Never believe, though, that you'll find the church of your childhood
now in any of our country places. We have electric light now everywhere,
telephones, separators, labour unions and political meetings, but the
church stands empty. I have been there. The organ wails as if it had the
toothache, the precentor sneezes out a hymn, the congregation does not
lift the roof off with its voice, for the very good reason that there
is no congregation there. And the priest, poor devil, stands up in his
pulpit with his black moustache and pince-nez; he is an officer in
the army reserve, and he reads out his highly rational remarks from a
manuscript. But his face says all the time--"You two paupers down there
that make up my congregation, you don't believe a word I am saying;
but never mind, I don't believe it either." It's a tragic business when
people have outgrown their own conception of the divine. And we--we
are certainly better than Jehovah. The dogma of the atonement, based
on original sin and the bloodthirstiness of God, is revolting to us; we
shrug our shoulders, and turn away with a smile, or in disgust. We are
not angels yet, but we are too good to worship such a God as that.
There is some excuse for the priest, of course. He must preach of some
God. And he has no other.
Altogether, it's hardly surprising that even ignorant peasants shake
their heads and give the church a wide berth. What do they do on
Sundays, then? My dear fellow, they have no Sunday.
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