Go tell it on the mountain - James Baldwin [107]
Where houses were, where windows stared, where gutters ran, were people—sleeping now, invisible, private, in the heavy darkness of these houses, while the Lord’s day broke outside. When John should walk these streets again, they would be shouting here again; the roar of children’s roller skates would bear down on him from behind; little girls in pigtails, skipping rope, would establish on the pavement a barricade through which he must stumble as best he might. Boys would be throwing ball in these streets again—they would look at him, and call:
‘Hey, Frog-eyes!’
Men would be standing on corners again, watching him pass, girls would be sitting on stoops again, mocking his walk. Grandmothers would stare out of windows, saying:
‘That sure is a sorry little boy.’
He would weep again, his heart insisted, for now his weeping had begun; he would rage again, said the shifting air, for the lions of rage had been unloosed; he would be in darkness again, in fire again, now that he had seen the fire and the darkness. He was free—whom the Son sets free is free indeed—he had only to stand fast in his liberty. He was in battle no longer, this unfolding Lord’s day, with this avenue, these houses, the sleeping, staring, shouting people, but had entered into battle with Jacob’s angel, with the princes and the powers of the air. And he was filled with a joy, a joy unspeakable, whose roots, though he would not trace then on this new day of his life, were nourished by the wellspring of a despair not yet discovered. The joy of the Lord is the strength of His people. Where joy was, there strength followed; where strength was, sorrow came—for ever? For ever and for ever, said the arm of Elisha, heavy on his shoulder. And John tried to see through the morning wall, to stare past the bitter houses, to tear the thousand gray veils of the sky away, and look into that heart—the monstrous heart which beat for ever, turning the astounded universe, commanding the stars to flee away before the sun’s red sandal, bidding the moon to wax and wane, and disappear, and come again; with a silver net holding back the sea, and out of mysteries abysmal, re-creating, each day, the earth. That heart, that breath, without which was not anything made which was made. Tears came into his eyes again, making the avenue shiver, causing the houses to shake—his heart swelled, lifted up, faltered, and was dumb. Out of joy strength came, strength that was fashioned to bear sorrow; sorrow brought forth joy. For ever? This was Ezekiel’s wheel, in the middle of the burning air for ever—and the little wheel ran by faith, and the big wheel ran by the grace of God.
‘Elisha?’ he said.
‘If you ask Him to bear you up,’ said Elisha, as though he had read his thoughts, ‘He won’t never let you fall.’
‘It was you,’ he said, ‘wasn’t it, who prayed me through?’
‘We was all praying, little brother,’ said Elisha, with a smile, ‘but yes, I was right over you the whole time. Look like the Lord had put you like a burden on my soul.’
‘Was I praying long?’ he asked.
Elisha laughed. ‘Well, you started praying when it was night and you ain’t stopped praying till it was morning. That’s a right smart time, it seems to me.’
John smiled, too, observing with some wonder that a saint of God could laugh.
‘Was you glad,’ he asked, ‘to see me at the altar?’
Then he wondered why he had asked this, and hoped Elisha would no think him foolish.
‘I was mighty glad,’ said Elisha soberly, ‘to see little Johnny lay his sins on the altar, lay his life on the altar and rise up, praising God.’
Something shivered in him as the word sin was spoken. Tears sprang to his eyes again. ‘Oh,’ he said, ‘I pray God, I pray the Lord … to make me strong … to sanctify me wholly … and keep me saved!’
‘Yes,’ said Elisha, ‘you keep that spirit,