I had dinner with the Bishop of the Western Diocese of the Old Catholic Church in America who by chance or grace, had recently been transferred from a laundromat South of Market to a substantial house in the Forest Knolls section of San Francisco, west enough to be deep in the fog bank, high enough to be swept by the same winds that blew the fog down from Twin Peaks into the Castro.
Out of the Jesuits for less than a few years, I had moved to San Francisco, and started my almost 2 decade relationship with TR. We lived at Haight and Fillmore on the fourth floor. It was just about the time that I began venturing into the Castro. Terry and I were in a relationship and, though I can’t remember if he was sleeping around, probably he was, I was trying very hard to have as respectable a relationship as my mother would have approved of, which was of course totally impossible.
I had begun to lead groups in the 13 week version of the Fisher-Hoffman Process of Psychic Therapy. Money was very tight; we charged something like $400, perhaps as much as $500 for the 13 week session, and each one of the partners had 3-4 clients. I needed supplemental income.
Terry was a cook and I was the night janitor at the Bakery Cafe, a hip eating place of “the new Castro” about 5 doors down from Harvey Milk’s Camera Shop. I would arrive at about 10:45 in the evening, just before closing. If I worked quickly, and the cooks had not spilled too much food on the floors, I could finish up between 2:30 to 3 AM, and would be headed home just about the time that the last of the forlorn cruisers would be tramping up and down Castro searching for a hookup. The scene was sexually charged even if a bit desperate and sad. It scared me a bit, but I tried to convince myself that it was part of our liberation movement.
Two brothers, one gay and one straight, had started their business in the neighborhood’s old Italian bakery. Looking over old floor plans that I found online, I remember the kitchen along the north wall just as drawn; the tables looked out into a well kept garden. It was idyllic, maybe even a bit hippie. Later in its history, the space would grow in fame and notoriety as the Patio Cafe. New owners took out the antiquated baking ovens in a futile attempt to modernize the kitchen and bring it up to code. Along the way they sacrificed the original name.
We had a general staff meeting once a week. At one meeting, a lawyer who was doing all the permitting work for the restaurant introduced himself, a smart handsome man who assured everyone that he was straight. He then told us that he had only one testicle, but it was very large, could do the work of four, was very well proportioned and not at all an embarrassment in the ritual of the California hot tub.
As we continued around the room with our introductions, not to be outdone by tales of a robust testicle, I volunteered that I had been a Jesuit for 11 years, and was beginning a new career in the human development industry. The lawyer started to smile widely, and, leaning into the table, told me that he was the Chancellor of the Western Diocese of the Old Catholic Church in America. I asked if he were ordained, and he responded that no, all that was required was a law degree plus good, or lucky, connections. Two of his clients, the owners of the notorious Slot Hotel South of Market, had discovered that the manager of the laundromat in the basement of their building was a legitimately consecrated bishop of the Old Catholic Church. I certainly cannot retrace the intricate web of intrigue that landed his excellency dead center in San Francisco’s gay leather community other than one thing leads to another. A broke gay bishop made his way from Utrecht to San Francisco with thousands of other gay men and women; the owners of a gay hotel had used their influence in the Episcopal Church to find a liturgical slot in the crypt of Grace Cathedral for their wash-spin-dry bishop; my lawyer friend became the diocesan chancellor for the Old Catholic Church; and an extremely skeptical Jesuit night janitor was slated to dine with a successor of the Apostles at a posh address.
My second hand orange VW Beetle was slightly out of place in the neighborhood, but I arrived on time, parked and was led into a small dining room, with a few other guests. It was high church, pressed linen tablecloth, matching cutlery, bright glasses and polished plates. We chatted until the bishop came downstairs in a flowing French style purple soutane. It was beginning to feel like a Buñuel film. We were introduced and then stood uncomfortably for the recitation of a rote prayer. I was seated next to the bishop across from the chancellor. The bishop with his very gay mannerisms was almost a caricature, but I actually found him very engaging. He was not the brightest marble ever to don a miter, but there have been far worse.
He meandered through pretty mundane “getting to know you” kinds of questions. When he asked me several questions about my Jesuit training, I mentioned that I had been at Woodstock College in New York before coming to Berkeley. He smiled and asked, “Oh, do you know Frank D.?” Of course I knew Frank, an extremely handsome Italian who was also gay. We were in the same year, and had a close, hesitant relationship that included a lot of flirtation. I’d lost track of him during my years at the Berkeley Jesuit Seminary. I was stunned.
“I ordained Frank and he’s now the Abbot of a small Benedictine monastery that I’m starting in Colorado.” Before I could say anything, he grabbed my hand and motioned for me to get up. “Do you want to talk with him?” In the seconds it took to mumble my assent, we were in the kitchen, and the bishop had taken the receiver off the wall phone and was dialing a number.
“Brother Frank, I have a surprise for you. Woodstock College, your class, here’s Ken.”
Then he handed the phone to me. Some awkward back and forth--we were both shocked--but in general a very friendly hello. From the whole exchange of words nearly 50 years ago, I remember one phrase quite clearly: “the bishop and I disagree about several things, but I love him.” I imagined that the monastery was for celibate monks and the bishop was more tolerant of same sex relationships than my gay Jesuit-Benedictine crush. Their love was not imagined.
Frank and I said goodbye with real heartfelt good wishes, and though I knew that I would soon lose track of him again, there was no regret. A sweet connection.
I never got to ask my question about the formula for the episcopal consecration that the Romans insisted the Anglicans got wrong and severed their connection to the Apostles. My Jesuit research had led me to the conclusion that it was a political move disguised in theological language. I suspect that the Bishop’s response would have been some reference to Utrecht. Formula, mode, substance might have been reduced to magic words, like hocus pocus. But he was far better than that. His instincts led him to uncover the hidden love between a man he’d made a priest and a stranger who’d appeared at his table, and this bishop followed his instincts.
The evening ended at 9. The bishop excused himself, explaining that he had to teach about the “Filioque Controversy,” and, because it dated from the 11th century, he had to brush up. It was at least important to know who said what, and what the consequences were. I thought that was a pretty solid theological procedure. Then he disappeared to probe the existence of the Holy Spirit, seeming to float up the stairs as lightly as he’d descended them. Could this have been a surreal sleight of hand with a touch of magic realism?
Some time later, maybe months, maybe years, I had some very pricey tickets to hear Gore Vidal in the Masonic Auditorium atop Nob Hill. I found a very tight parking space for the VW on Jones right behind Grace Cathedral, and, as I was rushing to my seat, I turned and looked through the glass door into the cathedral’s crypt. There was my laundromat bishop with full Roman style miter and regalia at the end of a procession. I remembered that his Slot sponsors had found an altar and chapel for him, in exchange for ensuring that the fundamental line connecting the Apostles of Jesus to the Episcopal Bishop of San Francisco remained unbroken. I remember the coincidence of the two events quite clearly though my timeline is foggy; if the event at the Masonic Hall was connected with Gore’s run for the Senate, the date of sighting the bishop might have been as late as 1982.
Could I be accused of gonzo journalism, as if I were writing a report of a spiritual night out while on dope or some New Age high? I stand accused. It really did happen, and Gore’s “Live from Golgotha” is far more gonzo than I can muster.
