Wild Grows the Heather in Devon

by Michael Phillips

  “But aren’t we to be different too? Isn’t he our example? If Jesus were alive today—of course, he is alive, but I mean if he were in my shoes at this moment of time, what would he do? Would he sit in the House of Commons, or would he seek to influence hearts by some other means? Would the change he sought to bring into people’s lives perhaps exist in another arena than the political one? Would his agenda be national or personal? Would it be social and societal . . . or spiritual?”

  “I have a feeling,” said Jocelyn with a smile, “that you already know the answers.”

  “Of course. That’s what I’ve been pondering during the whole trip home. He didn’t work through politics. God was concerned for nations in the Old Testament, but not Jesus in the New. His agenda was entirely personal. It wasn’t societal in the least.”

  “I see what you mean.”

  “That is the whole point. Jesus eschewed the world’s systems altogether. The change he sought was eternal—change in people’s hearts. He did not attempt to set right all the world’s ills. In fact, that was one of Satan’s temptations—showing Jesus that he could have changed the world for good. But the Lord said, ‘Satan, I will not try to change the world by your methods!’ Surely there was drunkenness in his day. But Jesus did not set up a Temperance Commission. War would come with the Romans, but he set up no Commission on Preparedness. He knew that solutions of man’s devising were temporal and incomplete. Is there drunkenness and war in the world? To address it, Jesus would say, Your Father loves you . . . give him your heart and turn from your sin. There is no other solution to man’s need than that.”

  “Are you saying there should not be such things as commissions and parliaments, or that we should not seek to do good and make change in the world?”

  “Of course not. Good must be done. Worthy men must rule the nations of the world as wisely and as compassionately as they can. Society ought to be changed for the better. I am proud of our English heritage, which has led every nation on earth in human compassion. But is that how God wants me expending my efforts?—that is the question.”

  “What do you think?”

  “I am no longer certain it is.”

  “In other words, different kinds of good must be done, and it takes different men to do them,” suggested Jocelyn.

  “I might not have put it exactly like that,” rejoined her husband, “but that is something like it. The world will always be the way it is. There will always be problems to overcome. I want to give the rest of my particular life to the kind of change that Jesus brought into men’s and women’s lives rather than to political change. I am not certain I can accomplish that in Parliament. If the Lord is my example, and if he would not sit in the House of Commons or seek the prime ministership, what does that indicate to me?”

  “Can politicians follow such a high example as the Lord’s life?”

  “If not, then politics is no life for me,” replied Charles. “I have to make the Lord my example to whatever extent I am able. What other model is worthy to be followed?”

  “There are godly men who have been politically and socially active.”

  “Of course, because that was how God led them. But can the kingdom of God be brought to the world through political maneuvering? That is the issue, Jocelyn. I do not want to look back on my life one day and realize I did not follow the Lord’s example in every area I might have. So now, for me, it has come down to this one area—the most important area of my life . . . my whole career.”

  It was quiet for a few moments.

  “Do you want to be prime minister?” asked Jocelyn at length.

  A moaning half-laugh followed. Jocelyn turned and gazed into her husband’s face. His expression was one of deep and ironic anguish.

  “Jocelyn,” he said, “don’t you understand? I have never wanted anything so much! Being prime minister is what every M.P. dreams of. It has been my silent hope for years. Want it? I desperately long to be prime minister.”

  The silence that followed this time was even longer.

  “What are you going to do?” asked Jocelyn finally.

  “I don’t know,” Charles sighed. “Times and circumstances change. I have been happy in politics, and I like to think I have done some good. It would be very difficult not to be involved. But might not this present unrest signal that God is speaking to me of a new season where he will give me other things to do?”

  Charles laughed softly, though there was not much humor in his tone.

  “You know, you are the one who made me start thinking of being more decisive as a spiritual man,” he said. “It’s all your fault, for getting me to think as a spiritual leader.”

  “I hope you don’t regret my doing so.”

  “No, you were right,” smiled Charles. “But if this decision were to be arrived at by consensus, I would make no change. My colleagues are all against it. I’m not sure how you would vote.—What do you suppose Amanda and George would say?”

  “I never know what Amanda is thinking anymore,” sighed Jocelyn.

  “Yet here I am facing a major decision as a minority of one. The decision is no one’s but mine.”

  “I will pray that the Lord will show you his will,” said Jocelyn. “And I will support you in whatever you decide.”

  77

  The Decision

  The following morning, Saturday, Sir Charles awoke shortly after dawn.

  He sensed immediately that a turning point had come, that he was about to cross a Rubicon of some kind. He knew the Spirit was drawing him.

  He rose, dressed, and went outside.

  It was a chilly day in early autumn. A light rain had fallen during the night, and the ground was wet. The thermometer had dropped more than several degrees since the previous afternoon, and even with a thick overcoat he felt the nip of winter’s approach. A light breeze met his face. He breathed in deeply, pulled his coat tightly around him, and struck off northward toward the hills and forest.

