The Archdeacon - Chapter Six

Chapter Six:

A Stroll with Mr. Perkins

The Archdeacon arrived at Christ Church, Hampton’s Corners about mid-morning and found its incumbent, Mr. Perkins, sitting in the nave.  Many readers of my chronicles with be familiar with Mr. Perkins.  For those who are not, allow me to offer a brief description of him. Mr. Perkins was middle-aged man of diminutive stature.  He wore thick glasses and carried himself with a certain reserve. He was not shy man, but neither was he an extrovert. He was affable and pleasant to be around. Although he was closer to fifty than he was sixty, he was one of those men who seemed much older than they looked, not so much in appearance, but in manner. He hand not been ordained as many year as our friend the Archdeacon but it felt like he had be around the church forever.

He had been educated at Trinity College and was very proud of his alma mater.  He had been, in his college days and in the time of his early ordained life, an enthusiastic Anglo-Catholic, perhaps one might even have called him a “spike.” However, he gradually outgrew that form of churchmanship and was now just as comfortable in his cassock, surplice, and tippet, as he was in alb, stole, and chasuble.

It might be said that Mr. Perkins knew the church and its ways better than just about any priest in the diocese, but that did not make him a diocesan superstar by any stretch. He was one of those quiet, faithful priests who was although largely ignored by his peers was loved by his people.  He was old-fashioned and eschewed innovation.  It was said of him that he would never be the kind of priest who would “set the world on fire”, but you would be hard pressed to find a steadier more pastoral priest in the whole diocese.  He was the picture of a country parson.

As for the parish in which he served, Hampton’s Corners was another one of those towns that had once been a rural community but was now the kind of place that was almost, although not quite, a suburb. It was busier than it had been in older days. They even had a few “big box” stores and chain restaurants on the outskirts of town, now. Yet, somehow it managed to hold onto that small-town feel, so dearly treasured by its residents.

Christ Church was a fine little church. It would could seat fifty or sixty. It had “good bones” as they say and had been kept up quite well.  The congregation was not large, but it was faithful.  You wouldn’t find a lot of younger people on a Sunday morning, but there were often new people who came to church, and once through the doors, they became members.  I should make a brief digression and explain how this phenomenon worked. Perhaps you have seen something like it happen in other places; I know I have.  One of the senior ladies who lived in a retirement complex would bring about six other ladies to church in her mini-van. They were a happy and faithful bunch, although they could not do much for the church because of their advanced years and various disabilities.  They were not well off, nor were they large givers to the church. Yet, they were the happiest faces in the pews on Sunday mornings. They loved to be there. In fact, they had a waiting list back at the residence.  As soon as one of the group of carpoolers died, another one was brought along and filled the vacant space. It was a self-replenishing supply of old ladies.  Mr. Perkins used to brag light-heartedly the the other clergy in his deanery (and I think he was quite right about this) that the church can grow by welcoming the old as well as the young.

One interesting and important detail that needs to be known about Christ Church is that several years ago, during Mr. Perkins’ early days there, the church had been the beneficiary of a large bequest.  It was the legacy of an old farmer who had sold his farm to a developer and left his estate to the parish.  He did not attach a lot of strings, but allowed the interest from the significant capital to be used to help pay the cleric’s stipend and to “support the upkeep and expenses of the church according to the discretion of the church wardens.”  The money had been wisely invested and reaped enough income every year to make up the modest annual budget shortfall.  It should come as no surprise that Bishop Verity had her eye on this money. If Christ Church were closed, the money would come to the diocese and it could be used then start up and support other innovative ministries in much more vital and strategic places than Hampton’s Corners.

But let us return to the Archdeacon who had found Mr. Perkins in the nave, sitting in the back pew listening to his organist practicing for Sunday. Mr. Perkins did not, at first, notice the Archdeacon when he arrived. He was enjoying, one might say delighting in the rehearsing of his organist, the unfortunately named, Mary Organ. It was a habit of his to sneak into the church when she was playing, without her noticing. He would just sit and listen.  The Archdeacon sat down next to him.

“Oh, hello Archdeacon,” he whispered. “I must have lost track of time. I’m just listening to Mary prepare for Sunday.”

“Not to worry, Mr. Perkins.” This is how the Rev. William Perkins preferred to be addressed.

“Doesn’t she play beautifully?”

The Archdeacon listened for a moment to the organist, who was struggling a bit through a Bach fugue. It wasn’t terrible. It wasn’t ready for Sunday. It certainly wasn’t beautiful. He felt he had been lying just a bit too much lately, so he began to work out some non-committal platitude when Mr. Perkins cut in: “Don’t you think this must be what Heaven sounds like, Archdeacon?”

