"My young Brother—what—do—you—think—of—Jonah?"
I reached for a doughnut, broke it, slowly, dipped it up and down in the cup of mustard and tried for time. Not a soul stirred. Not a word or sound broke the tense silence about the operating-table.
"What—do—you—think—of—Jonah?"
"Well, Sister Smith, I—"
"Never mind. Don't commit yourself. You needn't tell me what you think of Jonah. You—are—too—young—to—know—what—you—think—of—Jonah. But I will tell you what I think of Jonah: if the Scriptures had said that Jonah swallowed the whale, it would be just as easy to believe as it is that the whale swallowed Jonah."
"So it would, Sister Smith," I answered weakly, "just as easy."
"And now, my young Brother, you preach the Scriptures—the old genuine inspired Authorized Version, word for word, just as God spoke it!"
Sister Smith has gone to Heaven, but in spite of her theology. Dear old soul, she sent me many a loaf of her salt-rising bread after that, for she had as warm a heart as ever beat its brave way past eighty.
But she had neither a perfect Book, nor a perfect Creed, nor a perfect Salvation. She did not need them; nor could she have used them; for they would have posited a divine command to be perfect—a too difficult accomplishment for any of us, even for Sister Smith.
There is no such divine command laid upon us; but only such a divinely human need springing up within us, and reaching out for everything, in its deep desire, from dust-cloths dyed black to creeds of every color.