Rejoicing in a thing of nought.
Woe.
That our piety is no longer snug with companions.
That we are spaced so, like scattered candles in the dark.
That we are cold.
Woe.
Woe.
For a zealous wind doth blow amongst us, withering the vine.
And the armies of the flashing mind devour the poor secretly.
Then beware, my children.
And that no conjecture further rot amongst you into malice, I shall relate the true history. Not a false whisper upon a filthy wind.
Beginning upon that track that runs higgledy-piggledy worn by shepherds and their more manageable flocks between Bursop and this habitation but rarely by folk making betwixt the two, for it runs along the crests and is not the crow’s way, and trusting in the fine light, and William Scablehorne having the way well, being once a shepherd’s boy, we soon took to the maiden downs, and were not troubled in any wise by having at our feet but immaculate snow.
For one happy hour we proceeded, my children, across that waste, fortified by our faith, by reflections on the good character of the late lamented and instances of this, and by my fine brandy which, though it was partook of eagerly by William Scablehorne, did barely wet the lips of Simon Kistle our late curate. And even merrily did we proceed, like true pilgrims, towards our holy harbour, for we could mount any drifted incline without sunken shins, and our swift pace hindered the cold from entering our bones. Even merrily, despite our mourning robes, did we proceed across that white waste.
So it was that Adam awoke in the garden that fateful morning teeming with light, unaware of the leadenness which was to befall that very noon.
There is a shame which bringeth sin, and there is a shame which bringeth glory and grace.
Cast a stone into snow and you shall hark no sound. Whip petty Vice and he shall howl but pettily.
Purge, purge, my children.
Purge those false whispers from the foul wind that have set your ears to tingle and your eyes to crowd with base lying images that rise like dust betwixt us. Rather feel inly that rawness of the very first morning of the very first day of Creation before the zephyrous balm had blown through the avenues of the universe and scatter the dust that lies upon your judgement like a filthy cloud and freeze the canker-worm that eats thee up unto the last hair and make white, my children. Make white and bruise not. Do not cast a stone to bruise the snow, do not welt the innocent back nor slaughter the lamb.
Do not presume to judge from a dung-hill of ignorance a ragged stinking deformed beggar, let alone thy minister!
Or is the hour come with toleration that the basest scum can judge the appointed, can lift on the heap of great waters of this modish freedom, and engulf all?
If so, woe.
O how virgin lay the snow, how darkly across those bald flanks that no ploughblade has yet delved and but the lips of sheep crop we three light hearts and easy minds of the sure in faith, forgetful of the inward rottenness, the hidden of the land, the blistering poison that thrives unseen, progressed. How uncomplainingly did we our bread that I had in my pocket from the funeral feast chew upon the empty scarp at Goosey Hill. With what heartiness did we slap William Scablehorne off of snow after he did tumble, and set his wide crown back upon his head, and slow descend from the high crest onto Furzecombe Down.
O how pure are the eyes of the unknowing, when iniquity lies all about them!
One fact let me make plain.
Our Adversary has many subtle devices at his disposal.
But that which was not expected but which so suddenly approached and overwhelmed us in that vale was in no wise owing to his actions.
God, but God, controls the seasons and the winds, my children.
The seemingly unreasonable changes therein.
He maketh his sun rise on the evil and on the good and sendeth rain on the just and on the unjust.
Nay.
Stealthily, stealthily, doth our Adversary work.
Inly he thrives, breeding in our corruption the filthy spots that shall consume us, threshing from our sins the rotten stinking putrefying heap of our damnation, fattening upon the smallest waywardness that he might belch forth its sourness at our last breath and plunge us without stop unto the ovens of Hell.
Trust, then, in divine grace.
For may we remember the agonies of Mary Brinn late of our parish whose ague did cleanse her unclean stomach and did pour forth upon the pillow the sweat of her redemption that she did embrace with a fearful and devout mind unclouded of drink’s affections. And may we remember the sufferings of Thomas Walters late of our parish whose scall was endured as Job’s and whom I visited in his humble abode not a stone’s throw from this our holy house at his moment of release and whose ancient visage, ravaged though it was, bore upon it a smile sweeter than any I have ever beheld because he had had broken upon him the light of our Lord. O wicked are the ways of the flesh and the disease therein yet blessed is the state of the soul in bliss as I did witness only last week in this our habitation God rest their souls amen.
Yea, out of the whirlwind comes the still small voice.
Out of the howling wind.
Thou didst cleave the earth. Thou didst walk with burning coals before Thee, and the clouds were the dust of Thy feet. Thou didst break asunder and scatter the mountains and Thy wrath was terrible, O Lord.
O my children.
On Furzecombe Down I tasted of despair.
Yea, on Furzecombe Down the whirlwind came and filled my mouth and the snow stopped up mine ears and I chewed on ashes and was blind.
O my children.
In mine own parish. In mine own parish far from succour I did grow weak in faith. In that sudden tempest so small and feeble I did feel bowed down before the wrath of the Lord I called as Our Saviour Himself did upon the Cross, I lapsed into the greatest most horrible sin of all yea as if I had never once known Him or ever entered into the house of our Lord or as if my attire was but so much stage costume or rags as it did feel like in that ferocious cold and as my companions did appear to resemble whipped by the wind that made their cloaks blow before them and their hats to come off.
And Hell is but a single tiny thought away, my children.
You may well shift.
But you are looking agog at one who has felt the hot rasp and icy nip at once in his bowels and on his cheeks.
The fires and frosts of Hell’s perpetual kingdom.
Whatsoever be the talk of holy frauds. Whatsoever be the modish jabber of those inly lit up, as by some angelic taper. As by some luminous blossom.
Now this, my children, hear closely.
At the very moment of my despair and numbness in which the sudden inclement weather and its great gloominess all but obliterated my senses my Reason like our single shielded lanthorn swung by my hand endured and I reckoned that one amongst us was not feeling his suffering as he ought.
Nay, hear me out.
For it is in this point that the nub even the fruit of my sermon lies. For in these moments of extremity our greatest challenge comes and I do not speak of bodily challenge though that be severe. I speak of those challenges to our intellect and to our faith more subtle than the momentary clouding of that faith in despair which has doubtless chilled each one of you at some time in grief or in melancholy or in sickness and which is overcome when the light of Reason is restored or not at all. Indeed, I might add that those momentary nights of the soul are as limberings up that exercise and stiffen faith and our resolve. They imitate the night of our Lord. But our Adversary has subtler ways still.
Nay, let me proceed.
One amongst us namely Simon Kistle our late curate, God rest his soul, who came to us on very tender pinions out of his ordination and was barely fledged and had as you recall but a downy beard, was beckoning out of the foul wind that blew our cloaks about our heads for Mr Scablehorne and myself to shelter in the lee of a small hummock.