The Redemption of Alexander Seaton

‘Alexander Seaton, it is truly you? I had not thought to see you here again, though I have often wished and prayed for it. What has brought you back to us? Why did you not tell me you were coming? Have you been waiting on me long? I have been kept busy the whole morning on college business with my father.’ Dr John Forbes of Corse, son of the bishop and Professor of Divinity in the King’s College of Aberdeen, the most learned man I knew, stood before me, his face filled with affection. He was a man of the deepest spirituality and had had greater hopes for me than even I had ever done. There can have been few teachers more disappointed by the failure of a pupil than he had been by mine.

So shocked was I at the sight of him there that, for a few moments, I could find no words to answer him. Nevertheless, I think my face told him my thoughts, for his hand fell away and his smile faded. ‘Alexander, you have not come to see me, have you?’

‘No,’ I replied, my voice dry. ‘I had business with Dr Dun, about the bursaries, and had to come and meet him here.’ I registered the hurt in his eyes and cursed my pride. ‘I am sorry; I should have told you I was coming, but I was …’ There was little point in lying to this man who for four years had been my spiritual guide and who had kept the fervour of my calling burning within me. He deserved at least my honesty. ‘I was ashamed,’ I said.

Dr Forbes well knew the cause of my shame. Astonishment at my failure to secure the approval of the Presbytery of Fordyce had given way to fury, and he and his father had both written to the brethren, demanding an explanation. The brethren had responded obliquely – for they had not the information to do otherwise, and had directed both the bishop and his son to myself and to my Lord Hay of Delgatie. Bishop Forbes had written then to Delgatie, his son to me. His lordship, I was given to understand, had given a plain and truthful account of the grounds of his objection to my person and to my candidature for the ministry. I had written that whatever the family of Hay should accuse me of, of that was I guilty, before God and man. Urgent letters of friendship and entreaty to turn to him for spiritual counsel had flown from the divinity professor’s rooms at the King’s College of Old Aberdeen to my attic room in the schoolhouse of Banff. None had been answered. Now here we stood, face to face, no hiding behind silence.

Dr Forbes stood squarely before me. ‘There is a time for shame, and a time for repentance.’ His voice was measured, calm. ‘You were right to feel shame for your deeds, but to hold fast to that shame at the expense of all else is an indulgence. You were carnal – who among us has not been tempted, has not fallen? You betrayed the trust of a friend and patron. Ungrateful and graceless indeed, but who amongst us has not been guilty of ingratitude, of gracelessness in our behaviour?’

I looked at the man. How was I to believe that he might ever have been led into such behaviour, such immorality as I had? He leant against the wall of the well, tired-looking now, his eyes searching mine for an understanding I was struggling to find. ‘You may have sinned, Alexander, but remember the words of the prophet: He waits to be gracious.’

I felt the resilience seeping from me. ‘I have tried, believe me, doctor, I have tried. I have looked for God, called on God, but found myself only in a wilderness.’

He spoke gently, quoting Ezekiel. ‘“For my gracious Lord was pleased to let me see, that, by leading me into this wilderness, and pleading with me there, would he bring me into the bond of the Covenant.” In all your years here, Alexander, you grappled with and mastered the most abstruse theological propositions. You could argue any point almost as well as I could myself. For all that though, God’s greatest gift in you was the pure faith with which He graced you. It was that above all that I thought would make you the finest of ministers. I have no doubt that you could still argue with insight and exactitude whichever point I might throw your way, but I fear you have forgotten the most important lesson of all, the promise of that Covenant.’

I looked at him, expectantly. He answered my unasked question. ‘The Son of God came into this world to save sinners such as you and me. That is the great Covenant. Do not ask me ever to believe, Alexander, that you have grown so arrogant as to think your sin greater than His sacrifice.’

I could not look at him. ‘Take thought on this,’ he said. ‘For friendship’s sake promise me that you will. Come back and see me soon. We will work on this together. Never be ashamed to call me friend.’ He clasped my hand and then left me.