufficient commentary on the music which it is desired to exclude.
All this seems surely broad enough to bring the sung mass within the capability of most missions. Nevertheless, there is much in favour of a return to plain chant. The old idea which was involved in Bishop Douglass's description of a Requiem a century ago that "the Responses were in plain chant except the Libera, which was in music," calls for combating, for Gregorian Chant is in the highest sense music. The chief reason that people do not always take to it is that it requires a certain training to appreciate it. If plain chant is to be restored, the first step is to train not only the clergy, as is already being done, but more importantly still, the schoolmasters. Recently the writer heard a high mass in a country church sung in plain chant by the school children, who had been trained by their master, and not only was the effect most devotional, but the congregation was already beginning to join in the singing—a consummation devoutly to be wished. If this could be done regularly, we should perhaps see our way to the restoration of the liturgy in popular estimation, and an incidental advantage not to be lost sight of would be that it would limit the duration of the services. [2]
The case of Vespers is different from that of sung mass. It was never meant for an evening service of the modern type, and used to be sung early in the afternoon. From the time when vernacular evening services began to come in—which was about the middle of last century [3]—the popularity of Vespers has steadily declined. There are now but few churches where they are ever attempted; and such services as Tenebræ in Holy Week or the Dirge on All Souls' Day seem to be almost limited to cathedral churches. This is of course to be regretted, and it is probable that a good deal more might be done to revive the singing of Vespers; but it may be doubted whether it would be really popular in England as a regular thing. [4]
Now a priest should love the liturgy, both for his own spiritual life and for that of his people; and likewise for the outward glory of God, for it is the official life of the Church. The Puseyites boasted to Cardinal Wiseman that great credit was due to them for reintroducing high mass (as they considered it). The Cardinal replied that still greater credit was due to Catholics who had never lost it. A priest should be educated in the liturgical sense that he in turn may educate his people. If he has little taste for liturgy he is wanting in the fulness of his vocation. It is certainly not an over-statement that much more trouble might be taken with the liturgical services than is often the case. To learn to be at home on the sanctuary and to move about quietly and in a dignified way requires a little effort, but presents no great difficulty. Yet often we see it far otherwise. So, also, every priest should be able at least to chant the prayers in a proper tone, and this will make a great difference to the general effect. If he is musical, so much the better. Many priests are not, and for them it involves a good deal of trouble and will be only moderately successful; but it is hard to believe that the prayers we sometimes hear represent really the best that the priest can do. An unmusical priest may be excused for finding the Preface and Pater Noster a difficulty, but it should not be insuperable.
Although, however, a high mass, or at least Missa Cantata, may be regarded as the ideal even for small missions, there are undoubtedly many in which this is impossible. In such cases the chief Sunday low mass can be and often is performed with solemnity—such as the lighting of the "sixes" on the altar, and the number of servers increased—which may be very devotional. And it may be accompanied by singing, provided this is in Latin. [5] And in large churches, all the Sunday masses should be celebrated as solemnly as possible. Let it be remembered that many persons always hear one of the low masses only. For this reason it is desirable that at least the more essential notices—announcing coming feasts, or fast days, or special services—should be read at every mass, as well as the Epistle and Gospel of the Sunday. Where possible, even a short five minutes' sermon serves a very good purpose. The whole service can be made devotional, and the large Communion makes itself necessarily so. The well-known description of Father Dalgairns, in his book on Holy Communion, is worth quoting as illustrating this fact:—
"Enter into a London chapel on a Sunday when not even the few attempts at magnificence which our poverty permits us are displayed. Let it be in the depths of the City, in an old-fashioned chapel, with Protestant pews. Here the church has no beauty that one should desire her. No organ peals, and no sweet-toned choir chants. Yet there is a marvel which kings and prophets thirsted to see and did not see. They throng to the altar; the priest in a low voice repeats the blessed words and gives to each his God. No saints are there, but good ordinary Christians, fearing God in the midst of the world; some are even great sinners who have just been cleansed in the sacrament of Penance. The same scene goes on all over even this heretical land. No glorious bells ring out over the length and breadth of England, from spire and steeple, to announce the adorable sacrifice, but in our great wicked towns you may count the communicants by tens of thousands. In Birmingham and Sheffield, Liverpool and Manchester, they are crowding to receive their Lord. The same blessed work is going on in lowly country missions scattered up and down the country, where a few worshippers still congregate to worship the God of their fathers, in venerable chapels under the roof of Catholic gentlemen, the descendants of martyrs, where the Blessed Sacrament has found a refuge through centuries of persecution." [6]
