Jack (Gilead #4)(67)
He stood beside her in the warm little kitchen while she finished the gravy, carried their plates to the table, watched the effects of candlelight on her hair and her eyes while they talked about something wonderful, to judge by the laughter and then the silence that came over them when he reached across the table to stroke her hand. Eight o’clock came and went. In fact, he woke up the next morning with her cheek against his shoulder and her arm across his chest.
He went to work that afternoon to make up for missing Friday. So Saturday passed, and on Sunday he went to church. He sat in his pew next to that man, whose name was Arnold and who said good morning to him. The pulpit was a fair distance away, but of course the minister saw him, noticed him, was clearly aware of him. There was no hint of cordiality in his expression.
Singing and praying. Then the preacher stepped into the pulpit. He said, “This morning I’m going to speak my mind. That’s my job. Maybe sometimes I let you all forget what you are paying me to do. So today I’m going to remind you. I’m going to talk to you about your debts. I’m not talking about money you owe. Nothing like that. I’m talking about the debts you rack up when you lie, when you make promises you don’t mean to keep, when you disturb a peaceful home.” Jack had not felt so targeted by a sermon in years. Of course he hadn’t been to church in years. Still, Jack Boughton seemed to be as fruitful a sermon text as the Lost Sheep, the Prodigal Son, the Unfaithful Steward. When he was young, the feeling had made him smile. Now it made him sweat.
“If you are honorable people,” the preacher said, “you will know that other people’s lives are fragile and precious and important to everybody who loves them, and that means precious to our Lord Jesus Christ. Do you think you can do harm to the least of his brothers and sisters and He will not feel it as an insult to himself? Then you better read your Bible. If you think your sins are just going to vanish away like they never happened because Jesus loves you—well, I’ve got news. Jesus loves lots of people. He loves the man you cheated and the woman you made fun of behind her back. Little sins, you say. Little wounds in the heart of Christ. Think about it. He wants his own to have abundance of life, and you steal from that abundance—maybe not money or goods, but the peace and trust and love that are theirs by right. You see women, we all see this, women putting up with everything, forgiving everybody. They’re saints! Everybody says it. Sister Smith, Sister Jones, she’s a saint on earth! That could well be the truth. And how do we treat these saints? I borrow a little something from her, well, she’ll never ask for it back. She’s a saint! I see her hopes valued at nothing. I see her loving heart fixed on some unworthy fool who will just turn away from her, abandon her. She’ll forgive, she’s a saint. And what do we learn in Matthew 25? That Christ our Lord is a judge. A judge. And He is also the injured party! Look at the text. Do you think He does not feel the hunger of loneliness, the nakedness of abandonment, the prison of faithfulness that is not answered with faithfulness? Is He not sick at heart, together with a mother, or a father, whose child makes nothing of his life but a shame and a sorrow?”
Arnold was slumped in the pew, hand over his eyes, possibly weeping. Wonderful! That could mean that the sermon was meant for him! There was comfort in the slenderest possibility. So he went downstairs to lunch, took his place in line to have his plate filled, and thought about what he would say to the preacher if he had a chance to speak to him.
People were quiet, subdued, no doubt dealing variously with this rebuke, turning over in their minds whom it had been meant for and what had provoked it. Some of the women seemed to Jack to be smiling to themselves, pleased that sainthood was mentioned, to justify the grudges they held against an unappreciative world. Or what he sensed might have been a discreet satisfaction at hearing the preacher give that white man a good talking-to. Who knows what might be known or believed among them, up to and including the plain truth. It might be appropriate to show a few signs of shame, to concede the point without surrendering too much dignity. He could have grabbed his hat and ducked out into daylight and left them to talk it all out. It was not only because there were beans on his plate by the time he decided he probably should have left. It was also because Della had said, before he left her that Saturday morning, “Now you’re a married man! You have a wife!,” straightening his collar, which he had always been careful to keep straight, and tightening the knot of his tie, a half-Windsor. But he knew what these gestures meant—You don’t face the world alone, you have a wife who invests care and pride in letting the world know you aren’t just wandering around on your own, mattering to nobody, killing time, maybe cadging a little small talk here and there. A married man! A higher order of loneliness altogether! If it were not for the criminal code of the state of Missouri, he could very reasonably have shouted it from the rooftops. He found it all difficult to believe, except for the criminal code.
The minister came down to lunch, put his plate on another table, and involved himself in talk with the people there, never casting a glance at Jack, as if he knew Jack hoped to catch his eye. Finally, Jack carried his plate to the kitchen and walked over to the minister’s table. He said, “Reverend, if you could spare a few minutes, I’d like to speak to you.” There was a pause, felt and understood around the table, and then the preacher said, “Why, Mr. Ames! Or is it Boughton today. You’re in luck. I can spare a few minutes.” He stood up. “Here or in my study?”