Some People (iii) and a dog....
Luke,
a dog
Luke was a beautiful Golden Retriever
with the deepest, loveliest brown eyes ever. He was Michael's dog before he was
Jo-Ann's dog. Michael was Jo-Ann's son and had lost both legs while still a
young man. Luke was a trained companion dog who was Mike's legs. But he was
more than that. Once, while asleep, an IV in Mike's arm slipped out and he
began to bleed. When the blood was pooling on the floor, Luke started barking
and pulling at him and woke him up. I don't know how long it would take to
bleed to death from an open IV vein, but Mike was not healthy and I think he
could have. After Mike stopped the bleeding, he must have washed the blood off
Luke's fur and thanked God for such a brown-eyed angel of mercy.
Luke came to church with Mike and when
Mike had his final illness, someone with enough sense to break rules that need
to be broken let Luke be in Intensive Care with Mike. Mike's missing legs made
room for Luke to lay where Mike's leg's should have been had life been kinder
to him. And he laid there until Mike died. The medical personnel who initially
had been horrified by a dog's presence in ICU melted when they looked into
Luke's eyes. “I'm just laying here where I'm supposed to be,” he eyes said,
“next to my human.”Anyone would have melted. So the nurses and orderlies took
turns taking Luke out when he needed to go out. Luke could go to the bathroom
on command. Would that we could train young children to do that....
After Mike died, the companion dog
people were about to take him back when Jo-Ann, who was most of the time in a
wheel-chair herself, convinced them to let her keep him and be a therapy dog.
She took him to the hospital where Mike died and to nursing homes around the area.
I saw him do it. It came naturally to him. He was never assertive, always
patient, always waiting for the human to make the first move. And he was as
gentle as a spring breeze, as sweet as the smell of honeysuckle, as healing as
magic chicken soup. I can't imagine how many people Luke touched in those years
with Jo-Ann. But I know he touched me profoundly.
Jo-Ann always came to the adult forum
on Sundays. When she and Luke got to the church library, she let him come and
greet me, putting his short leash in his mouth so he could guide himself. He'd
come and give me a nuzzle and a lick (though he was also interested in rolling
on his back on the rug in the library!) That greeting and lick was always one
of the highlights of my week.
When I was in seminary, I had a course
in 'creating liturgy'. Since I came into the church via a 'house church', I
wanted to replicate that experience for my class. We met in our apartment in
Alexandria and Robert Estill, the professor, was the celebrant. My dog Finney
was standing next to Bob as we stood around the table. Bob broke the bread I'd
baked and passed it around. But before he passed it, he broke a piece off and
gave it to our Puli. Finney didn't leave Bob's side until he left for the
evening.
I asked him about giving communion to
a dog and he told me a story from his first parish church. They used home-baked
bread, like we did that night, and since the loaf was always more than the
little congregation could consume, Bob would take it to the back door and throw
it on the grass for the birds. After a while, the birds would start gathering
half way through the Eucharist and sing as they waited to be fed. Bob told me
it was a wonderful addition to the music of the little church.
However, one day the bishop visited
and was horrified when he saw Bob feed the consecrated loaf to the birds. The
bishop forbade him from ever doing it. As someone once described me, Bob was
'reluctantly obedient' and stopped feeding the birds.
“They kept coming for weeks, months,”
he told me. “Long after the bread was withheld from them, they kept singing for
us. But finally, half-a-year later, they stopped showing up to sing the
communion hymn.”
I think that's a metaphor for how the
church misses the point of 'being the church'. We let rules and regulations and
canon law and dogma come between the sacraments and those who long for them.
I've known people that happened to—they were turned away, rejected, shut out by
the church and the church lost them, finally.
So, when Luke came to the communion
rail with Jo-Ann, I always gave him a wafer or a hunk of bread if we were using
home-baked that Sunday. Since I was seldom the only one administering the
bread, I kept an eye out if someone else was giving communion on Luke's side of
the rail. If they passed him by, I'd rush over with several wafers or an
especially big hunk of bread for him. I didn't want him to feel left out. (I
always gave him communion with my left hand in case anyone objected to dog
mouth. But I drew the line at the cup!)
One seminarian who worked with me was
horrified at first. She even took it to her field work support group but most
everyone thought it was decent and in good order. I'm sure there were people
who found fault with it, but I never asked permission. It was simply right.
After all, Luke was as good a
Christian as any dog could be—bringing joy and healing and comfort to so many.
He actually was a better 'Christian' in his works of charity than most people.
He'd earned his place at the Table.
The kids of the parish adored Luke.
They would flock around him at the peace in ways that most dogs would have
reacted negatively to. But not Luke—ever humble, ever hospitable, he took
whatever the kids dished out with equanimity and generosity and doggy Love. One
of the kids was moderately autistic but the parish had made a deal with his
parents to treat him like any other kid. I don't think Luke did 'treat him like
any other kid'. I think Luke, so used to being around the frail and helpless
and confused, treated Twyla with special gentleness and love. Twyla grew better
and better, more interactive, more social. I'd give Luke a lot of the credit.
At the General Convention in 2009, a
resolution was passed authorizing the Liturgical Committee to prepare services
for the death of an animal companion. Several people at St. John's were really
excited about that. It spurred the creation of a Book of Animal Remembrances
along with a statue of St. Francis that was placed in the collumbarium are in
the back of the sanctuary. Dave, one of the guys who helps out around the
parish, installed the statue. “Stations of the Cross and now a statue,” he
said, “are we going back to Rome?”
“Wait 'til you see the racks of votive
candles I've ordered,” I told him.
He laughed and shook his head. “Least
we could make some money on that....If people didn't steal it.”
My Grandmother Jones, God bless her
soul, used to divide the world into “church people” and those who
weren't. She'd always say things like, “those boys I saw you with yesterday,
they aren't 'church people' are they?” And she referred to a family down the
mountain from where she lived by saying, “they're poor and not too clean, but
at least they're 'church people'.”
I tend to divide the world into 'dog
people'--those who love dogs—and those who don't. I like to be around 'dog
people'. And besides, there is that oddity that 'Dog' is 'God' spelled
backward. Luke could make a dog person out of almost anyone. He'd look at them,
lower his head and wag his tail a bit. Those eyes, I've told you, make anyone
besides a dogmatic hater of dogs just melt.
