Preschi Prescha In A Pulpit...

Published by Americana Exchange / February 2014

Father Massillon standing in the pulpit, and about to pronounce the funeral oration of Louis XIV—said Louis the Great—, observes the morbid fanfare then raises his eyes to the heavens: God alone is great, my brothers. During the Grand Siècle, even sermons were bound to excellence. This I was recently taught by an unusual little book.

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Pulpit Preschi Prescha,

or the Art of Preaching

Most people enjoy reading fashionable books, I prefer weird books with unexpected subjects—some titles alone have haunted me for years like the wonderful Torrent de feu sortant de la face de Dieu—Stream of Fire Proceeding for the Face of God. The other day, curiosity urged me to buy a bizarre book entitled L’Art de Prescher—The Art of Preaching. The vast majority of religious books are plain boring to me. But this one had arguments. First, it is anonymous—a good omen, usually the signature of some satirical writer. Plus, it was printed by Pierre du Marteau, the notorious fictive printer under whose name were printed forbidden or sulphurous works. I thus expected a dark satire of hypocritical religious. I was wrong; but I was right—to buy it. Yes my brethren, the Lord moves in a mysterious way, and He drove me to an extinct literary genre, the sermon.

Mr Marteau (Hammer) lived in Cologne

I soon found out about my anonymous author, Pierre de Villiers (1648-1728). According to F.X de Feller’s dictionary, he was a highly respectable man. Now, that was a first blow—Feller was a conservative man, and a Voltaire-hater; which means he would have never said any good about any anti-clerical writer. Indeed, Pierre de Villiers was first a respected Jesuit, then a respected member of the congregation of Cluny. I got scared. What if I had spent some money over a boring religious book? But then, how come Pierre de Marteau was involved? A matter of privilège—the official authorization to publish a book—, maybe? Or was it a pirate edition? Though the preface mentions previous editions that allegedly earned this work general approbation, the National Library of France lists no anterior copy—another printer’s trick, probably. Disillusioned and resigned, I nonetheless opened my book, and started to read. “We need no help to make out a good piece of work,” wrote our author. “When good, it speaks for itself—and we listen, never mistaking a bad for a good.” As a matter of fact, his pretty fine verses spoke to me—and I lent an ear.

Bourdaloue & Massillon

Writers from the Grand Siècle unveiled the torments of Man’s heart, but always elegantly—and thus nurtured a precious and tortured literature. Everything was then subject to excellence—including sermons. Two eloquent preachers became famous at the time, Fathers Bourdaloue and Massillon. “Father Bourdaloue preached divinely well in Les Tuileries,” wrote Countess de Sévigné after the religious’ first sermon in front of Louis XIV in 1670. “His talent is way beyond everything we expected.” As a matter of fact, he was called the king of preachers, and the king’s preacher. But the gentle Massillon was a serious contender who also preached before the Sun King. “Father,” said the King at the end of one of his sermons, “when I hear other preachers, I’m quite satisfied with them. But anytime I hear you, I’m hardly satisfied with myself.” According to F.X. de Feller, Bourdaloue was more of a bold conqueror (...) when Massillon was more of a clever mediator. Their sermons were printed—Bourdaloue’s works filled sixteen in-8° volumes in 1707—and now clutter up the shelves of our booksellers. The Court attended their sermons with excitement. Countess de Sévigné wrote that she visited Bourdaloue, like a country—she was quite a colourful writer—and that every single person of quality was present. But her somewhat ironic remarks tell a lot about the state of mind of the Court: “Good God!” she voluntarily swore. “Everything is below the praises Bourdaloue deserves.” The Court was a carnivorous animal, harmful to beauty and simplicity. Sermons became fashionable, and ended up far from what they were in the mouths of the Early Church Fathers. In Les Caractères, La Bruyère—who attended Bourdaloue’s sermons—underlined the change: “Nobody seriously listens to the Holy Word any more, it has become an entertainment among others; a game with emulation and gamblers.” Furthermore, many young gamblers of quality embraced a religious career as other opportunities at the time were reserved to their eldest brothers. And many were motivated by fame and vanity. “People very different from Saints nowadays climb the steps of the pulpit,” deplored the author of L’Art de Prescher. Whether saints or devils, we can hardly believe that there was a time when young people dreamt of becoming a Bourdaloue!

