Free Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry Page B

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?”
    â€œWell, 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.
    â€œBut there’s no way to get any proof.”
    He shook his head. We looked at each other.
    He said, “Do you have any answers?”
    â€œNo,” 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.
    â€œSo,” I said, “I reckon what it all comes down to is, how can I preach if I don’t have any answers?”
    â€œYes, Mr. Crow,” he said. “How can you?” He was not one of your frying-size chickens.
    â€œI 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.”
    â€œAnd 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.”
    â€œAnd how long is that going to take?”
    â€œI don’t know. As long as you live, perhaps.”
    â€œThat could be a long time.”
    â€œI 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, comely,