[continued from Part I]
Charles's 69th birthday, Francis-Clare Community, Lac Viet Restaurant,Orlando
A Canary in the Mine Shaft
Given my own interest in all
things spiritual, I would often take Charles with me to religious events and services
across the metro area. That was particularly important when visiting Episcopal
Churches. Charles was my canary in the mine shaft. I watched very carefully how
people responded to him. If they were welcoming, respecting his dignity, we
went back. If not, I shook the dust off my own sandals as I left.
There were two visits in
which that proved deeply troubling. The first was to an Episcopal Church in one
of the suburbs north of Orlando known for its charismatic worship. I went with
Charles and Pam, my law partner. I wanted to see for myself this form of
worship in this parish that other Episcopalians spoke of only in whispers.
I was on edge from the moment
we walked in the door, quickly slipping into the next to the last pew in the
back. The service began with a loud “Let’s do it” rather than the familiar
words of the prayer book and the praise band took up the first half hour of the
service with repetitive, mindless and narcissistic lyrics projected on a screen
overhead (“Our god reigns….ha ha
hains….Our god reigns….repeat 50X).
When the time came for the
Prayers of the People, I quickly realized the formula prescribed by the
Prayerbook had been abandoned for a free form set of prayers offered by anyone
who wanted to speak. The very first prayer was that “right thinking people will
be elected to the school board next week…” I could see Charles’ back stiffen as
my law partner began to dig her nails into my bare arm. The next prayer was for
“God to strike down all the lesbians.” By this time I was beginning to feel
nauseous. Charles was visibly agitated and my arm had begun to bleed from my
law partner’s nails which she had unconsciously dug through the skin into the
flesh.
The next thing I knew,
Charles was up off his kneeler and standing. He began to pray: “Let us pray
that the Carthusians and the Carpathagians will end their ancient feuds and
come together in Christian love and reconciliation…” This continued for two or
three minutes with a wide range of obscure religious orders and various prayers
for their historical plights. When he finished his prayers, he returned to the
kneeler beside the two of us. There was dead silence. I looked up and every
head in the church had turned around to see who had said these things.
Recovering his wits, the
priest quickly signaled the end of the Prayers leading the congregation in the communal
Confession. This would prove to be one of the few times I have not stayed for
an entire service in an Episcopal Church.
I placed my hands on Charles’ shoulders as we got up from the communion
rail and whispered in his ears, “Just keep going, Charles. We’re leaving now.”
And out the back door we slipped.
The second event occurred at
the Cathedral Church of St. Luke where I had met Charles and where we had both
sung in the choir together. I had left Orlando to attend seminary without
diocesan support and the Cathedral had undergone a massive change of staff
under the direction of its new fundamentalist bishop. The occasion for our
attendance was the memorial service for a former dean whom Charles had loved.
The Cathedral is a beautiful
neo-Gothic structure in the heart of downtown Orlando. It has long had a
storied music program. At one time it had also been actively involved in downtown
ministries among the homeless and interfaith services with nearby Catholic,
Orthodox and Lutheran parishes. All that had changed during my seven year
absence from the Cathedral. But I had no idea how much it had changed.
At one point, Charles said
he needed to go to the restroom. His medication included a diuretic so I was
accustomed to this. Given all the years he had spent there, I had no qualms
about him going out to the restroom in the nearby parish hall.
After about 20 minutes, a
friend who had come to the service with us asked, “Where is Charles?” I said he
had gone to the restroom but should be back by now. I began to look around for
him thinking perhaps he’d come back in and sat in another row. But no Charles.
After 30 minutes I began to panic. Had he gotten lost? Had he turned the wrong
way and stepped into the street in front of a car?
Then I saw him. The narthex
of the Cathedral has been glassed in to allow for mothers with crying babies to
leave the main sanctuary when necessary and still be able to be present for the
service visible through the glass and audible via the sound system. Behind that
glass wall stood Charles, face up to the glass with his hands to either side of
it, trying his best to see what was going on, looking like the doggie in the
window at a pet store.
I went out to get him thinking
perhaps he’d gotten lost or confused. As we walked down the side aisle to our
seats, I softly fussed at him, telling him I’d been worried and asked him why he’d stood out there all
that time. He simply said, “I’m sorry, little brother. That man wouldn’t let me
come back in.” In a Cathedral which used to feed homeless people and provide
them places to sleep on cold nights, the new reality was a corps of ushers who
also served as bouncers to keep homeless people away from the well-heeled elect
inside the glass doors.
