the strength to submit to it? I knew a lot of hearsay about God speaking to people in plain English, but He never had (He never has) spoken so to me.
By then I wasn’t just asking questions; I was being changed by them. I was being changed by my prayers, which dwindled down nearer and nearer to silence, which weren’t confrontations with God but with the difficulty—in my own mind, or in the human lot—of knowing what or how to pray. Lying awake at night, I could feel myself being changed—into what, I had no idea. It was worse than wondering if I had received the call. I wasn’t just a student or a going-to-be preacher anymore. I was a lost traveler wandering in the woods, needing to be on my way somewhere but not knowing where.
I went to my professors with my questions, starting with the easiest questions and the talkiest professors. I don’t think about them much anymore. I don’t hold anything against them. They were decent enough men, according to their lights. The problem was that they’d had no doubts. They had not asked the questions that I was asking and so of course they could not answer them. They told me I needed to have more faith; I needed to believe; I needed to pray; I needed to give up my questioning, which was a sign of weakness of faith.
Those men could go on all day about the sins of the flesh or the amount of water needed for baptism or whether you could go to Heaven without being baptized or who could or couldn’t go to Heaven, but they couldn’t say why, if we’re to take some of the Bible literally, we don’t take all of it literally, or why we kill our enemies, or why we pray standing in the synagogues and in the corners of the streets that we may be seen of men.
That I should give up my questioning was good enough advice, which I would have been glad enough to take, except that my questioning would not give me up. It kept at me. Sometimes it seemed to me that people I walked by in the street must be able to hear the dingdonging in my head.
And so finally, late one afternoon, I went to the professor I was afraid to go to, old Dr. Ardmire. I was afraid to go to him because I knew he was going to tell me the truth. Dr. Ardmire was a feared man. He was a master of the Greek New Testament, a hard student and a hard teacher. We believed that he had never given but one A in his life. The number of students in his class in New Testament Greek, which he taught every fall, varied from maybe twenty to maybe three or four, as the horror died away and was renewed. He was known, behind his back, as Old Grit.
I knocked at his open door and waited until he read to a stopping place and looked up from his book.
“Come in, Mr. J. Crow.” He didn’t like it that I went by my initial.
I went in.
He said, “Have a seat, please.”
I sat down.
Customarily, when I came to see him I would be bringing work that he had required me to talk with him about. That day I was empty-handed.
Seeing that I was, he said, “What have you got in mind?”
“Well,” I said, “I’ve got a lot of questions.”
He said, “Perhaps you would like to say what they are?”
“Well, for instance,” I said, “if Jesus said for us to love our enemies—and He did say that, didn’t He?—how can it ever be right to kill our enemies? And if He said not to pray in public, how come we’re all the time praying in public? And if Jesus’ own prayer in the garden wasn’t granted, what is there for us to pray, except ‘thy will be done,’ which there’s no use in praying because it will be done anyhow?”
I sort of ran down. He didn’t say anything. He was looking straight at me. And then I realized that he wasn’t looking at me the way he usually did. I seemed to see way back in his eyes a little gleam of light. It was a light of kindness and (as I now think) of amusement.
He said, “Have you any more?”
“Well, for instance,” I said, for it had just occurred to me, “suppose you prayed for something and you got it, how do you know how you got it? How do you know you didn’t get it because you were going to get it whether you prayed for it or not? So how do you know it does any good to pray? You would need proof, wouldn’t you?”
He nodded.
“But there’s no way to get any proof.”
He shook his head. We looked at each other.
He said, “Do you have any answers?”
“No,” I said. I was concentrating so hard, looking at him, you could have nailed my foot to the floor and I wouldn’t have felt it.
“So,” I said, “I reckon what it all comes down to is, how can I preach if I don’t have any answers?”
“Yes, Mr. Crow,” he said. “How can you?” He was not one of your frying-size chickens.
“I don’t believe I can,” I said, and I felt my skin turn cold, for I had not even thought that until then.
He said, “No, I don’t believe you can.” And we sat there and looked at each other again while he waited for me to see the next thing, so he wouldn’t have to tell me: I oughtn’t to waste any time resigning my scholarship and leaving Pigeonville. I saw it soon enough.
I said, “Well,” for now I was ashamed, “I had this feeling maybe I had been called.”
“And you may have been right. But not to what you thought. Not to what you think. You have been given questions to which you cannot be given answers. You will have to live them out—perhaps a little at a time.”
“And how long is that going to take?”
“I don’t know. As long as you live, perhaps.”
“That could be a long time.”
“I will tell you a further mystery,” he said. “It may take longer.”
He held out his hand to me and I shook it. As I started to leave, it came to me that of all the teachers I’d had in school he was the kindest, and I turned around. I was going to thank him, but he had gone back to his book.
7
The Great World
It was enough to make your head swim. There I went, walking away from Dr. Ardmire’s office down the empty corridor late in the afternoon, and once again all my life so far was behind me. I had a feeling of strangeness and a feeling of being free; I had no more obligations, no more fear of failure, for failure had already come and, in a way, had gone. My questions were still with me, but for the time being anyhow they weren’t crying out to be answered. I wasn’t yet as free as I was going to become, but I knew that I was freer than I had ever been before. More than anything, I was glad to be free of being a preacher. It has always taken me a long time to think of something to say, and then more often than not I say it to myself. I would have had no business trying to preach a sermon three times a week.
And then, even before I got out of the building, and without any intention on my part, the thought of Nan O’Callahan returned to me. But she didn’t come to mind this time as “Sister Crow,” the entirely supposed preacher’s wife of my hopeless daydreams. She came as herself,
