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I have already noted the powerful Christian influence upon me of my mother and the various influences from other members of my family. I must next turn to those unconnected with the family. I remember most clearly the years I spent in the Sunday school at Bethesda and attendance at the services. Sunday was a particularly full day since the Sunday school was held in the afternoon and my parents were not the kind of people to be satisfied with attendance at one service. My mother was always strongly critical of those she called “oncers”, who were people who could have supported the church twice on a Sunday and chose not to. As soon as we were old enough to be out in the evenings we were expected to accompany my parents to both morning and evening services and to attend Sunday school or Bible class in the afternoon. We all took it as a matter of course, and although it was decidedly hectic since we had to walk both ways three times a day I learned a sense of loyalty to the church which I have never forgotten. Too often it is sadly lacking in modern church life.
Although there was no such thing as family pews in our church there was some tradition which resulted in certain families always occupying the same seats. For some reason which still baffles me my parents chose one of the few pews which faced the pulpit from a side-ways direction. The angle from where we sat to the place where the preacher stood was acute enough to ensure that a crick in the neck resulted if rapt attention to the preacher’s face was maintained for any length of time. The result was that eyes tended to be fixed half way up the pulpit steps which did not provide too much inspiration. There was one great advantage in being perched in the forward sideways position. It was easy enough to see who was in church and childish imagination had a great time surveying the motley and sometimes extraordinary display of Sunday hats which regularly went of parade. Sunday was definitely the day for dressing up. It was difficult to recognise some of the people when accosting them in the street during the week in their workaday clothes. It never occurred to me then, although it has often exercised my curiosity since, why the tradition of Sunday clothes developed in the way it did. I am certain that many of the fashions we saw in church were never worn by those people on any other day. I recall once hearing the explanation that only the best was good enough for God and I think there may be more than a modicum of truth in that. I am convinced however that God is more concerned about the heart than about the outward appearance.
In case anyone should conclude that my earliest recollections of worship in Bethesda was dominated by such peripheral concerns, let me add that I owe a tremendous debt to the great spiritual heritage that I received there. From that pulpit were faithfully proclaimed the great doctrines of the faith. I learned there to have a high regard for the doctrine of divine sovereignty. I never had any doubt that an understanding of scripture was an obligation for every believer. People in those days took their doctrine seriously. I remember one occasion which sticks in my mind because of the circumstances in which it occurred. It was the custom for the deacons, all twelve of them, to sit on the platform facing the congregation. I never discovered why. It must have been a tradition which went back into the mists of the past. One particular deacon, a small man with something of an artistic temperament (he painted pictures and I still possess one of his achievements), got up in the middle of the sermon and stormed off the platform. No one in the congregation missed the significance of this act. The preacher had made some statement which challenged the sovereignty of God and my artist friend would have none of it. It is understandable that the matter became a talking point for some time to come, but it illustrates how doctrinally aware so many of the people were.
It was the custom in those days on the annual event of the Sunday School anniversary for morning, afternoon and evening services to be given over to special services for the children. For miles around the country chapels would curtail their activities in order to permit their people to attend. I suppose these occasions were the highlight of the church year, although from this distance I wonder whether quite such a marathon was really necessary. Nevertheless the fact that I can still remember these festivals shows that something must have brushed off on me.
Of much greater significance was the bible class to which I came to be attached, for this was of a special kind. There was nothing superficial about it. It consisted on about seven people whose delight it was to tackle subjects which made considerable demands on the participants. We spent time going with some detail into some of the great doctrines. Those who prepared papers were well clued up. there was a considerable background of theological reading. It was opening my mind to some of the resources of theological knowledge which was ultimately to occupy me in an increasingly meaningful way. The remarkable thing about this group of people was that the leader was not an educated man, far less so than any of the members. He was in fact a lorry driver. He was not infrequently out of his depth, but he acted as a focal point for the group and never missed a meeting without some good reason. What I learned among those assiduous students of the word was a background of knowledge and understanding which stood me in good stead when I finally launched into theological study as a full time student. It was not surprising that I found myself with an incalulable advantage when I came to study Christian doctrine.
There was one man who worshipped at our church who stood out from all the other worshippers. I always knew there was something special about him, although he was admittedly somewhat eccentric. His name was Edmund Kenneth Simpson, known to everybody as E.K. Occasionally he was given the opportunity to preach and when he did so the majority of the congregation were left floundering in a welter of words few of which they understood. But I was fascinated. It was not that I understood all his language, but I had never heard language quite like it. E.K was a lover of words. He was intrigued by obscure words. Many thought he just made them up, but those who took the trouble to check in the dictionary were astonished to find they were always there. When I later read his books I was not surprised to find echoes of the flowery language to which I had listened as a young man. On one occasion he came to speak at our weekly bible class on the subject of evolution. I have completely forgotten the points that he made, although I remember his opposition to the idea. What has stuck in my mind is a striking description he gave of bishop Barnes of Birmingham, who had caused a storm by his espousal of evolutionary ideas. To E.K he was no more than “the babbling bishop of Birmingham” and I can still hear the onomatopoeic effect as the succession “b” rolled off his tongue. It was marvellous to have such a colourful figure around and it was a great disappointment to me when he moved to Malvern. I rarely saw him again after that but there is no doubt his erudition spurred on the rapidly developing conviction in my mind that the study of theology was to be my life-work.