I heard part of a local PBS radio show
the other day that was wrestling with the question: 'do dogs have souls?' The
whole concept of eternity is a little vague to me—but if there are no dogs in the
Kingdom it won't nearly be as blessed and happy as it's been cracked up to be.
I personally am holding out for a heaven where every dog I've ever had as a
companion will come frolicking across the streets of gold to great me at the
Pearly Gates. “Where've you been?” they'll be barking.
Just before I retired, someone said in
the Adult Forum, “What's Luke going to do without Jim?”
Jo-Ann shook her head and frowned.
“He'll be looking for him everywhere....”
Good Lord, I thought, I feel bad
enough about leaving all the people, how am I supposed to cope with leaving
Lukie?
But he didn't have long to look after
me. Luke, who'd had trouble standing and moving around for a month of so, was
diagnosed as having untreatable cancer. So, a week or so after I left, Luke
died in Jo-Ann's arms, as was only right.
(In the past year or so I've known ten
or so people, in and out of the parish, who have lost dogs. Somehow, it seems
to me, the initial pain we feel when a pet dies is deeper and sharper than when
a person we love dies. But it is a cleaner cut because when a beloved animal
dies, their aren't mixed emotions on our part. There is no 'unfinished
business' with a dog. There is no lingering resentment or words that needed to
be said that are left unspoken. The relationship with a dog is so clear, so
uncomplicated, so immediate and in the moment that our pain is 'in the moment'
as well. But it is so acute. With a person, we almost always the question of how
much they really loved us. With a dog such wondering is vain and pointless.
Dogs love us as much as they possibly can...and then a little more.)
When Jo-Ann called about Luke, I told
her—after we cried together—that she had to ask the Senior Warden if I could
come do the service since retired priests are supposed to make themselves
scarce from their former parish.
Of course he agreed. He called me to
let me know it was alright. “Besides,” he said, “Luke wouldn't want it any
other way....” All Senior Wardens should be 'dog people'.
We interred Luke's ashes out in the
Close, as near to Mike's resting place as we could estimate. We did that first
and then went in the church for hymns, a power point slide show a talented
woman had put together about Luke. Then Jo-Ann spoke and made everyone cry.
There were about 200 people there, a good number of them brought their dogs and
the dogs didn't make a sound during the whole thing.
At the reception people in the parish
provided, a man came up to me and introduced himself as the Intensive Care
Physician that had made it possible for Luke to be in the room with Michael. I
told him I considered him a medical saint. He told me there was no way around
it--”I looked into those sweet brown eyes and just melted,” he said.
I told him I knew...I knew....
The
strange and wondrous Mrs. Baggs
When I arrived at St. Paul's in New
Haven, the search committee had briefed me in great detail about most things.
But they hadn't mentioned the pilgrimage I would have to make to visit Mrs.
Baggs.
Mrs. Baggs was the last 'rich person'
in the parish. Like many city churches, St. Paul's had been founded by the
wealthy. Standing on the steps of the church, it was possible to see the
property of Trinity Church on the Green, three blocks away. St. Paul's had been
founded as a 'chapel of ease' for the wealthy who lived in the Wooster Square
area. Back in the day, the Episcopal Church was the church of the privileged
and well-born. That was true when St. John's was founded 275 years ago in
Waterbury—the names on the plaques around the building were the names of
streets and buildings as well. It was like that to a lesser degree at St.
Paul's in New Haven. Over the years and the migration out of the city by the
well-to-do, the rich folks who built grand edifices to their own distinguished
importance either moved away or died off. Mrs. Baggs was the last of her kind.
I was never sure where the Baggs money
came from, but it was 'old money' indeed, going back to the early days of the
city. Manufacturing of some kind was involved as well as importing and other
ways of making lots of money. Gun running to the Tories wouldn't surprise
me—but what do I know. But I'm just being bitter about what I was asked to do
and that I agreed.
The deal was this—Mrs. Baggs and her
two daughters, both unmarried and living together in the house next to the old
family home—didn't pledge to the support of the parish even though they were
the richest three members ('old money' has a way of spreading out over
generations). The two daughters did come
to church on occasion, but they were quiet shy and left after receiving
communion. But the three of them had a deal with the parish. At the end of the
year the Rector would call on Mrs. Baggs and she would write a check for the
annual deficit. Not a bad deal if you weren't the one to go, hat in hand, to
ask for the money. It was all worked out—I was to slide a piece of paper across
to Mrs. Baggs at the end of our visit and she would have her housekeeper bring
her a check, make it out for the amount, and then Mrs. Baggs would sign it.
Very civilized in some ways.
Over my 30+ years of parish ministry,
I have encountered this phenomena over and over again in different guises.
People are remarkably generous when they know exactly where their money is
going. But very few folks feel comfortable pledging to the parish budget to the
extent they are able. A few are comfortable with that and 'do' give to the
extent they are able. And those folks usually object to fund raising projects.
They are quite clear that if everyone simply gave what they could give, there
would be no need for bake sales. And they are right—that's the frustrating
thing about dealing with people who truly tithe: they're 'walking the walk' and
have no patience with those who merely 'talk the talk'. That tiny minority of folks
are dogmatic about pledging and very generous. The generosity of most folks,
however, is tied to 'tell me what I'm paying for and I'll pay it' thinking.
Because they are generous to a fault themselves, they have no patience with
those who tithe, give proportionately. Why is anyone surprised that Stewardship
is so difficult?
So I arranged my visit to Mrs.
Baggs—much against my better judgment—with her housekeeper and showed up at the
appointed time. She welcomed me into a rather modest home, considering the
Baggs' fortune. Usually, it seems to me in my limited understanding, that 'old
money' is seldom ostentatious. It is the newly rich who lust after square
footage and 'obviously' expensive things. I'm sure the furniture I passed, led
by Mrs. Grant, the middle-aged, very patient, black housekeeper, was mostly
antique and quite valuable, but it didn't scream out “Money!”
Mrs. Baggs was waiting on a little
room that was most likely an office at some point in time. There were two easy
chairs, a fireplace not burning, a table between the chairs and not much else
in the room besides a large portrait of Abraham Lincoln. The painting was in
oil and I wondered if it were from Lincoln's time. She was a tall woman for
someone her age, with piercing blue eyes, thick white hair pulled back and
dressed in black slacks and a white blouse and inexplicable Keds red tennis
shoes.