No, he didn’t think that this was what heaven sounded like, but he dare not say it, so he simply smiled.  Mr. Perkins, on the other hand, looked like he was caught up in wonder, love, and praise, when it suddenly occurred to the Archdeacon that Mr. Perkins might just be a little sweet on his organist. However, he resolved not to go there and asked, “Mr. Perkins, do you think we could go have a little chat about the parish?”

“Yes,” he said, turning and smiling ever-so-pleasantly at the Archdeacon, “let’s do that.  It is such a glorious day out, why don’t you take a little stroll with me.  I need to pick up the mail at the post office and we can talk along the way.”

They made their way across the church lawn and up a little street that led to the main street of Hampton’s Corners. It was a lot like every other small town main street.  There were some little businesses that were doing well, others boarded up, and there was the usual selection of “regulars” sitting on park benches or wandering pointlessly up and down the street.  Many of them gave Mr. Perkins a wave. He would greet them back, seeming to know all their names.

“So, Archdeacon,” Mr. Perkins took the initiative, “I understand the Bishop needs to make some…changes…in the diocese.” 

“Yes, Mr. Perkins, she does. That’s why I’m making these visitations. I think we’ve both been around long enough that I can be perfectly frank with you. The diocese cannot go on in the way…”

“Hellooo Mr. Perkins!” They were interrupted by a man’s voice calling from the opposite side of the street.

“Well hello, Martin!” Mr. Perkins called back, “How’s the new car running?”

“Like a charm Mr. Perkins…beautiful!  Thanks for driving me out to the dealership last week when the old one died!”

“My pleasure!” Mr. Perkins called back. Martin gave a wave and carried on.

“Yes, Archdeacon,” Mr. Perkins resumed their conversation, “the church certainly has changed a lot over our lives, has it not? We seem to have a whole new set of worries to deal with than when we were first ordained…”

“Hey Mr. Perkins!” This interruption came from a teen-aged boy who was approaching them.

“Matt,” said Mr. Perkins, “shouldn’t you be in school?”

“Nope! I’ve got a spare, and I’m going down to the park to chillax with some guys.”

“I see,” said Mr. Perkins, “see to it that you don’t get into any trouble. You know Matt, I hear everything!”

“Ha ha. No problem Mr. Perkins.”

“I’ll be watching!” Mr. Perkins teased him, wagging his finger.  The young lad ran off as the Archdeacon and Mr. Perkins arrived at the post office.

“Yes, Mr. Perkins, times are different. We need to start looking at how we do things differently, more with less, as they say…”

“I can certainly understand the Bishop’s anxiety.  I certainly wouldn’t want her responsibility. We all know there are going to have to be some closures, amalgamations…”

“Hey Perk!” It was Charlie Strawblade, an old-timer and faithful member of the parish. Charlie had been raised on a farm out in the country but now lived in town with his daughter. He was in good health, but had stopped driving due to a few fender-benders last year. He always called Mr. Perkins, “Perk.”

“Charlie, meet my friend the Archdeacon.”

“Archdeacon, huh? You’d better not be here to re-assign Perk. He’s the best damned priest we’ve had since…well, he’s the best. And you guys have sent us some real clunkers over the years, so don’t get any ideas. Hands off our guy!”

“Umm…nice to meet you Charlie,” the Archdeacon gestured a handshake, but Charlie was already heading down the steps to the car where his daughter was waiting. 

Mr. Perkins gave her a wave, “Hi Leslie!”

The Archdeacon was not getting very far in his purpose.  He thought maybe that they should find a quieter place to discuss business, which he was about to suggest until the mail clerk called out: “Oh, Mr. Perkins, Benny hasn’t got as far as your mailbox yet.  Let me grab your mail for you.”

“Thank you, Janet,” he said with a smile. In a moment she returned with his mail.

“Wouldn’t want you to have to make a second trip, Mr. Perkins.”

“You are very kind. How is Lawrence?”

“He’s stable. The chemo seems to be slowing the cancer.”

“That’s wonderful news. I’m praying for you both.  I hope he hasn’t forgotten that I’m dropping by for a visit on Thursday.”

“No, he remembers and is looking forward to it!” 

The two clergymen descended down the post office steps and finally the Archdeacon, slightly frustrated by all the interruptions, suggested that they sit down and discuss the matters at hand. 

“I know just the place,” Mr. Perkins said animatedly, “come with me.”

“You seem to know a lot of people.”

“Oh, a few, I suppose. You know Archdeacon, I don’t really understand these younger priests today with their ‘fresh expressions’ and ‘missional’ initiatives. It seems a bit nonsensical to me, and to be honest, a bit redundant.” Mr. Perkins was talking the Archdeacon’s language. He, too, was skeptical of such things, but he resolved to keep his personal feelings to himself, and just to listen. “I don’t think fancy initiatives will save the church, Archdeacon, nor will strategic plans and special programs,” he continued, “Do you remember that sentence in our letters of appointment, in which we are called to ‘love the people’?”