  His heart was full of what he sensed was coming. He could not be said to relish it, for relinquishment of ambitions long cherished is among the most agonizing of privileges known to a few of God’s sons and daughters. He did not relish it, yet neither would he shrink from it. He would obey, however painful, whatever it cost his flesh, whatever worldly aspirations he must lay on the altar of denial.

  He had a vague idea of working his way around eastward in a large circle through the forested hills to his prayer wood. But he had scarcely reached the first of the trees when a great impulse seized him.

  He fell on his knees, heedless of the soggy ground, lifted his hands to the sky, and cried out in a loud voice,

  “Oh God—what do you want me to do!”

  Then followed silence.

  The hour was early. The place his footsteps had led him was the loneliest and most barren for miles. No daughter followed here on this day. Charles Rutherford was utterly alone, except for the One who had awakened him and drawn him out into the world of his home.

  Charles dropped his hands, then fell forward onto his knees and elbows, his face bent to the damp earth.

  “Oh, my Lord,” he sighed softly, “I am willing to follow wherever you lead me and do whatever you ask me. Help me, my Father—give me strength to obey.”

  And there, unseen by any eyes save those of him who never sleeps, the man who for the asking could become the most important politician in the empire quietly wept. For even as the voice of his loud cry died away in the chill morning air, Charles knew the answer to his prayer.

  Some minutes later he rose, breathed in deeply, wiped away with his bare hands what remained of his tears, then continued on into the forest.

  Gradually he made his way to his prayer wood. Receiving a healthy dousing from the remnants of the night’s rain from the pine needles and branches as he entered, he slowly walked about the peaceful closet of the private sanctuary where he had conducted so much high business during the last seven years.

  The day’s crisis w
as past and its prayers mostly accomplished. All that remained was the one great prayer, which was a continual opening of his heart upward. His soul was calm, though heavy. Laying down one’s life rarely brings exuberant joy. Yet it brings a quiet peace of cleansing. Charles was subdued and content.

  “Thank you, Father,” he whispered, “for calling me to be your son. Help me now, with this change, to serve you with yet greater humility. Show me what it is that you want me to do next.”

  The sighs that emerged from his depths were groans of the Spirit. It was no easy thing, this that he had done, and he was spent. The battle was done. Now its victory must be carried out.

  With slow and deliberate step, Charles Rutherford made his way back to Heathersleigh Hall. He would talk with his family at breakfast. They must know of the decision that had been made.

  78

  What Came of It

  He walked into the breakfast room to find Jocelyn, George, and Catharine awaiting him.

  “Where is Amanda?” he asked.

  “In her room,” replied Jocelyn. “She said she wasn’t hungry.”

  “I need to talk to the whole family. I’ll get her.”

  Charles turned, left the room, and ran upstairs.

  He knocked quietly on her door. “Amanda,” he said softly. “I would like for you to please join the rest of us for breakfast.”

  “I’m not hungry,” came the reply from behind her closed door.

  “Nevertheless, I would appreciate your coming down. Just have some tea if you like.”

  “I’m not thirsty.”

  “Please, Amanda, dear . . . I have something I need to talk to everyone about.”

  “I don’t want any breakfast or tea.”

  “Then just sit with us if you like. I would like all of us to be together.”

  “I have no interest in what you might have to say.”

  A slight pause followed. Charles drew in a deep breath of resolve.

  “Amanda, I want you to come down to the breakfast room,” he said. There was now no mistaking the tone of command in his voice.

  Inside the room was only silence. He waited.

  About thirty seconds later the latch turned, the door opened, and Amanda walked out. She gave no look in her father’s direction, nor any hint that she was aware of his standing in front of the door. Her face wore a cloud black as any winter’s storm.

  She brushed by her father with cold disregard for his presence and walked down the corridor toward the stairs.

  The natural tendency of her will, strengthened now by years of practice, pointed in the opposite direction from any outside force coming to bear upon it. She was a human magnet turned the wrong direction, resisting any and all things but that which she willed. Even had she been famished with hunger at the moment of her father’s knock, the result would have been the same. He could lead her downstairs to a table laden with every one of her favorite foods. But let him say, in a voice that hinted at command, “Amanda, have something to eat,” such in itself would be sufficient to rouse the spirit of resistance in the girl, cause her to plant her feet, and declare, “I won’t!” Much rather would she go hungry than budge from her resolve. But let the injunction of obedience be removed, and give Amanda the free choice to determine a course of action for herself, and instantly would she flash a smile of conquest and proceed to do what was in her mind to do.

  Charles followed his daughter downstairs. The family gathered around the table.

  Amanda sat silent with her arms crossed. She touched neither utensil nor cup, but stared straight ahead through the meal, scarcely allowing an eyelash to flutter.

  Charles prayed. The others began their breakfast.

  “I have reached a decision I want you all to know about,” he began, trying his best to disregard Amanda’s cold stare. “I have been praying and your mother and I—” he said, turning toward each of the children, though avoiding Amanda’s face, “—we have been discussing this for some time. It is not my decision, exactly. We committed it into God’s care and asked what he would have us do. As always, of course, your mother is entirely supportive of me. I have asked her counsel and advice, but the decision has been mine.”