Doris, Mrs. Baggs housekeeper, brought
us Ritz crackers with slices of Velveta cheese and some extremely dry,
extremely cheap sherry. I knew the sherry was cheap because the price tag
hadn't been removed but it took a sip to tell me it was really bad. I wondered
if one of the richest people in the city didn't want to waste the good stuff on
the Rector. Doris must have read my mind.
“This is Mrs. Baggs favorite snack,”
she said, “she insists on it for guests.”
Mrs. Baggs asked about my education
and when she found out I had an MTS from Harvard, she pursed her face.
“All the Baggs men were Yale men,” she
said, “but I suppose Harvard isn't bad if you can't get into Yale.” She made no
comment at all about West Virginia University or Virginia Seminary. Which I
guess actually was a comment of sorts.
Then she asked about a couple of
people at the church. One she called a gossip and the other an asshole. I
almost gagged on my bad sherry when she said 'asshole' but decided people who
have lived to great ages deserve to speak their mind. She told me of her
admiration of my predecessor, who had been elected bishop. I imagined he was
more at ease asking for money than I was and nodded in agreement with her
praise of him.
The weather, which was mild for late
November came up and she asked me if I knew her daughters. I told her I did and
commented that they didn't stay around long enough on Sundays to have a real
conversation with.
“They're not much for talking,” she
said, “Beth and Ruth are very interior people.”
I nodded some more, wondering when the
slide the piece of paper with a figure on it across the table. To pass the time
I commented on the painting of Lincoln.
“You must admire President Lincoln,” I
said.
She went on a while about Lincoln's
attributes and accomplishments. Then she leaned forward and, in a whisper,
said, “They killed him you know....”
I was nodding. I did remember that
President Lincoln has been assassinated.
“It was John Wil....” I began.
She shook her head vigorously and
touched my hand. “No, no,” she said, “that Booth rumor was a cover-up. It was
the Jerry's who killed him.” She sat back, smiling and looking pleased.
“The Jer...Jerry's....You mean the
German's killed him?” I asked, astonished.
She nodded. “A dozen of them,” she
said, “all came running into the box seat and filled him with holes.”
I was nodding like a madman, trying to
keep up.
She motioned for me to lean toward her
and whispered in my ear, “I was there, you know....”
“When...when the Germans killed
Lincoln? You were there?”
She smiled again. She had a lovely,
old-lady smile,
“Mr. Lincoln, himself, invited me to
the theater that night,” she told me. “That Mary Todd wasn't pleased. If you
ask me, she was in on it.”
I took a deep breath and a large slug
of bad sherry. “Mrs. Lincoln was part of the plot to kill her husband?”
Mrs. Baggs nodded and then said, “she
was a German herself, you know.”
About that time, Doris reappeared.
“We don't want to tire Mrs. Baggs too
much,” she said softly, “I think you should leave.”
My head still spinning from the German
plot to kill Lincoln, I started to rise. Doris cleared her throat loudly.
“I think you have something I must
see,” she said.
She waited until I understood and
found the piece of paper with a figure on it in my pocket. Doris took it from
me and said, “just say your goodbyes.”
I shook hands with Mrs. Baggs and
kissed her cheek. Her skin was surprising soft for someone in their 80's. Doris
came back with a check she had filled out and a pen.
“Put your name here, darlin',” she
said to Mrs. Baggs, pointing to where to sign.
On the way out, Doris gave me the
check. It was for several thousand dollars more than my note had said. She saw
my reaction and said, “don't worry, the girls know about this and approve.”
“Mrs. Baggs...,” I started and then
didn't know what to say.
“I was listening from the hallway,”
Doris said, “and when you got started on Lincoln, I knew it was time I came
in.”
“The Lincoln thing....” I began.
She smiled and helped me on with my
winter coat. “No one understands it. The girls certainly don't.” She laughed
softly, “once Mrs. Baggs told me she was there when the President made me
free. That's how she said it: 'Doris, I was there when he signed the
proclamation that made you free'. I swear I think she thinks she was....”
“So what will...,” I started.
“Happen to her?” Doris was faster than
me. “Oh, until her body goes, I'll be here. The girls like me and I actually
love Mrs. Baggs. She's a load of laughter.”
At the door she touched my arm. “Come
back and see her please. But not like this, have someone call me with the total
each year. Just come and visit and have some bad wine with her.”
“And talk about Lincoln?” I asked.
She laughed, “most likely,” she said
and shut the door behind me.
I was astonished by the strange and
wondrous Mrs. Baggs, by Doris calling two women at least in their 50's 'the
girls', and by Doris herself. Mrs. Baggs was in good hands.
After I left St. Paul's, there was a
need for a lot of repair to the building. The Baggs family was, I was told,
extremely generous.
But by then, I knew Doris wrote the
checks.
REMITHA
Remitha may be the most remarkable
parishioner I've ever served...and one of a handful of the most remarkable
people ever in my life.
She had a story (doesn't everyone)
that made her remarkable enough. But how she chose to live out her life, post
story, was astonishing.
Physically, she was unimposing. Five
foot six or so and thin with a coffee Au let skin coloring. Her
hair was turning the least bit gray when I came to St. James in Charleston but
I don't know how old she was. Age wasn't something you tended to note about
Remitha. She was most likely in her sixties back then, but there would have
been no way to tell. She had more energy that any two people and moved rapidly.
It was her movement that gave her past
away. She moved with a grace and economy of motion uncommon and rare. She moved
like a dancer—which is what she was. Remitha had danced with Cab Calloway
during the last years of the Harlem Renaissance. She knew all the notables of
that remarkable artistic time and place.
The only thing she ever did to let on that she could have been famous is
refer to the figures of the Renaissance by first name. When Rimitha said
“Duke”, she didn't mean 'Snider'.
But when her parents were having
health problems, Remitha left New York and came back to Institute, West
Virginia to watch out for them. She had a married sister but since Remitha was
single, it was her duty to care for parents. Both her parents were associated
some way or another with West Virginia State College. She stayed with them
until they both died and then, too old to take up her career again, stayed in
Institute as a teacher. She had just retired when I arrived. To keep herself
busy, she took on the care of other elderly folks. There were dozens of them
that she looked out for—doing shopping, taking them to the doctors, bringing
them food, just spending time.
