FROM THE BOUNDARY: Towards religiousness – Part four

My column last week ended with re-telling how my “friend and Bishop” consigned me to the wild beasts of the wilderness because of an allegation, in an anonymous letter, that I was a racist. Sure – I’d done something I wasn’t supposed to do. I’d reached out in my Sunday homily and sought reconciliation with the congregation from whence the letter originated. And why not? Isn’t that every man’s right and every priest’s duty? Had the incumbent done her job, she would have done it. But all there was, was silence.

Now I should tell you that I have a fair idea of the identity of the author of the letter. But over the years, I’ve come to believe that the allegation was not, in itself, seriously meant. What was intended was that I should become frustrated and angry and so would leave John the Baptist. Well if so, that little ruse didn’t work.

Does it matter what the incumbent told the Bishop? Not really, for so much has been said about me over the years. You remember the story that I’d sought to become a priest here because they wouldn’t take me in England, or the suggestion, to Bishop Sehon, that I hadn’t been properly trained? Let me mention the story of the kindly pastor. One evening at the Cathedral, after I’d officiated at Evensong, I welcomed a visiting priest. His exact words to me were: “Whatever they say about you, I will always support you.” Oh dear. Then there’s the story of the ‘new boy’ at the Cathedral with whom I chatted, for the first time, after I’d delivered the homily at Sunday Mass. “Oh”, he said. “But I’d been told you couldn’t….” – and then he stopped himself. Couldn’t what? And THIS is Christ’s Church?

To defame people in that kind of way goes beyond mere sin. Pope Francis explores it in ‘The Name of God is Mercy’. It’s a sin, he says, which is “elevated to a system, it becomes a mental habit, a way of living. We no longer feel the need for forgiveness and mercy but we justify ourselves and our behaviour … pretending to be Christian, and it is this double life which is scandalous.”

Initially, out in the wilderness, I felt rather sorry for myself. A priest without an altar is like a new born without his mother’s milk. In my life’s passage in this Church, I had, after all, endangered my health, bequeathed my leisure to the four winds, spent vast amounts on vestments and books, put my academic research and writing on the back burner and so damaged my promotion prospects, and, most importantly, witnessed my stranger’s trust dishonourably abused. At times in the Cathedral I’d worked over 30 hours a week with no prospect of ever having a Parish. Do you understand my irritation, then, when only the other day my goodly Bishop publicly boasted that various incumbents had teaching posts in schools, and has now reported he’s appointed a full time magistrate as Priest-in-Charge of St Mary’s? Wonderful!

Yet in the wilderness I found not wild beasts but ministering angels. Fr Gatherer took me on for a time. He’s such a brave man, an honourable man, and I admire him enormously. Then there was beloved Dean William at St Catherine’s. I was welcome, he said, whenever I wished. He has been more than mere mentor to me. There was Fr LaPlante, who was glad to have me take a service a month at St Saviour and St Simon, and Fr Marcus, who gave me something I cherish even more – his friendship. And finally, there was Fred, Fr Corbin, at St Alban and St Silas. He was such a dear man. Some, I think, found him aloof and unsmiling but, ever kindly and supportive, he gave me his friendship too and I thought the world of him. Sure, it was only a service a month, alternating between the two churches, but with the other commitments life became very busy and fulfilling. But then he became ill and went into hospital. I went to take the services and found another priest at St Alban. “Oh Father”, I said. “What are you doing here?” He turned his back to me and walked away. I suggested to one of the wardens that I should leave. “You’re not going anywhere”, she said. “Sit at the back.” And so I did. At the end of the service I got up and, tongue in cheek, publicly thanked the priest for coming. When I reached home, I rang the Rural Dean to find out what was going on. Let me just say that his attitude was – unhelpful.

The following Sunday, Fr Fred insisted he was well enough to carry on and I accompanied him to all the services to make sure he was OK. I officiated alone at the St Silas Patronal Festival. There’s a story I like to tell about Fred’s determination. One Sunday he was due to preach and, since I was the celebrant, he knelt before me for a blessing. I whispered to him: “Father, are you sure you’re OK? If you want me to do it you have only to say.” He responded: “Be quiet. Just get on with it.” Now – there was a MAN.

But then Fred went to England for treatment and I was alone there. Fred had only three months to go before retirement and so I should have thought the most obvious thing was to leave me there until his successor was appointed. But not a bit of it. The one-off priest who’d turned his back on me was appointed and I was out on my ear. Effectively, that was the end of the ministering angels. Fred died in England. I ever cherish his memory.

I went to see the Bishop in October 2010, some months after he’d been elevated to the style of ‘His Grace, The Most Reverend Dr The Honourable’, and told him that I would be retiring from UWI the following year. Immediately he said he’d give me a reference when I returned to England. But no, I said, I’m not going. I want you to bring me in from the cold. He asked me what I wanted. I told him I wanted to be attached to a Parish. Right. What else? I would like to be able to develop once more the prison ministry. Right. There’s a big meeting coming up, he said, and he’d send me to it. What else? Well, I’d like to develop the peripatetic ministry, standing in for people when they’re ill or on holiday. Right.

I went away a happy man. And waited. And waited. And, yes, waited. After six months, I wrote a reminder to him. No response. After another six months, I wrote again. No response. Ah well, what’s in a name?

Go safely, then – until the next time.

With Matthew from the boundary: “Faith is not being sure where you’re going, but going anyway. A journey without maps” (Frederick Buechner).