We were what is known as a “Christian family”. Both our parents came from deeply involved fundamentalist backgrounds. Dad’s father had founded the Plymouth Brethren in Victoria in the 1890’s, and Mum’s father and mother had been missionaries in India, and before that, her mother had been a “Salvation Army Lassie” in the East End of London. So, although I wouldn’t say the atmosphere in our home was “pious” in any sense; we didn’t go in for family prayers or bible study, as some Brethren homes did, yet we felt ourselves to be different from other people whose religion seemed less demanding than ours. When we were little, we never missed Sunday School. That was all right. You got to sing some very jolly “choruses”, and you got a colourful ticket each week with a Bible verse you had to memorize; which would earn you a sticker to put on a wonderful scene, a host of beautiful angels singing in Heaven, or, my favorite, a picture of the Good Shepherd, to which you could add a lamb each week.

When we got to the age of ten or thereabouts, it became necessary to attend the Evening “Meeting”. The adults had already attended the “Lord’s Supper” in the morning; children and unbaptised people were not welcome there. I think if I had ever been allowed to sit in on the Morning Meeting, I would have understood our parents’ unconditional faith somewhat better; as it was, the Evening Meeting struck fear into my heart, and was a thing to be dreaded, to be gotten out of however possible. Not until I was about 15 did I get to sit in on a Morning Meeting, after some weeks of stubbornly refusing to go to the Evening Service. It was an eye-opener. I could hardly believe these were the same people who ranted and raved on Sunday evening, preaching hellfire and damnation. This was something different.

As an unbaptised outsider, I was made to sit by myself in the back row of the Hall. Everyone else quietly took their seats and bowed their heads in silent prayer. Not a sound could be heard. At length, one of the Brethren would stand, or even remain sitting, and start to pray, completely natural and unrehearsed, just a simple direct communion with God. Someone would suggest a hymn which was sung without benefit of organ. Another prayer, a few quietly-groaned or whispered “Amen”s, then someone would read a passage from scripture and humbly suggest a few comments on it. Someone else might respond, add a little more to his thoughts. Then came the Breaking of Bread. My Uncle Edwin officiated at this, if officiated is the right word. He simply took a large loaf of home-made bread, read the appropriate Bible passage, and broke it in half. This was then handed round amongst the Brethren on a wooden platter, so that each could take a piece in their fingers. Same with the wine (probably grape juice) which went round in a large two-handled goblet, from which everyone took a sip, disregarding the possibility of germs. This all took place in perfect silence. You really felt the presence of God in the room. “Where two or three are gathered together in My Name, there I am also”. At last, another unassuming prayer, a brief period for announcements of church business, and, one by one, they all filed out.

How could these same devout Christians condone what went on at the Evening Meeting? Its purpose was surely not to worship God, but to gather in lost souls. It was evangelical in the extreme. The hymns were noisy and robust, the prayers impassioned and exaggerated, but the preaching! Often the preacher, or “speaker”, as he was called, of course a lay person, maybe the local shoe-store proprietor, was not too well educated, a little unsure of his grammar; certainly, the whole atmosphere was low-class and tasteless in the extreme. They did not preach a God of Love, but a vindictive, all­ powerful, grudge-bearing tyrant who was all too ready to cast offenders into the flames. They would often address their threats to “children of Godly parents” (this meant me), who thought they would be all right because they had been raised in a Christian home.

But Woe Unto Them, if they had not fully accepted Christ a their personal Saviour, they could be sure that they were headed straight for the torments of Hell, graphically described, from whence they would look up eternally and see their sainted parents, brothers and sisters, gazing sadly down from Heaven’s Glory. But too bad, the Lost Soul, even though she hadn’t done anything really bad, and therefore might hope to be safe, was Doomed for All Eternity. Never another chance. And Christ could return at any time! “Suppose He should come tonight? Where would You be, oh child of godly parents? Oh, accept the Lord Jesus Christ into your heart, Let Him come into your life!” Oh, I’d gladly accept Him, if I only knew how. Fervently I prayed “Oh, Jesus, please save me, please save me!”

At the door the speaker for the night stood to shake hands with the congregation. He would lean down to me, fix me with an earnest stare: “And are you Saved?” he’d ask. “Yes” I’d lie, adding to my sinfulness by lying about it.

Mum used to wonder why I looked haggard and drawn on Monday mornings. It was because I’d had no sleep the night before. I’d lie awake in terror for my immortal soul. Suppose I was to die in the night? Suppose there was a robber hiding under my bed, as Connie had once suggested, just waiting for me to fall asleep so that he could plunge his dagger up through the mattress and right into my heart? I tried to lie with my hands protecting my heart, begging Jesus to save me. I knew that, once Saved, I would know immediately, A great weight would fall from me, as in “Pilgrim’s Progress”, and would become bright and secure, I would have an inner glow.

Obviously, I was not Saved, because I never experienced the “Peace Which Passeth Understanding”. Not for want of trying. I gradually became convinced that I was somehow too wicked for even Jesus to accept. It was no wonder that as I became older I fabricated more and more ingenious excuses not to go to Meeting. I pretended it was all ridiculous, I became the cynic, the unbeliever. But all the time I knew I had been rejected by Jesus.

My poor mother tried so hard to raise a Christian family. Dad’s faith was more comfortable and matter-of-fact; he didn’t need to think about it, that was just how things were. But Mum’s faith was of a more fervent sort, and though she never “preached” at us, we knew she expected us to follow in the Faith. Of the five of us, only Connie fulfilled Mum’s expectations.

At an early age she became a practicing Christian, and had no doubts or setbacks, at least not that I could see. Faith escaped to the Anglican church as a teenager, and Frank, and later Chris, just stubbornly refused to have anything to do with religion of any sort, just wiped it out of their lives.

I sometimes think if our family had belonged to a milder, more socially accepted faith, I would have settled in without complaint; it was that Evening Meeting that turned me against it.

The Plymouth Brethren Clip

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The Gorge House: Clovelly