it
plain, in terms so plain that I can never forget.

"See in this world," he said, turning to the globe, "while Chinese
merchants and Turkish troopers, school-board boys and Norwegian
fishermen, half-trained nurses and Boer farmers are full of the spirit
of God, see how the priests of the churches of Nicaea spend their time."

And now it was the bishop whose dark hands ran over the great silver
globe, and it was the Angel who stood over him and listened, as a
teacher might stand over a child who is learning a lesson. The bishop's
hand rested for a second on a cardinal who was planning a political
intrigue to produce a reaction in France, then for a moment on a
Pomeranian pastor who was going out to his well-tilled fields with his
Sunday sermon, full of fierce hatred of England, still echoing in his
head. Then he paused at a Mollah preaching the Jehad, in doubt whether
he too wasn't a German pastor, and then at an Anglican clergyman still
lying abed and thinking out a great mission of Repentance and Hope that
should restore the authority of the established church--by incoherent
missioning--without any definite sin indicated for repentance nor any
clear hope for anything in particular arising out of such activities.
The bishop's hand went seeking to and fro, but nowhere could he find
any religious teacher, any religious body rousing itself to meet the new
dawn of faith in the world. Some few men indeed seemed thoughtful, but
within the limitation of their vows. Everywhere it was church and creed
and nation and king and property and partisanship, and nowhere was it
the True God that the priests and teachers were upholding. It was always
the common unhampered man through whom the light of God was breaking; it
was always the creed and the organization of the religious professionals
that stood in the way to God....

"God is putting the priests aside," he cried, "and reaching out to
common men. The churches do not serve God. They stand between man and
God. They are like great barricades on the way to God."

The bishop's hand brushed over Archbishop Pontifex, who was just coming
down to breakfast in his palace. This pompous old man was dressed in
a purple garment that set off his tall figure very finely, and he was
holding out his episcopal ring for his guests to kiss, that being the
customary morning greeting of Archbishop Pontifex. The thought of that
ring-kissing had made much hard work at lower levels "worth while"
to