XII. The Burnin’ o’ the Kirk

“WEEL, man, I suppose I ought to have been wringing my hands and tearing my hair over this business, but, somehow or other, I wasna; I never breathed a mair fervent thanksgiving than I did on Sunday when I saw the flames burstin’ through the auld gray slates o’ the kirk.”

“Are you sure, doctor, that ye’ didna happen—by accident, of course—to let fa’ a burnin’ match among the rubbish in the disused chancel?”

“Whisht, man, dinna speak o’ sic a thing, for though I didna actually do it, I wished it wi’ a’ my heart. If wishing had onything to do wi’t, then I doot I maun plead guilty. But, come awa’ and see what’s left, and I think ye’ll be able to understand how I feel.”

The doctor was the minister of a Presbyterian parish a few miles from Drumscondie, and his church, which had been burnt down on the previous Sunday by an overheated stovepipe, was the most ancient ecclesiastical structure in the whole Howe o’ the Mearns. He and I had been friends ever since I came into the district, and my visit on the present occasion was for the purpose of condoling with him over his loss; but, from the conversation already narrated, it will be seen that condolence was hardly needed, in so far at least as the worthy doctor was concerned.

He was in many respects a very remarkable man. Those who only knew him in a casual kind of way regarded him as an enigma. He was loyal to the vows he had taken as a minister of the Presbyterian Establishment; but he held opinions concerning doctrine and Church order that savored rather of those of the Scotch Episcopal Church as taught by men of the type of saintly Bishop Jolly, than of the current teaching of his Presbyterian brethren.

He had been in the same parish for nearly forty years; and as he had never been over-burdened with parochial duties, he had been able to indulge his taste for Church history and ecclesiology to the fullest extent. For years he had been burrowing in local archives, and was able, to his own satisfaction, to reconstruct mentally his own parish church as it stood in the days of Archbishop David de Bernham, of St. Andrew’s, by whom it was consecrated in the fourteenth century.

To me it was always a great treat to visit the old man. His scholarship was so accurate that one could not fail to be benefited by intercourse with him.

No sooner were we standing inside the blackened walls than he began to wax eloquent over the beauties of the architecture that had been disclosed by the work of the flames.

“Originally,” he said, “the church was a plain oblong, with a Norman apse probably, in the east, and that peculiar octagonal turret surmounting the west gable. There was no glass in these parts then; and as the wind from the north is generally very cold, the windows were all on the south side.

“When the need arose for a larger sanctuary and choir, yonder early English arch and chancel took the place of the Norman apse.

“Then in the beginning of the sixteenth century, the feudal superior of that time erected the lady chapel as a chantry, in which masses for the repose of his soul were to be said.

“The turret at the angle between the nave and lady chapel has in it a corkscrew stair, leading to the parvise, or priest’s room, over the groined roof of the chapel. About a hundred and fifty years ago the church was in need of repairs, and it was then that Puritan vandals shut off the sanctuary with a lath and plaster wall, and transformed the nave into the hideous, gloomy barn it was before the fire.

“Can you blame me, Gray, if in my heart I longed for a fire, or some such disaster, to tear down the awful disfigurations?

“It is a positive joy to me to look on these bare walls.”

“I thoroughly sympathize with you, doctor; and to me the bare walls are an object lesson of great value. Fire is a great cleanser. The conflagration which broke out here on Sunday cleared away all that belonged to the debased period, the age of Philistinism, but did no real harm to the solid and beautiful masonry of the ages of faith. Now that the vile rubbish has been removed one can see the framework of a church that was built for the service of God, and for the cultivation of the devotional spirit. That east window with its delicate stone tracery, through which the rising sun casts its glorious rays upon priest and people, reminding them of the greater sun—the sun of righteousness who arose in the east bringing healing to the nations—the altar and aumbry and piscina telling of reverence and order in the celebration of the Eucharist—in fact there is everything now to indicate a church of a truly primitive type.”

“Aye, Gray, and so is it ever in regard to the spiritual life. When we look around in the Christian Church to-day we see truth disfigured and mutilated and obscured by opinions that are entirely of human devising. When the days of trial come, as come they must—the Church of God will have to hold her own against the powers of evil; then all that is primitive and apostolic will stand scatheless amid the fierce fires of tribulation, and will come forth—like the three children from the burning fiery furnace—with no trace of the fire upon it, while all that is purely of human creation will crumble to ashes.”

