The Henson Journals

[154]

3rd Sunday in Advent, December 17th, 1916.

867th day

Ordination Sunday brings with it a threatening melancholy which has no parallel on other commemorations. It is certainly the case that I grow more uneasy in the harness of what is called "spiritual office": and I dread the continuance of this process until it becomes intolerable. When I attempt to analyse my discontent, it becomes clear to me that very much of it arises from causes, for which I am not responsible, and which it is not in my power to remove. The difficult situation into which the formal presentation of Christianity has been brought, and the strange confusion which reigns in the National Church must count for much, & I am the victim of both. More near to me, but not less outside my control, are the special difficulties attaching to the position I hold. Deaneries are now disliked, suspected, and generally condemned by ardent Churchmen. They have the aspect of valuable sinecures, held by hereticks or fautors of hereticks, with no 'spiritual' significance. My Deanery is the most valuable, & the least obviously useful. Again, I can't help this, though it does undoubtedly affect me badly. To go on one's way without the support of the general goodwill is unquestionably difficult. Then there are the circumstances which limit my activities, & which I cannot remove. Thus I am a preacher by instinct, habit, & temperament: and here there is neither the opportunity for preaching, nor the people to preach to. Pinched in the narrow categories of sect or party, and for the most part indifferent to any preaching beyond the merest "tub–thumping', the people have no ears for anything better.

[152]

The War has intensified every disadvantage, and added others. Not only have all the "parasites of Peace" seemed to lose their raison d'être, but even the services which they still continue to render are endured with evident impatience. To the normal difficulties of Christianity is now added a fearful demonstration of its actual impotence. Men are almost equally offended by pacific, and by bellicose language in the pulpit. The first offends their good sense: the last insults their sense of decency. Between the two the wretched clergyman hovers, hinting peace & blessing war, self–convicted of a wholly disgusting discrepancy between all that his office ought to signify in the world, and all that his patriotic obligation clearly demands. Congregations are visibly impatient of everything but the War: and visibly indignant with everything that is not plainly war–like. Yet they are contemptuous of the "militant Christianity", which they insist upon.

To all this, add my own personal faults & failures. There is no wonder that my discontent & unhappiness have ever a touch of humiliation. And I grow older: the margin of possibilities grows rapidly narrower, the physical & mental resources are consciously shrinking. It is really perplexing to see how best to organise the relics of one's life. Perhaps there is nothing for it but to do the things which immediately claim one, and to wait for some new summons. With the ending of the War, we shall enter on a chapter of ecclesiastical change, which may solve the problems of personal duty quickly & surprisingly. Meanwhile, 'tarry thou the Lord's leisure'.

[150]

The Ordination Service was very impressive. Knowling preached an excellent sermon on the text, "Lo, I am with you always". There were but two deacons ordained, a significant evidence of the War. The Bishop was in excellent form. There came to lunch Mr Little and his extremely pretty little wife, and one of the old ladies from the Bailey. Headlam preached an excellent sermon, on which he had evidently bestowed great pains. It was based on the Pauline phrase, "Stewards of the mysteries of Christ", and had a discursive character. Fawkes's sermon of last Sunday & Headlam's of today are creditable performances, and would have been equalled in few, surpassed in none, of the Cathedrals of England. The newly–ordained men with their friends came to tea. I was much impressed by the squalid aspect and awkward manners of the women, mostly sweethearts of the new clergy. They seemed to me to be members rather of the lower than of the middle class. This need not detract from their spiritual excellence, but it is likely to be fatal to their parochial efficiency. Then we all went to the Chapel for the concluding service of the Ordination. The Bishop spoke at some length in a devotional strain, rather nebulous & sentimental of course, but mighty 'comfortable'. I should have supposed that something sterner, stronger, with closer relevance to the ministerial life, would have been more useful. The Bishop's 'pietism' might too easily in a less godly man become rank Pecksniffianism. In his case the evident goodness of his character goes far to justify the effusiveness of his manner, and the unctuousness of his language. We had much pleasant conversation at dinner. Headlam behaved quite creditably! I succeeded in making the Bishop drink a glass of port wine, but I felt all the time rather like a descendant of the 'old prophet' who seduced 'the man of God'!

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