“Holy Spirit, we welcome You, Holy Spirit, we welcome You.” Tambourines jangled as robed priests and little gray-haired ladies alike moved to the music. Well, not Aunt Beryl, of course, but others. Then deacons and church wardens from each of the three churches that had come together for this service led the bishop, splendid in red and gold, to the altar.
Gwendolyn was radiant as she knelt and the bishop placed his hands on her head, “Defend, O Lord, this thy child with thy heavenly grace that she may continue thine forever…” The memory made him miss his sister. He must do a better job of keeping in touch.
Antony smiled as he entered the vast sanctuary of the Ebenezer Chapel. He had not imagined it would be so rich and warm. Hanging lights brightened the dull amber walls. Dark wooden pews filled both the main floor and the spacious gallery circling the walls on three sides. In the front, the massive pulpit rose in the center of the platform. And under the pulpit, the hallmark of a Welsh chapel—the “big seat”—a padded bench where the deacons sat in stern splendor facing the flock behind their encircling railing, keeping watch for any misdoing.
After the dismal account Enid had given of the size of their congregation, Antony was surprised as worshipers continued to file in. A few took seats in the balcony. It was explained when the minister welcomed their visitors. “Today, Pentecost Sunday, when we celebrate the coming of the Holy Spirit to the church, we are remembering here in Ebenezer Chapel a special coming of the Holy Spirit to Wales.”
The congregation stood to sing a hymn and then the narrative began, not Antony telling this time, but various members of the congregation taking their turn in the lofty pulpit to tell a portion of the dramatic events that shook this valley 100 years ago. A serious-looking man in a dark suit said that because he was a law clerk he had chosen to recount the effects on the courts as his great-grandfather Evan Williams had told him:
Mr Justice Lewellyn, sedate in black robe, bands and white wig entered the empty courtroom and took his seat behind the tall, dark mahogany bench. The room, often so full of scrabbling and swearing that it took several moments to achieve order, today was cold and silent. Might as well be a mortuary. Evan Williams, his clerk, approached the bench and handed him a pair of white gloves, the symbol that there were no cases on the docket for that day. “What! Again?” That made three times this week.
Williams shrugged. “It’s the Revival, yer honor.”
The judge shook his head. “What’s to become of all this I don’t know. The theater was closed last weekend. My wife was sorely displeased.”
“Aye. And my football club. Disbanded for lack of interest. What’s this country without football, I ask you? And only one pub in town left open. That Evan Roberts should be had up, that’s what I say.”
Wales 1904. It was the same all across the country. Theaters, pubs, football pitches, dance halls, courtrooms—all empty. Chapels bursting at the seams. And yet no one could quite figure out what was happening.
The narrative was taken up by the current pastor of the congregation, reading accounts written by those who were there:
Here at Ebenezer Chapel the sober, sedate congregation that had gathered that morning received a shock. They looked askance when they saw their minister’s place occupied by a young man, accompanied by maidens. The service should have begun with an orderly announcement of the opening hymn. Instead, one of the young women burst forth in a song. The whole congregation gasped.
She sang of her new experience, tears streaming down her cheeks. In spite of the raised eyebrows and pursed lips of the congregation another young woman stood and sang with her. Whatever next?
But the young minister in the pulpit remained absolutely silent, his body shaking as tears coursed down his pale cheeks. Then a strange stillness fell upon the people, like the quiet presaging an electric storm. It soon broke when one of the proudest members of the assembly fell on her knees in agonizing prayer and confessed her sins. Others followed rapidly and spontaneously. All over the chapel, men and women, young and old knelt in the pews and aisles, claiming “the blessing.”
When the confessions ceased, extempore hymns began. The service lasted all day. Evan Roberts did not preach at all, only uttered such injunctions as, “Obey! Obey! Obey the Holy Spirit!” And his most frequent prayer, “Bend us, O Lord, Bend us.”
