"What does your own experience suggest, Reverend?" "Generally, a person's behavior is consistent with his nature. Which is only to say his behavior is consistent. The consistency is what I mean when I speak of his nature." I recognized a redundancy there, a circularity. He smiled. "People don't change, then," he said.
"They do, if there is some other factor involved—drink,
or some sort of personal influence. That is, their behavior changes. Whether that means their nature changes or that another aspect of it becomes visible is hard to say."
He said, "For a man of the cloth, you're pretty cagey."
That made old Boughton laugh. "You should have seen him thirty years ago."
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"I did."
"Well," his father said, "you should have been paying attention."
Jack shrugged. "I was."
Now, that got to me a little. I don't know why Boughton would have led him on like that. Cagey at checkers, maybe. I said, "I'm just trying to find a slightly useful way of saying there are things I don't understand. I'm not going to force
some theory on a mystery and make foolishness of it, just because that is what people who talk about it normally do."
Your mother looked at me, so I knew I must have sounded upset. I was upset. Nine-tenths of the time when some smart aleck starts in on theological questions he's only trying to put me in a false position, and I'm just too old to see the joke in it anymore. Then Glory came to the door and said, "Your five minutes aren't up yet," as if anyone needed to underscore the futility.
But your mother spoke up, which surprised us all. She said, "What about being saved?" She said, "If you can't change, there don't seem much purpose in it." She blushed. "That's not what I meant."
"You've made an excellent point, dear," Boughton said. "I worried a long time about how the mystery of predestination could be reconciled with the mystery of salvation. I remember thinking about that a great deal."
"No conclusions?" Jack asked.
"None that I can remember." Then he said, "To conclude is not in the nature of the enterprise."
Jack smiled at your mother as if he was looking for an ally, someone to share his frustration, but she just sat very still and studied her hands.
"I should think," he said, "that the question Mrs. Ames has raised is one you gentlemen would approach with great seri152
ousness. I know you have attended tent meetings only as interested observers, but— Excuse me. I don't believe anyone else
wants to pursue this, so I'll let it go." Your mother said, "I'm interested."
Old Boughton, who was getting a little ruffled, said, "I
hope the Presbyterian Church is as good a place as any to learn the blessed truths of the faith, including redemption and salvation first of all. The Lord knows I have labored to make
it so."
"Pardon me, Father," Jack said. "I'll go find Glory. She'll tell me how to make myself useful. You always said that was the best way to keep out of trouble."
"No, stay," your mother said. And he did.
There was an uneasy silence, so I remarked that he might find Karl Barth a help, just for the sake of conversation. He said, "Is that what you do when some tormented soul arrives on your doorstep at midnight? Recommend Karl Barth?"
I said, "It depends on the case," which it does. I have found Barth's work to be full of comfort, as I believe I have told you elsewhere. But in fact, I don't recall ever recommending him to any tormented soul except my own. That is what I mean about being put in a false position.
Your mother said, "A person can change. Everything can change." Still never looking at him.
He said, "Thanks. That's all I wanted to know."
So that was the end of the conversation. We went home to supper.
I was left wondering what he was referring to when he mentioned tent meetings. And I have thought a lot about that word
"cagey." I have always dreaded having to talk theology with
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people who have no sympathy for it. I've been evasive from time to time, that's true. I see the error of assuming a person is not speaking with you in good faith. It's not respectful, I know that, and I don't do it often. Nor do I have much occasion to around here, where it seems as if I've baptized half the people I pass on the street and taught them all the theology they will ever know.
But it is hard for me to see good faith in John Ames Boughton, and that's a terrible problem. As we were walking home, your mother said, "He was only asking a question," which was almost a rebuke, coming from her. Then, after we'd walked a little farther, she said, "Maybe some people aren't so comfortable with themselves." Now, that was a rebuke. And she was quite right. What need had an old soldier like me to defend himself even from mockery, if that was what he was up to? There was no question of need, there was only habit.
I believe I have tried never to say anything Edward would have found callow or naive. That constraint has been useful to me, in my opinion. It may be a form of defensiveness, but I hope it has at least been useful on balance. There is a tendency among some religious people even to invite ridicule and to bring down on themselves an intellectual contempt which
seems to me in some cases justified. Nevertheless, I would advise you against defensiveness on principle. It precludes the
best eventualities along with the worst. At the most basic level, it expresses a lack of faith. As I have said, the worst eventualities can have great value as experience. And often enough,
when we think we are protecting ourselves, we are struggling against our rescuer. I know this, I have seen the truth of it with my own eyes, though I have not myself always managed to live by it, the Good Lord knows. I truly doubt I would know how to live by it for even a day, or an hour. That is a remarkable thing to consider.