By the age of nineteen the desire to preach the word had come equally to my brother Raymond and myself. I am not sure how the first invitation came, but I well remember the occasion. We set out on our cycles to cover the seven miles to the village of Capel St Mary on the London road from Ipswich. We had no idea what to expect. Raymond was going to conduct the service and I was to preach. Neither of us had stood in a pulpit before. We arrived at a little tin hut with a notice board indicating it was an independent Congregational church. At the door stood an elderly man of somewhat eccentric appearance. He had a moustache which drooped at both ends, but he had a kindly look about him. He welcomed us as if we were the most famous preachers in town. He was delighted to see us. On entering the building we discovered three other people present, one of whom was the son of the man who had greeted us. We soon discovered he was not particularly bright although he did manage to get some semblance of a tune out of the organ. Our visit was during the summer and we at once noticed pinned under the clock the words “This is God’s time”. Apparently the good man had a rooted objection to British Summer Time and refused to alter his clock. The service was however held according to the changed time. This eccentricity turned out to be typical of the man in question. But all his oddities were forgotten when he poured appreciation on the raw preachers at the end of the service. Indeed although I preached there several times I never knew an occasion when the good man was not as generous as he was on that first day. I am certain that God reserved a special reward for that simple minded man who became to my knowledge an encourager to many in their first attempts to preach the gospel.
My visits there were not without some humour. I remember a time when Raymond was accompanied by his girl friend Coral and I took my sister. It had been decided that Coral and Doris should sing a duet and that I would play the organ to accompany them. It was a winter evening service and the chapel was lit by low hanging oil lamps. The girls had taken up a position behind one of these lamps to gain the best use of the somewhat frugal light. The duet was of somewhat meagre quality, and the singers were anxious to escape as soon as possible to their seats but forget the impeding oil lamps. In spite of the fact that this reduced us all to fits of laughter, the dear man took it all in his stride and thanked the singers for their contributions. I do not think he could ever find it in his heart to criticise. I never returned there after leaving Ipswich, but I heard that that good man finally passed to his reward in his hundredth year. I shall never forget the contribution that Joseph Pickess made to encourage me in the work of the gospel.
My brother and I visited many of the small Suffolk village chapels, for there was always a shortage of preachers. We met so many people with a simple yet firm faith in God and all of them contributed something to our total experience. We never knew what to expect. We visited one country chapel set in the middle of heathland with not a house in sight in any direction. Whatever persuaded anyone in their sense to build a place of worship there? We discovered later that it was chosen as the central point to serve four surrounding villages. It earliest history was before the age of the car. People were obliged to walk or else go by pony and trap if they were well enough off to afford one. It was customary for packed lunches to be taken and the whole congregation was expected to stay to the afternoon service. On the occasion I remember so well, we were met by the secretary whose whole demeanour was distinctly off-putting. To out it mildly he was gruff and uncouth, but we could have forgiven this had he not at once announced that the service was to be a memorial service and I was expected to give a suitable address as the widow and many members of the family were in the congregation. When I enquired why no previous warning had been given of this I was rudely told that other preachers had had no difficulty in doing this at a moment’s notice and he saw no reason to make any exception for me. It was clear that this was normal practice and there was no escape. I have no idea what I said on that occasion. I only hope it was suitable. What I do remember was finding myself in the pulpit surrounded by a motley collection of instrumentalists. Perhaps I had underestimated these people after all. There seemed more evidence of culture than I had detected in the secretary. But it was not to be. When the orchestra struck up there was cacophony of sound, which I think was perhaps the worse I had ever heard from budding musicians. I went away from that church realising there was some advantage after all in the church being in such an isolated situation.
This was not the only occasion when musical accompaniment made its impact of the preacher. Another was in a mission hall which boasted a brass band. In this case there had been some Salvation Army influence and the band were formed to serve a specific purpose. Each Sunday evening at least in the summer the preacher was expected to march at the head of the band through the village to a prearranged place where an open air meeting was to be held. This lasted for about twenty and the preacher then led the band and the people back through the village to the hall where the service was to be held. In this case the musicians were more competent and the sound less disturbing, except for the fact that the platform was on the small side and somehow had to accommodate the members of the bands well as the preacher, who was precariously pressed to the edge of the platform. All was well until the trumpets began to blow directly behind the preacher, who had the utmost difficulty in maintaining his calm amid the many decibels of noise. But in spite of this I have happy memories of the warmth of the Christian fellowship in that place.
I learnt a great deal from my visits to a wide variety of country chapels and mission halls. There is something about the rural scene which provides an excellent training ground. Country people tend to be less sophisticated that their town counterparts. They do not expect great things from their youthful preachers and are generally much more appreciative. A period spent in visiting these rural outposts confronts one with the major problems of the country churches. All too often the willing helpers are overworked because there are too few of them. Moreover the lack of visible response and the spectacle of dwindling numbers are enough to discourage all but the stoutest hearts. Yet I met in the villages many fine saints of God whom I am glad to have known and who enriched my early experience of service for God. I did not even know the names of many of them, but I honour their memory nonetheless. I think of the lady who refused to have flowers in the church and certainly objected to produce being brought in to celebrate the harvest; or the little old lady who considered it was her responsibility to entertain the preacher and always dished up cold soggy greens which were well nigh inedible; or the lady who used to criticise her lodger, who was a preacher, because he so meticulously prepared his sermons that she reckoned the Holy Spirit could not even insert a comma if he wanted to; or the lady who offered hospitality to me on the day the war broke out and who was so scared that she placed me in a room which had been blacked out, although the sun was shining brilliantly outside. These were some of the characters that peopled the stage in my early preaching days.
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