Gilead - Marilynne Robinson [20]
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 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 went off, and still reading when the daylight came.
Once my grandfather took me to Des Moines on the train to see Bud Fowler play. He was with Keokuk for a season or two. The old man fixed me with that eye of his and he told me there was not a man on this round earth who could outrun or outthrow Bud Fowler. I was pretty excited. But nothing happened in that game, or so I thought then. No runs, no hits, no errors. In the fifth inning a thunderstorm that had been lying along the horizon the whole afternoon just sort of sauntered over and put a stop to it all. I remember the groan that went up from the crowd when the heavy rain began. I was only about ten years old, and I was relieved, but it was a terrible frustration to my grandfather. One more terrible frustration for the poor old devil. I say this with all respect. Even my father called him that, and my mother did, too. He had lost that eye in the war, and he was pretty wild-looking generally. But he was a fine preacher in the style of his generation, so my father said.
That day he had brought a little bag of licorice, which really did surprise me. Whenever he put his fingers into it, it rattled with the trembling of his hand, and the sound was just like the sound of fire. I noticed this at the time, and it seemed natural to me. I also more or less assumed that the thunder and the lightning that day were Creation tipping its hat to him, as if to say, Glad to see you here in the stands, Reverend. Or maybe it said, Why, Reverend, what in this grieving world are you doing here at a sporting event? My mother said once that he attracted terrible friendship—using "terrible" in the old sense, of course, and meaning only respect. When he was young, he