From Christopher Dryden’s Journal – St. Saviour’s

Praise be to God and the Holy Spirit. Glory to Christ the Redeemer, who fills my heart with joy.

The little church of St. Savour’s sits at the end of Barkerville’s main thoroughfare, framed by the rough-hewn hotels and storefronts of this pioneer village. One could not imagine a more rustic cathedral, or hope for a more remote parish in which to deliver the Word of God.

How Rev. Reynard managed to get this edifice built is beyond me. Bishop Hills informed me that the effort almost broke the man, and that Reynard and his family endured unspeakable hardships raising this temple in the wilderness. And yet the whole church could easily fit under the vaulted nave of Westminster Abbey, where it might serve as an example to those accustomed to comfortable pews of the true nature of Christ’s mission.

I feel I am at the capillary end of the Anglican Communion here. The pulse of evangelical zeal has pushed me from the heart of worship, across oceans, over an exceedingly rough and narrow road to this outpost of civilization. And here I shall stay until God’s work is done – or at least my minute portion of it.

And what a work it shall be!

Our usual sensibilities are confounded by this place. Angels may alight upon the town’s boardwalks refreshed, the sweet ether of heaven still filling their lungs; the weary human traveler stumbles out of the Bernard’s Express, his bones jarred and stomach churning after a most stupendous journey of some 350 miles. More than once, as we careered around sharp turns atop ghastly precipices, I prayed to you Lord to preserve me and my fellow passengers, that your servant might arrive at his destination in one-piece to begin Your ministry. I am told Mr. Bernard began his enterprise by conveying letters from Yale to Barkerville on foot – a mode that may have been considerably slower, but was most assuredly safer than riding in one of his coaches!

One mustn’t complain, though. And I am not complaining. God, You know that in my heart I give thanks for the blessings and the honours You have bestowed upon me. Your will is my desire, Lord, and wherever You send me I shall rejoice with Your Word on my lips.

The greeting party that met me at Bernard’s offices included Albert and Margaret Hewitt, prominent members of the community. He is a bank manager, she a tireless volunteer on various church committees. Also in attendance was Mayor P.J. Dearden and newspaper editor Alexander Allen. They wanted to convey me instantly to the Hewitt’s residence, where I was to spend the night. But begging their indulgence, I turned my steps instead toward Your church, Lord, toward the humble tabernacle raised by the hands of men in Your honour. My hosts seemed somewhat disconcerted by this alteration to their plans, Mrs. Hewitt even flashing an annoyed glance that bespoke the threat of lightening. I later learned that several more dignitaries lay in wait for me in her parlor, and that she was discomfited by my impromptu digression. But I would not be dissuaded by words or looks because I felt Your summons God.

My entourage tagged along as I strode up the main thoroughfare toward St. Saviour’s. I must confess, Lord, I wondered myself why You wanted me to turn this knot of upstanding citizens from their itinerary. What must they have thought of this contrary new priest, who had dropped into their midst? Nevertheless I placed my trust in You and put on a show of confidence because I felt You steering me in the direction we were taking. Your strong hands grasped my shoulders and urged me gently on. At the same time the Holy Spirit infused my heart with exceeding joy. Even though I could not say why, I insisted on this pilgrimage, knowing it was right that it be undertaken.

We made quite a sight, walking in procession down the dusty road. I kept up a brisk pace so that my companions – still doubtful at this turn of events – fell in behind. The late afternoon sun warmed my neck. From off to my right the clang of a smithy’s hammer assaulted my ears. People on the boardwalks stopped to stare. Laughter spilled out onto the street from the darkened doorway of a hotel saloon. I fastened my eyes on the wooden steeple of your church, which stood out bravely against the distant mountains, and a sky blue and translucent as the inside of a robin’s egg. On we marched, oblivious to the noises of men and the distractions of nature.

The doors of Your cedar cathedral were closed. Not surprisingly, since no ordained priest had been sent out to the parish after the departure of Rev. Reynard. I suspected the portal would be locked as well, but stretched out my hand anyway and gave the doors a good rattle just to make my point. Then I turned on my bewildered flock with beseeching eyes and exclaimed: “Locked!”

Now, Lord, I must confess I executed this gesture with an intended theatrical flair. I fully expected at least the hint of a smirk on one or two of the faces in my audience. So imagine my astonishment when I discovered them all downcast, with what appeared to be genuine expressions of remorse on their bowed faces. Not one of them dared meet my gaze – not even Margaret Hewitt. Of course You don’t have to imagine this scene, Lord. You knew perfectly well how they would respond before I uttered my imprecation. Indeed it was You who added the hint of thunder to my voice and the glint of lightening in my eye.