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I believe it will put my mind at ease to tell you straightforwardly what is at issue here. Sleep has become a great problem,
elusive, and then pretty grueling when it comes. Prayer
has not been equal to quieting these perturbations. If I feel
that what I tell you is untrue in some way, or that I simply ought not to tell it, I can just destroy these pages. The)^ certainly won't be the first I've destroyed. Back when I had a
woodstove, it was a satisfyingly easy thing to do. There was a Tightness to seeing nonsense and frustration fall into the
flames. I'm thinking we should have somebody build us a barbecue, like the Muellers did.
Let me say first of all that the grace of God is sufficient to any transgression, and that to judge is wrong, the origin and essence of much error and cruelty. I am aware of these things, as I hope you are also.
Let me say, too, that there are bonds which oblige me to special tolerance and kindness toward this young man, John Ames Boughton. He is the beloved child of my oldest and dearest friend, who gave him to me, so to speak, to compensate
for my own childlessness. I baptized him in Boughton's congregation. I remember the moment very clearly, Boughton and
Mrs. Boughton and all the little ones there at the font, watching to see my joyful surprise, which I hope they did see, because my feelings at the time were a little more complex than
I'd have wished. I had not been warned.
All this being the case, it offends my conscience to bear witness against him. Nevertheless, there is a very real sense in
which people are fairly and appropriately associated with their histories, for human purposes. To say a thief is a brother man 155
and beloved of God is true. To say therefore a thief is not a thief is an error. I don't wish to imply that young Boughton ever, to the best of my knowledge, stole anything of significance in any conventional sense of the word "stole." It is only
to explain why I feel I may speak to you of his past, or at least of what little I know of it and what is to the point.
As I said before, the basic circumstances themselves are so commonplace that
they can be dealt with in a very few words. About twenty years ago, while he was still in college at any rate, he became involved with a young girl, and the involvement produced a child. This sort of thing happens, and it is
sorted out one way or another, as any clergyman can tell you.
In this instance, however, there were aggravating circumstances. For one thing, the girl was very young. For another, her
family situation was desolate, even squalid. In other words, to say the least, she enjoyed none of the protections a young girl needs. How Jack Boughton even found her has never, been clear to me. She and her family lived in an isolated house with a lot of mean dogs under the porch. It was a sad place and
she was a sad child. And there he was with his college airs and his letter sweater and that Plymouth convertible he got somewhere for a song, he said, when he was asked about it. (Boughton had so many children to educate, they all had to work, Jack too, and a car was out of the question even for old Boughton. His congregation gave him a used Buick in 1946, because by then it was too hard for him to walk anywhere.) Jack Boughton had no business in the world involving himself with that girl. It was something no honorable man would
have done. However I turn it over in my mind, that fact remains. And here is a prejudice of mine, confirmed by my
lights through many years of observation. Sinners are not all dishonorable people, not by any means. But those who are dishonorable never really repent and never really reform. Now, I
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may be wrong here. No such distinction occurs in Scripture. And repentance and reformation are matters of the soul which
only the Lord can judge. But, in my experience, dishonor is recalcitrant. When I see it, my heart sinks, because I feel I have
no help to offer a dishonorable person. I know the deficiency may be my own altogether.
In any case, young Boughton never acknowledged the
child, to make any provision for it at all. But he did tell his father about it. As if confessing a transgression, as his father saw it, though to me it seemed like pure meanness, because he must have known that grandchild would weigh on old Boughton's mind something terrible, as it did. He even told Boughton where the young girl lived, and Glory drove the
old man out there in that foolish convertible. Boughton hoped to baptize the child—it was a little girl—or at least to satisfy himself that she would be baptized, but the people were hostile to him, as if he were the one at fault. So he left some
money and went away, very dejected and humiliated. He was so obviously miserable that Mrs. Boughton made Glory tell her what the problem was, and then she was so miserable that Glory drove them both out in the country. Mrs. Boughton had to see the baby, and she had to hold her. It was probably unwise for her to do that. Well, I held her, too. Where wisdom could have found a place in a situation like that one I don't claim to know. They brought diapers and clothes and they left money.
This went on for a long time. It went on for several years, in fact. Glory used to come to me and cry about it, because nothing ever got better. The baby was always too dirty and too
small.
She took me out to see the situation for myself, and I can
tell you it was very bad. People have a right to live as they see fit, but that was no place for an infant. There were tin cans and broken glass all over the yard and dirty old mattresses on the 157
floor, and who knows what all. Dogs everywhere. How could young Boughton have taken advantage of that girl? And then to have abandoned her? Glory said when she asked her brother if he planned to marry the girl he just said, "You've seen her." On the way there Glory told me how I must try to persuade the family to let the girl and her baby come into town and live in a nice Christian family. I tried that, but her father spat on the floor and said, "She's already got a nice Christian family." Then all the way home Glory described a plan she had
come up with to kidnap the child. The baby, that is. She knew some stories about the old days when they used to smuggle fugitives up from Missouri, and she thought one small infant would be a much easier thing to conceal. Several houses in town have hidden cellars or cabinets where people could be put out of sight for a day or two. The church has one in the attic. I'll have to remember to show it to you. It will involve climbing a ladder. Well, we'll see.