“Wouldn’t it be grand, doctor, if this old church of St. Ternan could be restored as it was in pre-Reformation days, without any of the foreign accretions that roused the indignation of the truly spiritually-minded?”

“If God spares me, Gray, I mean to make this the work of my declining years.”

The old man kept his vow faithfully. He set to work at once to arouse the interest of the heritors, upon whom lay the burden of maintening the fabric of the church; and, before two years had passed I had the pleasure of again visiting him and of seeing a beautiful restoration of a typical Scottish church of mediaeval days. The altar stood in the east—only it was not called an altar, but a communion table. The font—a lovely replica in marble of an ancient one—was in its proper place. The pulpit no longer barred the way to the sanctuary, but stood at the north side, between the chancel arch and the wall of the nave. Over the doorway leading from the chancel to the vestry there were three niches in which at one time figures of saints had stood; even these the doctor filled by three statuettes of the Blessed Saviour with St. Peter and St. Paul—copies in miniature of Thorwaldsen’s famous group.

What was of even greater importance, there was inaugurated a far more orderly and reverent worship than before; an organ was installed, and the old walls resounded with a devotional service which, if not all that could be desired, was at all events a distinct advance towards the worship of the best days of the Christian Church.

For a long time I was unable to understand the Doctor’s position. He was so thoroughly Catholic in sentiment that it was hard to see why he remained where he was. I could not believe that a man of his spotless integrity would hold to a religious body, with the majority of whom he seemed so entirely at variance, simply and solely because it gave him a comfortable living.

One day we were sitting together in his study, and in the course of conversation I managed to draw him out without in any way reflecting on him personally.

“It has always been my opinion,” he said, “that all reformation should proceed from within, if it is to be effective. The reforms wrought in Scotland in the fifteenth and subsequent centuries were altogether too revolutionary and iconoclastic. If the spiritually-minded of those days had only been guided by the example of Savonarola, who reformed without breaking the unity of the Body, things would have been altogether different in Scotland to-day. There is a large and growing school of thought in the Presbyterian Established Church of Scotland, that is longing, and praying, and working for a return to primitive ideals, and to that school I belong. Were I to throw in my lot with the Historic Church—the Body that truly ‘continues in the Apostles’ doctrine and fellowship, in the breaking of bread and the prayers,’ I would undoubtedly gain many spiritual privileges for myself. But what about the flock committed to my care? I believe it is my duty to stay where I am, and to teach the Faith as fully as it can be taught from the formularies to which I have vowed allegiance. The proselytising of individuals will never bring about corporate unity. I think that God will not allow my sacrifice to go unrewarded, but will in His own way make up to me what I deprive myself of by staying where I am.”

The good old man was so sincere in all that he said that I felt it would be wrong to enter into an argument which probably would have done no good.

That he was fully aware of his own position I learned from a remark made by him some months later.

The lord of the manor was a hereditary Episcopalian, but for many years had never entered a church for worship. I found him an exceedingly kind man, ever ready and willing to do kind deeds, to give liberally for any good cause, and to befriend any who stood in need of help; but I could not get him to talk of spiritual things. He died, and I was asked to read the Burial Service over his body when it was laid in the vault beneath the old lady chapel. The service over, a little group stood talking in the graveyard, before setting out for their several homes. One of the old baron’s comrades made the somewhat flippant remark:

“Well, it’s a long time since his lordship was in the company of so many clergy.”

Quick as thought the doctor replied: “There was only one clergyman here, Colonel.”

“What do you mean, doctor? I saw at least half a dozen ministers at the funeral.”

“Aye—ministers—but that is a different thing altogether. Mr. Gray was the only cleric present here to-day.”

It was as if a bomb had fallen in their midst.

“Well, what do you call yourself, doctor?”

The old man smiled as he replied:

“I am only an elder in the congregation—a teaching elder doubtless, but only an elder. Mr. Gray has Apostolic orders, which I lack.”

An elder he remained; but surely if ever any one outside the unity of the historic faith deserved it, he deserved to be reckoned one of the Gentle Persuasion.