Moses, not Darwin A sermon preached at St. Mark's, Surbiton, Kingston-on-Thames on Friday, March 31, 1871 — Inside the Classic

The Rhetoric of Certainty

Johns employs a declarative, homiletic voice that brooks little ambiguity. His sentences often begin with 'Thus,' 'Yet,' or 'But, still,' creating a rhythm of assertion and rebuttal. For example, after describing the 'infinite gulf' between humans and animals, he declares: 'Yet, my brethren, the gulf remains. God has drawn the line between man and beast, and no human power can abolish it.' This pattern—state a position, anticipate an objection, then reassert—gives the sermon a forensic quality. Johns also uses rhetorical questions to dismiss opposing views: 'Where is one, only one, such monstrosity… who is even remotely beginning to grow into human likeness or shape?' The questions are not meant to invite answer but to underscore the absurdity of evolutionary claims.

Pace and Accumulation

The sermon's pace shifts markedly between sections. Early passages are measured, with Johns unpacking the Genesis text in long, periodic sentences that build toward a climax: 'the whole living man, the body in its strength, pride, and beauty; the mind, the keen reason, the swift intelligence, the glowing imagination; and the soul…' This accumulation of clauses mirrors the creation he describes—layered and deliberate. Later, when Johns turns to attack Darwinism, the pace quickens. Sentences become shorter, more staccato: 'No such being has ever been found… A gulf not to be crossed but by the shallow and flippant philosopher.' The final paragraphs slow again, returning to a consolatory tone: 'let us be content with this hope.' This rhythmic variation keeps the congregation engaged through a single, sustained argument.

Imagery of Light and Darkness

Johns repeatedly contrasts light with darkness to frame his theological argument. The face of a child bears 'the imperishable marks of God's handiwork, and the beauty, and freshness, and innocence shine out, till we think of the faces of the Blessed before the Throne on high.' Evolutionary theory, by contrast, leads to 'confusion, darkness, and shame.' The 'breath of life' is itself a luminous image—a divine spark that lifts humans above brute creation. Johns extends this metaphor to the afterlife: believers receive 'the rapture of immortality,' while deniers face 'darkness.' The imagery is not merely decorative; it reinforces the sermon's central claim that humans are fundamentally spiritual beings, illuminated by God's direct action, not products of a blind, material process.

Readers should note that this sermon represents a specific moment in the Victorian reception of Darwinism—a clerical response that relies on rhetorical force rather than scientific counterargument. Johns never engages with On the Origin of Species directly; instead, he caricatures evolutionary theory as a creed of 'eat, then, drink, and to-morrow die.' The sermon's power lies in its pulpit oratory: the repetition of key phrases, the rhythmic shifts in pace, and the stark binary between divine creation and soulless materialism. For those interested in the intersection of religion and science in the 1870s, this text offers a vivid example of how one clergyman used the language of scripture to resist a paradigm shift.

Holding this 1871 sermon, I remembered my grandfather’s worn Bible, its margins filled with his quiet doubts about progress. He’d have found kinship in Johns’s insistence on a sacred gap between us and the animals. That same yearning for dignity surfaces in Welcome to the ransomed; or, Duties of the colored inhabitants of the District of Columbia — Background and Themes, where another voice claims a fixed, human worth against the era’s casual reductions.