for he was a great lover of the church, a constant attender to the sermons of the church, a diligent hearer of the prayers of the church, and an obedient son to perform the commands of the church. He was diligent in his times and circumstances of devotion; he would often be at church so early, that he was seen to walk long in the church-yard before prayers, being as ready to confess his sins at the beginning, as to receive the blessing at the end of prayers.
This extract begins with a phrase familiar to many Anglican clergy: faithful Anglicans are often described as 'loving their church'. For the 'godly' - then and now - such language, inevitably, is lacking and insufficient. Taylor's use of the term, however, reminds us of its significance, of how it speaks of a love for a place of prayer, of communion, of grace, of rootedness in God. We should, then, be embarrassed about such a description of ordinary Anglican piety.
Then there is Dalston walking in the churchyard, as he awaited divine service to begin. Those of us who value walking in churchyards - whether in the long evenings of Summer or the cold of November days, fallen leaves underfoot - will know why Sir Gregory arrived early at the parish church. The churchyard aids a thoughtful approach to divine service, the gravestones reminding us of our mortality and of our dependence upon, in the words of the exhortation at Morning and Evening Prayer, "almighty God our heavenly Father":
In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour, but of thee, O Lord ...
The churchyard is not a place of loud enthusiasms but of sober reflection, in which nature and grace, secular and sacred are held together - the very stuff of Anglican piety.
Taylor continues by referring to Dalston as a "lover of sermons":
Indeed he was so great a lover of sermons, that though he knew how to value that which was the best, yet he was patient of that which was not so; and if he could not learn any thing to improve his faith, yet he would find something to exercise his patience, and something for charity ...
Sermons may not be the first thing that comes to mind when considering Anglican piety, but appreciation for a decent sermon - thoughtful, reasonable, sober - has long been and continues to be a staple of Anglican lay piety. A characteristic of the preaching appreciated by Anglican laity over the centuries has been an avoidance of both dogmatism and enthusiasm, instead having a sober focus on the articles and duties of the faith. We something of this captured in words of Sir Robert Howard from 1694, in the Preface to his History of Religion, regarding Tillotson's sermons:
I like such sermons as Dr. Tillotson's, where all are taught a plain and certain way of salvation, and with all the charms of a calm and blessed temper and of pure reason are excited to the uncontroverted, indubitable duties of religion; where all are plainly shown that the means to obtain the eternal place of happy rest are those, and no other, which also give peace in the present life; and where everyone is encouraged and exhorted to learn, but withal to use his own care and reason in working out his own salvation.
What, however, of those sermons and those preachers who fall short? Taylor's reference to Sir Gregory's patience and tolerance for poor sermons - "he would find something to exercise his patience, and something for charity" - also, I think, reflects a widespread instinct in Anglican laity. It does bring to mind a 2018 article, regarding faithful Episcopalian President George H.W. Bush’s disagreement with the opposition of the then Presiding Bishop of TEC to the liberation of Kuwait:
As many an English squire would attest, tolerating the eccentricities of the clergy is simply one of the obligations that flow from the ancient principle of noblesse oblige …
The squire here embodies a commonplace lay Anglican view, in which the parish church is wisely understood to be greater than the parson's preaching abilities. Part of the reason for this is also mentioned by Taylor regarding Dalston:
yet this his great love of sermons could not tempt him to a willingness of neglecting the prayers of the church, of which he was a great lover to his dying day.
Just as the parish church is greater than the parson's preaching abilities, so divine service is greater than the sermon. Taylor would remind the clergy of his diocese of this in 1661:
Let no Preacher compare one Ordinance with another; as Prayer with Preaching, to the disparagement of either; but use both in their proper seasons, and according to appointed Order.
Sir Gregory's love for the offices and rhythms of the Prayer Book are conveyed by Taylor's words in the funeral sermon. Here too we see a common characteristic of Anglican lay piety: the comfort derived from the Prayer Book, nourished and guided by its prayers and ministrations, a sense that it accompanies us as the years pass, 'through all the changing scenes of life'.
In all of this, we can detect what would become a conventional Anglican piety. Significantly, there is nothing at all here in Taylor's description of Dalston's piety that can be deemed 'Laudian' (a term which I am increasingly convinced should be abandoned). Indeed, we might see Sir Gregory as an example of what Judith Maltby described as "Prayer Book protestantism" or "parochial Prayer Book conformity". There is, says Maltby, a tendency in historical studies to privilege the zeal of the 'hotter sort' over "an attachment, perhaps even love, for the Church of England". This is so not only in historical studies: it tends to be a common approach to disparaging ordinary, conventional Anglican lay piety, such as that represented by Sir Gregory Dalston. Taylor's sermon, however, portrays something of the gentle attractiveness of such a piety, of a quiet love for parish church and Prayer Book. In a time when louder enthusiasms - ecclesial and secular - are fashionable, may it be an encouragement for us to follow Sir Gregory's example.
(The picture is of the churchyard of St. Michael's Church, Dalston, Cumbria.)
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