In his sermon “Loneliness,” McGill rehearses a story (one he thinks we might know, so this is not a story originating with him) of a child who hears the wind in a backyard tree. The tree becomes a mystery, alive—and special. The tree is later blown over in a storm. The child’s parents do not understand: there are other trees. The child is alone—without the wind in the tree.
Specificity matters. In Federico Fellini’s La Strada, a nighttime metaphysical24 exchange occurs. Gelsomina (Giulietta Masina) hears Matto,“The Fool,” (Richard Basehart) call her name. The conversation which follows is a mesmerizing moment in film:
The Fool: “Gelsomina.” . . . What a funny face you have! Sure you’re a woman? Not an artichoke? . . .
Gelsomina: . . . I’m no good to anybody . . . and I’m tired of
living . . .
The Fool: You like to make love? What do you like? Gosh, but you’re homely. . . .
Gelsomina: What am I here for on this earth? . . .
The Fool: A book I once read said everything in this world serves a purpose . . . Take that stone, for instance . . .
Gelsomina: Which one?
The Fool: Anyone . . . even this one serves for something . . . or this one . . .
Gelsomina: For what?
The Fool: How should I know? . . . Know who I’d have to be? God! He knows everything! When you’re born . . . when you die . . . Who else can know it? I don’t know what this stone’s good for, but it must serve something. Because if it’s useless, everything’s useless! Even the stars and even you! Even you serve some purpose with that homely artichoke head of yours.25
The Fool gives Gelsomina the particular stone he has picked up in illustrating his reflection. Gelsomina accepts the stone, attends to it carefully, caringly, nods, and beams with a new-found promise of purpose. The magic line: “Which one?” Which one? The tree blown over, the tree with wind no more.
Specificity matters:26 “Love of all mankind, love for the human race. That’s silly. Love is specific” (Sermon 7, p. 71). McGill is thinking of the words of Ivan Karamazov to his younger brother, Alyosha, in Fyodor Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, which he knew well: 27
I could never understand how one can love one’s neighbours. It’s just one’s neighbours, to my mind, that one can’t love, though one might love those at a distance. . . . For any one to love a man, he must be hidden, for as soon as he shows his face, love is gone.28
Again the words which seem so right for McGill’s dialectic: “Truth is meant to save you first, and the comfort comes afterwards.” But there is an “afterwards”; and, in the sense that this “afterwards” is grace, in the sense that—in a different but related orchestration of McGill’s dialectic—receiving precedes giving, this “afterwards” is “before”:
But there is something in God for my loneliness greater even than His knowledge or His justice. For in God I know not only that I am truly known, and by this knowledge truly judged, but that I am understood. . . . For the person of the Son Himself became flesh like us, suffering in Himself every agony the human soul can encounter. Therefore He who knows every hypocrisy and evil in our thoughts, knows these from our point of view. And He also knows the secret beauty of the nature He gave us. He knows the deep recesses of goodness in us of which we ourselves have not the slightest knowledge.
Also God’s knowledge of us is a loving knowledge . . . which creates in us the goodness we do not have alone. . . . God’s knowledge saves and redeems us, so that if once you know that you are truly known to God, you not only experience justice, but you also experience mercy and redemption. (Sermon 1, p. 26)
McGill exacerbates (or so we might wish to believe) the negative. One must look and listen carefully for a bleep, a pinch of the positive. But it is there—or implied. This is a note not often sounded, and yet McGill is empty without it. It is a grace note.29 I recall hearing McGill conclude a lecture on agape in Seipp Alcove, Firestone Library, Princeton University, by quoting a little verse of Abner Dean titled “Grace Note”:
Remember the word—?
The one from the manger—?
It means only this . . .
You can dance
with a stranger.30
“Grace Note”: as in music, as in faith.
How near McGill’s dialectical words are to those of Barth, words he may not have known directly but words which he might have accounted for in the words of Barth reported by William Stringfellow, “We read the same Bible . . . .”31
“Eternal life” is not another, second life beyond our present one, but the reverse side of this life, as God sees it, which is hidden from us here and now. It is this life in relationship to what God has done in Jesus Christ for the whole world and thus also for us. So we wait and hope—in respect of our death—to be made manifest with him (Jesus Christ who is raised from the dead), in the glory of judgment, and also in the grace of God. That will be the new thing: that the veil which now lies over the whole world and thus over our life (tears, death, sorrow, crying, grief) will be taken away, and God’s counsel (already accomplished in Jesus Christ) will stand before our eyes, the object of our deepest shame, but also of our joyful thanks and praise.32
Where is McGill going? He is going to side with the “enemy,” in this case with our loneliness, and to turn the perspective so that the enemy may be seen in a new light as friend:
The Lord God Almighty, He alone knows us, and our loneliness is like a goad by which He leads us to Himself. . . . You see that our loneliness from one another is not an evil to be overcome or a despair from which we try to escape, but is rather the sign within us which turns us to our true Lord, to Him who truly knows and judges and redeems. (Sermon 1, pp. 25–26)
In construing loneliness in this way, McGill has led us to the famous “prayer” at the beginning of Augustine’s Confessions: “Yet man, this part of your creation, wishes to praise you. You arouse him to take joy in praising you, for you have made us for yourself, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.”33 So also is the witness of Arthur McGill.
The flash and flare, the fireworks, the dash and dare—the provocations—of McGill came through in classroom lectures and seminars vividly. In the words of the sermons which follow, glimpses, hints, intimations, the provocations—and theological fascinations—persist. Theological fascinations: Arthur McGill does not go haltingly, hesitantly, into theological-hermeneutical matters holding open some possibility of faith in a world so “come of age” that it begins to feel a bit aged. No limping. McGill is on the offensive, in more than one sense, as we have seen. He is aggressive. Any embarrassment of faith is an embarrassment of riches in which the paramount theme is becoming poor.
Ordering the Sermons