1900: “In Defence of Holy Organisation”
A Lecture Delivered by the Rev. Percival Wing, Vicar of Lesser Boggle-on-the-Void
My dear assembled congregation, fellow wanderers, seekers, and partial subscribers to the Parish Gazette, welcome—yes, welcome most warmly, for it is only by being welcomed that one learns how to stay. You see, my friends, many have lately taken umbrage, or possibly indigestion, with the term “cult.” I have read—in a rather sensational pamphlet entitled On the Charismatic Derangement of Social Structures by Dr. Aloysius Quentle (published in the scandalous year of 1899 by the firm of Pander & Quibble)—that a cult begins with a “charismatic leader of narcissistic tendencies who erects a hierarchy based on love, deception, and manipulation.”
Now, I say: what splendid orderliness! What efficiency of purpose! If deception is but the art of faith skilfully performed, then, as Saint Bartholomew himself almost said, “Blessed are the convinced, for they shall convince others.”
Permit me, therefore, to make a small confession: I rather think we in the Church could benefit from a little more of this narcissism—by which the author simply means confidence with embroidery. For what is a vicar if not a leader who attracts by personal magnetism? Why, the very word charismatic has “Christ” in it, concealed by grammar! That, surely, is no coincidence. Indeed, our Lord Himself, though humble in profession, must be reckoned the most successful recruiter in human history—He loved bombastically, He reorganised fishermen into apostles, and He isolated them from their nets, bless them, until they scarcely knew how to cast anything but moral influence upon the waters.
It is said that such leaders “exploit vulnerability.” I object! They merely recognise opportunity. When the flock feels lost, one mustn’t condemn the shepherd for owning a whistle. If a weary soul approaches me after my sermon, whispering that the world feels meaningless, do I not seize the moment? Do I not clap him kindly on the shoulder and say: “Meaning is available every Sunday at half past ten, with hymns!”? That, my friends, is not coercion—it is spiritual marketing.
I must confess, however, that attendance remains discouragingly mortal. Just last week, I appealed to the seamstresses’ guild with a pamphlet titled Join My Hierarchy: It’s Warmer Indoors—and yet only two arrived, one thinking it was a sewing circle and the other because she had mistaken “hierarchy” for “herring pie.” Still, we persevere.
A critic—possibly my cousin Algernon, who writes unflatteringly lengthy letters from Tonbridge—insists that the Church already resembles a cult. I say: hurrah and amen! If we must have a hierarchy, let it be celestial; if we must have isolation, let it be from sin; if we must love-bomb, let us do it with tea and Psalms. Indeed, I dream sometimes of reviving Brother Linacre’s remarkable little book The Joy of Appropriate Obedience (1887), which proposes that there are precisely twelve steps between doubt and devotion—though the thirteenth involves a modest contribution to the roof fund.
I must add, for the scholarly amongst you, that the finest hierarchies are always pyramidal—symbolising aspiration uplifted heavenward!—and not, as my warden Mr. Pugh insists, “mere exploitative geometry.” Every pyramid, I remind him, is a triumph of individual vision resting upon the shoulders of others. He remains unconvinced. I forgive him, provisionally.
Now, some have remarked darkly that such systems prevent free thought. To which I respond, with no little magnanimity, that freedom is a dreadful burden to carry without clerical assistance. If you have ever tried to think independently on a rainy Tuesday, you will know precisely how it ends: with confusion, melancholy, and uncoordinated sandwiches. Far better, I say, to delegate one’s thinking to a certified professional! That is why I encourage belief—not for my sake, or even God’s (the Almighty has a robust self-image, I assure you)—but because belief, like jam, must be spread if it is to stick.
The Church, my friends, must once again believe in itself. It won’t do it alone. No institution, however divine, can thrive on meekness. We must love-bomb our atheists, we must isolate our agnostics (politely), and we must gently manipulate the indifferent into attendance. People seek “something more,” as the scholars say—a fresh purpose, an improved self. Well, we have pews! And purpose comes free with hymn number 426, “Stand Up, Stand Up for Jesus,” which I recommend for circulation immediately after any crisis of meaning.
In conclusion, let us emulate the so-called cults, only with better hats and fewer scandals. Let us entice the vulnerable into gladness, mislead the despondent into joy, and organise the uncertain into righteousness. For the Church, my beloved congregation, is not merely a building—it is an elite recruitment society for salvation, open every day except Wednesday afternoons.
And so I say unto you: join! Give! Believe! For heaven’s sake—quite literally—it won’t believe in itself.
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