One man who was given a seat on the deacons’ bench recorded the scene: “With my back to the pulpit, I witnessed a sight that made me feel faint. Confronting and surrounding me was a mass of people, their faces aglow with divine radiance…” One section of the congregation was singing. In another part of the building scores were engaged simultaneously in prayer, some wringing their hands as if in mortal agony, others joyous in their newfound experience. Welsh and English were extravagantly intermingled.
All over the room people were testifying: A well-known singer, a radiant young woman, an elderly deacon, a Presbyterian minister, a young man with a stammer… A man with a powerful voice spoke above them all, “Lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and gone; the flowers appear on the earth; the time of the singing of birds is come, and the voice of the turtle is heard in our land.”
When the glorious spiritual tumult was at its height, there was a sudden calm. Evan Roberts stood in the pulpit. He read St Paul’s great love chapter, I Corinthians 13: “… and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing—nothing—nothing.” He repeated the final word three times, then was silent.
A member of the congregation attempted an interruption, but he was drowned out by ecstatic singing. Trying to force his way to the pulpit, the would-be disruptant was overcome by conviction. In a few moments the shout went up, “He has been saved!”
“Haleliwia!”
“Praise the Lord!”
“Diolch Iddo!”
“A’r Ei ben bo’r goron!”
And then, one of the most remarkable elements of all that remarkable day—the entire congregation began singing in English, “Throw out the lifeline, throw out the lifeline…” Never before would an English chorus have been sung in such an orthodox assembly. To make the attempt would have been rated almost a “sin against the Holy Ghost.”… But this Revival burned all linguistic barriers.
Through it all, the young Evan Roberts stood in the pulpit, quiet and serene. Calmly, Roberts would direct workers. “There is a woman outside to the left of the church in spiritual distress. Will you go help her?” Some went. She was there. They helped. “There is a young man at the far end of the gallery, anxious for salvation. Will someone please help him?” Someone did.
Other accounts followed of the events that covered all of Wales in a two-year period. The service closed with a final hymn and all were invited to the hall for a Jacob’s join, which Felicity called a potluck. “What did you think of that?” Felicity asked around bites of pork pie after they were seated at a long table.
Antony had been asking himself the same thing. “I’ll readily confess the emotionalism makes me uncomfortable. But I’m not certain the biblical account of Pentecost isn’t just as strange—and many of the stories of the saints as well.”
“It’s sad, isn’t it, that’s it’s all so—well, lifeless now.”
Antony nodded. “I’ve read about this. I’m not an expert, but some have speculated that there might have been more lasting results if it had all been followed up with more solid teaching, especially for the new converts. And perhaps making room for women and young people to have a more active role in the church.”
“But still it was remarkable.”
“Absolutely. Perhaps one thing it demonstrates is that Wales has always been a thin place.” Antony shivered at his own statement. A thinning of the veil between heaven and earth was a good thing. But there was more than one kind of spirit.
Felicity bit on a crisp, then chewed thoughtfully. “Julius’s and Aaron’s martyrdom, David’s preaching, the Revival—are you saying they’re part of a continuum of spiritu
al power?” She thought again. “So something must have promoted that power?”
“Of course, any priest will tell you. But it isn’t something, it’s Someone—the Holy Spirit specifically.”
Felicity grinned. “Hey, I’m a theology student, remember. I know. But I mean something concrete. Like you’re always on about what I’ve learned to call a means of grace. Like the Bible or the Eucharist or baptismal water—those things are concrete.”
“Something that promoted faith, you mean? Something that gave believers courage to speak and act?” Now it was Antony’s turn to ponder.
“Right, and that then could be perverted for evil? Something a power-hungry person or group would want to get their hands on?”
“That’s an interesting speculation.” Antony wasn’t ready to commit himself, but he could see a certain fragile logic to what Felicity suggested.
“It needs to be more than speculation. Something is going on,” Felicity insisted. “Hwyl’s death wasn’t an isolated event. Whatever it was is following us.” She started to look over her shoulder.
