XXV.

Temple Lily Work.

IN the porch of King Solomon's magnificent temple stood two mighty pillars of brass, nearly thirty feet in height: to the one he gave the name Jachin, "He shall establish;" to the other Boaz, "strength." Thus would the royal preacher seem to teach all generations that to the house of prayer we should come to be firmly established in sound doctrine, and to receive strength to stand fast in the faith.

But we are not only told of the size and material of those stately columns, but of their ornaments also: "The chapiters that were upon the top of the pillars were of lily work in the porch." Such details were not deemed too insignificant to find a place in the Word of God. Now, the question of the amount of ornament to be desired in a church is not one into which I desire to enter, believing that where a devout congregation worship God in spirit and in truth, it is of minor importance whether the edifice in which they meet be fair as Solomon's temple, or plain as the "upper room" in which the disciples assembled. Let us rather consider the beautiful lily work on the pillars as a type of that which is lovely crowning that which is lofty; the spirit of kindly sympathy towards our fellow-worshippers forming a complement and addition to exalted devotion towards God.

Were we to ask the use of churches, we might receive the reply, "They are buildings set apart for prayer, praise, and preaching, and the celebration of the sacraments ordained by our Lord." This might be a correct, but it would not be a complete answer, unless it conveyed the idea of social worship, brethren meeting as brethren in the house of their Father, lovingly uniting their hearts and voices, as they hope to do in their home above. Much is it to be regretted that there is so little of this spirit of religious sympathy; that we have, as it were, the pillars of brass without the lily work round them. There is often a chilling formality in places of worship, that makes us painfully feel that the world has brought its distinctions and its vanities even into the house of prayer. We see, perhaps, the large pew with its solitary occupant, while weary women are standing in the aisle; it is the piece of silver that admits to the seat, and those who are unable to bribe are treated as strangers, almost as intruders, in the place where, beyond all others, they should find themselves welcome. Is it not constantly the man "in goodly apparel," the woman "in gay clothing," to whom it is virtually said, "Sit thou here in a good place;" while the poor must obey the implied though unuttered command, "Stand thou there, or sit here under my footstool?"

"Hospitality in church" is not a subject likely to be treated of in either religious or moral essay; the very name might provoke a smile; but I had once a practical sermon preached to me on the subject, which sank deeper into my memory than almost any sermon which I ever heard, which makes me venture to mention the trivial incident.

Many years since, I entered as a stranger a church in Brighton. The preacher was a very popular one, and I knew that I might have difficulty in obtaining a seat, so I took the first which I saw vacant; it was a free seat, close to a wall. I soon found that my position was a very undesirable one as regarded comfort; a large air-hole was directly in front, probably intended to warm the church with hot air, but that which rose up, almost under my feet, was the chilling breath of November.

I merely state the circumstance to introduce mention of the conduct of two ladies, perfect strangers to me, between whom I chanced to be seated. The one on my left hand surprised me by offering to change places with me: as there was no reason why she should be exposed to the chilling draught rather than myself, I of course declined her offer. I know not whether the lady on my right was related to the other, but she was at least her sister in kindness; for she lent to me, an utter stranger, her handsome fur tippet to place over my knees, to protect me from cold.

"A very trivial incident indeed," may be said; but when I consider its effect upon my own mind, I cannot look upon it as so trivial: often and often has the example of those ladies recurred to me in church. I heard an eloquent sermon on that November day in Brighton; but I derived at least as much benefit from the conduct of two of the congregation. I asked myself why they should be so kind to me, a stranger, and concluded that they were not of those who merely attend church to keep up a cold, heartless form of devotion, but that they had felt the "genial" influence of Christianity while uniting in social prayer. With them the pillars of brass lacked not the lily work on the chapiter.

Church is a place that often affords opportunity for the exercise of the little courtesies of life. The proffered scat, the church-book lent, the place in the hymn-book found for the deaf, the guiding hand held out to the blind,—these are trifling things in themselves, but they warm the heart of strangers, and make devotion itself more earnest by contact with Christian kindness. In church, selfishness and pride are peculiarly repulsive; we should feel the connecting link which binds together those who are one in Christ; we should see that our religion is one of humility and love. Solomon's noble pillars would have looked cold and hard but for the graceful lily work which crowned them; it might not, indeed, add to their strength, but it greatly enhanced their beauty.

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