Read A Walk with Jane Austen for Free Online Page B

country. Unfortunately, Jane didn't always like his sermons, which she found too full of “Regeneration & Conversion,” 1 and he had a habit of sending “Letters of cruel comfort,” 2 which seems to hint at Mr. Collins. Jane still found a way to admire the young movement, if she found it too “loud and noisy” 3 for her own tastes. She wrote, “I am by no means convinced that we ought not all to be Evangelicals, & am at least persuaded that they who are so from Reason & Feeling, must be happiest & safest.” 4 I recognize that Jane's religious experiences must have been far different than mine, but I think in fundamentals of belief we might be much the same.
    Jane's books are Christian in that there is a solid Christian moral foundation throughout her writing, but they are not Christian books per se by todays definition. She didn't have to deal with the evangelical culture I was raised in—the one in which Christian things are separate from other normal (or as the church sometimes describes them, “worldly”) things.
    The Church of England was everywhere in Jane's day, a social norm. Everyone went to church. Everyone believed or feigned belief. Which ledto other problems, like rectors who cared more for their incomes than their congregations, and sermons that were perhaps sufficient to entertain or simply endure on a Sunday morning but lacking in spiritual depth. One has only to imagine the torture of being part of Mr. Collins's flock to begin to grasp the weaknesses (evils?) of the church system in Jane's day.
    One thing I know Jane and I would agree on is the ridiculousness that the church can bring out, if not encourage, in people. I believe sometimes that as a group, while trying to be good, we do not exert enough effort toward being normal.
    Austen understood this. Even in her day, faith was sometimes used as a cloak for ridiculous behavior. She didn't spare anyone like this. For her, it seemed nearly as serious as a moral failing.

    There's a lovely spot in the grass by the River Cherwell. If you wander through University Parks heading southeast and continue through a few gates, you will find it. Apparently the Oxford dons used to lay out naked here. Academic dons and nudity don't naturally go together. Today, thankfully, everyone is clothed. It sits in a crook of the small river, so there is water on two sides; there are huge trees and expanses of sun. It's mostly quiet, groups of people talking and solitary people sleeping. A loud crowd of tourists has managed to get a punt stuck in the grass by the bank, and two ten- or eleven-year-old boys have stripped down to their shorts trying to work up the courage to jump in.
    Jack and I sat with our quiet conversation in the midst of the summer commotion. I'd never felt so comfortable, so at home, just sitting and talking.
    “So what do you think you'll do when you finish grad school?” I asked.
    He hesitated a minute. Everything about him was easy—slow and calm. “I'm not really sure,” he said. “I felt called to do this program, and I love it, but I'm not sure exactly what I'm going to do when I'm done. I think it may have something to do with writing.”
    We talked about my writing and his sisters, and he said something about his grandmother calling him William. It was the second time I'd heard him refer to himself as William, and it was like an evil prick in the middle of all this pleasantness. I had to say what I'd been debating.
    “Does…urn, does your family call you William?” I willed out the words.
    “Yeah, how did you know that?”
    “It's just that you were talking about your family a couple times and I thought…you said…‘William.’” I fumbled.
    “Actually, everybody calls me William,” he said. “My real name is Jack William—it's a family name—but everybody calls me William. When I registered for the school here, I gave them my full name, and they started sending me stuff as Jack, and I never corrected them. I'm not sure why.