My friendship with an Anglo-Catholic Bishop

I just learned that my friend Edward Harding "Ed" MacBurney died last year (October 30, 1927 – March 17, 2022). He’d almost reached 97 years, and I imagine that they were very good years. He had a zest of friendship. He was immensely likable, intelligent and a dedicated listener, the kind of person who loved a good conversation, especially if it opened the door to a topic close to his heart and he thought it might lead somewhere. He held clear positions with regard to matters of faith, but the term pastoral would also be a good fit and blunts any harsh doctrinal edge. 

My mother remembered that at a certain point in life my grandmother faithfully read the Sunday obituaries in the Bridgeport Post to see how many friends she’d lost. Now in the day of Google, I join my grandmother in this pursuit, but I do not consider it at all morbid. I even do it with the joy of honoring my friends by revisiting our conversations, seeing how things stand and where we would be today if we were able to continue talking. 

And it’s conversations with Ed that I want to talk about. During my college years, he and I were quite close. Then I entered the Jesuits, and Ed’s priestly life started to move towards “The Right Reverend.” Over the years we lost touch except for an infrequent exchange of long letters. He became more conservative and I gravitated towards a very secular version of liberation theology, verging on agnosticism. However when we inevitably disagreed about somethings that he considered essential, even sacred, I never felt estranged or judged. I hope I can return that favor now as I talk about our friendship. 

I met Ed during my freshman year at Dartmouth. He was the rector of the Saint Thomas Episcopal Church that stands very close to the green. I don’t think that he had that title, but he was a de facto chaplain at the College. I saw a committed Christian and a priest who was always open to talking with students. I liked him immediately. The Newman chaplain, Father Bill Nolan, was a bit crusty for my taste in the all-knowing way of immigrant Catholic seminary training, as dogmatic as the rote study of Aquinas produced. To me Nolan’s attempts to be open-minded as befit an outsider at a prestigious waspy institution seemed superficial, even shallow. Ed was far more approachable perhaps because he didn’t have the immigrant Irish hurdle of having to prove himself. He was a Dartmouth graduate as well, and although as much of a traditionalist as Nolan, he was quite relaxed about it and spelled out his line of thought in a very personal way. Our conversations were like entering a well ordered house and feeling at ease. 

There was a small chapel in the rector’s house; it even had a small foot pump harmonium. At 5:30 Ed led Evensong from the Book of Common Prayer. I liked learning to sing the psalms in plainchant, or Anglican chant, and started including it as part of my practice. Nolan also said mass at 5 in the Aquinas Chapel at the end of Webster which I attended at least once or twice a week, but I actually preferred Evensong. There was never any pressure from Ed to switch allegiance. He told me in a matter of fact way that he’d entertained the idea of becoming Catholic, and had thought about religious life, joining an Anglican Order, the Cowley Fathers. When we talked about my intention to become a Jesuit, he encouraged me. 

In1963 I decided to go to the Universite de Caen for a semester abroad. Ed was planning a trip back to England, and invited me to join him for what he called “the crawl,” following a winding path from London north to Leeds and then south to Canterbury, cramming as many Anglican cathedrals as we could into the two weeks I had before I left for France. We visited Oxford where he’d been influenced by the nostalgic practices of the Oxford Movement at St Stephen's House. We drove over a long flat plane to Ely Cathedral where he’s been ordained, and of course included Westminster and Coventry. I forget the order. He introduced me to his friends. In Leeds I met the engaging Franciscan, Brother Michael Fisher whom I kept in touch with for many years. At the Cathedral of York I did not hit it off with a rather stuffy dean and his wife. Ed was disappointed. At several points we stopped at a motel or modest roadside inn and shared a room. I recall that after he’d put on his pajamas, he knelt by the side of the bed and prayed which I found very sweet. I am pretty sure that we ended our trip in Canterbury; then Ed drove me to Dover where I continued my journey onto Paris via train and ferry.

I look back on our crawl as a kind of Anglo-Catholic pilgrimage. I’ve located various dots on a map as accurately as possible to see where I physically was on this journey. With some grace and forgiveness for the intervening years, it’s close enough. But to get back inside the mind of the 20 year old Ken might actually take a bit of magic. The hopes, dreams, and aspirations of my college years go hand and hand with acquiring experience and knowledge, questioning, experimenting, trying to find my place in the world. Retracing those steps is far more difficult. The dots are not physical, their movement influenced by the position where I stood in the moment as well as where I stand now 60 years later. 

