one who has never been foolish. And if it weren’t for the little stupidities of life, we shouldn’t find ourselves in the world at all.”
He laughed, with these last words—a very soft, gentle laugh, in which I couldn’t bring myself to join him.
He emptied his glass once more.
“If the structure of the state is willed by God—” I began suddenly.
“Wrong. The state is a necessity of nature, and willed by God. But not the structure of the state.”
“But it’s the same thing!”
“No, it isn’t the same thing. God created nature: what is a necessity of nature must therefore be part of the will of God. But the consequences which follow upon that creation—and here we’re referring to one of them, the form of the state—is a product of man’s free will. So that the state is part of the will of God, but not the structure of the state.”
“And if a state collapses?”
“A state never collapses. It loses its social structure, but that only yields before another. The state itself remains, even though the people that built it may die. Another people succeeds them.”
“So that the collapse of a state’s structure is not a necessity of nature?”
My observation was greeted with a smile.
“Very often such a collapse is the will of God.”
“Then why does the Church, when the social structure of a state is collapsing—why does the Church always take the side of the rich? To-day, for example—why is the Church always to be found supporting the share-holders in the saw-mills and not the children painting dolls in the windows?”
“Because the rich always win.”
I couldn’t control myself.
“A fine teaching!” I cried.
The priest went on as quietly as ever.
“Right thinking is the principle of all morality.” Then, after draining his glass once again: “Yes, the rich will always win, you see they’re more brutal, they’re a lower type, they’re more unscrupulous. We read in the Bible that a camel may pass more easily through the eye of a needle than a rich man enter the kingdom of heaven.”
“And the Church? What about the Church? Will the Church pass through the eye of a needle?”
“No,” came the answer—and again the smile. “That wouldn’t be quite possible. For the Church is the eye of the needle.”
Devilish clever, this priest, I thought to myself. But he isn’t right. He isn’t right.
“So the Church serves the rich, and doesn’t think of fighting for the poor.”
“She fights for the poor, but on another front.”
“A secret front, perhaps?”
“A man may fall there too.”
“Who has fallen there?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“But He was God! And after Him?”
He filled my glass, pensive for a moment.
“It’s a good thing,” he said, “that things today in many countries, aren’t going too well for the Church. It’s a good thing for the Church!”
“Possibly it is,” I answered abruptly, noticing how excited I had grown. “And so we come back to the children in the windows again. Didn’t you say, as we were going through those streets, ‘They never greet me, they hate me?’ Well, you’re a clever man, you ought to know that those children don’t hate you at all—it’s just that they’ve got nothing to eat.”
“I think they hate me,” he told me, slowly, “because they’ve abandoned their belief in God.”
“How can you ask that of them—to believe in God?”
“God goes through every street.”
“How can God go through every street—seeing those children, and doing nothing to help?”
Silently he put his glass to his lips. Then,with a grave look, he turned to me.
“God is the most terrible thing in the world.”
I stared at him. I couldn’t believe my ears. The most terrible?
He rose, went across to the window and looked down into the graveyard. I heard his voice again.
“God punishes,” he said.
He strode up and down the room.
“We should not forget God. Even though we may not know why he is punishing us. If
He laughed, with these last words—a very soft, gentle laugh, in which I couldn’t bring myself to join him.
He emptied his glass once more.
“If the structure of the state is willed by God—” I began suddenly.
“Wrong. The state is a necessity of nature, and willed by God. But not the structure of the state.”
“But it’s the same thing!”
“No, it isn’t the same thing. God created nature: what is a necessity of nature must therefore be part of the will of God. But the consequences which follow upon that creation—and here we’re referring to one of them, the form of the state—is a product of man’s free will. So that the state is part of the will of God, but not the structure of the state.”
“And if a state collapses?”
“A state never collapses. It loses its social structure, but that only yields before another. The state itself remains, even though the people that built it may die. Another people succeeds them.”
“So that the collapse of a state’s structure is not a necessity of nature?”
My observation was greeted with a smile.
“Very often such a collapse is the will of God.”
“Then why does the Church, when the social structure of a state is collapsing—why does the Church always take the side of the rich? To-day, for example—why is the Church always to be found supporting the share-holders in the saw-mills and not the children painting dolls in the windows?”
“Because the rich always win.”
I couldn’t control myself.
“A fine teaching!” I cried.
The priest went on as quietly as ever.
“Right thinking is the principle of all morality.” Then, after draining his glass once again: “Yes, the rich will always win, you see they’re more brutal, they’re a lower type, they’re more unscrupulous. We read in the Bible that a camel may pass more easily through the eye of a needle than a rich man enter the kingdom of heaven.”
“And the Church? What about the Church? Will the Church pass through the eye of a needle?”
“No,” came the answer—and again the smile. “That wouldn’t be quite possible. For the Church is the eye of the needle.”
Devilish clever, this priest, I thought to myself. But he isn’t right. He isn’t right.
“So the Church serves the rich, and doesn’t think of fighting for the poor.”
“She fights for the poor, but on another front.”
“A secret front, perhaps?”
“A man may fall there too.”
“Who has fallen there?”
“Jesus Christ.”
“But He was God! And after Him?”
He filled my glass, pensive for a moment.
“It’s a good thing,” he said, “that things today in many countries, aren’t going too well for the Church. It’s a good thing for the Church!”
“Possibly it is,” I answered abruptly, noticing how excited I had grown. “And so we come back to the children in the windows again. Didn’t you say, as we were going through those streets, ‘They never greet me, they hate me?’ Well, you’re a clever man, you ought to know that those children don’t hate you at all—it’s just that they’ve got nothing to eat.”
“I think they hate me,” he told me, slowly, “because they’ve abandoned their belief in God.”
“How can you ask that of them—to believe in God?”
“God goes through every street.”
“How can God go through every street—seeing those children, and doing nothing to help?”
Silently he put his glass to his lips. Then,with a grave look, he turned to me.
“God is the most terrible thing in the world.”
I stared at him. I couldn’t believe my ears. The most terrible?
He rose, went across to the window and looked down into the graveyard. I heard his voice again.
“God punishes,” he said.
He strode up and down the room.
“We should not forget God. Even though we may not know why he is punishing us. If
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