The Perils of Preaching Part II
I promised readers I would return with a reflection or two about the many episodes of humour one can discover in the usually serious world of the pulpit. For me, two priceless moments remain from those long-gone days in the Divinity School of Trinity College Dublin, where I studied (yes, I really did from time to time!) and from which I emerged an eager and earnest deacon in the year 1952.
During those years we divinity students, as we were then called - these days we have for some reason become seminarians - worshipped each Sunday morning in the University Chapel. Immediately I think about that building certain words come to mind - words like; serious, austere, formidable, dark - a building that disciplined rather than comforted, demanding wakefulness and attention rather than any allowance for indolence. God forbid that there should be any morning fraternization among us worshippers, above all any frivolities such as smiling or greeting one another.
And yet, from time-to-time humour defied all efforts to entirely banish it from these solemn precincts. Two moments come back over the years. Not intended humour of course - perish the thought! - but nevertheless unwitting forays into laughter, subdued of course out of fear that one’s levity might be discerned by those members of the faculty who sat behind and above us students.
Now, I will introduce two people, not just ordinary mortals but respectively the Regius Professor of Divinity and the Regius Professor of Philosophy. For the most part we were preached to by the members of the faculty but from time to time one of these two senior worthies would mount the pulpit armed with a sheaf of manuscript from which he would address us.
The opening sentence was usually the most fertile time for some unwitting humour by the preacher.
The Regius Prof. of Divinity was a shy, withdrawn cleric who lived in an enormous house with his elderly mother and whose shyness made him quite unable to indulge in the most minimal small talk. A short diversion if you allow me will illustrate this. Every Sunday four of us students received an invitation to afternoon tea. Admitted to the entrance hall of the house, we would be met by an unvarying sequence. A servant would take our coats, then our host would appear to welcome us, after which he would gesture to the upper landing and say rather diffidently “Gentlemen, if any of you wish to wash your hands the washroom is upstairs, literal on the right, metaphorical on the left". The tone in which this was said indicated that it was to be received as the good doctor’s attempt at levity for the occasion.
But I digress and we must return to Sunday morning and the chapel. There came a morning when the Regius Professor of Divinity - by no means a spring chicken, climbed the pulpit steps, shutting behind him the small door that prevented him from stepping back too far and leaving the pulpit precipitously. On this particular Sunday he placed his manuscript on the rostrum, said the ascription, looked over the awaiting congregation and slowly and deliberately announced “Gentlemen, I will have you know that Saint Paul was no reactionary obscurantist”. Then for the next 40 minutes he proceeded to ensure that we students knew in excruciating detail why this fascinating insight into the great apostle was a truth we needed to be aware of. Thus, I share a memory of worship that has lasted a lifetime.
Trinity College Chapel
Another hilarious moment involved the Regius Prof. of Philosophy who stood in the same pulpit, announced as his text “There is a River”, paused and then announced as if it was a newly discovered archeological wonder, “Gentlemen, there is a Cosmic Influence that impinges on the Terrestrial…”
I spoke of two remembered moments but a third yearns to be told. The attitude of the divinity school of those days towards preaching was quite cavalier. Basically, it assumed that you would join one of the two large associations of the university, The University Philosophical Society and The University Historical Society. Both of which were the equivalent of what Oxford and Cambridge call the Union. By doing this it was assumed you would become a competent public speaker. This competency you would then bring to your preaching ministry. This at least was the plan. However, by 1951 there were voices expressing the need for change. So, in that year three Saturday mornings in each of the three academic terms were set aside when final year students would be requested to offer a Homily and have it critiqued by a faculty member.
On one such Saturday a final year man stood to offer his homily. One day he would succeed Jonathan Swift as the Dean of St. Patrick’s Cathedral. However, he had yet to attain such eminence. In this moment he is one of a number of us about to be ordained.
Looking back, he had obviously decided to stretch the bounds of that era's preaching style. Today we would know immediately that he was striving for a vivid narrative style. He began descriptively, invoking the scene and its characters including our Lord. He was describing the day on the Lake of Galilee when suddenly a voice rang out with a single word STOP!
Absolute silence, the preacher silenced in mid-sentence, we all awaited the next word from the source of authority. It came, slow, very deliberate, rich with sarcasm. First naming the obviously nonplussed preacher, the professor said “Mr. Steward, may I ask if you have recently obtained access to documents hitherto unknown.? An embarrassed voice said contritely “No Sir “. Long silence for effect. Then sternly, getting louder towards the end! "Then stick to the text, Mr. Stewart! Stick to the text!”
I often wondered if Maurice - his name has come back over the years - as he lived all those busy years being a worthy successor to Jonathan Swift as Dean of St Patrick’s Cathedral, ever recalled that Saturday morning.
Such disciplinary moments fashioned great preachers. At least one would hope so!
IMAGE in top scroll
Ireland's largest University, Trinity College, Dublin
iStock 838371028 Credit: Marc Lechanteur