“Follow the Money” 

I remember that Ed had just come from an Episcopal conference in the US where Bishop James Pike had been slated to give a high level talk on the ecumenism coming out of Vatican II. Ed complained that all the controversial firebrand could come up with was how efficient it would be to save money not duplicating secretarial services. He expected some encouraging words about the “big questions,” and was disappointed. Then he laughed. A missed opportunity. I don’t remember if he mentioned Pike’s championing the ordination of women, but he certainly would have been against it. 

Let me fast forward 35 years and bring my wonderful friend Bonnie Johnson into the conversation. Ed and Bonnie would have loved one another despite being theological miles apart. Bonnie was a devoted Christian as well as an astute observer of the American Episcopal church. She brought Bishop Pike’s economic analysis back into the theological conversation about the big issues. She contended that as congregations became smaller and poorer, the acceptance of women priests grew simply because they’d work for less. Women now make up 40% of working clergy in the US. Though I hesitate to state anything definitively because reading their balance sheets is confusing and beyond the intention of this paper, both membership and revenues have also decreased substantially in most parishes although contribution seems to be up overall, an anomaly that I cannot figure out.

But just a snapshot from the available data In 2022 is telling. The salary of an Episcopal priest in the US is $52,707. There is an enormous fluctuation across various dioceses and churches, salaries ranging from $10,193 to $267,214. In 2002 male clergy earned 20% more than the female counterparts. Today the wage gap has been reduced to 13.5%. Perhaps a major reason for the gap is that larger, wealthier parishes prefer men and smaller parishes rely on married women whose income supplements their husband’s. Another reason for the decrease might simply be the increase in the number of women priests and the resulting proportional distribution of overall revenues. Anglo-Catholics continue to make a strictly theological argument, but Bonnie always looked at a wider picture and included several possible factors. It might be blasphemy to classify Deep Throat as a theologian, but I think “Follow the Money” is a valid line of inquiry. Ed might have been appalled but I’m sure he would have tried to continue the conversation in a civil manner. 

When I returned to Hanover from France in January, Ed told me that he was getting married and asked if I would be an usher at the service. I said of course, I would be honored. I think that I joined at least one of his wife Anne's sons, and Gaylord Hitchcock put on his best suit. I remember being at the rectory one afternoon several weeks before the ceremony. Ed took a phone call within earshot. In his cheery voice he arranged an appointment with the caller. When he hung up--this was definitely pre-cell phone--he turned and told me that he and his friend, Dr. Someone, had arranged to talk about “the birds and bees.” He laughed, and I’m laughing now just remembering his joy and his innocence. 

When Tara Doyle, whom my partner and I knew from MacLeod, stayed with us one Christmas, she wanted to attend Christmas midnight mass. I was assigned to choose the venue. Even though we knew that we had to arrive very early to get a seat, Grace Cathedral would have the best music plus we were meditators and welcomed a half hour in silence in a magnificent church while empty pews filled behind us. It was also about as high church as I could find. When it came time to receive communion, I didn't hesitate to kneel at the rail in front of the main altar. The priest who offered me the sacrament was a beautiful African American woman. It was perfect. 

References: 

https://www.comparably.com/salaries/salaries-for-episcopal-priest https://www.christiancentury.org/article/news/gender-pay-gap-among-episcopal-clergy-shrinking-persistent 

https://www.catholic.org/news/politics/story.php?id=3086

Sister Jacinta, the Reality of Women Priests

We’ve all known women priests. I am not talking about priests who attend to mysterious rites, holdovers from the ancient Roman cults that Christians adopted as they went mainstream, tripping over the anachronistic relics of a medieval culture of monarchy, lapdog aristocrats, retainers and hangers-on, making decisions from a privileged position. I am thinking more of women who’ve always done the holy work of following Jesus, holding congregations together, and performing the simple ceremonies that remind all of us about the obligations of faith. 

When Sister Jacinta got off the bus, we knew the day’s difficult work had begun. She was always prompt. I think it was the 55 that dropped her a half a block from “The Center,” formerly “The Center for Spiritual Services.” It had been founded by two of the first Brothers of Charity in the US, a congregation for men founded by Mother Theresa of Calcutta. One of the founders was a gay man who decided to leave religious life as he got more in touch with his sexuality, and with that, the Mother cut her ties with the project.

But in the mid 90’s, HIV disease had started to wreak destruction in the minority communities, especially African American sex workers and injection drug users in Oakland. The group of religious and lay volunteers who’d been inspired by the original vision decided to try to keep it open. Our congregation was as large as most urban parishes, 200-300 people. Our work included providing professional support for drug and alcohol treatment, a daycare for the infants and young children of mothers with HIV, some also infected with the disease, transportation to and from doctors appointments, a hearty lunch every day so that clients had at least one good nutritious meal a day, and perhaps the most important part of the work was simply trying to take care of one another, creating the sense of community and friendship that helped people live as they were dealing with was what still at this point in the epidemic most probably an early death.

