place. I
could hear weeping out in the pews. It took me a while to forgive him for that. I'm just telling you the truth.
If I had had even an hour to reflect, I believe my feelings would have been quite different. As it was, my heart froze in me and I thought, This is not my child—which I truly had never thought of any child before. I don't know exactly what covetise is, but in my experience it is not so much desiring someone else's virtue or happiness as rejecting it, taking offense at the beauty of it.
That's interesting. There is certainly a sermon there.
'Blessed is he who takes no offense at me.' That would be the primary text. I hope I have time to think it through.
I'll tell you a perfectly foolish thing. I have thought from time to time that the child felt how coldly I went about
his christening, how far my thoughts were from blessing him. Now, that's just magical thinking. That is superstition. I'm ashamed to have said such a thing. But I'm trying to be honest. And I do feel a burden of guilt toward that child, that man, my namesake. I have never been able to warm to him, never.
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I am glad I said that. I am glad to see it in my own words, in my own hand. Because now I realize it isn't true. And that is a great relief to me.
I do wish I could christen him again, for my sake. I was so distracted by my own miserable thoughts I didn't feel that sacredness under my hand that I always do feel, that sense that
the infant is blessing me. Now that is a pity.
John Ames Boughton is my son. If there is any truth at all in anything I believe, that is true also. By 'my son' I mean another self, a more cherished self. That language isn't sufficient,
but for the moment it is the best I can do.
I fell to thinking about the passage in the Institutes where it says the image of the Lord in anyone is much more than reason enough to love him, and that the Lord stands waiting to take our enemies' sins upon Himself. So it is a rejection of the reality of grace to hold our enemy at fault. Those things can only be true. It seems to me people tend to forget that we are to love our enemies, not to satisfy some standard of righteousness, but because God their Father loves them. I have probably preached on that a hundred times.
Not that I mean to call young Boughton my enemy. That is more than I know. Calvin is simply making the most extreme
case: a fortiori, how much more readily should I forget transgressions which generally amounted to nothing more than annoyances,
insofar as they even affected me? Jack has grieved
his father terribly and he has been forgiven always, instantly, and I have only grieved Boughton myself when he has felt I was slow to forgive Jack, too. I believe most of that grief was just old Boughton's loneliness for the boy, who has been such a stranger to him and to all of us.
Now here is the point I wish to make, because this is the thought that came to me as I was putting all this before
the Lord. Existence is the essential thing and the holy thing.
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If the Lord chooses to make nothing of our transgressions, then they are nothing. Or whatever reality they have is trivial and conditional beside the exquisite primary fact of existence. Of course the Lord would wipe them away, just as I wipe dirt from your face, or tears. After all, why should the Lord bother much over these smirches that are no part of His Creation? Well, there are a good many reasons why He should. We human beings do real harm. History could make a stone weep. I am aware that significant confusion enters my thinking at this point. I'm tired— that may be some part of the problem. Though I recall even in my prime foundering whenever I set the true gravity of sin over against the free grace of forgiveness. If young Boughton is my son, then by the same reasoning that child of his was also my daughter, and it was just terrible what happened to her, and that's a fact. As I am a Christian man, I could never say otherwise.
Having looked over these thoughts I set down last night, I realize I have evaded what is for me the central question. That is:
How should I deal with these fears I have, that Jack Boughton will do you and your mother harm, just because he can, just for the sly, unanswerable meanness of it? You have already asked after him twice this morning.
Harm to you is not harm to me in the strict sense, and that is a great part of the problem. He could knock me down the stairs and I would have worked out the theology for forgiving him before I reached the bottom. But if he harmed you in the slightest way, I'm afraid theology would fail me.
That may be one great part of what I fear, now that I think of it.
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Well, I hear him out on the porch talking with you and your mother. You're laughing, all of you. That's actually a relief. To me he always looks like a man standing too close to a fire, tolerating present pain, knowing he's a half step away from something worse. Even when he laughs he looks that way, at least when it's me he's dealing with, though I truly believe I have always tried not to offend him. Oh, I am a limited man, and old, and he will still be his inexplicable mortal self when I am dust.
I have wandered to the limits of my understanding any number of times, out into that desolation, that Horeb, that Kansas,
and I've scared myself, too, a good many times, leaving all landmarks behind me, or so it seemed. And it has been among
the true pleasures of my life. Night and light, silence and difficulty, it seemed to me always rigorous and good. I believe it