But the priest will have to conduct many services which are only partly liturgical, or not liturgical at all. Of such a nature is the ordinary Sunday evening service at most of our churches, or the weekday Benedictions, meetings of Confraternities, etc. Here again there is room for improvement in the manner they are conducted. Many a priest "gabbles" the prayers—especially the Hail Marys of the Rosary—in a manner which makes them quite inaudible, and is a real hindrance to the people joining. It conveys the idea that he is discharging a duty for the sake of his people, without any idea of praying himself. Yet surely the prayers which are good enough for them are good enough for him; and in truth there is no more moving or devotional sight than that of a priest praying together with his people. The practice of utilising the time during Benediction to say Office is regrettable if only for this reason—that it destroys the community of prayer between priest and people, and he loses the grace of the Congregational Act. At the Eucharistic Congress in 1908, when the people assembled at each side of the street in their thousands, one of the most touching sights was the arrival of groups or congregations led by their priests, reciting the Rosary or other devotions or singing hymns with him. No more vivid representation could be imagined of the good shepherd leading his flock, as is customary in southern or mountainous countries, which formed one of the best known of the parables of our Lord.
There is certainly a need for more variety in our popular evening services: people get tired of the perpetual Rosary, sermon and Benediction; but until something better is forthcoming, we must make the best of what we have. Evening services are comparatively new in other countries besides England, as formerly there was no satisfactory means of lighting the churches, and there is now room for their development. In some smaller churches Night Prayers are an agreeable variety: the Curé of Ars used to say them with his people every evening. There is something to be said also for the old English devotion of the Jesus Psalter; and in Lent, Stations of the Cross are usually popular. But on the whole, there is a want of suitable variety in the first part of the service. For the concluding part, nothing could be more beautiful than the Benediction service, which has crystallised itself into a definite form for this country.
Finally, it is worth while to put in a word in favour of an effort to keep the church open all day. The importance of this practice has been emphasised not only in our own Synods of Westminster, [7] but also in the new Codex, [8] which orders it for at least several hours each day. With us there are sometimes difficulties in the way, especially when the presbytery is at a distance from the church. Sometimes, however, these difficulties are unduly magnified. Even the danger of occasionally losing a few shillings from the collection boxes would seem to be not too great a price for satisfying the devotion of so many who long to visit the Blessed Sacrament from time to time. A Catholic church should have as its characteristic that it is alive; and even when no service is going on, the daily life of the church shows itself. Time was, and not so many years ago, when a church left open would run the risk of being maliciously desecrated: and that is probably in part at least responsible for the bad tradition in some of our churches in this respect; but it is to be hoped that we have got past that danger by now.
[1] That is, not as a rule. In the days of the so-called "shilling opera" at Warwick Street, some of the Italian type of masses were in vogue.
[2] As an extreme example of the opposite spirit and the decay of liturgical sense may be quoted that of a church a few years ago on Palm Sunday, which fell that year on March 16, the only music being at the distribution of the Palms, when the people sang the hymn "Glorious St. Patrick." On another occasion at quite a large church, one Maundy Thursday, falling that year a few days after March 19, and within the supposed Octave of St. Joseph, when we came hoping to find Tenebræ, instead there were popular devotions before the statue of St. Joseph, which in consequence of Passiontide, was covered with a purple veil, but had lights burning before it.
[3] About half a century earlier a system of English psalm-singing was introduced by some of the gentry in their chapels. Owing to the nature of its origin—for it was at a time when the laity were in opposition to their Bishops and adopted the name "Cisalpines"—these English psalms did not at that time receive Episcopal sanction; but they were not forbidden, and were in use in some chapels down to comparatively modern times. In the home of Cardinal Vaughan at Courtfield, in Herefordshire, they were in regular use. In his youth he learnt to love them, and when Bishop of Salford he introduced something similar in his Cathedral, with considerable success; and the experiment was copied elsewhere. When he came to London as Archbishop, he tried to introduce them there; but they were not taken up, and are now rarely heard anywhere. Nevertheless, the "Come let us adore"—an adaptation of the Venite exultemus—found its way into the Manual of Prayers and has thus secured a permanent place among our devotional exercises.