“Padre!” They were interrupted again, but only briefly as the man passed by.

“Oh, I’m the Legion Padre, as well,” he said, and then whispered, “Don’t let any of them know I’m a pacifist.”  The Archdeacon gave a little chuckle.  They were just approaching the local ‘greasy spoon’ diner, when Mr. Perkins smiled and said, “Let’s get some brunch.”

It was much like any other little small-town diner: signage seemed to be from another decade, menus had little stickers over old prices with the new prices written in with ballpoint pen, dirty tiles, and the smell of years of grease build-up on the walls.  The two men sat down and were greeted by the waitress:

“Pancakes, Mr. Perkins? And coffee?” she asked.

“Oh yes, Brenda. Thank you.”

“And for your friend?”

“Toast… and a coffee.”

“O come on now, Archdeacon. When will we have another chance to sit down and break bread together? 

So, the Archdeacon ordered a toasted western on white. 

“Mr. Perkins, as much as I am enjoying our visit. May I discuss business for a moment?”

“Certainly.” Mr. Perkins sipped his coffee.

“I have seen your Sunday numbers.”

“Yes, I believe we average about 34.”

“Yes. That’s not exactly…”

“Not exactly…what?” asked Mr. Perkins quizzically.

“Not exactly full.”

“Hmm. Such an interesting criterion to be judging a church on.  How many of our churches are full, I wonder?”

“The Bishop thinks you could be doing better.”

“Well, I imagine she does,” he smiled. “Let me cut to the chase, Archdeacon. I know what the bishop thinks: She thinks she wants our endowment. She knows that if she closes our church, by canon, she can appropriate its funds for diocesan purposes. Here’s the thing, though, that endowment is not falling into diocesan hands.  It is serving the purpose for which it was intended. Christ Church is healthy. We are small but mighty.  At any rate, a parish is certainly more than the gathered congregation on Sunday, don’t you think Mr. Archdeacon?  We are not Congregationalists, are we?  A parish is a geographic area, and we have the cure of souls for all in our parishes, everyone in our communities, not just the gathered faithful. Do you not agree, Mr. Archdeacon?”

The Archdeacon did agree, at least in principle, but he was not here under his own recognizance. At that moment brunch arrived. Mr. Perkins said the grace and they ate in silence for a moment. Finally, the Archdeacon asked, “What other ministry goes on here, Mr. Perkins?”

“Did you read my charge to vestry that was included in the vestry report we sent to the bishop after the meeting. Did you read the various reports from committees?”

“Yes.”

“Then you tell me…”

They were interrupted by Brenda the waitress, “Everything the way you like it, Mr. Perkins?”

“Just perfect, as usual. And how is your father?”        

“Oh, about the same. He doesn’t really know too many people any more, but he sure does appreciate your visits, Mr. Perkins.  It always brightens his day.  I sure appreciate you going to see him every week.”

“It’s my pleasure, Brenda.”

Brenda then presented the cheque. The Archdeacon went to take it but Mr. Perkins, beat him to it. “You’re my guest, Archdeacon, and besides, I wouldn’t want to have our cash-strapped diocese buying meals for a simple country parson.”

The Archdeacon looked annoyed.

When they left the restaurant and went outside the sun was still shining warmly and Mr. Perkins looked heavenward, taking it all in. On their way back to the church they ran into a man who identified himself as Kevin. He looked a bit worse for wear. He asked for some money and Mr. Perkins gave him a twenty dollar bill.

“How do you know the difference between those who are really in need from the scammers?”

“Well,” he said, “I know most everyone around here.  And besides, as my mentor once told me, ‘if you’re not getting taken for twenty bucks every now and again, you’re not doing the Lord’s work.’”

As they walked up the steps of the church, they heard a loud voice coming from inside.  The Archdeacon looked a little confused and peered through the entrance.  He was shocked to see that there was a heavy, disheveled man standing in the pulpit, talking, maybe even preaching.

“That’s Paul,” Mr. Perkins explained, “he lives in a half-way house up the road.  He comes down to the church to pray and read his Bible every day. He seems to be most comfortable in the pulpit.  He likes the Major Prophets and the Psalms.  He just gets up there and reads and talks to God.  He has some kind of mental illness…I’m not sure what, but he sure likes to come into the church and pray.  Sometimes I listen to him preach. Now, Archdeacon, do you wish to see my vestry book and go over the financial statements?”

“No. I think not,” said the Archdeacon, “everything is very much in order here.”

...THE ARCHDEACON CONTINUES TOMORROW.