From the Lakes of Killarney to the Golden Horn

by Henry M. Field

But this impression is very much changed when we consider that here all this is done in a spirit of devotion. These Bavarian peasants are a very religious people (some would prefer to call it superstition), but whatever it be, it is universal. Pictures of saints and angels, or of Christ and the Virgin Mary, are seen in every house; crosses and images, and shrines are all along the roads. Call it superstition if you will, but at least the feeling of religion, the feeling of a Divine Power, is present in every heart; they refer everything to supernatural agencies; they hear the voice of God in the thunder that smites the crest of the hills, or the storm that sweeps through their valleys.

And so when they come to the performance of this Passion Play, it is not as unbelievers, whose offering would be an offence, "not being mixed with faith in them that did it." They believe, and therefore they speak, and therefore they act. And so they go through their parts in the most devout spirit. Whenever the Passion Play is to be performed, all who are to take part in it first go to the communion; and thus with hearts penitent and subdued, they come to assume these sacred characters, and speak these holy words.

And so, while the attempt to transport the Passion Play anywhere else would be very repulsive, it may be left where it is, in this lonely valley of the Bavarian mountains, an unique and extraordinary relic of the religious customs of the Middle Ages.

But while one such representation is quite enough, and we are well content that it should stand alone, and there should be not another, yet he must be a dull observer who does not derive from it some useful hints both as to the power of the simplest religious truth, and the way of presenting it.

Preachers are not actors, and when some sensational preachers try to introduce into the pulpit the arts which they have learned from the stage, they commonly make lamentable failures. To say that a preacher is theatrical, is to stamp him as a kind of clerical mountebank. And yet there is a use of the dramatic element which is not forced nor artificial, which on the contrary is the most simple and natural way of speaking. The dramatic element is in human nature. Children use gestures in talking, and vary their tones of voice. They never stand stiff as a post, as some preachers do. The most popular speakers are dramatic in their style. Cough, the temperance lecturer, who has probably addressed more and larger audiences in America and Great Britain than any other man living, is a consummate actor. His art of mimicry, his power of imitating the expression of countenance and tones of voice, is wonderful. And our eloquent friend Talmage, in Brooklyn, owes much of his power to the freedom with which he walks up and down his platform, which is a kind of stage, and throws in incidents to illustrate his theme, often acting, as well as relating them, with great effect.

But not only is the dramatic element in human nature, it is in the Bible, which runs over with it. The Bible is not merely a volume of ethics. It is full of narrative, of history and biography, and of dialogue. Many of the teachings of our Saviour are in the form of conversations, of which it is quite impossible to give the full meaning and spirit, without changes of manner and inflections of voice. Take such an exquisite portion of the Old Testament as the story of Ruth, or that of Joseph and his brethren. What an outrage upon the sacred word to read such sweet and tender passages in a dull and monotonous voice, as if one had not a particle of feeling of their beauty. One might ask such a reader "Understandest thou what thou readest?" and if he is too dull to learn otherwise, these simple Bavarian peasants might teach him to throw into his reading from the pulpit a little of the pathos and tenderness which they give to the conversations of Joseph with his father Jacob.

Of course, in introducing the dramatic element into the pulpit, it is to be done with a close self-restraint, and with the utmost delicacy and tenderness. But so used, it may subserve the highest ends of preaching. Of this a very illustrious example is furnished in the annals of the American pulpit, in the Blind Preacher of Virginia, the impression of whose eloquence is preserved by the pen of William Wirt. When that venerable old man, lifting his sightless eyeballs to heaven, described the last sufferings of our Lord, it was with a manner adapted to the recital, as if he had been a spectator of the mournful scene, and with such pathos in his tones as melted the whole assembly into tears, and the excitement seemed almost beyond control; and the stranger held his breath in fear and wonder how they were ever to be let down from that exaltation of feeling. But the blind man held them as a master. He paused and lifted his hands to heaven, and after a moment of silence, repeated only the memorable exclamation of Rousseau: "Socrates died like a philosopher, but Jesus Christ like a God!" In this marvellous eloquence the preacher used the dramatic element as truly as any actor in the Passion Play, the object in both cases being the same, to bring most vividly before the mind the life and death of the Son of God.

And is not that the great object, and the great subject, of all our preaching? The chief lesson which I have learned to-day, concerns not the manner, but the substance, of what we preach. This Passion Play teaches most impressively, that the one thing which most interests all, high and low, rich and poor, is the simple story of Jesus Christ, and that the power of the pulpit depends on the vividness with which Christ and His Cross are brought, if not before the eyes, at least before the minds and hearts of men. It is not eloquent essays on the beauty of virtue, or learned discussions on the relations of Science and Religion, that will ever touch the heart of the world, but the old, old story of that Divine life, told with the utmost simplicity and tenderness. I think it lawful to use any object which can bring me nearer to Him. That which has been conceived in superstition may minister to a devout spirit. And so I never see one of these crosses by the roadside without its turning my thoughts to Him who was lifted up upon it, and in my secret heart I whisper, "O Christ, Redeemer of the world, be near me now!"

Some, I know, will think this a weak sentimentalism, or even a sinful tolerance of superstition. But with all proper respect for their prejudices, I must hail my Saviour wherever I can find Him, whether in the city or the forest, or on the mountain. What a consolation there is in carrying that blessed image with us, wherever we go! How it stills our beating hearts, and dries our tears, to think of Him who has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows! Often do I repeat to myself those sweet lines of George Herbert:

Christ leads us through no darker rooms