[4] The practice in some few churches of having votive Vespers of our Lady every Sunday has little to recommend it. They are in truth private devotions, and ought to be sung as such, without any liturgical accessories. If there is, as often, a celebrant in cope, either he will be vested in a colour incongruous to the season—as, for example, a white cope in Lent or Advent, or even on a green Sunday—or, what is worse, he will be celebrating the office of our Lady in green, red or purple, which is still more incongruous. Moreover, since the reform of the Calendar under Pius X, the proper liturgical psalms at Vespers are nearly always the same, which removes the difficulty which used to drive people to votive Vespers of our Lady, in days when the liturgical Vespers were so various and complicated.
[5] So the Motu Proprio of Pius X provides. In the case of children's masses the singing of English hymns seems to be sanctioned by custom.
[6] P. 403. (Ed. Duffy. 1903.)
[7] "Ad hanc devotionem magis magisque fovendam, vehementer optandum est ut Ecclesiae aditus vel continuo diu, vel si ruri sit, per aliquot horarum spatium fidelibus pateat; et doceantur omnes amantissimum Salvatorem in Ss. Eucharistia latentem invisere, adorare, ac fervidis precibus supplicare, animamque simul communione spirituali refocillare" (I Westmonast. xviii. 9).
[8] "Ecclesiae in quibus Sanctissima Eucharistia asservatur, praesertim paroechiales, quotidie per aliquot saltem horas fidelibus pateant" (Canon 1266).
[CONFERENCE IX]
THE PRIEST'S PASTORAL WORK (continued)
PREACHING
LET us begin this Conference by propounding a question for consideration. The preaching of the Word of God is a sacred part of the priest's pastoral work, and not the least sacred part of it. Yet the average priest speaks of it as though it were a task irksome in itself, to be got through somehow or other, and always a nuisance. If anyone is available and is kind enough to replace him in the pulpit, or if he gets off by the timely arrival of a Bishop's pastoral, he is unreservedly pleased. It is true that he is usually a hard-worked man, and that if he gets off any of his work, it is a relief to him; but in the case of a sermon he is far more relieved than in any other case. Does this look as if he appreciated at its true value the pastoral work of preaching the Word of God?
In order to get a true answer to this question, we shall probably not be far wrong in seeking it in the personal history of the individual priest as preacher, to see whether he has imperceptibly learnt an inadequate view of his office.
It is hardly an exaggeration to say that his early sermons were simply a struggle against breaking down. He was naturally nervous the first few times that he found himself in so novel a position, standing before a congregation all listening to his words. In order to nerve himself up for the occasion, he has taken no small trouble in writing out in full his discourse and committing it to memory. His chief anxiety is lest his memory should fail him—which sooner or later it is sure to do, not once, but often, and he is anxious as to what will happen the first time that this shall occur. He gets through his first sermon, and is then anxious about his secondhand so on. Very soon he finds that it is practically impossible for him to write out all his sermons, and he contents himself with an analysis; for as time goes on, he is acquiring a certain facility in expressing himself ex tempore, and the frequency of his sermons is gradually curing him of nervousness. Perhaps the first time that he lost the thread of his discourse he covered his difficulty better than he might have hoped, and this helps to give him confidence. Then sooner or later it will occur that some unexpected pressure of work—a sick call on a Saturday night or a Sunday morning, let us say—prevents him from preparing his sermon at all in a systematic way, and he finds himself face to face with the duty of preaching with only a few minutes to collect his thoughts. With commendable trust in Providence, he says a fervent prayer for Divine assistance, boldly ascends the pulpit, and perhaps surprises himself at the facility with which he discharges his task. Would that he always bore in mind that if our Heavenly Father helps us in a special way when we have to speak for Him and His kingdom on the pressure of an emergency, this does not dispense us from using ordinary means on a future occasion when the emergency has passed away. It was for such occasions—when the Apostles were to be delivered up to the hands of their enemies—and for those occasions only that He told them to "take no thought of how or what to speak; for it shall be given you in that hour what to speak." [1]
If we may venture to give a natural explanation, it would be that we all have a certain class of thoughts in our mind which, under the influence of sudden or strong stimulus, take shape in words. If we trust to these time after time, we shall, to say the least, lay ourselves open to great monotony and self-repetition in our preaching. And this is what often occurs as a young priest gradually gains confidence, and begins to think that he can preach without serious or long preparation.
