Read Ebook: The Clergy and the Pulpit in Their Relations to the People. by Mullois Isidore Badger George Percy Translator

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Plain speech pleases and benefits all; whereas what is called sublime speech only amuses a few, and benefits fewer still.

But one of the most effectual ways of making the truth understood by the people is by metaphor and simile. They speak an analogous language themselves and readily understand it; more especially when the comparisons are drawn from visible, present, or actual things, and when they are striking or popular. The Sacred Scriptures are full of expositions of this nature, and the sermons of P?re Lejeune also contain a rich mine of the same class.

O'Connell did not overlook this means of influencing the people, and he sometimes employed it in the most picturesque and characteristic fashion.

He was one day assailing the hereditary peerage. "What are the lords?" said he. "Because the father was considered a good legislator, therefore the son must be the same! Just as if a man who proposed to make you a coat should answer the question: Are you a tailor? by saying that his father before him was. Is there any of you who would employ such an hereditary tailor? This principle of common sense as regards the lords will become popular in time. We want no hereditary legislators or tailors. Do you ask who will make this principle popular? I reply, the lords themselves, who show themselves to be very bad tailors."

Above all, similes drawn from actual things make a still greater impression.

Thus, steam-engines and railroads are a common topic of conversation nowadays, and form a rich source from whence to derive matter for stirring similes and for profitable instruction. For example, you wish to point out the necessity of mastering the passions, and of restraining them by the laws of God. The heart of man may be likened to a steam-engine of terrific power, which we should mistrust, and which requires to be under the most vigorous control.

Look at the locomotive confined within its iron furrows. It is a wonderful thing; it approximates distances, develops commerce, and contributes to the welfare of man. There is much in it to call forth gratitude to a beneficent Providence. But look at it when thrown off the line. O God! what do I hear and see? I hear the most piercing and heart rending screams; I see blood flowing, limbs broken, heads crushed; and I turn from the spectacle, and almost curse the inventor. ... In like manner, the heart of man, when restrained by the law of God, is worthy of all admiration; it begets the noblest and sublimest virtues, and scatters the blessings of a good example all around. It brings joy and gladness to the domestic hearth, rendering all those happy who love it; and on seeing such results I am proud of being a man. But once beyond the bounds of that law--thrown off the rails, as it were--O God! what do I hear and see? I hear bitter lamentations, the harrowing cries of mothers, wives, and children. I see vice, and crime, and shame mantling on the brow of those who indulge therein; and at the sight of so much misery and degradation I am tempted to utter imprecations, and almost blush that I am a man.

Thus the prophet Isaiah exposes the folly of idolatry in these words:--

"Who hath formed a god or a graven image that is profitable for nothing? ... He heweth him down cedars, and taketh the cypress and the oak from among the trees of the forest; he planteth an ash, and the rain doth nourish it. ... He burneth part thereof in the fire; with part thereof he eateth flesh; he eateth roast and is satisfied; yea, he warmeth himself, and saith, Aha! I am warm, I have seen the fire. And the residue thereof he maketh a god, even his graven image; he falleth down to it, and worshippeth it, and prayeth unto it, and saith, Deliver me, for thou art my god. They have not known nor understood, for he hath shut their eyes that they can not see, and their hearts that they cannot understand. And none considereth in his heart, neither is there knowledge nor understanding to say, I have burned part of it in the fire; yea, also I have baked bread upon the coals thereof; I have roasted flesh and eaten it; and shall I make the residue thereof an abomination? Shall I fall down to the stock of a tree? He feedeth on ashes; a deceived heart hath turned him aside, that he cannot deliver his soul, nor say, Is there not a lie in my right hand?"

P?re Lejeune, apart from certain quaint and obsolete modes of expression, has some charming things of this sort, which must have produced a marvellous effect. He is attempting to point out the heinousness of sin, and to describe the punishment of Adam and Eve:--

"Picture to yourselves, then, the unfortunate pair, staff in hand, going forth from the earthly paradise, carrying nothing with them but two skins, given them out of compassion by the Judge, to cover their nakedness. They found themselves in the fields as if they had fallen from the clouds, exposed to the inclemency of the weather, to wild beasts, and to their own natural infirmities, without shelter, bed, linen, bread, covering for their hands or feet; without thread or needle, knife or hammer, destitute of any implements beyond their own feeble arms. They collect stones as best they may, and cement them together with mud to form a low room, and cover it with branches of trees, which they are obliged to break off with their hands; for they had neither saw nor hatchet. They gather leaves for their couch, and fruits and wheat for their subsistence; but if they wanted any in years to come, they must till the ground, or rather they must dig it up with sticks, having no other kind of spade. Think, then, of the woman, and of the straits to which she must have been put on being seized with the pangs of labor, which she had never before experienced, and on being confined with her first child. When she saw her firstborn ushered into the world in its natural state, moaning and trembling with the cold, and found herself utterly destitute of linen, cradle, cap, bandages, and all the other requisites for a new-born babe,--when she was called to bear all this, how poignantly she must have recognized the enormity of her offence!

