essage is thus obscured.

What then we have to do, if we would follow the pure Gospel, is to
lead quiet lives, refresh the spirit of joy within us by feeding our
eyes and minds with the beautiful sounds and sights of nature, the
birds' song, the opening faces of flowers, the spring woods, the
winter sunset; we must enter simply and freely into the life about us,
not seeking to take a lead, to impress our views, to emphasise our own
subjects; we must not get absorbed in toil or business, and still less
in plans and intrigues; we must not protest against these things, but
simply not care for them; we must not be burdensome to others in any
way; we must not be shocked or offended or disgusted, but tolerate,
forgive, welcome, share. We must treat life in an eager, light-hearted
way, not ruefully or drearily or solemnly. The old language in which
the Gospel comes to us, the formality of the antique phrasing, the
natural tendency to make it dignified and hieratic, disguise from us
how utterly natural and simple it all is. I do not think that
reverence and tradition and awe have done us any more grievous injury
than the fact that we have made the Saviour into a figure with whom
frank communication, eager, impulsive talk, would seem to be
impossible. One thinks of Him, from pictures and from books, as grave,
abstracted, chiding, precise, mournfully kind, solemnly considerate. I
believe it in my heart to have been wholly otherwise, and I think of
Him as one with whom any simple and affectionate person, man, woman,
or child, would have been entirely and instantly at ease. Like all
idealistic and poetical natures, he had little use, I think, for
laughter; those who are deeply interested in life and its issues care
more for the beauty than the humour of life. But one sees a flash of
humour here and there, as in the story of the unjust judge, and of the
children in the market-place; and that He was disconcerting or cast a
shadow upon natural talk and merriment I do not for an instant
believe.

And thus I think that the Christian has no right to be ashamed of
light-heartedness; indeed I believe that he ought to cultivate and
feed it in every possible way. He ought to be so unaffected, that he
can change without the least incongruity from laughter to tears,
sympathising with, entering into, developing the moods of those about
him. The moment that the Christian feels himself to be out of place
and affronted by scenes of common resort