Chapter III
THE PREACHER'S STUDY
"This excuses no man's ignorance, that is not able to preach seasonably, and to break, and distribute the bread of life according to the emergent necessities of that Congregation, at that time; Nor it excuses no man's lazinesse, that will not employ his whole time upon his calling; Nor any man's vain-glory, and ostentation, who having made a Pye of Plums, without meat, offers it to sale in every Market, and having made an Oration of Flowres, and Figures, and Phrases without strength, sings it over in every Pulpit."—John Donne.
ERNEST RAYMOND, novelist and essayist, has described the most impressive sermon he ever heard. In itself, he relates, the sermon was ordinary enough: intellectually negligible, aesthetically ragged. Its construction was faulty, its delivery abominable. Yet its effect was overwhelming. It was during the war of 1914-18. A group of men had gathered in a cellar to hear an Anglo-Catholic father. They went expecting some dry-as-dust theology or perfervid moral exhortation. But what actually happened was quite different. The preacher, sitting down, and staring at the floor or ceiling in search of words—so halting was his speech—spoke of the text, "Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest." "I think," wrote Raymond, "he spoke for an hour, and not a man of us moved, and most of us were very quiet all that night."
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