“They come to church because they know they’ll always find Him there—in spite of me.”
George could not keep back the remark that Reservation was theologically indefensible.
“Is it?” Luce did not seem much interested. “But I don’t keep the Blessed Sacrament in my church for purposes of theology, but for practical use. Suppose you were to die tonight—where would you get your last Communion from if not from my tabernacle?”
George winced.
“This is the only church in the rural deanery where the Blessed Sacrament is reserved and the holy oils are kept. The number of people who die without the sacraments must be appalling.”
George had never been appalled by it.
“But why do you reserve publicly?” he asked—“that’s not primitive or catholic—to reserve for purposes of worship.”
“I don’t reserve for purposes of worship—I reserve for Communion. But I can’t prevent people from worshipping Our Lord. Nobody could—not all the Deans of all the cathedrals in England. Oh, I know you think my church dreadful—everybody does. Those statues ... well, I own they’re hideous. But so are all the best parlours in Vinehall. And I want the people to feel that the church is their Best Parlour—which they’ll never do if I decorate it in Anglican good taste, supposing always I could afford to do so. I want them to feel at home.”
“Do you find all this helps to make them regular communicants?”
“Not as I’d like, of course; but we’re only beginning. Most of them come once a month—though a few come every week. I’ve only one daily communicant—a boy who works on Ellenwhorne Farm and comes here every evening to cook my supper and have it with me.”