Her gaze was met by a tall man with deep-set, dark eyes and waves of steel-gray hair approaching them with a wide smile. He introduced himself as Dyfrig Griffiths. “I understand you’re wanting to know more about the Revival, if this morning’s presentation hasn’t answered all your questions. Grand service, wasn’t it?” Dyfrig’s lilting voice made the most ordinary statement sound like poetry.
“It was remarkable.” Antony stood and shook his hand. “I’d say it’s raised far more questions than it answered.”
“You’re Father Stephen, are you?”
Antony introduced himself and explained about the substitution.
“How many are you?”
“Eleven in addition to myself.”
“Ah, that’s grand. Just grand. Now, if you have transport, I’ll take you to the Moriah Chapel in Loughor where it all started. It’s not far—just outside Swansea. Good dual carriageway all the way.”
Antony rode with Dyfrig in his small blue car, the others following in the minibus. Dyfrig talked all the way in his sonorous voice of the remarkable renewed interest in the Revival in recent years. “A wellspring has sprung up seemingly from all over the world. Several times a week I’m called on to give tours. People just like your good self and your group, Father. From India, South Africa, New Zealand, Korea, America, the Congo, Canada… They’ve all been here recently. God is bringing us together. He’s not restricted to denominations. We have a prayer meeting every week, just as they did here in 1904.”
The narrative in Dyfrig’s restful, undulating voice brought them to a stone church, golden in the afternoon sun. Three persimmon-colored doors stood behind the entrance arches and a row of curved windows above. Dyfrig held open the gate in the iron fence and waited on the flagstones for his hearers to gather round.
When they were assembled, he took his place in front of a tall, black marble memorial to Evan Roberts and the Revival. Antony scanned segments of the inscription: “God hath visited and redeemed His people. Gloria Deo.” “God’s man and God’s Word.” “Hope for a spotless generation, The opening of the heart of a nation.” On the other side was a raised sculpture of Roberts’s head with the words: “‘Remember Jesus Christ.’ E. Roberts.”
“Roberts was raised right here in Loughor in a solid, religious family. Friends described him as sincere, serious, solemn, persistent in Bible study. Although he worked as a blacksmith and a coal miner, he had a passionate desire to preach. Evan Roberts prayed for thirteen years for a visitation of the Holy Spirit on Wales.
“But Roberts was no one’s idea of a typical revivalist. Half-educated, he began working in the mines as a young child when his father broke his hip. He was soft-spoken, undemonstrative and not a fluent speaker. He entered grammar school at age twenty-six to prepare for the ministry, and left a few months later to begin preaching.
“Shortly after that he felt that he should return to his home church at Loughor. His mother met him at the door in some alarm. ‘Where have you been? Why are you not at school? Are you ill?’
“‘No.’
“‘Then why have you come back home?’
“‘Oh Mother, the Spirit has sent me back here to work among our own young people at the chapel at Moriah. We are going to have the greatest revival that Wales has ever seen.’
“He went to his pastor and asked permission to hold services for young people. That night, after the Monday evening prayer meeting, he invited the young people to stay behind as he wanted to speak to them.”
Dyfrig pointed to a long, low building beside the chapel. “They met there, in the school house. Sixteen adults and one little girl. ‘God send the Holy Spirit for Jesus Christ’s sake,’ Evan Roberts prayed, then turned to his bemused congregation. ‘Now we can go home. He has come.’
“And that is how it started,” Dyfrig ended his lecture.
“Now we’ll go around back.” He led the crocodile of pilgrims along the path between church and school, and stopped at a large square structure some two feet high. The rim of the cement footing was capped with black marble bearing inscriptions in Welsh. The center was filled with gravel.
Antony was startled to see Michael, who had apparently slipped away from the group unnoticed, sitting on the rim with his hand in the gravel like a child playing in a sandbox. “The Roberts family tomb,” Dyfrig explained.