Ghosts & Hypocrites

In order to teach how to preach, De Villiers gave counter-examples, and drew various portraits of bad preachers à la La Bruyère. “There’s no abbot at Court whom I shall not beat,” says a proud young preacher imagined by De Villiers, “My gestures are charming, my hands are moving elegantly, I know it. / At least twenty less talented abbots have preached, whom the pulpit offered a bishopric. / All is said, on Wednesday I’ll preach for the first time.” In the pulpit like anywhere else, eloquence starts with a good text. That’s why many preachers—mostly in the country, where they dreamt of the Court—hired ghost writers. “This is quite common,” wrote De Villiers, “and thousands of orators in France,/ To complacent ghost writers owe their eloquence. /Everyday people in the country, / Hear the words of some absentee.” Nevertheless, the text wasn’t all. One needed memory as well. Even the greatest forgot their lines from time to time, and when asked about his best piece of work, Massillon—though some attribute the quote to Bourdaloue—answered: “The one I remember the best.” M. De Feller had a suggestion: “We might ease their difficulties by granting the preachers the right to take a quick look at their notes from time to time.” But some young preachers didn’t even care about their blunders; their flattering friends were always here to comfort them.

My soul for a ribbon: There were also some pretentious preachers, who quoted the Scriptures at length, in Greek or Latin.  “Do not make, out of pretentious knowledge, / From Greek and Latin a burlesque manège,” warns our author; but De Villiers didn’t follow fashion either, and condemned those who, in order to make the Bible clearer to the Ladies, make Jesus Christ speak in the latest fashion. Others didn’t practice what they preached, and gave the pulpit a bad name. Some, like one Bizot, blamed indiscriminately. “When you blame the powerful for their inconsiderate expense,” begs De Villiers, “And wish in their clothes less magnificence, / Don’t you go too far, damning your brother for a ribbon.” 

Let the poets bury the dead: Preachers dreamt of rubbing shoulders with the powerful—and flattered them. “Some use the pulpit as a step stone, / For rich sinners use kinder words, and a lighter tone, / Praising their probity over a tombstone.” As a matter of fact, funeral orations were another genre not to be mixed up with sermons—they were considered as a vulgar exercise. Only the bravest could remain righteous over the coffin of a powerful. “Let’s imagine Massillon standing in the pulpit,” writes La Harpe in the Encyclopaedia, “about to pronounce the funeral oration of Louis XIV—said Louis the Great—, first looking around, observing the usual morbid fanfare that follows the powerful up to their graves (...). He looks down for a while then raises his eyes to the heavens and declares with a firm and grave voice: God alone is great, my brothers.” Otherwise, the exercise was considered quite vulgar; genuine religious praised the Creator, not the creatures. They should leave it to writing mercenaries such as Esprit Fléchier. De Villiers wondered: “Should I blame an established custom? / Go and join Fléchier, to this morbid exercise accustom’d. / I am joking—but Abbot, what could I say, / About this misleading habit that every day, / At the foot of the tabernacle, out of a wicked, / Portrays a saint despite his evil deed’? / Leave flattery to the paid poets.”

      Martin & the flatterers: De Villiers went to listen to one Martin: “After his trembling introduction, he hesitated, repeated himself, and got confuse’, / He drifted on a sea of uncertainty, without oars or sails to use.” At the end of the sermon, his friends praised Martin. “Humble in the middle of glory,” writes De Villiers, “he deplored his laps in memory / Though otherwise finding his sermon quite satisfactory. / “Blanks?” laughed his friends, “There was none, you must be kidding!” / Who did notice anyway? No one who was listening.” / Upon hearing his friends, Martin smiled and felt better, / Taking their words for it, he remembered he was a terrific preacher. / Standing aside,” concluded the author, “I blushed with shame to see he wasn’t doing the same.”

De Villiers knew about the mighty maze of Man’s heart; and thus warned the too eloquent learning preachers: “To condemn, you speak the words of malicious gossiping/ You carefully depict the art of seducing—even loving. / Ô! Uninitiated translator of the plots of the high society, / Make sure you promote not the hated vices involuntarily, / Attracting to your sermons a vicious listener! / Always remember your aim while portraying a sinner.” Reading this part, I felt a little bit like Louis XIV—yes, I did—after Massillon’s sermon, exposed. As a man of his time, De Villiers had a somewhat dark vision of Man—and a resigned hope in mankind. Talking about the change a good sermon ought to make in everyone’s life, he stated with lucidity: “But this change will never take place. / No matter how zealous or convincing we preachers might be, / To rebellious listeners we hurt ourselves daily. / Needless to look for examples overseas, / I am uselessly writing those few verses.” Don’t be too sad, Abbot, and remember: God doesn’t require us to succeed; he only requires that you try.

© Thibault Ehrengardt

L’Art de Prescher: (Anonymous), A Cologne, Chez Pierre du Marteau—1682.

Title, preface (4pp), 61 pages (numbered from 7 to 68).

PS : Father Bourdaloue has given his name to two objects. 1) A delicious pear-pie that was invented by a pastry cook who operated in Rue Bourdaloue (Bourdaloue Street), in Paris—the street was named after the preacher. 2) Some portable toilets used by people who attended his sermons. He could speak for hours, and it was sometimes necessary to discreetly relieve oneself. One copy can be seen at the Hautefort’s Museum of Medecine (www.musee-medecine-hautefort.com).