Never Man Spake

By Arnold Lunn

	I have sometimes toyed with the idea of a romance on the lines of Butler's <Erewhon>.  My 
scene would be laid in Nodnol, the capital of Atlantis, which did not, as legend asserts, vanish beneath 
the sea, but which still exists cut off from the world.

	The first link with the outside world is provided by the wreck of a small tramp steamer which 
drifts on to the shore of Atlantis.  The few survivors include the pious captain, who contrives to bring 
ashore a Bible which has accompanied him on all his voyages.

	The captain is entertained by Professor Cyjod, who holds the Chair of Literature at the University 
of Nodnol, and who is a recognised leader of the Nodnolian intelligentsia.  Professor Cyjod does not 
like clergymen, and, like most of the intelligentsia, he is convinced that the established religion of 
Atlantis is on its deathbed.  Like all great men, he has his hobby, and his particular hobby consists in 
collecting the more absurd utterances of the lamas of Nodnol and making them into a scrap-book of 
lama nonsense.

	The Professor learns English from the pious captain and begins to read the Bible.  He is 
captivated by the beauty of the Gospels, and foresees with pleasure the literary sensation which will be 
provoked by his translation of the Gospels into the language of Atlantis.  Moreover, he notes with 
pleasure that the Gospels provide a powerful stick with which to beat the lamas of the established 
religion of his country.  He foresees many happy hours elaborating comparisons between the beauty of 
Christianity and the shoddy dreariness of the faith of his fathers.  Needless to say he has no intention 
of suggesting that Christianity is true, for his position as a leader of the intelligentsia would be 
destroyed at once if he showed overt sympathy with any form of religion.  But he foresees correctly 
that he will be encouraged by the plaudits of his disciples if he proves that, as superstitions go, 
Christianity is infinitely superior to the established religion of the country.

	In due course his translation of the Gospels is published and creates a literary sensation of the first 
magnitude.  Literary critics are affected by conflicting emotions; envy that Professor Cyjod should 
have forestalled them and the consequent desire to minimise the importance of his discovery, fear that 
they should fail to anticipate and exploit the literary fashion of the moment.  For to be unfashionable is 
to be forgotten, and the literary critics unite in a chorus of praise of the literary beauties of 
Christianity.  "This beautiful superstition" is the title of a two-column article by Professor Cyjod's 
eminent rival in the leading literary review.

	Christianity becomes the rage.  No cocktail party in the Nodnolian equivalent of Bloomsbury is 
complete without a Bible.  " 'Consider the lilies of the field.'  Oh, my dear, how too divine."  "Her 
sins, which are many, are forgiven; for she loved much."  This is a popular quotation, for if "loving 
much" is a qualification for forgiveness, every member of the Nodnolian intelligentsia feels capable of 
passing this test with flying colours.

	I have often felt a real sympathy for our own intelligentsia.  Vague allusions to the supreme 
beauty of Eastern religions are common enough in their writings.  Both Mr. Joad and Professor 
Haldane, in our controversies, have drawn my attention to the spiritual values of Hinduism, that 
refined creed which prescribes for the faithful a diet of cow-dung, which hands over little girls of five 
to become the official prostitutes of the temple priests, and which fills its temples with phallic designs 
exhibiting all forms of vice, natural and unnatural.  But I sympathise with the intelligentsia, for every 
attempt to compare other religions with Christianity only serves to make more manifest the unique 
glory of the Faith.

	It is difficult to imagine the impact which the Gospels would make upon the mind of a man who 
was reading them for the first time.  How would you react, reader, if you stumbled by chance on the 
story of the Christ-child born in a manger "because there was no room for them in the inn" ?  What 
other religion has had the audacity to begin with God in a stable?  Try to read the story of the woman 
taken in adultery as if you were reading it for the first time, then turn to the no less wonderful tale of 
the woman who was a sinner, the woman who washed Christ's feet with her tears.  Then read the 
parable of the Prodigal Son, and you will find it difficult not to echo the exclamation of men for whom 
custom had not staled the infinite variety of Christ's words, "Never man spake like this man."

	"Consider the lilies of the field, how they grow; they toil not, neither do they spin: And yet I say 
unto you, That even Solomon in all his glory was not arrayed like one of these.  Wherefore, if God so 
clothe the grass of the field, which to-day is, and to-morrow is cast into the oven, shall he not much 
more clothe you, O ye of little faith? "  Has any poet of this world ever said anything lovelier?  
Indeed, the word poet is too weak for Christ, but perhaps that fine Anglo-Saxon word songsmith, 
which has disappeared from our language, might without irreverence be applied to one who on the 
anvil of eternal truth struck out songs whose music has filled the centuries with enchanted melody.

	Read the story of the Crucifixion as if you were reading it for the first time.  "Father, forgive 
them; for they know not what they do."  Has human passion ever found so divine expression? "  My 
God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me? "  Is there anything like that in human tragedies before or 
since?  Does Sophocles strike this note?  Does Shakespeare?

	And mark how loveliness is married to sorrow even in the closing movement of the final act.  
How beautiful upon the mountains are the feet of him that bringeth good tidings even when those feet 
are climbing the mount of Calvary.  "Father, forgive them. . . .  To-day shalt thou be with me in 
Paradise. . . .  Then said he to the disciple, Behold thy mother. . . ."  Can these sayings be matched in 
all the masterpieces of men?

	Read the story of Christ's appearance before Pilate.  How immeasurably this story would have 
lost had Pilate been shown, as a writer of fiction would probably have shown him, as a callous and 
unimaginative procurator only too ready to hand over a troublesome fanatic to his troublesome foes.  
How the story gains when we begin to understand the impact of Jesus on his judge, on a man very like 
you and me, a man who had felt the magic of Jesus as so many who disown him have felt it, but who 
had not the courage to fall down and worship.

	Pilate's distaste for the <role> which had been assigned to him is obvious from the first.  I see 
him as a Roman, characteristic of his age, an age which had lost its faith in the gods, but which was 
still susceptible to superstition.  Pilate reflected, as so many moderns reflect, "there may be something 
in it after all."  He had nothing but contempt for the fanaticism of the Jews, and he faces, with Roman 
disdain, the angry priests who are demanding death for a man of whose immeasurable superiority he is 
uneasily aware.  He explores every avenue for compromise.  He is superstitious, for superstition 
flourishes in a time of religious decay, and he is sorely troubled by his wife's dreams.  "Have thou 
nothing to do with that just man: for I have suffered many things this day in a dream because of him."  
Surely authentic history speaks in that verse.

	As for poor Pilate, he becomes more hot and bothered as the hours pass.  Desperately he tries to 
escape.  He offers the angry crowd the ultimate choice, Jesus or Barabbas, and they choose Barabbas.  
Still Pilate persists, but his courage fails when he hears that terrible cry, "If thou let this man go, thou