"But when both parents saw their son Abel, a youth as beautiful as a star, gentle as a lamb, and devout as an angel, stretched stark dead upon the ground, wounded and weltering in his blood, a ghastly spectacle to behold; the bloom on his face gone, his lips livid, the light of his eyes utterly extinguished,--on first beholding all this, they could have no idea that he was dead, for they had never witnessed death; but drawing near they say:--'Abel, what dost thou here? Who hath done this?' The dead are silent. 'My beloved Abel, why speakest thou not? My son! my soul! I pray thee speak? But Abel has no more words, no more voice, no sight, no motion. Decay soon sets in, and Abel becomes foul and corrupt, and father and mother are obliged to cover him with earth. When at length they learn that it was their sin which had given entrance to death, what grief, what tears, what anger against the fatal tree, against the tempter, against themselves, and against everything which had contributed to their disobedience, must have agitated the wretched pair! Why did we pluck of that tree? Why did we not burn it rather than be tempted to gather its fruit? Why did we not quit the earthly paradise, and flee to the end of the world to avoid the risk of so tremendous an evil? Why did I not pluck out my eyes rather than look upon that which I was forbidden to know? Ill-advised that I was, why did I suffer myself to be amused with talking to the serpent? Liar, thou didst assure me that we should be as gods, and behold we are more humiliated and miserable than the beasts of the field!

"In like manner, when you are in hell, you will regret, and lament, and resolve; but it will then be too late. You will be maddened with spite and rage against everything that has conspired to your condemnation. Alas! why did I not cut out my tongue when preachers told me that my oaths would damn me? Why did I not smite to death this scandalous bosom of mine? Why did I not destroy the papers of that lawsuit which I prosecuted so unjustly, and the schedule and bond of that poor man who could not pay the usurious interest which I charged him for money lent? Why did I not leave the town and province, and bury myself in the wilds of Canada, rather than remain where there was an occasion of my falling into sin?"

In concluding, I must be permitted to quote a more recent example, premising that I only adduce it as a model of familiar conversation with the working classes.

M. l'Abb? Ledreuil, in an address to operatives, is endeavoring to convince them that they have no reason to envy the rich, since the working man has his share of joy and happiness as well as they. He expresses himself somewhat as follows, though I must apologize for abridging, and therefore for disfiguring his lecture:--

"My friends, do not envy the rich, and don't believe them happy because they have nothing to do. The rich must work, after their fashion, under pain of being unhappy and of leading a miserable existence. Hence it is that, for the most part, they condemn themselves to work as you do. ... And do you know how one of this class passes his life who does not work? I will tell you: he thinks everything a bore, and he yawns.

"In the morning, he no sooner begins to dress than he stops short. He is so tired! He stretches his limbs, and--he yawns.

"He next sets about his toilet, which is a very formidable affair to him; enters into his dressing-room quite a perfumery shop in its way--looks around him, and then--he yawns.

"Breakfast-time comes. He goes to the breakfast-room, surveys the different dishes, knows not which to choose, for the poor man is not hungry, and--he yawns.

"After breakfast, he takes up a paper and skims over it. Pugh! politics are so uninteresting. Then more than ever--he yawns.

"For something better to do, he seeks the promenade, where he meets a friend of his own stamp. They shake the tips of each other's fingers, not to hurt their hands, touch the brims of their hats, and then together, one more than the other,--they yawn.

"He next takes a chair, adjusts his feet on the bars, places himself at his ease, thinks of nothing, looks vacantly into the air, or bites the head of his cane, and then--he yawns.

"In the evening he goes to the theatre, extends himself at full length in his box, gazes around him, listens, and then--he yawns.

"He returns home very late. He is quite worn out and needs sleep, and ends the day as he began it--he yawns.

"Not so the laborer: he rises early, goes to his work betimes, and he sings or whistles.

"The breakfast-hour arrives. He loses no time in examining which dish he will partake of, for there is only one. He does not yawn over it, but eats with a good appetite, and in the same cheery mood he passes the remainder of the day.

"My friends, don't be discontented with your lot. Don't say:--'If I were rich I would take my ease; for work is a blessing. Don't envy the rich, but be thankful for what God has given you. The honest and industrious workman, who has a good heart, and loves virtue, is the spoilt child of Providence."

The Sermon Should Be Short.

