The Archdeacon Returns - Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight: Communications

It was a Monday when the Archdeacon received the call.  As it was his day off, he was at home at the rectory.  There had been few are far between of these since the Bishop took ill and days off had been almost non-existent since her death.  He was hoping for a day without interruption, but it was not to be.  

When the Secretary of Synod informed the Archdeacon that he had been nominated for bishop, his first thought was, “Damn you, Maddie.” However, he kept this thought to himself as the Secretary went on and explained that he had been nominated by the required ten members of synod - five clerical and five lay.  She told him that he need not give an answer now as to whether or not he would let his name stand, but that she needed to know by next Monday.  

“Yes,” he said.

“Good. Then I will wait to hear from you.”

“No…I mean, yes…I will let my name stand.”  He had not intended to answer right away, but he did. He had deliberated on it enough — all of his ministry, in fact.  One more week would not make him any wiser or any more discerning.  He had wanted this for a long time. Time and again, he had told himself otherwise. He had wrestled over it, pushed it away, and denied it, but deep down he knew he wanted it.  And now, confronted with the possibility that he might very well be the next bishop of the diocese, he embraced it.  He felt called to the office of a bishop in the Church.  He knew he could do it, and knew he would be good at it. At some level, reluctantly acknowledged, he even felt he deserved it.

And so, Maddie was right after all.  He would not say no.  He would respect the ten nominators who had signed their names to that form, who were putting their faith in him.  He would undertake the discernment that can only finally be done under the auspices of an episcopal election.  He had admonished Maddie and the late Bishop for pushing him toward this, for opening up this Pandora’s Box of desire he had so carefully packaged and put away.  They knew him, though, and they understood his deepest longing. He did not want to admit it, but they had given voice to it, and now was the moment for him to give voice to it, himself.

“Yes,” he said again, confidently this time, self-assuredly, “I will let my name stand.”

Thus it was that Archdeacon Thomas Fulman’s name was placed on the ballot alongside that of the Rev. Rebecca Hope, and a few others, for bishop of this diocese.  The others we shall not dwell on at this moment — they were not serious contenders. This was to be a head-to-head battle between the forces of good and evil. Who was the good one and who was the evil one? As it would turn out, opinions would be divided on this point and I leave it to the reader’s discretion to make those moral judgements. I will add only this: that it takes a lot of courage for a candidate to let their name be placed on an episcopal ballot.  Their lives, and the lives of their families, are scrutinized, they are talked about, gossiped about, they are lauded and lambasted.  It cannot be easy to be so exposed before the multitude of the Church.  All of the candidates deserve our admiration for allowing their vocation to this sacred office to be tested so publicly, and often, tactlessly. 

When the Archdeacon got off the phone, he let out a great sigh, as if a lifetime of burden had been lifted.  Well, it was on the table now, he thought.  Yes, he wanted to be a bishop and now it would be left for the Church to weigh in on the matter in the form of an electoral synod.

It wasn’t long, though, before doubt began to sink in. He remembered how unpopular he had become and how closely associated he had been to the late Bishop’s program of austerity.  He remembered the worried faces of former friends, when he showed up at their parishes during his archdiaconal visitation.  He remembered how they loathed to see him coming and how they abandoned their intimacy with him after their parishes were closed or restructured.  He remembers how even Christa had left him, and the country, as a consequence of the role he played in the late Bishop’s bid to save the church through her “pruning”.  

But then, he thought of Rebecca Hope, and what a disaster she would be as a bishop.  She would sweep away everything that he and so many others held sacred and dear.  Under her leadership, the Church would become unrecognizable. When she was done, it would certainly not be an Anglican Church, or anything even close to it.  No, he thought to himself, he could not let this happen.  He once again began to stir up his courage and confidence. He had a duty - a sacred trust! - to save the Church from this imposter!

His thoughts were again interrupted.  The sound of mail dropping through the mail slot to the floor brought him back into the moment.  As he went to pick up the mail from the stoop, mostly a collection of bills and flyers, one particular envelope caught his eye. It was clearly a greeting card of some sort, and it had a British stamp and postmark, but no return address.  He opened it quickly, with a strong sense of anticipation, hoping it would be from her. He had reached out to her more than once since she had left, but had never gotten a response.  As he drew the card from the envelope his saw that it was a sympathy card. Inside it was the simple inscription:

Tom,

I’m very sorry about the Bishop.

                    Yours, Christa+

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