Father Dave

I grew up in a college town with my mother taking me and my brother to the Episcopalian Church. Church was a place where I felt I belonged. I believed that the people there really cared about me, and I think for the most part they did. They all knew my name, they complimented my little outfits, and they taught me Sunday school. I learned about this guy named Jesus. He was a guy or maybe a God, or maybe a guy/god. I couldn’t really figure it out. But he had been really nice to the children and tried to teach all people to be nice to each other. It seemed like a good thing in my 8 year-old mind. Besides, I liked how the nice people gave me donuts and juice. The Sunday school teacher made me memorize the Lord’s Prayer. She also taught me to cross myself after I prayed. And so at night I would kneel next to my bed, put my hands together, and pray to Jesus quietly to myself. It would go something like this, “Dear Jesus, I had a good day today, except when we came home and mom found dog poop in the living room. It really stank, and she threw TomDog out the back. I hope she will let him back in tomorrow. If I promise to be really good, would you please see if you can get her to let him back in?”

The Episcopal Church was full of academics and university people, the kind of smart, artsy people who liked to question their faith and argue about everything. Wherever people gather, there will of course be politics. As a kid, though, I was totally unaware of most of the adult soap operas going on around me. A really crazy guy would show up and argue with all of the academics during the adult Sunday school. He didn’t make any sense at all and was quite annoying. No one threw him out because it was church. You are supposed to be nice at church.

It was the 70s, and it was only later, when I got older, that I heard about the divorces and drug use that had gone on in this quiet college town. When I was in high school I discovered certain people’s mothers were now married to other people’s fathers, but it hadn’t all started out that way. Somehow the priests and ministers had made it through the 70s. But I’d say they probably still hold a few secrets.

As a young teen, I became an acolyte in the Episcopal Church. In the late seventies the church was just beginning to let girls be acolytes, as the argument over female priests was raging. I really enjoyed being an acolyte. It was kind of like putting on a play every Sunday. There were many details to remember…the Episcopal service included a procession, candle lighting, and communion. As I got older I would carry the First Cross at the front of the procession, flanked by two little boys carrying candle holders on sticks. At the back of the sanctuary I was to instruct the boys as to when to light the candles and before that time keep them quiet. They were rowdy. The cross was this huge, heavy, brass contraption. I would hold on with one hand, resting it on my right shoulder while I flicked the little boys heads with my left fingers.

After a time I got promoted to Second cross. We walked at the back of the procession, followed by the priests. The second cross led the priests to the altar and then walked into the room to the right of the altar. Second cross also helped with communion. It was quite a lot of choreography to remember. I loved all the ritual and formality; somehow in all of this I felt the spirit with me. The quiet stillness would find me as I was sitting motionless, just left of the altar. I had to pay attention to the service and listen for my “cues,” but otherwise I was to sit still and focus forward. For large sections of the service, I was left to quietly deal with myself. I would sit there and breathe and think about my life. Sometimes I would pray. Other times I would work out a solution to some teenage social conundrum. Boredom would set in, and I would listen to myself breathe. After church I usually felt better emotionally, with a sense of calmness and groundedness. In hindsight, I believe it was the structured quiet time that I liked, where I just had to stop doing.

As I got into my late teens my parents lost interest in church, and I started driving myself. They got frustrated with the politics and the realization that many of the people attending church didn’t really want to “do” anything for the less fortunate. It was as if church had turned into a clubhouse. I had become friends with the priests I served with as an acolyte and didn’t want to walk away from them. At 16, I would get into my folks’ little Honda civic and actually drive myself to church. My teenage mind didn’t see anything odd about this at all, but at the same time I didn’t tell any of my friends at school.

As a senior acolyte I served at the 8am morning service every fourth Sunday. The service was a slightly shorter version of the 11am service, with just one priest and one acolyte. The architecture was set up like many Episcopal churches; the altar was in the middle, and it had a room on either side. When I walked up to the altar I was taught to genuflect, and then usually I walked to the right into the side door of the priests’ room. This priests’ room is where the acolytes met the priests and prepared for the service. It was a small room with ornate wooden decorations, various priests’ robes and sashes, brass candle sticks and candles, and a large wooden door at the back. This door was where the priests entered before the service. No one would see them coming into the building before the service. It was sort of like they arrived by magic.

