Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  Darwin . . . a creationist and an evolutionist!

  Obviously Darwin was not the atheist many Christians made him out to be. As much as Charles thought he knew of the man he had so greatly admired, he had never stopped to inquire about his beliefs other than as they applied strictly to science.

  He continued on the few pages to the conclusion of the book, where he read:

  “There is a grandeur in this view of life, with its several powers, having been originally breathed by the Creator into a few forms or into one, and that . . . from, so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being evolved.”

  An interesting blend of evolution and creation, mused Charles Rutherford.

  His thoughts returned to his own personal inner dilemma.

  Whether Darwin was right or wrong was beside the point of that inquiry. The young pastor had pointed out unmistakably that there were many matters that evolutionary theory could not touch, those areas concerning our humanity.

  Charles closed the book and replaced it on his desk. How much longer would the Origin of Species remain there in its place of honor? Would a Bible soon be joining it?

  He sat down, and soon found himself reflecting back on his conversation with Timothy Diggorsfeld in the latter’s study at the New Hope Chapel.

  ————

  The young pastor had asked Charles whether he would mind a question.

  “Of course not,” Charles had replied.

  “You mentioned your conscience when we were in the other room,” said Diggorsfeld.

  Charles nodded.

  “You said your conscience could not live with the memory of your rudeness. In consequence you felt you had to apologize.”

  “That is exactly how I have felt this past twenty-four hours.”

  “Why do you think that is?”

  “Do you mean, why did I find myself confronted by a guilty conscience?”

  “Precisely.”

  “Because of what I did.”

  “How exactly?”

  “I behaved badly, I did wrong.”

  “But how do you know it was wrong?”

  “I felt ill at ease. As I said, my conscience began to torment me.”

  “But why?”

  “Because . . . I don’t know—” laughed Charles uneasily. “You are questioning me the way I question my children!” he added, not understanding the direction in which the pastor was probing. “I suppose because that’s what the conscience is supposed to do—tell us when we’ve done wrong.”

  “But wrong, if you don’t mind my asking, Mr. Rutherford, according to whose or what standard?”

  “How do you mean—isn’t right and wrong universally accepted?”

  “I hardly think so. And if, as you suggest, the conscience points to some higher standard, then what is that absolute right and wrong to which it points? Especially is that question important if that conscience itself is merely a chance product of millions of random mutations, as your Mr. Darwin, if I understand him correctly, would have it?”

  Charles smiled, at last perceiving the progression of thought into which he had been drawn.

  “It would seem, Mr. Diggorsfeld,” he said, “that I underestimated your gift of logic. You have lured me into a denial of my own point of view.”

  “I meant no trickery,” said the pastor with a shade of anxiety on his face. “I have no desire to offend you.”

  “Not to worry,” said Sir Charles with a wave of the hand. “I meant the comment good-naturedly. I did not see where you were headed with your questions, until suddenly you had snapped the trap shut.—Well done, I must say!” he added with a little chuckle. “Caught at my own game!”

  Delighted to find his new friend the possessor of a sense of humor, even to the detriment of his own side of the argument, the pastor smiled in return.

  “I only meant to illustrate how your own internal thoughts and feelings,” he went on, “—the guilty conscience—if examined logically and rationally, in itself undoes the very theory of evolution you espouse.”

  “I admit, that is an argument I have not encountered before now. I have never met a cleric who set forth his cause with quite your skill.”

  “Christians are not fools, Mr. Rutherford,” the pastor retorted mildly. A look of bemusement crossed his face. “At least, we are not all fools. The Bible does not come to us as if we were numbskulls.”

  “And yet you must admit that many of your persuasion plead more with passion over traditions than they employ logic to enforce the ideas of their belief.”

  The pastor nodded.

  “That some Christians happen to be fools,” he replied, “leads no more to the conclusion that Christianity is in error than that the foolishness of some of our kings and queens justifies calling the monarchy a farce.”

  “A good point!” laughed Charles.

  “Fools occupy the throne as well as intelligent men and women. But the monarchy remains its magnificent self notwithstanding. Likewise, there are Christian fools and Christians of great wisdom. I daresay Darwinism has fools in its ranks as well as men and women of great intelligence.”

  “No doubt.”

  “What is before us, however, would you not agree, is to find the truth, independent of these variations of humanity who espouse many views?”

  “I would agree.”

  “Well, it is my conviction that Christianity is and remains the truth, however much or little men understand it, and however skilled or unskilled its proponents may be in articulating it.”

  “A well-put train of thought, I must say,” replied Charles. “It certainly frames the discussion along somewhat different lines.”

  “But let me return to the matter at hand. If evolution is true, and we are the chance product of a chance universe, then why do we possess a conscience at all? More to the point—how could we ever come to possess it? What can atoms and mutations have to do with right and wrong?”

  “Perhaps it is learned—a product of culture and upbringing?”