I told her that in the old days towns like ours were a conspiracy. Lots of people were only there to be antislavery by any
means that came to hand. Persuading someone to take a child from her mother, to steal it, was a very different thing, especially since Glory had no evidence of any claim on the child.
She said she had written again and again to young Boughton asking him to acknowledge the child for his parents' sake. She had washed the baby and dressed her up and sent him smiling photographs. She had photographed the baby in his father's arms. Jack sent Glory cards on her birthday and boxes of chocolate and made no reference whatever to his child or to the misery he had caused in their household. She was crying so hard she had to pull off the road. "They're so sad!" she said. "They're so ashamed!" (Young Boughton did have the decency to leave his convertible and take the train back to school, so that Glory could drive her parents out to see that poor croupy, rashy child every week or so.)
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Well, here is the end of the story. The little girl lived about three years. She was turning into a spry, wiry little thing, a source of sullen pride to her mother and her nice Christian family. But she cut her foot somehow and died of the infection. The last time they visited her, they saw she was in bad shape.
So Glory went and found a doctor, but by then there was nothing to be done. The grandfather said, "Her lot was very hard,"
and Glory slapped him. He threatened to press charges, but I guess he never got around to it. He let the Boughtons bury the little girl in their family plot, since they agreed to pay the expenses and a little more beside. So there she is. The stone says
Baby, three years (her mother had never really settled on a name), and then: "Their angels in Heaven always see the face of My Father in Heaven."
It is a bitter story, and left us all with much to regret. I suppose we really should have stolen her. The fact is, though, that Glory's scheme would probably have ended with her and some of the rest of us in jail, the baby back with its mother, and
young Boughton under a tree somewhere, reading Huxley or Carlyle, his convertible at last restored to him. I don't know the right and wrong of a situation like that. I suppose we could have bought the child if we'd somehow managed to raise the money. But that's a crime, too. And those people had a sort
of blackmail situation, with the baby as hostage. If the Lord hadn't taken her home, it could have gone on for decades. Glory said, "If we could have had herjust one weekV Then what, I wonder. I know exactly why she would say that, but I wonder what it means. I have often thought the same about that other child of mine.
Now they have penicillin, and so many things are different.
In those days you could die of almost anything, almost nothing. "We brought her shoes," Mrs. Boughton said. "Why was
she barefoot?" The girl said, "Savin' 'em." The poor little girl, her mother. She was white and sullen, about to die of sadness, 159
by the look of her. What to do with all the frustration and regret that builds up in this life? She had left school, and all we
ever knew of her was that she ran off to Chicago.
That's all I think I need to tell you about Jack Boughton. When his mother died he didn't come home, as I have said. Maybe he wanted to spare us all having to deal with him.
They loved that baby the way they did because they loved
Jack so much. She looked just like him. And now here he is at home, and Glory as glad to be with him as if no shadow had ever fallen between them at all. I have no idea why he is at home. Nor do I know what reconciliation they have worked out among themselves. If my sermon had disturbed it, I would not feel equal to th
e regret that would have cost me.
Twenty years is a long time. I know nothing about those
years, and I believe that I would know—if anything had happened that redounded at all to his credit. He doesn't have the
look of a man who has made good use of himself, if I am any judge.
I found a couple of my sermons under the Bible on the night table, which I take to mean that your mother recommends
them to my attention. She has brought down a number of
those sermons, fetched them down in the laundry basket, and she really is reading them. She says that I should use some of them, to spare myself effort that I might otherwise spend writing to you. That is a much more persuasive notion than her
earlier one, that I should use them to spare myself effort. If I really thought I wasn't up to writing a sermon, I'd have to resign my pulpit. But the thought of having more time with you
is a different thing altogether. 160
One of the sermons is on forgiveness. It is dated June 1947.
I don't know what the occasion was. I might have been thinking of the Marshall Plan, I suppose. I don't find much in it to
regret. It interprets "Forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors" in light of the Law of Moses on that subject. That is,
the forgiveness of literal debt and the freeing of slaves every seventh year, and then the great restoration of the people to
their land, and to themselves if they were in bondage, every fiftieth year. And it makes the point that, in Scripture, the one sufficient reason for the forgiveness of debt is simply the existence of debt. And it goes on to compare this to divine grace,
and to the Prodigal Son and his restoration to his place in his father's house, though he neither asks to be restored as son nor even repents of the grief he has caused his father.
I believe it concludes quite effectively. It says Jesus puts His
hearer in the role of the father, of the one who forgives. Because if we are, so to speak, the debtor (and of course we are
that, too), that suggests no graciousness in us. And grace is the great gift. So to be forgiven is only half the gift. The other half is that we also can forgive, restore, and liberate, and therefore we can feel the will of God enacted through us, which is the great restoration of ourselves to ourselves.
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