The above description might be continued, but enough has been said for the present purpose, which is to call attention to this point. At the beginning the priest's preaching has been a struggle to get through without breaking down. When he has been sufficiently long at it for this danger to have passed away, he still has the practical feeling—his aim is to fill up the requisite amount of time with respectably good matter, so as to discharge his duty. It has hardly at all come before him in the light of a privilege to speak the Word of God, a source of grace to himself as well as to others, an expression of his own spiritual thoughts put forth for the benefit and instruction of those entrusted to his pastoral charge; and this is to a large extent responsible for the want of fervour and of soul and interest in his sermons.
It is always easier to state an evil than to suggest a remedy; but it is something towards the desired end if we are able to diagnose the true cause of our difficulty. The conclusion urged is that it is not enough to insist on an elaborate direct preparation; on a scientific knowledge of the way to order a discourse; on rules of elocution and rhetoric; highly desirable as some of these may be. Still less would one ask a priest to write and learn all his sermons, which even if practically possible, is not in any way desirable. The true remedy is rather to teach our young priests the spiritual side of preaching, to train them to look on the sermon as part of their pastoral office. If this view is planted in their minds at the outset of their priestly career, it will grow rapidly and strongly, as by actual contact with their parishioners they feel their own power for good in the pulpit, and see before their eyes their people growing and living on the strength of words heard in their sermons. It is this consciousness which will elevate the duty in their minds from an irksome task to that of one of the most privileged of their pastoral duties.
In this point of view we see the key of the remark often made that the remote preparation for preaching is more important than the proximate. By the remote preparation is meant the priest's daily life, his union with God, his supernatural views of the things of this world, and the acquiring of his store of thoughts from his prayer, his meditation, his spiritual reading, and, not least important, his pastoral work among the poor, the sick and the dying. "We cannot but speak the things which we have seen and heard." [2] If the truths of faith are so vividly present to us that God's dealings with mankind are as things we have actually seen and heard, we shall long that others may share our privilege, and we shall feel the greatest joy in instructing them in Christ's Name. But if this spirit be wanting, all human eloquence will be of no avail. The value of the sermon is the reflection of the life of the preacher.
In considering the question of reading and study in preparation for the pulpit, we naturally turn first to the two-fold branches of Scripture and Dogma as that which will help chiefly to give substance and backbone to our sermons.
It is astonishing how little use many preachers make of the inspired Word of God, containing as it does in itself not only the essence of all religious history and dogma, but so many of the words of Christ Himself. Limiting our observations to the Gospels alone, it is an extraordinary grace we have received in having such full records of His words and acts at least during His public life. This in itself enables us to have a real personal knowledge and love of our Redeemer. We should expect our sermons to be full of His words and sayings, His parables, His illustrations, the example of His works; and that all our moral lessons should be illustrated and driven home by His words. Yet in practice we hear sermon after sermon with no more than a few texts from Scripture scattered through them, and these often isolated and without their context; and when we find a preacher really familiar with our Lord's life and words, we comment on it as quite remarkable.
It is probable that this is largely due to our habit of quoting isolated texts in support of dogmatic truths, and our very reverence for them as the inspired Word has led us to rest on the actual words and to lose sight of their general context. Very probably also Cardinal Manning's remark may be true, that since the sixteenth century there has been a tendency to over-strictness against the popular use of the Scriptures as a sort of recoil or reaction against Protestantism. At the present day, however, there is happily a reaction against this in all countries, and a movement in favour of circulating at least the New Testament more freely in the vernacular. With us we can date it from the issue of the sixpenny New Testament by Burns and Gates, and the Penny Gospels of the Catholic Truth Society; but the cheap Gospel texts in the vernacular which have appeared in some other countries—notably those issued by St. Luke's Society in Rome itself—have outdone anything we have in England.
