preached on the Parable 42
of the Lost Sheep. I wish I had kept it, because I meant every word. It might have been the only sermon I wouldn't mind answering for in the next world. And I burned it. But Mirabelle
Mercer was not Pontius Pilate, and she was not Woodrow Wilson, either.
Now I think how courageous you might have thought I was if you had come across it among my papers and read it. It is
hard to understand another time. You would never have imagined that almost empty sanctuary, just a few women there with
heavy veils on to try to hide the masks they were wearing, and two or three men. I preached with a scarf around my mouth for more than a year. Everyone smelled like onions, because word went around that flu germs were killed by onions. People rubbed themselves down with tobacco leaves.
In those days there were barrels on the street corners so we could contribute peach pits to the war effort. The army made them into charcoal, they said, for the filters in gas masks.
It took hundreds of pits to make just one of them. So we all ate peaches on grounds of patriotism, which actually made them taste a little different. The magazines were full of soldiers
wearing gas masks, looking stranger than we did. It was a remarkable time.
Most of the young men seemed to feel that the war was a courageous thing, and maybe new wars have come along since I wrote this that have seemed brave to you. That there have been wars I have no doubt. I believe that plague was a great sign to us, and we refused to see it and take its meaning, and since then we have had war continuously.
I'm not entirely sure I do believe that. Boughton would say, 'That's the pulpit speaking.'
True enough, but what that means I don't know.
43
My own dark time, as I call it, the time of my loneliness, was most of my life, as I have said, and I can't make any real account of myself without speaking of it. The time passed so
strangely, as if every winter were the same winter, and every spring the same spring. And there was baseball. I listened to thousands of baseball games, I suppose. Sometimes I could just make out half a play, and then static, and then a crowd roaring, a flat little sound, almost static itself, like that empty sound in a seashell. It felt good to me to imagine it, like working out
some intricate riddle in my mind, planetary motion. If the ball is drifting toward left field and there are runners on first and third, then—moving the runners and the catcher and the shortstop in my mind. I loved to do that, I can't explain why. And I would think back on conversations I had had in a similar way, really. A great part of my work has been listening to people, in that particular intense privacy of confession, or at least unburdening, and it has been very interesting to me. Not that I thought of these conversations as if they were a contest,
I don't mean that. But as you might look at a game more abstractlywhere is the strength, what is the strategy? As if you
had no interest in it except in seeing how well the two sides bring each other along, how much they can require of each other, how the life that is the real subject of it all is manifest in it. By 'life' I mean something like 'energy' (as the scientists use the word) or
'vitality,' and also something very different. When people come to speak to me, whatever they say, I am struck by a kind of incandescence in them, the 'I' whose predicate can be 'love' or 'fear' or 'want,' and whose object can be 'someone' or 'nothing' and it won't really matter, because the loveliness is just in that presence, shaped around ' I'
like a flame on a wick, emanating itself in grief and guilt and 44
joy and whatever else. But quick, and avid, and resourceful. To see this aspect of life is a privilege of the ministry which is seldom mentioned.
A good sermon is one side of a passionate conversation. It has to be heard in that way.
There are three parties to it, of course, but so are there even to the most private thought—
the self that yields the thought, the self that acknowledges and in some way responds to the thought, and the Lord. That is a remarkable thing to consider.
I am trying to describe what I have never before attempted to put into words. I have made myself a little weary in the struggle.
It was one day as I listened to baseball that it occurred to me how the moon actually moves, in a spiral, because while it orbits the earth it also follows the orbit of the earth around the sun. This is obvious, but the realization pleased me. There was a full moon outside my window, icy white in a blue sky, and the Cubs were playing Cincinnati.
That mention of the sound of a seashell reminds me of a couple of lines of a poem I wrote once:
Open the scroll of conch and find the text That lies behind the priestly susurrus.
There wasn't anything else in it worth remembering. One of Boughton's boys traveled to the Mediterranean for some reason, and he sent back that big shell I have always kept on my
desk. I have loved the word 'susurrus' for a long time, and I had never found another use for it. Besides, what else did I know in those days but texts and priestliness and static?
And what else did I love? There was a book many people read at 4 5
that time, The Diary ofaJDountry Priest. It was by; a French writer, Bernanos. I felt a
.lot'Vof sympathy for the fellow, but Boughton said, 'It was the drink.' He said, 'The Lord simply needed someone more suitable to fill that position.' I remember reading that book all night by the radio till every station