Remitha could be irritable from time
to time, though not nearly as much as someone who spent many hours a week with
needy and demanding elders had ever right to be. Oh, she was never anything but
patient and kind to the people she ministered to (and it was a real 'ministry')
but she would come by my office every week or so, flop down on a chair
gracefully (Remitha could actually make a 'flop' look 'graceful'!) and give me
a litany of the woes of 'her folks'. But as soon as she got started
complaining, she would begin to see the humor of the old people's
eccentricities and we'd end up almost whooping in laughter. After a while, she
sigh and smile, 'well thanks for listening' she would say and head back out to do
dear, kind things for her folks.
“They drive me crazy,” she would say
from time to time, “but being crazy keeps me going....”
Due to some strange demographic blip,
the largest single group at St. James was teenage girls—only three teens who
were boys, but over a dozen teenage girls. This was long before the curse of
smart phones fell upon the land, but most of those girls could find something
inane to do anyway. Remitha thought them lazy and spoiled.
“Look at them,” she said one day,
“do-less, junk-food addicts and turning fleshy. Someone should do something.”
I remained a deacon for nearly a year,
doing deacon's masses (which are like sacramental take-out blessed by a priest
at another church) and with the help of Father Dodge. But my ordination had been
scheduled—the first ordination at St. James in the church's 90+ year history.
It was a Saturday and the next day I'd celebrate my first real Eucharist.
Remitha came by one day a few months before my ordination and caught me at the
church.
“What do you think about liturgical
dance?” she asked me.
“I like it,” I said, “if it's done
well.”
“Oh, it will be well done,” she told
me, “you can trust me on that....”
Before I could ask what she meant, she
was headed toward the door. “I've got Miss Bessie's two sisters in the car.
I've got to get back before they get into mischief.”
Before I knew it, all those teenage
girls were showing up after school at the church and Remitha was teaching them
to dance. Some of them were reluctant, but Remitha had gone to their parents
first. It didn't take much convincing to have the parents ordering the girls to
do whatever Remitha told them to do. And Remitha could still dance—she'd had
ballet for years before Harlem. The girl could really dance!
So, the St. James dancers came into
being. She had them sewing their own costumes—simple, full colorful skirts to
wear below black leotard tops with a scarf matching each skirt for their heads.
They danced in bare feet. Some of them were naturals and some tried Remitha's
patience. But they all learned to dance. My first mass as a priest was their
debut. They used the whole church—all three aisles and the front. They
performed four numbers all to Duke Ellington's “Sacred Concert”. Remitha danced
with them—some times doing things they couldn't yet do, but often just as one
of the ensemble. Her grave and graceful demeanor gave the girls more confidence
and they ended up being better than even Remitha had imagined. It was most
definitely 'done well'.
At the reception following the first
Dance Eucharist at St. James, Remitha received the praise and deflected it to
the girls. They had grown to love her though she was very strict with them and
demanding of their bodies. They worked hard and when anything went wrong in
rehearsals Remitha would first look sternly at them and then burst into her
infectious laughter. Sometimes at the end of a rehearsal they were be
exhausted, strewn around the church on their backs laughing with joy and
amazement at themselves.
After that first service, Remitha
gathered the girls in my office for a moment. I was with them. She smiled
broadly at them. “The Duke would have been proud of you,” is all she said. They
knew that was the highest of praise.
They went on for several years,
dancing at St. James to a widening repertoire of music: Benstein's “Mass”,
“Jesus Christ Superstar” and most lovely of all, old Negro Spirituals. Their
reputation spread and they would often dance at other churches or at Diocesan
Conventions or, because it was part of Remitha's passion, nursing homes.
“When do we get to see you again?” I
asked her one day before a trip to Huntington to dance at the largest parish in
the diocese.
“Lord these girls run me ragged,” she
said, shaking her head. “I sometimes wonder if it's worth it....”
I started to tell her that of course
it was worth it when she went on, “but these girls ARE worth it....”
Remitha wasn't satisfied simply to do
her 'good work'--she drug me into it at every possible moment. I sometimes
believed she double booked trips for her folks on purpose so I'd have to drive
people places and drive them home. She also was very active in working with the
retarded and crippled. (I know neither term is politically correct today but it
was the 1970's and that's what we called the 'mentally and physically
challenged' in those days.) She would drag me off to help her do exercises at
group homes and special schools. It was impossible for her to imagine that the
'challenged' population couldn't do more if you only asked them to. So we would
do calisthenics and run races and do silly dances with folks all over the
county. Her network was seemingly limitless and everyone who knew her fell
under her spell. But then, it's hard not to love someone who treats you like
you are more capable and smarter than you think you are and is constantly
reminding you how proud she is of you.
It was the same for me, but with an
ironic bite to it.
Once after church she told me, “You
certainly are a great preacher.” I walked around coffee hour about a foot off
the ground. Just before she went home she came over and whispered, “...for a
white man.” I could hear her laughing all the way out the front door.
Something she taught me that every
priest needs to learn is simply how to be with people different from you or
someway impaired or old or dying. That's a lesson for us all, but especially
for a priest. It seems to me that most of my long ministry has been spent with
a large number of those folks. Since I was always in urban settings, Remitha's
teaching was acutely important. And I love her for it.
Another teaching was that the world
is, in the end, a tad bizarre and usually inscrutable. Weird, odd and strange
things happen all the time. Remitha taught me that bemusement and pondering
were two tools of Life's trade. She'd shake her head often and say, “God works
in mischievous ways....”
A few years after leaving Charleston,
I was in West Virginia for a while, visiting relatives. My friend John had
called me when Remitha went into the nursing home. She had developed rapidly
progressing Alzheimer's Disease. It took her quickly, almost before she knew
what was happening. She went in rapid succession from not remembering where she
put her car keys (as we all do sometimes) to finding them and wondering what on
earth they were, those oddly shaped metal things. I drove a couple of hours to
visit her. It was a homey place, not the institution I expected. The Director
had known Remitha before she got ill and treated her with the respect Remitha
deserved. I went into her room. She had fallen and was tranquilized but awake.
The first thing I noticed was the ironic, mischievous, good humored spark that
had always been in her eyes had gone out. She seemed so frightened about
something—perhaps the fear of staring into the world and seeing nothing that
made sense. When I touched her, she jumped a little and turned her head away.