One of our chief and foremost duties then is to familiarise ourselves with the words and actions of our Lord in English. There are many texts with which we are familiar in Latin, but we seldom make use of them because of the labour of turning them into English in the middle of a sermon, when our mind is already intently occupied. Let us know them in English for the sake of our people whom we wish to instruct. As to how this is best done opinions may differ. Some recommend learning texts by heart so as to have them always at hand. Others would find this method too mechanical, and would prefer to trust to their own reading of and meditation on the Gospels to bring about the desired result. They would argue that he will have more command over texts that he has used and pondered over than over those he has simply learnt by heart.
It is wonderful how the simple quoting of Gospel words elevates our sermons. The people want the words of our Lord, His acts, His parables, the lessons He intended to teach; they want to hear of the collateral setting of His life, the gradual development of His work, the kind of people He was teaching, and so forth. Then they should hear the teaching of St. Paul, his words to his converts, his warnings against abuses, his doctrinal and disciplinary instructions. Then also they like to hear from time to time some of the Old Testament—either the history of God's chosen people, or the beauties of the Messianic prophecies—of Isaias and others; or the psalmody of David; or the Sapiential books of Solomon; or the works of Jeremias and the other prophets. Mere memory work will not do all this for us; we must ourselves be accustomed to think of the Gospels, to meditate on our Lord's words, to see the meaning of His parables, and so forth. Here is prayer enough and work enough to last us a lifetime, and be continually bearing fruit.
Now we come to direct preparation of our sermon. Undoubtedly the only way at the beginning is to write it out, learn it and deliver it from memory. But this laborious process is only a means to an end. It will in the first instance help the priest through his initial shyness and diffidence in speaking of God and holy things in public; and it will lay the foundation for the methodical composition of a discourse. For he will soon learn the sequence of ideas which sound at first artificial, though eventually they become part of the instinct of the preacher—text, introduction, statement, development, explanation, illustration, peroration, etc. But it bears the same relation to preaching that the old autumn manœuvres did to war. His sermons in future will not be written out: in the present hard-worked state of our clergy, it would be impossible; and in any case, it would be ineffective. A sermon written and repeated by heart must sound unreal and dead. [3] As Cardinal Manning puts it, "The written word is what we thought when we wrote it; the spoken sermon is what we think at the moment of speaking. It is our present conviction of intellect and feeling of heart: it is therefore real, and felt to be real by those who hear it." [4]
It is not intended to discourage a careful preparation, so far as circumstances will permit; quite the contrary. But it will not be of the nature of writing a set discourse. It will be a far more simple preparation. Cardinal Manning instances the preaching of the Apostles. "We cannot," he says, "conceive these messengers of God labouring to compose their speech, or studying the rules and graces of literary style. The records of their preaching in the New Testament are artless and simple as the growths of nature in the forest, which reveal the power and beauty of God. Their words and writings are majestic in their elevation and depth and pathos and unadorned beauty, like the breadth and simplicity of the sea and sky. Their whole being was pervaded by the divine facts and truths, the eternal realities of which they spoke." [5]
Let us fix our ideas by a definite instance. In all St. Paul's career there was no one sermon which would have needed greater care than his sermon at Athens. He had to speak to a highly educated audience, of people without belief even in God, most of them eaten up with pride, listening to him with a supercilious curiosity; and he knew that for most of them his sermon would be the one opportunity of their lifetime. If any sermon of his would have needed previous thought and preparation, it would have been this one. Of course we have no authority for saying how much preparation he gave to it. We can well imagine his carefully thinking over what he was going to say, thinking of his initial outburst about the Unknown God, carefully considering his line of argument about the Resurrection of our Lord, his reference to the Greek poet with whom both he and they were familiar, and so forth. But equally we most assuredly cannot for a moment imagine him writing out and learning his discourse. Had he done so, it would have lost all its force and reality. Any gain in the artificial rhetoric, or the choice of words, or the like would have been far more than compensated for by the hollowness and want of fervour hic et nunc. Other instances might be adduced and the same reasoning applied to them: St. Peter's sermon on the day of Pentecost, St. Stephen's speech to his murderers, and many others. From internal evidence we can see that these were thought out and prepared beforehand; but we cannot even imagine their having been written out and committed to memory.