I suddenly found myself
white hot with rage, so angry I could hardly speak. This was a former
parishioner who had come to honor a beloved dean (whom Charles had regularly
engaged for counseling). He had been treated like garbage strictly based upon
appearance. As I walked out the doors of the Cathedral that night, a place
that had been my spiritual home for eight years, I swore I would never return.
Now 18 years later, I never have and have no plans to.
Thanksgiving 2007, first meal in New Coverleigh,
rebuilt after Hurricane Charley. With Andy and Luci Blake
Sometimes the Canary Sings
But sometimes the canary not
only survives, it sings.
Those who know me well know
that, despite having been ordained priest in 1995, my inclination to attend any
Episcopal Church since returning to Central Florida has been limited to say the
least. Having fled this diocese after it began down its homophobic and
fundamentalist path with the election of a new bishop in 1990, I entered into
four of the most incredible years of my life as a seminarian in the Bay area of
California, connecting with a diocese in California and ordained in a parish in
San Jose. During my two years of doctoral work in Tallahassee I worked under a
very fine chaplain there as his assistant and got some experience in preaching,
celebrating and pastoring.
Then, for a variety of
reasons, none of which had to do with the church, I needed to return to
Orlando. My bishop in California had told me ahead of time that he would not
release me to the Diocese of Central Florida. And I had no intention of asking
him.
The rumors of the pathology
in the diocese had actually been understated. I saw aging clergy, venerable
servants of the church for decades, who were treated with contempt, shunned by new
clergy who had flooded into the diocese after passing the ideological litmus
test imposed by the bishop. And I had witnessed my dear friend Charles
prevented from entering a Cathedral church to which he had been deeply loyal
for many, many years, all based upon snap judgments made about his appearance.
At one point, I realized
that if this had been the Episcopal Church I had encountered as the young Methodist college student who followed the Wesley brothers home to Anglicanism, I would
never have become an Episcopalian in the first place. Indeed, the incarnation
of the church in Central Florida was almost unrecognizable as Episcopalian. It
was more like angry, judgmental Baptists who liked to wear dresses. Who needed
it?
The only dim light in this
sea of darkness was a small suburban parish north of Winter Park. Named for St.
Richard of Chichester (whose most famous prayer became the basis of the song
“Day by Day” in Godspell), it was the parish in the diocese which was rumored
to be “tolerant” of gay people. Many refugees from the Cathedral diaspora had
ended up at St. Richards. And so, for the first few years after my return to
Central Florida, when on the rare occasion I actually did attend services, I
attended St. Richards.
When Charles was finally
evicted from his apartment at Reeves Terrace due to his inability to keep it
free of roaches (which were in turn infesting neighboring apartments), he moved
in with a friend from the SCA who was more than happy to have assistance with
the rent on a condo in the suburbs not far from St. Richards. Charles was now
cut off from all of his familiar surroundings and neighbors. He was lonely. And
so I decided one Sunday that I would take Charles to St. Richards to get him
out of the house. Of course, he was delighted to go.
When it came time to go to
communion, Charles needed to hold onto my shoulder and be led to the rail. The
interior of the parish is a bit dark and he simply couldn’t see where he was
going. I watched the people of the parish as we went forward and returned. And
what I saw there amazed me. Most of them smiled. And when we went out to the
coffee hour out on the breezeway, they could not have been any more welcoming
to Charles.
I began attending church
regularly with Charles after that Sunday. This continued over a two year period
until the time Charles was finally too frail to survive at his friend’s condo.
Once he had been placed in an ACLF, I was only allowed to take him out one final
time before his case worker restricted his outside visits to family members and
legal guardians.
The rector there had offered
a free burial space for his cremains in the columbarium though that will not
happen now that Charles lies amidst the waters of the St. Johns River headed
for the Atlantic. But his memory still burns in the hearts of the people of St.
Richards. I know that because I attend there regularly now and they often ask
about him.
I tell people that Charles saved me for the
Episcopal Church.
[Continued]
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
Harry Scott
Coverston
Orlando, Florida
If the unexamined
life is not worth living, surely an unexamined belief system, be it religious
or political, is not worth holding.
For what does G-d
require of you but to do justice, and to love kindness, and to walk humbly with
your G-d? (Micah 6:8, Hebrew Scriptures)
++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++
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