The Director was still with me. “She
does that with everyone,” she told me, softening the blow of the rejection I
felt so acutely.
I sat with Remitha for 45 minutes and
helped feed her some apple sauce which she ate reluctantly and staring at me
without recognition.
I talked to her about our times
together but those times seemed so long ago when I saw her like that. I
couldn't stay any longer because it hurt too much.
I stopped at the Director's office on
the way out.
“Did she say anything?” she asked me.
I told her no and she shook her head sadly, “she's pretty much quit talking.
And Lord she was a talker in her day....”
I admitted Remitha could really talk
and started to apologize for not staying longer.
That same sad head shake. “Don't
apologize,” the Director said, “it's just too hard, I know it is....”
Remitha's sister let me know when
Remitha died. She told me how proud Remitha had been of me and what a good
priest she always said I was. I thanked her for calling and was sad. But I
realized the woman I loved had died a year or two before her wondrous,
expansive heart stopped beating.
SEMINARIANS
I've 'supervised' (so to speak) 20
people preparing for ordination in the Episcopal Church. All of them, except
the first and last one, are now priests. Dana (who became a well-known
novelist), the first seminarian I worked with, was ordained a Deacon in the
church, but then, as a protest of sorts because of her fierce commitment to
social justice, refused to become a priest. The last one, Frank, is still in
the process and will be ordained in a year or so, I pray. He will be a
wonderful priest, though he has run into some difficulty—a side effect of the
ordination process that badly needs fixing. But don't let me get started on
that....
Eighteen priests, a deacon and a
priest in waiting, have worked with me over the years. I've gotten to preach at
a half-dozen ordinations and have followed the lives of many of them to this
day. Thinking about that is similar to thinking about the hundreds of funerals,
weddings and baptisms I've been a part of in my 35 years as a priest. It is
something that I have only started to ponder since retiring some nine months
ago at 63. What a privilege and honor it has been to touch so many people in
some way during my being a priest. And, in the case of the seminarians, having
touched second-hand all the people they have touched in their ordained
ministry. It takes my breath away and humbles me mightily.
I've always sought to be a 'boss' in a
counter-cultural way. I've tried to surround myself with people smarter and
more talented than I am and then give them their head to do what they do. The
only agreement I've had, at least for the last 25 years, with people who work
'for' me, is this: They can have the applause for their accomplishments and
I will take any grief for when things go wrong. The buck has always stopped
with me. I am constitutionally and genetically designed to be able to accept
criticism gracefully and, in many cases, use it to make things better. I have
somehow developed the ability to 'roll with the punches' and not take them
personally. I wish I could take credit for that stand, but the truth is, it is
just the way I am. (One caveat, this ability does not extend to my immediate
family—like most everyone, I imagine, my daughter or son or wife can cut me to
the quick with a critical word.) And, it seems to me at any rate, that's the
way it should be. The person in charge should take the blunt of any
attack and let their employees 'shine' when things go well. And, it also
appears to me, that strategy results in lots more 'shining' than 'whining'.
Just me talkin....
The metaphor I've used over the years
with people who, technically, at any rate, “work for me” is that of Crabbing
Buddies.
Here's how that goes: over 35 years ago, I learned how to
catch blue crab in little inlets of North Carolina. There is simply no way to
explain how to do it in words, it is fraught with too many quirks and nooks an
crannies. The only way to learn to crab is to put your feet in the water and
learn from someone who knows how to do it. Crabbing involves a lot of
variables.
In the first place, there is the bait.
I recommend chicken backs, either ones you get from the butcher or carve out of
a chicken yourself. The first thing you do is tie some twine around the chicken
back and lay it out on a banister in the sun for a day or two. You need to get
it really rotting. You tie it with twine first because you won't want to touch
it with your fingers after the morbidity sets in. When the chicken is ripe, you
slide a sinker down the twine and tie it off about three inches above the
stinky chicken. Do two or more backs at a time, especially if you're being
someone's crabbing buddy. Everyone needs bait.
You need a net on a pole about four
feet long and a cooler or two full of ice covering at least two six packs of
beer—I'd recommend three six packs. You can always run to the convenience store
to get more. It depends on how many people are expecting a meal from your
crabbing. Six crabs barely feed a person. Eight each is better. And you get to
drink a beer only when you catch a crab. I recommend cans rather than bottles since
you don't want to be bothered with a bottle opener. Then put the bait on top of
the ice and either walk or drive to an inlet. You need to get there as the tide
it turning. The crabs float with the tide and you want them moving. I've always
thought that the tide turning to high is better than the tide turning to low.
But the point is, have the tide turning.
You need to wear old sneakers since
you'll never want to wear them again. You need sun block at the maximum
strength allowed by law and a hat that shields your face from the sun. Also,
the brim of the hat lets you look into the water to seek the crabs. Sun glasses
too, the ones that cut glare so you can actually peer into the water about a
foot.
You throw the rotten chicken out as
far as your line allows...four feet of line would be enough in most cases. Then
you hold the twine and try to distinguish between the pull of the tide and the
bite of a crab. There is no way to know the difference without doing it for an
hour or so and feeling foolish pulling in the twine when it is just water
moving the bait. Eventually, through trial and error, you begin to get the
sense in your fingers of what is tide and what is crab.
When you have that sense and feel a
crab feeding, you have to start pulling
in, slowly enough to let the creature keep eating and fast enough to get it
into water shallow enough to net it. It is more poetry than prose, more
intuition than knowledge, more 'touch' than 'knowing'. It takes a while to get
your finger tips to react in a consistent and accurate way to the feel of a
crab feeding. But once you get it, you know it always. Much like the 'balance'
of riding a bicycle. Once you find it, you have it. You never forget how to
ride a bike or how to know it is a crab on your line.
Patience is then required. You have to
keep the tension, which isn't difficult since crabs are ferocious feeders. But
if you pull in too fast or lean too far over the water so the crab's stilted eyes see your shadow, then
the crab will back away. If that happens, you wait. They are greedy creatures
and might just come back to the food if you are patient enough.