The Discourses of the Fathers were short. The French Mind is quick to apprehend. Sermons are generally too long. Sermons of Ten, Seven, and of Five Minutes.

"Long sermons bore us," says M. de Cormenin; "and when a Frenchman is bored, he leaves the place and goes away. If he cannot so retire, he remains and talks. If he cannot talk, he yawns and falls asleep. Anyhow, he declares that he will not come again. ..."

The sermon should be short. At all events, it must not bore. Bore or ennui is fatal in France, and is never pardoned. It has been said, there are two things which are not permitted in France, namely, to ridicule and to bore. Unhappily the former is allowed nowadays, for there are many who use it, and many who abuse it; but on the article of bore society is still inflexible and implacable. The man who is deemed a bore is shunned and detested. We, the clergy, must beware of exciting this antipathy on the score of religion; the more so, because most minds secrete a stock of the sentiment, which is readily called forth when they are brought in contact with any thing serious.

He says:--"The good Saint Fran?ois, in his rules to the preachers of his Order, directs that their sermons should be short.

"When a sermon is too long, the end erases the middle from the memory, and the middle the beginning.

"Even mediocre preachers are acceptable, provided their discourses are short; whereas even the best preachers are a burden when they speak too long."

Is not long preaching very much like an attempt to surpass these men, who were so highly imbued with the spirit of Christianity?

On the other hand, we have to deal with the most intelligent, keen, and sensible people in the world. They understand a thing when only half stated, and very often divine it. You hardly speak before they are moved to accept or to reject; and yet we overcharge them with long and heavy dissertations. To act in this way, is to evince an utter unacquaintance with one's people, and to display our own ignorance, in spite of all the learning which we may possess. Moreover, it tends to excite antipathy. The Frenchman does not care to be treated like a German: he does not wish to be told every thing, thereby depriving him of the pleasure of working out the truth for himself. Open the vein, lance his imagination and feelings, let them flow on the road to truth, and he will pursue it alone; perchance more quickly and further than you. Nothing impairs intelligence, sentiment, and the effusion of thought so much as redundancy of words and even of ideas.

A sharp working man, who had been listening to a sermon, was once asked--

"What did the preacher say? What do you remember of his sermon?"

"Nothing at all."

"How's that? Surely you heard him?"

"Perfectly."

"How is it, then, that you did not understand any thing?"

"Ah," replied he, in an original language, which only the people can command, "because all he had to say was hid behind a mass of words."

There is too much reminiscence of our philosophical and scholastic studies in our sermons. It often appears as if we were speaking to a meeting of young bachelors in theology. We seem to believe--and the notion is generally taken for granted--that we have not adequately developed an idea unless we discuss it for an hour or for three-quarters of an hour at the least.

Thus the audience is overwhelmed under the weight of a ponderous erudition. It is not sufficient that they should have one proof set before them, they must submit to any conceivable number on the same subject. Or, to use M. de Cormenin's language, preachers keep on using the flat side of their sword with weak proofs, after they have given a decisive thrust with the weapon's point. What has been said a thousand times before is repeated, and what everybody knows, or what nobody needs to know, is dilated upon to no purpose.

A man must be endowed with extraordinary genius who can bring forcible thoughts to bear upon one and the same subject for the space of a whole hour. But this consideration does not appear to occasion the least embarrassment. The vacuities of thought are filled up with words, and that is called developing an idea.

For the most part, we are all convinced that others speak too long, but we are beguiled by the world's flattery.

We preach, and people are delighted, and send intimations to us that we have acquitted ourselves to admiration; that they would gladly have listened to us much longer, and so forth.

But we know better than any one else that the world does not always speak the truth, and that we ourselves have frequently denounced its want of sincerity. How comes it, then, that we are deluded by such fine speeches? In flattering us, the world simply plies its trade; but it is our duty not to give heed to its blandishments. Moreover, there prevails at present a strong and universal conviction that, generally speaking, our sermons are too long.

Ask whom you please, enemies and friends, ask even the most fervent Christians--thanks be to God there are intelligent men, and men renowned for their charity among the sincerely religious--ask them, I say, and they will tell you that our sermons and services are too long. And if pious and intelligent men are of that opinion, what must the masses think?

Undoubtedly, the intention is praiseworthy. ... We aim at securing a greater good by lengthening out the services and sermon. Still, it is equally certain that in so doing we discard both prudence and charity. It resembles the ordinary treatment of wives, who insist on giving their sick husbands good strong broth, on the plea that it will do them more good than all the chemist's medicines. The intention is unquestionably a kind one; but it is no less true that the regimen, instead of benefiting the patients, is most likely to kill them outright. Alas! the same result has followed a similar injudicious treatment of men's souls.

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