Our future preparation may perhaps be something of this kind. First we have to fix on our subject—not always the easiest part of our work. Let us suppose that on reading through the Sunday Gospel some aspect of it or some incident in it appeals to us from a particular point of view, and that point we decide to develop. Possibly something we have read in the past occurs to mind, and we get out a book—or perhaps several books—to suggest to us a few ideas. Then the first stage of our work is done.
The next process is to think. We have to make the ideas our own, and develop them according to the bent of our own minds. This cannot easily be done as we sit at our desks. Thoughts will not come to order. Developing a subject in one's mind is a gradual process, and takes time. It can well be done as we walk from place to place, or exercise any light employment. It is specially suitable to do it as we go about our pastoral work. The words we use in our visits to members of our flock are the reflection of our mind and will bear close resemblance to our words in the pulpit. If we find plenty to say, and are conscious of the consolation we give by saying it to the poor individually, why should it not be so likewise when we address them from the pulpit?
In order to complete our preparation, we must then sit at our desk and write out the substance of our thoughts and put them in methodical order. We should also look up the texts of Scripture on which we rely, and frequently the context will suggest further thoughts. All this will vary between man and man, and between day and day. Some will write long notes, others short. On some days thoughts come easily, on others only with difficulty. Some people may find it useful to write a fair copy when the matter has been rearranged, others will arrange their matter methodically at the outset, and so forth. When we have done this, we can leave the sermon to the time, presumably not far distant, when we are going to preach it.
In the case of many of our less formal sermons, the delivery follows close on the first preparation, and even that has to be much curtailed. Such are the few words which we deliver to Holy Family meetings, or other Confraternities, and short addresses at weekday evening services. The Sunday catechetical instruction forms a subject by itself, and the idea that it can be efficiently performed with little or no preparation should be strongly deprecated. It is an opportunity of doing great things for the children, and implanting in their minds ideas which will last them through life, and often be, as it were, their sheet-anchor to keep them to their religion in after years, in times of stress and temptation, or call them back to it if they have unhappily fallen away. The responsibility of such an opportunity is great, and no trouble should be too great to secure its effective performance.
We now come to the time of the sermon's delivery. To some the quarter of an hour immediately before ascending the pulpit is the most important part of the preparation; to all it is an important part. It is essential that we should begin with our mind full of our subject. A very little practice will enable us to feel at home in the pulpit once we have begun, and we shall soon acquire self-command and power to collect our thoughts there. Nevertheless, we shall often forget many things which we have thought of during our preparation, while other thoughts will suggest themselves in most unexpected fashion. A celebrated French preacher once said that he had never ended a sermon without finding that he had omitted most of what he had intended to say, and said much that he had not intended. [6] It matters not: what matters is that when the priest is speaking he should be full of his subject, earnest, enthusiastic, speaking straight from his heart, and above all things zealous for the good of his hearers.
Then let his declamation be simple, earnest, natural. The inflated and artificial style of oratory, current until almost modern times, would to-day be wholly out of place. At best it was ill-suited to so lofty a purpose, and St. Alphonsus only followed the lead of many saints and others in warning the preacher against the style it naturally led to. The present simplicity of taste is far more in keeping with the sacredness of the work. Let the priest say what he means and mean what he says, and the intrinsic force and sacredness of his words will be better than all rhetoric. Above all, let there be no affectation of manner or self-consciousness, which does so much to mar the effect of a sermon. By all means, however, let him practise clearness of utterance. It is very trying to a congregation to sit before a preacher whom they cannot hear; and especially when such happens through the preacher's neglect of the ordinary rules of elocution. Nor does it usually require any greater effort on the part of the preacher to make himself intelligible. Clearness does not always necessitate loudness, nor is it always achieved by it. A careful utterance in a suitable pitch is really all that is required; and the people should be spared the annoyance of listening to a preacher who clips his words, or only partially pronounces them, or drops his voice so that the last syllable of a word or the last word of a sentence is inaudible: all these faults make it an effort to follow him. And if there is any weakness in the initial h or the final g of a word, the effect is far from pleasing. In order to draw fruit from a sermon, one wants to be able to follow it without effort, and to be undisturbed by fault or peculiarities of enunciation. These ends cannot be attained unless the preacher will take some trouble; but with a little trouble it can easily be done. Nevertheless, it often is not done. [7]
The preacher should likewise make an effort to get over his natural shyness and disinclination to use his hands. This will go of its own accord as soon as he has had sufficient practice to feel at home in the pulpit. We do not wish to gesticulate so much as the French priests do—it is not in accordance with the genius of our people; and what is suitable in one country is out of place in another. Still less do we want any forced or unnatural gesticulation. At first we should do with very little. Many Englishmen do always with very little. But in most cases, it comes natural after a time to use the hands, and when it is natural, it increases greatly the force of our words.