There is a whole other set of skills
needed to net the crab you've tempted in far enough to see. They move
backwards, mostly, so you have to come from far behind them because once the
net hits the water they are in 'escape mode' and coming straight down will give
you a net full of rotten chicken. Again, it is a matter of 'touch' and
instinct, not knowledge and knowing. So, the only way to learn to do this—to
crab successfully, is to be calf deep in water with someone who already knows
how. And you have to be willing to be sun-burned, in spite of all your
precautions, and have your ankles bitten by baby shrimp—yes, Virginia, shrimp
can bite—and have three things...patience, patience and patience...and three
skills...intuition, balance and 'touch'. That and only that will fill the
coolers with crab as the beer is pulled from beneath the ice (always bring a
bag for the cans, be environmentally responsible, after all). And, when you put
a new blue crab into the cooler and dig down for a beer, remember this, people
smarter and more skilled than you have been pinched by a crab claw. Just part
of the learning....
So that is how I supervised all those
wondrous people. I invited them into the water with me. I showed them,
initially, how to do certain things and then I invited them to throw the
chicken out, feel for the crab bite, learn to pull it in—not too fast, not to
slow—take the net and see if they could do it. Always, I asked them to bring
emotional sun block, intellectual sun-glasses and some old clothes. And I also
told them what was best for shrimp bits—witchhazel and then baking powder.
Lots of work, sunburn, sweat and too
many beers. But the feast is worth it. Nothing like boiled blue crab, poured
out on the Charlotte Observer with corn from a road side stand, boiled
shrimp from the same stand, lots of butter and beer or really cold white wine.
Nothing like that at all.
Parish ministry can be that fulfilling,
that wonderful that tasty. It really can be, if you're willing to ruin your
sneakers and tend to the shrimp bites—metaphorical, of course. I never imagined
I was “supervising” these remarkable young people. I was just trying to keep
up. It's like the story of a man riding his horse through a town as fast as he
could. “Those are my soldiers up ahead,” he said. “I am their leader and must
catch up.”
Some of my relationships remain over
time. I got a call years ago when Bern and I owned a house on Oak Island, NC.
The gentleman introduced himself as
Casper Higgenbottom, or something as unlikely. He told me he was a Fire
Marshall serving Brunswick County. He asked if I were the owner of a house on
Dolphin Lane. I told him I was, beginning to feel a bit uneasy.
“Well, Mr. Bradley, the damage can be
repaired,” he said.
“Damage?” I said, my heart sinking,
“what damage?”
“A gas line exploded near your house
and scorched the who east wall,” he told me, “but there is good news....”
“What could be good about that?” I
asked, sorrowing.
“Well the burn marks look like a
profile of our blessed Lord Jesus,” he said, “and several people are interested
in buying the property from you or you could use it as a tourist attraction.
Lots of Christians in this area....”
After a long pause, I said, “who is
this really?”
It was K., one of the first
seminarians that worked with me in New Haven. He was in a church in North
Carolina and was going to rent a house during July on Topsail Island and
wondered if we'd be down that month. We saw K. and his family that summer and a
couple of summers afterward until he got a job in another diocese.
B. was a young man from the upper
Mid-West who worked with me and K. It is always exciting to have more than one
seminarian around. It creates a usually friendly competition and they have
someone to complain about me with! Plus, many hands make light work and I have
found over the years that seminarians accomplish a great deal of parish
ministry in their 10-12 hours a week during the academic year. Besides, one of
the joys of having seminarians around is that they see with 'fresh eyes' and
usually have bold and innovative theologies. It always kept me on my toes to
engage seminarians in conversation about 'what they would do' if they were me
and about the 'theological context' of practically anything. Many priests, it
seems to me, get bogged down in the 'doing' of ministry and don't attend to
staying reflective theologically. That's impossible with seminarians around.
B. was a talented man. More serious
and less skeptical than K. They balanced each other well and did a great deal
of good work at St. Paul's. St. Paul's was known as, perhaps, 'the most liberal
parish in the diocese'. I'm not sure it was, but it was a haven for political and
theological liberals. The parish itself did good outreach but, except for one
of two activists, most of the dedicated liberals who came there wanted rest
from their labors. They were doing the progressive work of God in their lives
in many different settings. St. Paul's was a haven for them. A place to take a
deep breath and be cared for just as they cared for those they served as
teachers, social workers, labor union leaders, medical practitioners and
workers in the vineyard of the world's pain and injustice. I've always fretted
over the “gas station” image of a parish church—a place to get 'filled up' for
the week ahead, for real life. But it is clear to me, looking back, that people
who live in 'the real world' need refreshment and nurturing. All churches
should seek to do that. Some parishes need to make it a primary ministry.
Anyway, back to B. I preached at his
wedding down in Pennsylvania. His bride's parish was in a tony, upper-class
suburban community. Her family's Rector did the service and I did the sermon.
He was one of what I've always called 'catalog priests'--the kind if you saw
their picture flipping through a catalog you would say, “oh, let's get that
one!” Tall and intellectual and kind and a charming kind of shy—he was (he was,
I thought, talking with him and B. in the back yard of the Rectory because the
bride's limo had been delayed by an accident on the Interstate) destined for
bigger things. So call me a minor prophet—the priest was later Bishop of
Chicago and the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal church!
So B. was ordained—I was one of his
presentors—and he took a job in Connecticut so I would see him at clergy
gatherings. Once, a couple of years later, I called him up to get his help on
some issue or another—probably having to do with gay folks in some way—and
there was a long pause after I told him what I wanted.
“B,” I said. “Are you there?”
“Jim,” he responded, “I'm just not as
liberal as you are on these issues....”
I came to find out over the next few
years that B and I were on opposite sides of most issues that came before the
church. It was truly a revelation to me. For one thing, I must not have
listened very well to him in our many conversations. He never hid his opinions,
so far as I could remember, but my 'blind side' is that I always think of
myself as the 'norm'...from which there is no deviation. This had bitten me
many times over the years, thinking whoever I'm talking with must be in
agreement with my obviously correct and passionately held opinions. Over
and again I've been shown the untruth in my belief, but I continue to make the
assumption that everyone supports what I support. Someone once told me when I
gave them my “I'm the Norm” explanation that it was curiously naïve of me and
not a little charming. Charming or not, I always feel like an idiot. B's final
lesson to me was that you don't have to agree with someone to love them and to
work with them. That's a lesson I wish I could learn more thoroughly. It's also
a lesson that Orthodox Christians and Progressive Christians, Jews and Muslims
and Christians, even Democrats and Republicans could learn, much to the benefit
of all.
