cross and follow Me"; "ye shall be hated"; "he that would save his
life shall lose it." It is a call to take risks, to risk poverty,
unpopularity, humiliation, death. It is a call to follow the way of
the Cross. But the way of the Cross is also the way of peace, the
peace of God that passeth understanding. It is a way of freedom from
all cares, and anxieties, and fears; but not a way of escape from them.

Yet worrying is often a feature of the actual Churchman. The actual
Churchman is often a man whose conscience is an incubus. He can do
nothing without weighing motives and calculating results. It makes
him introspective to an extent that is positively morbid. He is
continually probing himself to discover whether his motives are really
pure and disinterested, continually trying to decide whether he is
"worthy" or "fit" to undertake this or that responsibility, or to
face this or that eventuality. He is full of suspicion of himself,
of self-distrust. In the trenches he is always wondering whether he
is fit to die, whether he will acquit himself worthily in a crisis,
whether he has done anything that he ought not to have done, or left
undone anything that he ought to have done. Especially if he is an
officer, his responsibility weighs on him terribly, and I have known
more than one good fellow and conscientious Churchman worry himself
into thinking that he was unfit for his responsibilities as an
officer, and ask to be relieved of them.

There must be something wrong about the Christianity of such men.
Their over-conscientiousness seems to create a wholly wrong sense
of proportion, an exaggerated sense of the significance of their own
actions and characters which is as far removed as can be from the
childlike humility which Christ taught. The truth seems to be that we
lay far too much stress on conscience, self-examination, and personal