  “Upbringing certainly contributes to one’s view of what constitutes right and wrong, I grant you that. But do you not honestly believe that the pangs you felt which brought you here on this day originated in some deeper region of being than from what could be accounted for by what you were taught as a child?”

  Charles thought a moment, then nodded.

  “Yes . . . yes, you’re right,” he said. “I know they came from someplace deeper than what I was taught. I suppose that is what made me so uneasy.”

  “It is that deeper place which intrigues me!” the young pastor continued. “I believe it is hugely significant.”

  29

  The Proof . . . Is Within You!

  Charles stood and strode about his study.

  After a few minutes he was back at the window, staring absently out, reflecting further upon the previous day’s thought-provoking conversation.

  ————

  Diggorsfeld had just paused in the discussion for a sip or two of tea. He was clearly thinking through what next to say.

  “Let me ask you another question,” he said after a moment. “Why do we sigh when we behold a breathtaking sunrise or sunset? Why does the glorious scent of a rose call alive such deep yearnings within us? All these clearly speak to something higher than the mere physical makeup of our bodily selves.”

  “I’ll admit I’ve never thought about evolution in connection with sunsets and roses before,” replied Charles.

  ————

  He reflected on his own experience with the girl’s dirty bouquet, and the remembrance brought him momentarily back to the present. From deep in his memory, reminders of the McFees’ flower garden across the way at the cottage began to steal into his consciousness. A fondly nostalgic feeling accompanied them.

  He peered out across the countryside from the Hall with a smile. He could almost smell the place from here! Maggie’s flowers would be in full bloom now, Charles thought.
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  He must visit his old friends again. And soon.

  ————

  Nor do most people think of God except in connection with churches and hymns,” Diggorsfeld was saying. “But I find far more evidence of the Creator’s existence in sunsets and roses, and in this deeper place within us that you and I are investigating, than in any sermon I or any other man could preach.”

  “As I said, I have never thought of such things before.”

  “Has your conscience ever made you quite so uncomfortable before?”

  “Never.”

  “You see, the conscience is man’s proof that something higher and deeper than evolution is at work within the heart of man.”

  “Proof?”

  “Indeed—I see it as no less than proof, in its full rational sense. This uneasiness you feel—it is something that must be accounted for. It must be explained. If there is an actual right and wrong, a standard of behavior to which something within calls us, it must originate in thoughts and feelings no Darwinic natural selection could produce in ten billion billion years of evolution.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because science itself simply has nothing to offer on the matter. Darwin altogether ignores man’s morality—a thing utterly distinct in man from all other living creatures.”

  “But proof remains a strong word,” commented Charles.

  “Man knows right from wrong. Every man and woman possesses a live conscience. It had to come from somewhere.”

  “Perhaps it evolved, as has our brain,” suggested Charles.

  “Come now, Mr. Rutherford,” rejoined the pastor, “you strike me as an intelligent man. Surely you see the fallacy in such a hypothesis. Evolution is a physical, natural phenomenon. I’m talking about morality. I do not think you seriously believe such a thing could come about by Darwinic evolution, by mere chance.”

  Charles smiled. “You won’t let me off with shoddy thinking, I see that!”

  “You wouldn’t respect me if I did,” rejoined Diggorsfeld, returning the smile.

  “No doubt you are right.”

  “It is a spiritual component of our makeup,” Diggorsfeld went on. “Therefore even if evolution were true—to which view I do not subscribe, and which I do not believe even the scientific evidence supports—but even if it were, it cannot explain the conscience. The sense of right and wrong is a spiritual dimension of human nature. It lies altogether outside our physical bodies. Thus, the question again: How did it get there? Where did it come from?”

  “I . . . I assume you will say that it . . . came from God.”

  “Precisely.”

  “To be honest,” Charles said, “I have to tell you that I have not been one who considers myself a believer in his existence.”

  “Your belief or non-belief cannot alter the factual data of the case, which you yourself have produced just by coming here.”

  A look of question spread over Charles’ face.

  “That sense of right and wrong is God’s fingerprint within your humanity.”

  “His fingerprint?” repeated Charles.

  “Exactly—a fingerprint which has remained behind within man as evidence of his creation of us—within you and me and every other man, woman, and child on the face of the earth. Nothing else can account for it. We are told in Genesis that God made man in his own image. You see, Mr. Rutherford, the conscience is one small part of that in-his-image-ness. As I see the matter, it proves the truth of the Genesis account as much as any fossil record a future geologist might discover and dig up somewhere. Our very humanity proves that Genesis is true, and that God created us just as the Bible says.”

  “You make a compelling argument for the existence of God, I must say,” smiled Charles.

  “No, you mistake me,” smiled Diggorsfeld.

  “How do you mean?”

  “I have made no compelling argument—it is you yourself, Mr. Rutherford, who have made the case.”

  “I don’t understand you.”