A few remarks should be made as to the length of time at which to aim. It is safe to say that the pressure of modern life calls for shorter sermons than our fathers were accustomed to. The practice of five-minute sermons at the Sunday low masses, which first emanated in systematic form from the Paulists of New York, is now fairly common, and of great service to those who cannot attend the principal mass on Sundays. But the curtailing of the chief sermon may easily be overdone. People will never venture to complain of the shortness of a sermon, but in truth one of eight or ten minutes does not satisfy them, nor allow time to develop the matter properly. It may be admitted, however, that shortness is a fault on the right side, and people would not now tolerate the length of sermon that used to be imposed on them. As a general rule, it would be well to be under twenty minutes rather than over, unless the occasion be an important one, with a special preacher, who may allow himself longer. This applies to the chief sermons only; that at the evening service on a weekday, or at Holy Family or Confraternity meetings or the like would naturally be shorter; eight or ten minutes might in many cases be enough. The length of time that we can hold their attention will of course vary somewhat from day to day. One is able to tell at once when the listeners are getting weary. But even when we are conscious that this is so, there may be more good done than we are aware of. Frequently such has afterwards come to our knowledge; in numerous other cases it may have occurred without our knowing it.
Moreover, the good done by a sermon depends on what has been said in the body of the discourse. A good beginning or a good ending may round it off as a literary composition; but they will not appreciably affect the value of the sermon from the point of view of gaining souls. The same applies to the methodical development of the subject throughout. It is useful to aim at it, but if we fail to attain it, or go astray from the scheme we had made out, no great harm is done. What is important is that whatever we say should come from our heart, and that we should be so united to God as to fulfil our Lord's words, "It is not you that speak, but the spirit of your Father that speaketh in you." [8] This is the way to reach the hearts of our congregation, and to make our sermon in truth part of our pastoral work.
[1] St. Matt. x. 19.
[2] Acts iv. 20.
[3] That is, an ordinary parish sermon. In the case of a sermon on some special occasion this remark must be modified. Such sermons partake of the nature of a pronouncement, and it is important that the language should be carefully weighed, and no point of importance omitted. They usually find their way into print, and are therefore addressed to a larger and different audience besides that in the church, and must be treated on a different footing.
[4] Eternal Priesthood, p. 187.
[5] Ibid., p. 179.
[6] Perhaps a remark may be here made respecting the eventuality which from time to time occurs to every preacher. All those who have been in the pulpit are familiar with the sudden feeling of blank coming over the mind, and the momentary complete forgetfulness of the scheme of the sermon. The great thing on such an occasion is not to stop. Once one stops to think, ideas go further away, the silence and expectancy of the congregation become oppressive, and the pause seems interminable: it is a question whether we shall ever recover ourselves at all. Whatever happens, one must not stop. One can repeat what one has just said in slightly different words, or give forth any religious sentiment, or the like: this gives time for thought and conditions favourable for thinking, and ordinarily one's ideas will return in plenty of time. And only those who have themselves had experience in preaching are likely to detect what is happening. One can occasionally notice even the most experienced preachers losing their thread in this way, and it is worth noting as an antidote to discouragement.
[7] A similar remark applies to the notices, and the Epistle and Gospel, which are sometimes read with quite painful carelessness. This is a point which many laymen feel very much.
[8] St. Matt. x. 20.