case in other parts of the world. He may have even been raised hearing the Latin Mass long after it was discontinued over here.”
“So their son became a priest?”
“Yes, and went to a very strict seminary.”
“Obviously. But I want to know how he became an Episcopalian.”
He sighed. “The usual way, naturally. He met a woman, left the priesthood, and of course, our church welcomed him with open arms. Better to marry than to burn, not everyone has the gift of celibacy. Yadda, yadda.”
“As in St. Paul. How to keep from going to hell. Etcetera, etcetera. “
“Yes, well.”
“Did the marriage take?”
“No. As you can imagine from what you’ve said about him and according to some letters from parishioners I had faxed to me, he was a very rigid man.” He sighed. “Some priests carry a token stole everywhere in case unexpected circumstances call for vested rites.”
“Rigidity is often a disguise. Please don’t tell me he’s some kind of pervert. Or a thief.” Although our denomination hasn’t been plagued with the massive sex scandals devastating our Roman counterparts, we’ve had our share of sticky-fingered clerics.
“No. He has an absolutely stellar ethical background in one sense of the word. In fact, that seems to be the problem. He has no tolerance for human fallibility. It’s a despicable mindset. He’s supposed to be the mediator between the people and our Lord. Instead he’s refused communion to an appalling number of persons if he’s heard about a whiff of scandal.”
“He can’t do that,” I said. “It’s one of the things that can get an Episcopal priest in deep trouble.”
“Exactly. And that’s just what happened.”
“And the Diocese kicked him out?”
There was a long silence on the other end. “Miss Albright, actually we have another way of referring to this procedure. It’s called a statement of disassociation.”
I stirred my little pile of thumbtacks and messed them up again. “So that makes him what?” I asked. “Exactly what is he now? What is his position or status within the church?”
“Well.” I could visualize this elegant man’s face struggling against the impropriety of making light of Bishop Talesbury’s unexpected appearance in our little corner of the world and his sense of humor that appreciated irony. “Well, this makes him an ex-Catholic priest who married, became an Episcopal priest, then a bishop in a little country in Africa we know very little about.”
“And then he came over to America where he went over like a lead balloon.”
“Exactly. And then he went back to Africa to a region where he was appreciated.”
“But why did he come to America?”
“That’s one of the few things I do understand. Anyone who had a lick of sense got out of Africa in the nineties. Did you see the movie,
Hotel Rwanda
?”
“Yes. Massive killings. Massacres and governments changing every little whip stitch. There wouldn’t have been any problem getting over here, since his parents were American citizens. Even if he was born in Africa.”
“There was no problem with any of his papers.”
“And his wife? Was there a problem with her credentials?”
“What wife? As one might imagine, the marriage didn’t last any time at all.”
“Was she an American?”
“No, Afrikaner.”
“So, he migrated to America alone?”
“Yes. No children. Oddly enough, African bishops and the Episcopal Church are often linked in the news lately. Many conservative American congregations who object to the ordination of gays find ardent supporters in African bishops who are all too happy to come here and perform sacramental duties.”
“I’m aware of the controversy.”
“That’s too lengthy a topic to go into over the phone,” he said, “but I was quite vexed to learn that it was an African bishop making this end run into my Diocese.”
“Thank you, sir. I still have some questions, but you’ve cleared up a lot of them.”
“Glad to talk to
“So their son became a priest?”
“Yes, and went to a very strict seminary.”
“Obviously. But I want to know how he became an Episcopalian.”
He sighed. “The usual way, naturally. He met a woman, left the priesthood, and of course, our church welcomed him with open arms. Better to marry than to burn, not everyone has the gift of celibacy. Yadda, yadda.”
“As in St. Paul. How to keep from going to hell. Etcetera, etcetera. “
“Yes, well.”
“Did the marriage take?”
“No. As you can imagine from what you’ve said about him and according to some letters from parishioners I had faxed to me, he was a very rigid man.” He sighed. “Some priests carry a token stole everywhere in case unexpected circumstances call for vested rites.”
“Rigidity is often a disguise. Please don’t tell me he’s some kind of pervert. Or a thief.” Although our denomination hasn’t been plagued with the massive sex scandals devastating our Roman counterparts, we’ve had our share of sticky-fingered clerics.
“No. He has an absolutely stellar ethical background in one sense of the word. In fact, that seems to be the problem. He has no tolerance for human fallibility. It’s a despicable mindset. He’s supposed to be the mediator between the people and our Lord. Instead he’s refused communion to an appalling number of persons if he’s heard about a whiff of scandal.”
“He can’t do that,” I said. “It’s one of the things that can get an Episcopal priest in deep trouble.”
“Exactly. And that’s just what happened.”
“And the Diocese kicked him out?”
There was a long silence on the other end. “Miss Albright, actually we have another way of referring to this procedure. It’s called a statement of disassociation.”
I stirred my little pile of thumbtacks and messed them up again. “So that makes him what?” I asked. “Exactly what is he now? What is his position or status within the church?”
“Well.” I could visualize this elegant man’s face struggling against the impropriety of making light of Bishop Talesbury’s unexpected appearance in our little corner of the world and his sense of humor that appreciated irony. “Well, this makes him an ex-Catholic priest who married, became an Episcopal priest, then a bishop in a little country in Africa we know very little about.”
“And then he came over to America where he went over like a lead balloon.”
“Exactly. And then he went back to Africa to a region where he was appreciated.”
“But why did he come to America?”
“That’s one of the few things I do understand. Anyone who had a lick of sense got out of Africa in the nineties. Did you see the movie,
Hotel Rwanda
?”
“Yes. Massive killings. Massacres and governments changing every little whip stitch. There wouldn’t have been any problem getting over here, since his parents were American citizens. Even if he was born in Africa.”
“There was no problem with any of his papers.”
“And his wife? Was there a problem with her credentials?”
“What wife? As one might imagine, the marriage didn’t last any time at all.”
“Was she an American?”
“No, Afrikaner.”
“So, he migrated to America alone?”
“Yes. No children. Oddly enough, African bishops and the Episcopal Church are often linked in the news lately. Many conservative American congregations who object to the ordination of gays find ardent supporters in African bishops who are all too happy to come here and perform sacramental duties.”
“I’m aware of the controversy.”
“That’s too lengthy a topic to go into over the phone,” he said, “but I was quite vexed to learn that it was an African bishop making this end run into my Diocese.”
“Thank you, sir. I still have some questions, but you’ve cleared up a lot of them.”
“Glad to talk to
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