The priests took turns; I don’t think it was anyone’s first choice to do this service. My favorite priest, Father Dave, would occasionally be there at the same time as me. Although I was young, even I knew that his personal life was a struggle. When I got into high school, I began to understand why the people at church were always gossiping about him. He had been divorced a couple times. Dave was kind of a mess, and at times was a complete space cadet. He couldn’t remember his schedule, nor could he always remember what he said he would do. To me, it just didn’t matter. I realized as a teenager that this priest was not a perfect person, and I really liked him for it. When you talked to Father Dave, he gave you his total attention. He was completely present in the moment, actually listening. It was obvious that he deeply cared for others. This is why everyone liked him so much, and probably why he was still around regardless of his reputation. So despite his brokenness, he was a great priest. I saw myself in Dave. Despite my continually trying, I realized I wasn’t ever going to be perfect either.

Maybe it was just Dave’s nature to be late all the time, or maybe it was a reflection of his inner turmoil, but whatever the cause, his proclivity for tardiness had attracted the attention of the “church ladies”. The church ladies, as my teenage mind called them, were the women who had to be in everyone’s business and thought they ran the place (and they probably did). They knew that Dave and all the other priests came in that secret back door to the priests’ room. The ladies also knew when the priests arrived, because the Acolytes were supposed to leave the door from the altar to the room open, until the priest arrived. The priest would then close the altar door and put his robes over his slacks and dress shirt. Usually there would be a quiet moment of prayer in preparation for the service. Sometimes if something special was going on, the priest would remind the acolytes of their extra duties.

When Father Dave was the 8am priest, the “church ladies” would begin to wander up to the altar and then peer into the room. His tardiness was just another piece of gossip that added to the dysfunction. But as always, Father Dave would turn up at the last minute, throw on his robes, pray quickly, and we’d march on out to the altar. I found the whole scene really amusing. Looking back now, I wonder if this whole drama was part of why I liked to sign up for the service. As a teenager a lot of adults just act like you’re not even there. In my teenage mind the church ladies just wanted to spy on Dave; they hardly took notice of me, when they peered in, sitting there in my red and white robes, holding the big brass cross, waiting. I figured Dave would show up eventually. I mean, we couldn’t do it without him. Did God really care if we started a minute late?

In my late teens my confidence level with the job had really grown, I knew the services so well, I probably could have done the Eucharist myself. I had also gotten tired of the church ladies. Some of them really had it in for Father Dave. I overheard adults talking and complaining. As I got a little older, he just got a little later, which didn’t help. Of course we are only talking about 3 or 4 minutes late, mind you. So I’m sitting there in my red and whites holding my big brass cross, waiting. This one lady kept poking about for Dave. Then I saw her talking to another lady, eyes rolling, hands waving around. Out of nowhere this idea just pops in my head. Just close the door. It wasn’t supposed to be closed until the priest arrived, but I was getting tired of all the drama. So in full teenager fashion, I got up, waited for the church ladies to turn their backs, and closed the door. I smiled to myself, grabbed my big brass cross, and then checked the time. It was exactly 8am. My impulsive idea had been in fact a leap of faith, not in God, but in Dave. He always showed up. Why waste energy worrying about it?

I went to the back door and opened it. It was a gorgeous fall morning and the smell of freshly fallen leaves filled the room. Some red leaves blew in with the breeze, and I stood there holding the cross, silently. I said the prayer in preparation for the service. It was 8:03. I leaned out over the step and heard footsteps; Dave was running down the alley. He was always doing that park-and-run thing. As he careened around the corner and found me standing there, he stopped for half a second and stared blankly. The back door was open, the side door to the altar closed. He didn’t say anything. I didn’t say anything. I simply looked at my watch and made a face at him. He threw on his robes like a tornado, getting sort of tangled and spinning around a bit. At the door we both crossed ourselves in unison, now grinning ear to ear at each other, and then we walked out to do the show. I saw God in Dave, and I learned that year that sometimes we have to like people just how they are, and accept them in their brokenness. It’s a lesson I’ve had to relearn every decade of my life.