orthodoxy-第44节

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the　prompt　stillness　in　a　sick…room。　We　are　perhaps　permitted　tragedy



as　a　sort　of　merciful　comedy：　　because　the　frantic　energy　of　divine



things　would　knock　us　down　like　a　drunken　farce。　　We　can　take　our



own　tears　more　lightly　than　we　could　take　the　tremendous　levities



of　the　angels。　　So　we　sit　perhaps　in　a　starry　chamber　of　silence；



while　the　laughter　of　the　heavens　is　too　loud　for　us　to　hear。







　　　　　Joy；　which　was　the　small　publicity　of　the　pagan；　is　the　gigantic



secret　of　the　Christian。　　And　as　I　close　this　chaotic　volume　I　open



again　the　strange　small　book　from　which　all　Christianity　came；　and　I



am　again　haunted　by　a　kind　of　confirmation。　　The　tremendous　figure



which　fills　the　Gospels　towers　in　this　respect；　as　in　every　other；



above　all　the　thinkers　who　ever　thought　themselves　tall。　　His　pathos



was　natural；　almost　casual。　　The　Stoics；　ancient　and　modern；



were　proud　of　concealing　their　tears。　　He　never　concealed　His　tears；



He　showed　them　plainly　on　His　open　face　at　any　daily　sight；　such　as



the　far　sight　of　His　native　city。　　Yet　He　concealed　something。　



Solemn　supermen　and　imperial　diplomatists　are　proud　of　restraining



their　anger。　　He　never　restrained　His　anger。　　He　flung　furniture



down　the　front　steps　of　the　Temple；　and　asked　men　how　they　expected



to　escape　the　damnation　of　Hell。　　Yet　He　restrained　something。　



I　say　it　with　reverence；　there　was　in　that　shattering　personality



a　thread　that　must　be　called　shyness。　　There　was　something　that　He　hid



from　all　men　when　He　went　up　a　mountain　to　pray。　　There　was　something



that　He　covered　constantly　by　abrupt　silence　or　impetuous　isolation。　



There　was　some　one　thing　that　was　too　great　for　God　to　show　us　when



He　walked　upon　our　earth；　and　I　have　sometimes　fancied　that　it　was



His　mirth。











End