  He drew in a deep breath, conscious of Amanda’s censuring silent rebuke of all he was now trying to be as a man.

  “There is little else to say other than this,” Charles went on. “I will return to London next week and tell the leaders of my party to withdraw my name from consideration for the party leadership. Following that, as soon as I feel I can effectively carry it out and still remain faithful to my commitments, I intend to submit to the Speaker my resignation from the House of Commons.”

  The words fell like a silent bombshell.

  Jocelyn had known it was coming, for as Charles said they had discussed it together. The faces of George and Catharine displayed initial surprise, then, after a few seconds, enthusiasm. Almost immediately it dawned upon their understandings that this would mean their father would remain home with them all week. Nothing could have delighted them more, for they loved him. George realized instantly that he could have his father for a cohort for more of his explorations about the place. Catharine, who liked nothing better than to sit with her papa in the afternoon while he read the newspaper on weekends, realized she would be able to enjoy many more such days during the week.

  Amanda, however, had been nursing a mounting irritation against her mother ever since the incident in the village two and a half weeks earlier. Her father’s having made her come down to breakfast against her will had only made things worse. Now the fuse of her resentment finally burst into flame and ignited the dynamite which had been waiting to explode.

  “This is simply wonderful!” she cried in a tone of mocking disgust. “I can hardly believe what I am hearing.”

  In truth, her vexation was not a mere few minutes, nor even two weeks old, but had been seven years in the making. Now erupted years of resentments, a torrent of bewildering accusations so contorted that they left Charles and Jocelyn emotionally staggered and helpless to respond.

  “I’ve never heard anything so unbelievable! To resign from Parliament—how could you be so irresponsible?”

  A long, heavy silence followed.

  “Amanda, what do you mean?” said her father at length in a soft voice. He glanced toward his daughter in bewilderment, yet was almost afraid to look into her eyes.

  “It’s just the perfect ending to this ridiculous Christian charade the two of you have been playing, with us three as your pawns!”

  “Who?”

  “George and Catharine and me. Maybe they don’t feel as I do, but I feel like a piece on your gameboard that you move around however it suits you!”

  “Whatever can you mean? There has been no game.” Charles’ face was grief-stricken and white.

  “What would you call it? Everything was fine until you had to go and get religious about everything. First you took it out on me—do this, don’t do that! How could I possibly have known what you wanted? You turned this whole stupid house into a church! Now you’re going to make the whole country pay for it. How could you be so selfish!”

  “Took what out on you? Amanda, dear? What have I done to cause this outburst?”

  “No more trips to London, no fun, no parties, no anything—just church and lectures and walks in the country! You thought I ought to be glad to go along with everything just because George and Catharine did. Well, I wasn’t! I hated all the changes you forced on us. I hate it. I hate it, I tell you!”

  “We have been trying to behave as Christians.”

  “Well I’m not a Christian!”

  “Amanda!” exclaimed Jocelyn.

  “Does your behaving as a Christian include breaking promises?”

  “What promises?”

  “You promised to take me to London and to a ball when I was ten.”

  “We were just talking in fun.”

  “Oh, it was just a joke to you!”

  “Not
a joke, Amanda . . . but neither was it a hard and fast promise. Is that why you resented our trying to live as Christians?”

  “You never asked me what I thought, never asked if I might not want to live that way.”

  “We can understand that it might have been hard for you to adjust to the changes, but—” said her mother.

  “You never understood,” interrupted Amanda. “You never even tried to understand! You just told me the way it was going to be, and if I didn’t like it, it was just too bad. Of course I resented the changes! You taught me to make a difference. You said we would make a difference in the world. But now look at you. I hate the whole bloody thing!”

  “Amanda—where did you learn to say such things!” said Jocelyn, halfway between shock and anger.

  Amanda’s brother and sister sat stunned, listening in silent horror. Catharine’s mouth hung open to hear her sister so brazenly raise her voice to their parents. George had received more than one tongue-lashing from Amanda himself. In his own youthful way at sixteen, he knew something of what his father was feeling, for Amanda showed no more respect for him than she did for their parents.

  “But Amanda, we didn’t—”

  “And then you made me go along with all your new rules,” Amanda interrupted again, face red, “and started talking about how you wanted me to obey. Ha! Well, maybe I didn’t want to. Maybe I didn’t want to be unselfish and nice like George and Catharine. Did you ever think of that?”

  “Amanda—”

  “I liked it the way it was before,” she said, turning now again toward Charles. “You were a man people looked up to. I looked up to you. But then you stopped being that kind of man. How can I look up to you now? I don’t look up to you anymore! Just look at you. On the few days that you’re home, you spend all the time wandering around the grounds and digging in the dirt somewhere outside . . . what are you, a gardener?”

  “I happen to enjoy things of the earth. God has made—”

  “You’ve become a commoner! You never do anything important. You walk around with dirt on your hands and trowsers. Your life doesn’t mean anything!”