Nor do you have to imagine the jolt of pride that shot through me when I observed the effect of my rebuke upon them. You know I brimmed with righteous indignation, which I would later repent. It was Your Word, not mine, that stunned them, and I sinned against You God, by imagining myself as the author of their confusion. Forgive me.

“Does anyone present have the key to these doors?” I demanded.

Mr. Hewitt fumbled about in his pocket and produced a jangling ring of keys – among them, I suppose, one to the vault of Mammon, and another to Your house of prayer. He jiggled it into the lock, twisted the bolt open, then edged aside, leaving to me the honour of stepping over the threshold.

By now I had quelled my inflated sense of dignity, which threatened to burst my skin it had expanded to such a degree. Keep me from anger, Lord, and overweening pride that parades as righteousness. Remind me always of Christ’s patient strength and willing sacrifice, for I do not have the right to tip over tables in Your temple. I cannot look any man in the eye and say “You, Sir, are a sinner and I condemn you”, because I am a sinner too, and the lowliest sinner of all, beings as I have been blessed with the means and the time to reflect upon Your Truth.

We entered Your sanctuary Lord, perforce in single file, for the gateway was narrow. What sublime calm I discovered there! The air seemed to me like a suspended breath, charged with the power of divine meditation. Right away I felt at home, and at peace, and in communion with all that lay under and above the roof of your tabernacle. The floorboards creaked as I made my way up the aisle to the foot of your alter. Behind me I heard the shuffle of my new flock, settling uncertainly into the pews. But these sounds did not disturb in the least Your profound tranquility My God. They passed through You like light without any reflective object to bar its way. And I knew in that moment for the first time – knew it in my heart – that what St. Augustine says about all  of you being fully existent in every quantum of Your universe is indescribably true, Lord.

I prostrated myself on the floorboards of that magnificent church and gave thanks for the life you have given me and the task you have set me.

Just who's saving who here?

My reading of Red Lights on the Prairie has shifted the centre of gravity for Stained Glass somewhat. Anna Armstrong has become much more prominent.

Madame Blavinsky's offer to finance the installation of the stained glass window in St. Saviour's is really an act of vengeful pride. Having been slighted by the high society types for the 'social evil' she has brought down on the community, Madame Blavinsky wants to leave a permanent testament to her own power and impunity. What better vengeance than to have the congregation look through her stained glass window every Sunday when they gather in their church.

Christopher Dryden does not see the situation for what it is. He accepts her gift as a token of repentance, which he has a moral obligation to accept. Anna, who is Madame Blavinsky's agent and confidant, knows very well what her mistress is up to and, despite her occupation as a prostitute, abhors Madame's tactics and motives. Increasingly unhappy with her role in the affair, she wants to warn the naive Reverend about the danger to him and his ministry, and hints broadly at the nature of Madam's gift. But Anna is afraid to betray outright the woman who controls her livelihood, and who can visit a terrible punishment on her girls.

Anna lets Reverend Dryden 'save her' from her sinful occupation because she loves him. For his part Reverend Dryden, whose naivety is somewhat feigned, enjoys being saved because he believes it's in Anna's best interests to think she's committing a saintly act on his behalf... and because he loves her! Their feelings for each other are sublimated through the lens of Victorian morality and righteousness, but cannot forever be contained by that inhibiting set of values, which are not meant to be applied to all people, at all times.

Christopher Dryden

I am modeling the protagonist, Christopher Dryden, loosely on an Anglican Priest named Christopher Knipe, whose picture along with some biographical details appears in Joan Weir's informative little book Canada's Gold Rush Church. He is described as "an upper class English cleric who had volunteered to come to the Canadian far-west for a five year term at no salary whatever."

A photograph of Rev. Knipe suggests an intelligent man, of stern - perhaps inflexible - character. Like Rev. Knipe, Dryden has just traded his comfortable, well-ordered life in England for the harsh and chaotic environment of a booming Gold Rush town and has been traumatized by the experience.

He is not the type an audience will sympathize with or warm up to right away, though. His principles and austere beliefs make him seem unapproachable. The miners are put off by his intellectualism and primness. Rumors circulate about his 'idiosyncracies'. But over time he does win over some of the town dwellers and, hopefully, most of the readers.

For Reverand Dryden is a good man at heart, who has to unlearn his aloof, aristocratic ways in order to get closer to the rough and tumble citizens of his parish. He will prove to be a man who loves in a deep, humbling way.

Things I don't know about Christopher Dryden:

• Where did he grow up?
• Where did he receive his training as an Anglican priest?
• What is the 'lifestyle' of an Anglican priest?
• How did he arrive at Barkerville (both his decision to accept the mission and his journey from England to the frontier of British Columbia)?