  “The voice of your own conscience, speaking to you from the region of that deep place in your own heart, has given proof of the existence of the very God in whose existence you earlier told me you did not believe. From out of your own depths the Creator has spoken, and said, “‘I am here, Charles Rutherford. I made you and I placed myself here to remind you that I am your Creator. You may say you believe or don’t believe, but nothing you can say or do removes this trace of me from your being.’”

  Charles was silent.

  The matter had now assumed loftier import than merely having to apologize for something he had done. Suddenly God was involved . . . and involved with him personally!

  30

  Storm and Rainbow

  Another rainstorm blew across southern England. The following morning dawned turbulent and wild, with gusts still howling about and dashing occasional blasts of thick raindrops nearly horizontal against the windowpanes.

  Sir Charles had slept soundly through the storm, his first full night in many days, and awoke refreshed and full of vigor.

  “Look at it out there, Jocie!” he exclaimed, as he stood in front of their bedroom window after dressing. “Doesn’t it make you want to run out into the middle, like when you were a child, and be part of it?”

  “It doesn’t make me want to do any such thing,” laughed his wife. “What’s come over you, Charles? I’ve never known a storm to excite you like this.”

  “It’s just so . . . so wild and tumultuous—the clouds swirling about, the rain pouring down in sheets, the wind whistling around every corner of this old place!”

  “Exactly as it does a dozen times every summer and winter,” she said.

  “Don’t spoil my fun—if it were midnight, I would imagine us caught up in the middle of some old gothic tale!”

  “And are you the hero or villain?”

  “Come out with me!” exclaimed Charles.

  “What—it’s pouring!”

  “All the better!” He dashed forward and grabbed her hand, then began to pull her from the room.

  “Charles!” she laughed and pleaded at once. Who was this new husband of hers! Was this what happened to all new knights who knelt before the queen? She had never heard of such a peculiar reaction.

  Jocelyn’s expostulations proved of no use. He tugged her out of their room and down the stairway. Moments later they ran out the front door, hand in hand, into the midst of the mêlée. Charles let go of Jocelyn, ran about in a wide circle, then stopped and threw his arms into the air, and gazed up into the middle of the downpour.

  Giggling at her husband’s ridiculous antics, Jocelyn did not know whether to be happy or concerned. Something had changed, that much was certain. But she could not help being swept into the joy of the moment. Soon husband and wife were running about together.

  “Do you remember when we got caught in that sudden downpour just like this,” said Jocelyn, “before we were married?”

  “How could I forget—off in the woods over there,” said Charles, pointing generally toward the north. “That was certainly our most memorable walk together when we were courting.—But,” he added, bursting into a renewed fit of laugher, “—just look at you! You’re drenched from head to foot.”

  “Look at you!” rejoined Jocelyn.

  ————

  From the window at the staircase landing, where she happened to be standing staring out absently, Amanda looked down upon the madcap scene with a strangely curious expression. She did not smile nor give other indication of reaction, other than a mild wrinkling of her forehead.

  She could not have given definition to her emotions or thoughts. She simply detected a change in her father. And she wasn’t sure she liked it.

  It had begun while they were still in London. And he had been so quiet on the train ride home—a different kind of quiet. He had been so jovial and happy on the way three days before. But going home he sat thoughtful and silent.

  They had always been such chums
. Yet these last two days her father hardly had a word for her. All his time was spent talking with her mother.

  Amanda was accustomed to occupying no position in any situation but the center of attention. George never threatened that role, for he did nothing to compete with it. Now she began to sense the invasion of something unknown. An indefinable change was coming to their family. That she could neither see it nor identify it made her uneasy. More than uneasy, it annoyed her.

  Amanda could not have known what was causing this strange sense of childish disquiet. But she knew that she didn’t want her father changing. She liked him the way he was. It irritated her to see her father and mother playing in the rain together . . . without her.

  Half an hour after Amanda’s silent observations, the family gathered for breakfast in the dining room. Charles and Jocelyn had dressed in dry clothes, though with hair still wet, and sported exuberant spirits. Amanda already sat at the table. George stood waiting. Catharine was just arriving with Miss Dimble.

  “Good morning, children!” boomed Charles. “Quite a day, don’t you think?”

  “It’s raining, Papa,” said Amanda in a whine. A hint of exasperation remained, punctuated by a wrinkling of her forehead.

  “Yes, and what a rain it is!”

  “But I won’t be able to go out.”

  “Whoever said you needed to let a little rain stop you, right, Jocie?” laughed Charles, taking his seat at the head of the table.

  “It certainly didn’t stop you!” rejoined Jocelyn in fun. She poured tea from the waiting pot into all the cups but Catharine’s, then took her own seat next to her husband.

  Sarah now entered from the kitchen carrying two racks of toast.

  “Good morning, Sarah,” said Charles. “How are you today?”

  “Very well, thank you, Sir Charles.”

  “Please, Sarah. I am still Mr. Rutherford to you, whatever the queen may call me. I don’t intend to be a knight around my own home—that’s only for London.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Yes, sir . . . what?” said Charles playfully.

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Rutherford.”