Evening shadows fell over the churchyard filled with more traditional graves. “And so it ends quietly,” the bardic rhetoric resumed. “Perhaps the effects of the Revival were most notable in the coal mines and in the homes. A man could go mad down the pits. Tales are told that a man might curse at a tram that had left the rails until he was almost too weak to stand, then kick it until he fell to the ground, cursing God. And like the trams, the mules and pit ponies were flogged, kicked and cursed—it was the only life they knew, man and beast—the only language the animals ever heard.
“When revival changed the hearts of the miners, the horses were bewildered to hear hymn-singing from the beginning to the end of the shift. Instead of the steel prod, booted kick and harsh curse, the animals were patted and encouraged to work: ‘Come on now, laddie. Try harder this time.’ It’s little wonder they didn’t know what to do.
“And lunch hours were even stranger. The men started Bible studies and prayer meetings in the mines. At one mine men even went down into the pits an hour early so as not to trespass on employers’ time when they took extended lunch hours for Bible reading and prayer.
“Colliery managers claimed that the Revival made the men better colliers; wives claimed that the Revival made them better husbands and fathers. The miracle of Jesus turning water into wine is well known. In Wales he changed beer into furniture. Miners who had been accustomed to spending most of their time and wages in the pub, now spent their time at home and in prayer meetings, giving their wages to their wives for food and family necessities.”
Antony continued to mull over Dyfrig’s remarkable story. And Felicity’s question. So much power. If there was an esoteric secret attached, it was little wonder someone would want to get to the source of it.
There was no question that if Evan Roberts had been asked for something concrete he would have pointed to the Bible. It was said that young man could stand in a pulpit and by merely measuring with his thumb down the side of the holy book, open it instantly to the passage he sought.
Julius and Aaron would have had scrolls, letters, tablets of tile and wax, as they had seen at the Roman museum. David would have had beautifully hand-illuminated volumes. Was the answer that obvious?
Certainly, it was all too possible for the unscrupulous to pervert those teachings to their own advantage. Could it be that simple?
And yet that explained nothing: Hwyl’s mysterious death, Michael’s strange behavior, the objects in Adam’s Welsh cake, the noises bombarding Felicity and Kaylyn… Antony would be glad to get to St David’s.
Chapter
19
Monday
Aberdare to St David’s
Felicity looked out the window of the van as they drove down the Vale of Neath, leaving the abandoned coal tips of the Rhondda behind them. The golden sunshine and blue sky were a relief after the gloom and lowering skies of recent days. Something of a party atmosphere pervaded the cocoon of their vehicle as they rejoiced in surviving the rigors of the walking pilgrimage, and looked forward to the promised days of relaxed retreat.
And no one was in higher spirits, Felicity noticed, than Lydia. She seemed elated, almost giddy, quite a change from the controled, rather domineering person Felicity had thought her. It must be the relief of no longer being responsible for her little brother. She chatted animatedly at some length at how happy Adam had been to be back at school, how his friends had been watching out for him and had come to greet him. The group had delayed their departure from Aberdare until Michael and Lydia could return from delivering Adam to Abergavenny College. “College?” Felicity had been confused when she heard of the plan. “But he’s only thirteen years old.”
“No,” Antony explained. “Not what you’d call a college. It’s a prep school. A very good, very expensive one. And they begin term today.” Adam was the only one with a schedule that wouldn’t allow for the second half of the pilgrimage, since the other young people were home-schooled, on their gap year, or on work experience. Whatever the reason for delay, Felicity had been happy enough for it since Enid had thoughtfully invited the pilgrims to her home for breakfast and offered them the use of her bathroom and washer and dryer. Felicity didn’t even want to think how long it had been since she had washed her hair, but now, with it hanging loose and dry across her shoulders, she was sure her head was measurably lighter. Or maybe that was just the effect of the sunshine.
An Unholy Communion Page 20