W was a seminarian for two years at
St. John's. I got in trouble with the bishop (not the same one) during her
ordination sermon. At the very beginning, instead of the usual “In the Name of
the Father, Son and Holy Spirit,” I said, “In the Name of Yahweh, Jesus and
Sophia”. I think I may have told this story earlier, but I'm not sure I said
that it was a woman, I am told, who objected and told the bishop, who inhibited
me from saying such a thing.
W was a slightly more mature woman,
not straight from college to seminary. She was from the spiritual tradition of
the Society of Friends when she got bit by the Liturgy bug and became an Episcopalian.
I'm not sure we Anglicans understand how powerful the liturgical practice can
be to people of a certain makeup. I just read a review the other d a book called The Accidental Anglican
which, apparently, chronicles the journey of a fundamentalist Christian to the
Episcopal Church. It was the Liturgy that got him, though our theology still is
problematic. The message to all us Episcopalians is clear--”it's the Liturgy,
stupid!”
Anyhow, W, who was a candidate from
Connecticut, a member of the Cathedral congregation in Hartford, was having
problems getting through the ordination process. (Don't get me started on
that...I've warned you....) She was a good preacher, a superb pastor, an
accomplished teacher and liturgist, plus she had a 'support group' who loved
her and were devoted to her. Most seminarians didn't trouble much with their
support group—which they selected and led—but W was deeply committed to
learning all she could from lay folks (much better teachers in priest-craft
than priests or seminary professors, by the way) and made the most of her
group. They even had a name for themselves—'The W Pack'--and taught her much more than I ever could have about
how to be a priest.
The complaint of the committee
blocking her ordination was that she didn't have a full-blown “Anglican
Spirituality”, which, as far as I can remember, had something to do with her
admitting she didn't say Morning and Evening Prayer from the Prayer Book each
day. Well, that ticked me off no end. Against W's wishes, I demanded a meeting
with the bishop and the committee. It was a painful time. They were somehow, it
seems to me, suspicious of a Quaker/Episcopalian. Hell, I'm a Pilgrim
Holiness/Methodist/ Episcopalian. What could be more suspect that that. What
frustrated me was that I knew her best of all and knew what a priest she would
be and how badly the church needed priests like her and no one would listen to
me.
(I've taken an informal poll of
priests I've known, asking them if they were not an Episcopalian, what would they
be. Over half have said 'a Quaker”. The two forms of piety seem to complete
each other—the deep silence and lovely liturgy seem meant for each other. And
you couldn't find a more sane way of making decisions. When the whole gay
inclusion question came into the forefront, the Quakers, as I understand it,
adjourned their national convention and spent the year in discernment and
prayer. At the end of the year they simply accepted GLBT folks as fully part of
the Society. Episcopalians have been fighting and splitting over the question
for well over a decade. I can't imagine why the Episcopal Church shouldn't be
more than delighted to have Friends come to join us, bringing their
spirituality with them.)
So, in spite of my intervention (or,
perhaps, because of it} her ordination was delayed for a year. Alas and
alack. It seemed to snap something in her. I don't know, I just may be
imagining that, but she hasn't had the success in the church I thought she
would and which she richly deserved. The Process somehow 'broke' her.
Literally, since she had no job for the year she had to wait for
ordination...and, more profoundly, emotionally and spiritually in some way. It
was one of the many cases I've seen where the church as “Institution” overruled
the church as “Community” and did damage.
But she soldiers on to this day. I
hear from her from time to time and she is still committed to her ministry, her
priesthood, as much 'in spite of' the church as 'for it'. God bless her. God
bless them all. They deserve it. Really. Good people, trust me on this—good
people.
Little M was a gift to me. She grew up
and will spend her priesthood in churches that are suburban, mostly affluent
and traditional. And, when she was in seminary, a commuter student after her children
were almost grown, she made a defining choice to come to St. John's, a funky,
profoundly diverse, urban parish. She needed to experience it, that's what she
told me when I interviewed her. Such a place would not be her fate or her
passion, but she truly believed she should experience it and learn from it. And
she did, just as I learned from her.
M is almost terminally 'perky', still
is in her role as a Rector of a suburban parish outside the See-city of
Hartford. She is 'feisty', I would say. A priest friend of her asked me, early
on in M's time at St. John's, “how's it going with M?”
Being inappropriate in most ways, I
mistakenly said, “we'll crack her open yet...”
Well, her friend told her what I said
and so much of the year she spend with us 'in the City', M was trying to resist
being 'cracked open'. I didn't really mean it in a negative way. I merely
meant, and should have said, “we'll give her an experience she won't forget.”
She was another of the seminarians I
presented for ordination in a Fairfield County parish that reeked of money and
influence. The kind of place I feel a little too hill-billy and tongue-tied to
be in comfortably. For her ordination, I gave her, as is my tradition,
something that was mine. I gave her a large print of Christ/Sophia. It depicts
a beautiful, dusky skinned woman, wrapped in a red garment with long black hair
and a nose ring, holding a wooden carving of the Earth Goddess. It is an edgy
kind of icon, full of paradox and challenges. St. Paul called Jesus “the Wisdom
of God”, or, in Greek, “the Sophia of God.” Sophia has been associated over the
centuries, with both the second and third persons of the Trinity. So, that's
what I gave her, 'little M', the proper suburban woman, always well groomed and
dressed by Talbots.
A few years later, I called her
because I wanted to borrow the print for a retreat I was leading. She told me
to come down and get it. I suspected she would have to go get it in her attic,
but when I arrived, the picture was hanging prominently on the wall of her
office in this well-heeled parish. I was surprised and told her so.
“I put it here so people will ask
about it,” she told me. “And they do. Many find it troubling, but that's not a
bad thing. Being 'troubled' teaches us something.”
She smiled at my look of surprise.
“Then I tell them about St. John's and
the life and ministry of a place so different from this,” she told me. “That
too teaches us something.”
Just as B taught me you don't have to
agree about issues to be loving and kind and accepting of each other, 'little
M' taught me what I already knew and often forgot, which made it a doubly
special teaching.
'Folks are just folks' in the end.