Jacinta lived in a very modest apartment with three other religious women in the Fruitvale neighborhood. They were members of a small congregation called the Sisters of the Holy Family that had been founded in San Francisco after the Gold Rush. Her habit was a plain dress that she bought off the rack in her neighborhood K-Mart with a simple cross around her neck. She wore a modest religious veil when she traveled, I think as a kind of protection. The bus ran through some of the most dangerous neighborhoods of Oakland. I don’t know for certain, but this was one time that she allowed the outward signs of her religious life to be a protection. 

Sister Alice would already be at the front desk with her cheery “Good Morning and God bless you." Alice was the oldest of the nuns, probably in her late 70’s, a member of the Dominican priory probably 20 blocks away in an upscale part of town. She always wore her full habit. She didn’t do much else but welcome everyone. Unassuming and sincere, she definitely set the tone for our work.

Another nun, a large jovial no nonsense woman, ran the day care with an African American grandmother who’d lost two of her children to the disease and was taking care of their children. I don’t remember if Sister Pat wore any identifying garments. I think that she preferred loose sweat pants as she spent most of her day chasing babies with HIV and their slightly older siblings while their mothers did what they could to prolong their lives. 

It didn’t take me long to recognize that Jacinta was the glue that held the place together. There were other people doing great work. There were two drug counselors, one of whom, an African-American woman was truly masterful. She’d been there and done the hard work of recovery. There was the driver who was as calm as God created a sunset. He was a big African American man with a powerful voice and a ready smile. He was also Catholic. If Jacinta was in the van, he began the trip by asking her, “Would you please offer a prayer for us, Sister.”  

By the time Jacinta got into her office, and closed the blinds over the window opening onto the large communal area, there were already 3 to 5 women and occasionally one of the men sitting in chairs waiting to talk. Like confession. Their situation was dire. This is how she spent every morning. She visited every client who was hospitalized which occupied most of her afternoons. At least once or twice a week, she called us into the quiet meditative room and said the simple prayers of a memorial service. She was our priest. 

My friend Jon Logan sat on the Center’s Board. He told me to never forget to mention that it was founded by Mother Theresa when I wrote any appeal for money. I followed his lead. Even if that was a stretch, it was true and helped. But it didn’t match the spiritual leadership of Sister Jacinta. 

Sister M. Jacinta Fiebig, SHF November 15, 1928 – March 24, 2016

Gender fluid clothing

I have an older male friend in the US who has recently begun to dress as a woman. He says that when he first discovered that he felt more comfortable in feminine clothing, “‘non binary’ wasn’t a known choice, not even to the experts. I had to wait until the language and the culture brought to my attention that there is actually a non-binary spectrum of gender identities.” Personal expression when it comes to “non-conforming expressions of sexuality” is tied up with language and culture. 

Times are changing.

Garment: Bloni ; Model: Rohan

I just had a conversation with an Indian friend who is a clothing designer. In the latest Paris fashion week, the Indian brand he works for introduced a whole collection of garments that are “gender neutral” or “non-binary.” What the public hears is that they can be worn comfortably by both men and women; there’s a refusal of any obligation for the women models to wear skirts and men to wear pants, but it goes deeper--the whole cut, the “look” attempts to be gender neutral. It was very interesting, and there were some really great outfits. It was extremely well received. After Paris they showed at the Lakme fashion week, won an award, and were sponsored by NEXA. I don’t think that we’re going to see them on the rack at Nordstrom’s yet, but the head designer has been interviewed on India TV. In English. I don’t think that the exclusively Hindi-speaking audience would be very receptive, and that’s where I’m going.

In Indian culture sexual roles and behavior seem very defined. The exception proves the rule. The class or caste known as Hijra is now legally recognized as an official third sex. They are men who live and dress as women. They include gay men, straight cross-dressers, and trans-sexuals. They tend to live in distinct communities and are restricted in terms of where and how they interact with strict gender based culture. They are called on for some ritual observances in the Temples, even weddings--I don’t know much about that, but Hijra are still discriminated against. Now that there is a legal definition of a third sex, they are afforded some protection against physical violence and exploitation. That has not always been so, and in the general society, any expression of gender fluidity can still be dangerous.

Last night we had another friend from the design college over for dinner. On the scale of gender fluidity, he tends towards what is culturally defined as feminine, but he identifies as a man. With no fanfare, he is just who he is, and he is making a career for himself in an industry which is perhaps more tolerant of sexual diversity than most in Indian society. I really like him. He makes no apology. His clothing and makeup choices fit him perfectly. He comes from a single parent household, and his mother is very accepting. 