We live in different cultures,
different contexts, but in the end, 'folks are just folks' and we theologically
trained people should know that, really know it, appreciate it and ponder it
and figure out how to make it work.
'Little M', I believe, has figured all
that out. She spends her life and ministry in a context and culture I've never
known, and in that space, she creates the Truth that 'folks are just folks' for
the folks she ministers to.
God bless her, like all the others.
E was the first person I 'supervised'.
She was a seminarian from West Virginia who, at the end of her second year of
study, was required to spend the summer working somewhere in West Virginia.
Since she wanted to minister 'on the margins', coming to an African-American
parish in an overwhelmingly white diocese made sense. She also wanted to be
near Charleston both because her spiritual mentor—the Rector of St. John's, the
big church downtown—was there but also because of her passionately felt need to
do advocacy work. E is the only person I ever worked with that made me feel
'conservative'! Her theology was expansive, liberationist and activist. She
went far further into social action than I ever did, though many would consider
me a model of 'the activist priest' from Paul Simon's Me and Julio, down by
the School Yard. E's particular zeal was for saving the mountains from the
greed of the coal industry.
There had always been strip mines,
though the massive scale of mountain top removal of today would have never been imagined. E grew up, as I
did, in McDowell County, a part of the world sitting on the largest bituminous
coal deposits in the U.S.
(The
Rector of St. John's, amazed by E's brilliance, devotion and passion, once said
to me, “Jim, can you believe someone like E actually comes from McDowell
County?” It was one of those 'what good can come from Nazareth?' statements
people who didn't grow up in Appalachia often made. I wanted to shake him and
say, “who do you think we are down there, some lesser species of humankind?”
Instead, I nodded. “Amazing,” I replied. There's really no point trying to
convince people that places like McDowell County are really like all the other
rural places around the country. Coal miners are seen as somehow
constitutionally inferior—witness the way companies like Massey Energy kill
them for their sport...or rather, their profits....)
E and I grew up quite close to each
other, in fact. Our parents knew each other. My father had worked in the mines
before WWII and E's father was a mine boss of some kind. We both had seen with
our own eyes the wanton destruction of some of the most beautiful places on
earth. People who find out I'm from West Virginia will often tell me about
driving through it on the way to someplace else. And they always comment on the
beauty—and the emptiness—of the state. (West Virginia is the size of all of New
England, excluding Maine, and has less than 1.5 million citizens. It is a very
large, mostly empty place.) And, it is jarringly beautiful. It was a remarkable
and humbling privilege to grow up surrounded by the mountains that reached down
to the core of life of the planet and up to the vast expanses above. There is
something holy about mountains (not a surprise to almost all Faiths since holy
places are often on mountain tops).
Strip mining, as it was called in my
youth, and what is called 'surface mining' today, abuses, ignores, desecrates
all that is subsumed it the Holiness of Mountains. Now, as an old retired guy,
I finally resonate with E's outrage and passion and anger. I finally get what
drove her, motivated her and consumed her, body and soul.
Here was E's Achilles's heal when I
knew her—she was in mortal battle with not only the 'only' real industry of
West Virginia but with many of the leaders of the Diocese. I remember being at
a Diocesan Convention Banquet and seeing E outside, picketing the event because
several coal owners would be there. Her mentor and I talked to her and tried to
convince her to come in and eat with the sinners, but she was adamant and
disappointed at us for going inside.
“Do you think we should stay outside
with her?” I remember asking K, her mentor.
“Let's see what's on the menu,” he
said, “then we'll decide.”
E and K were both to the left of me
which meant they were on the left wing so far over they might just fall off.
But E's purity was not ours. We ate with sinners as she stood outside and
protested. “How far to go?” is always the question for those who seek social
justice. I think perhaps K and I were missing E's point. Perhaps there is no
such thing as 'going to far' in issues of justice. I wrestle with that Angel
and ponder the possibility that E tried to teach me what I did not learn.
When there was a movement to keep her
from being ordained to the priesthood, K and I pulled in whatever chips we had
and got her approved. And E refused the ritual! It mattered not what her two
Defenders risked and bargained away in her behalf. She had a shining, diamond
hard and rainbow pure 'cause'. She would not be ordained into a chuch that
harbored and supported those who destroyed mountains. After all these years,
I'm not sure, but she might have been right. Or, at least Righteous, which is
what we are all called to be.
(“Righteousness”, by the way, is not a
measure of moral purity in any sense. Abraham was 'reckoned righteous' by God,
not by virtue of his 'virtue', but because he entered into a 'relationship'
with God. Being Righteous is to be in a 'right relationship' with God. It is a
term of 'relationship' not behavior. So many Christians have that so, so wrong.
When you are 'in relationship' with someone, even God, then you know each
others quirks and faults and brokenness, yet you Love each other. Am I making
any sense here? I worship a God of 'relationship', not a God of Law and
Judgment. I pray you do as well. And I really believe, with the perspective of
decades, that E had a 'relationship' with the God who created the mountains
that I did not have and will never have., She was “righteous' in that sense
instead of the way we saw her and judged her—a radical with an agenda. E held
the hand of the Creator and knew the Wonder of God's ways. I really believe
that. Righteousness never leads to good endings, but knowing you will be
abandoned by even your closest friends while you hold the hand of the
Almighty...well, I know why she stayed away from that banquet that night and
refused ordination to the priesthood when it was an open offer to her.
Sometimes you meet people who walk backwards and speak gibberish and yet are,
in the end, Righteous. Sometimes that happens. It just does. Notice that and
ponder it.)
E, if recently found out, now
participates in the church in and around Charleston. She's also become a author
of historic novels, a couple of which I've read. She even teaches at West
Virginia State. It's comforting to know she's there, involved I'm sure in
making life unpleasant for the coal companies—especially after the horrifying
accident of last year. The problem is, as noble as people like E are, the ones
they seek to advocate for—the miners and their families—depend on the coal
companies for their livelihood. It's a difficult thing to speak up for those
who don't want to be spoken up for, fearing loss of their jobs. But if anyone
is up to that kind of quandry, it is E....God bless her....
That's enough for now. I'll return to
the seminarians later and tell you a bit more about some of them and the gifts
they gave me. Just reflecting on them, remembering them and pondering all that
they taught me has brought me that complex and ironic emotion that merges
together pride, gratefulness and humility. Not a bad emotion to hang around
with for a while.