But there are problems with his personal safety. The design college (and my home) are in a conservative rural community. He has to drive himself all the time because cab drivers have demanded sex, shopkeepers, guys he runs into on the street, same unwanted demands for sex. This is an obvious problem. Here, if he reported a problem to the police, I’m sure they would side with the assailant. 

Our friend left early to go back to pack. He just finished his exams. It’s his last semester in college, and he is moving. In Delhi there are hip areas where he doesn’t have to hide or be afraid. It's not the Castro of the early 70's, but there are some of that vibe.

Despite all the problems with the assault on same sex relationships now in the US, there are certain advantages to living in a more liberal society with legal protections. 

Blue Cliff Record Case 22

 This is the case of the portion of the commentary that I used for my piece 

A Weed Wacking Roshi goes to Mass

The Case (Sato)

Xuefeng, instructing the assembly, said, “There's a turtle-nosed snake on the South Mountain.[1]

All of you should look at it carefully!”[2]

Changqing said, “Today in the Zen hall there are many people who have lost their body and life.”[3]

A monk told this to Xuansha,[4]

who said, “Only my Elder Brother Changqing could say something like that.[5]

However, I wouldn't talk like that.”[6]

The monk asked, “What then would you say, Master”?[7]

Xuansha replied, “Why does it have to be 'the South Mountain'?”[8]

Yunmen threw his staff in front of Xuefeng and acted frightened.[9]

[1] "Turtle-nosed": i.e., poisonous. The “South Mountain” [Nanzan] was the place where Xuefeng resided.

[2] Or: "You should have a good look at it" (Sekida); "you people must watch out for it" (Cleary); "All of you had better look out!" (Wick)

[3] Or: “Today in the Zen hall there is a great person who has lost his body and life” (Sato note); "Today, in this temple, there is obviously one man who has lost his life" (Sekida).

[6] Or: "even though he's right, I do not concur" (Cleary); "as for me, I am different" (Sekida).

[9] Or: "made a gesture of fright" (Cleary); "gave the appearance of being afraid" (Wick).

The portions of the text of Yuanwu’s Commentary (Cleary) that I used for my own commentary:

[Hsueh] Feng went on. “Later when I got to Te Shan I asked. ‘Do I have a part in the affair of the most ancient sect, or not?’ Shan struck me a blow of his staff and said,’What are you saying?’At that time it was like the bottom of the bucket dropping out for me.” Thereupon Yen T’ou shouted and said, “Haven’t you heard it said that what comes in through the gate is not the family jewels?” Feng said, “Then what should I do?” T’ou said, “In the future, if you want to propagate the great teaching, let each point flow out from your own breast, to come out and cover heaven and earth for me.” 

(He was greatly enlightened etc.Feng goes back and lives at Elephant Bone Mountain, and writes a poem that comes down to us. At this point I will return to the commentary)

Usually Hsueh Feng would go up into the hall and teach the assembly by saying, “In every respect cover heaven and earth.” He talked no more of mystery and marvel, not did he speak of mind and nature. He appeared strikingly alone, like a great fiery mass. . . . “

(Skipping ahead through several bouts of drinking tea and getting whacked, we move onto what Hsueh Tou’s disciple has to say about the matter going back to their root teacher Yun Men.)

You must be a master snake handler.

“How many lose their bodies and their lives?” This praises Ch’ang Ch’ing’s saying, “In the hall today there certainly are people who lose their bodies and lives.” To get here, first you must be thoroughly versed in snake handling.

Hsueh Tou is descended from Yun Men, so he brushes the others away at once and just keeps one, Yun Men: Hsueh Tou says “Shao Yang knows, again he searches the weeds.” Since Yun Men knew the meaning of Hsueh Feng’s saying, “On South Mountain there’s a turtle-nosed snake,” therefore “Again he searches through the weeds.”

After Hsueh Tou has taken his verse this far, he still has more marvels. He says, “South, north, east, west, no place to search.” You tell me where the snake is. “Suddenly he trusts his staff.” 

From the beginning the snake has been right here. But you must not then go to the staff for sustenance. Yun Men took his staff and threw it down in front of Hsueh Feng, making a gesture of fright. Thus Yun Men used his staff as the turtle-nosed snake. Once, though, he said, “The staff changed into a dragon and has swallowed the universe; where are the mountains, rivers and the great earth to be found?” Just this one staff--sometimes it’s a dragon, sometimes it’s a snake. 

(Then some detailed snake handling instructions.)

Since ancient times, how many people have picked up the snake and played with it?