The Archdeacon Returns - Chapter Ten

Chapter Ten: Courting Mr. Perkins

There was a time when Mr. Perkins embroiled himself in the politics of the Church.  He loved sitting on diocesan committees, attending meetings, and being party to all manner of diocesan gossip and inside information.  It gave him, or so he thought at the time, an “in”. He like considering himself amongst the elect few who knew the all the diocesan “goings on”.  He enjoyed being an insider.  It led him to gain the false impression, as a young clergyman, that he was taking part in matters of great deliberation, and he prided himself on being “in the know” on many important matters.

            Yet, as the years wore on, this all started to become very tedious.  As he took on more and more diocesan responsibility, it began to take him away from the calling he really loved, that of being a pastor to his people in the little parish of Christ Church, Hampton’s Corners.  One day, he resolved: “That’s it. No more diocesan politics.” He had become jaded and discouraged by it all. From henceforth, he would entirely devote himself to the work of tending his little flock and leave the “great matters” to others.  And in the long run, this had been a very good decision.  It will be recalled that recently, the little parish of St. David’s-by-the-River had been added to his cure of souls.  These days, he directed all his available time to his two churches.  Of course, there was also Mary, his recent bride, to whom he was a devoted husband. He had come to marriage later in life, and middle-aged marriage after being a bachelor for so many years was not without its challenges, but the immeasurable joys outweighed the challenges. Mr. Perkins was a happy man, and diocesan politics was now the farthest thing from his mind.

            For this reason, he was very much annoyed when he received a phone call from Ernie Bedford.  Ernie was a churchwarden and long-time synod member of the neighbouring parish of St. Anskar’s, that is, the parish where the Rev. Rebecca Hope was rector.  Ernie was a well-known figure around the Diocese.  He had sat as a lay person on more diocesan committees than one could count; he had been a member of Synod for longer than anyone could remember; and he was a devoted disciple of Rebecca Hope and her unorthodox reforms.

            “Mr. Perkins!” Ernie began enthusiastically.

            “Hello, Ernie,” Mr. Perkins replied reservedly. He had known Ernie long enough to tread carefully with him, and in any event, he knew where this was going.

            “Too bad about Bishop Verity, eh?”

            “Yes, she was a stalwart.”  This was Mr. Perkins’ stock response whenever anyone commented about the late Bishop.  It offered no value-judgement whatsoever.

            “Listen, Perk,” Ernie proceeded with a familiarity that was uninvited, “Rebecca is letting her name stand, as you probably already know…” 

            “Yes...” There wasn’t anyone in the Diocese who didn’t know, as far as Mr. Perkins could tell.

            “Well, being that you two have known each other for so many years – as colleagues, as neighbours in the same Deanery – and I know the high regard that you have for her…”

            Mr. Perkins had no such regard for her.

            “…well,” Ernie continued, “I assume she can count on your support, Perk?”

            This was one of those moments in which a less experienced, less shrewd cleric might have faltered. Not Mr. Perkins. He had been around for a long time and had seen and experienced much.  He was ever prepared for just this sort of assault and was dove-like in his response:

            “Ernie,” he said deliberately, but gently, “I make a point of removing myself from all church politics, or of throwing my support behind any one individual. On the day of the election, I shall vote as the Spirit of God directs me.”

            “Hrmph. Well, fair enough, Perk. I won’t try to push you or twist your arm, but you know Rebecca, and what she can do…and what she will do for this diocese, if elected, that is.”

            Mr. Perkins did know that, and he didn’t think he would like it very much, but he kept that to himself.  He wasn’t being at all disingenuous in his response to Ernie.  He really did go into an episcopal election with an open mind.  He never decided who to vote for until the moment he put pen to paper to write the name.  He prayed, and waited, and trusted in the Holy Ghost to guide him.

              “Thank you for your call, Ernie.  Do tell Rebecca I will hold her in my prayers as she continues her discernment.”  Mr. Perkins would be good to his word in this.

            Mr. Perkins placed the receiver down and gave a smile.  This was not the first solicitation he had received this week. Just yesterday, in fact, the Rev. Robbie Ready’s field agent had called him, and the day before that it had been a campaigner for the Rev. Marta Martyrion.  His response had been the same both times. He wondered why folks were so keen on securing his support.  Yes, he was a well-respected, senior priest of the Diocese, but his support would not make or break a candidate’s chances for successful election. The truth was, though, that everyone loved Mr. Perkins, for he was part of that dying breed of old-time country parsons that one so rarely encounters anymore.  He was merely middle-aged but he had the aura of a much older and wiser man.  Everyone wanted his blessing. Mr. Perkins, through years of ministerial trials and tribulations had come to know what was truly important.  He loved God and he loved the people. Ministry was not always easy for him, but it was his heart’s desire.  There was nothing he loved more.  Why did these candidates want his support? It was because he was the real thing. 

            It wasn’t much later that day when he received an unexpected visitor. As he was walking across from his rectory to the church, a car pulled up and a young woman in clericals got out and approached him.

            “Mr. Perkins,” she said, extending her hand, “I’m glad I found you in.”

            “I’m never far away,” he smiled, recognizing her as the Archdeacon’s curate.

            “I’m Maddie…”

            “Yes, I recognize you. We met at the clergy conference in the spring.”

            “That’s right,” she replied, “Do you have a few minutes, Mr. Perkins?”

            Mr. Perkins knew where this was going, but he admired the young priest’s enthusiasm and faithfulness in coming to see him and promote her mentor as a candidate for episcopal ministry.  He invited her in and made her a cup of tea.

            “Tell me,” he said, offering her the cup and saucer, “How is the Archdeacon?  He must very busy these days.”

            “Yes, he is,” she replied, taking a sip of her tea. “He is actually the reason I’ve come to see you, Mr. Perkins.”

            “Oh really,” he said, feigning surprise.

            “Yes, you see, I…and several others…have nominated the Archdeacon to stand for bishop.”

            “And has he accepted?”

            “Reluctantly.”

            “I see. He’s a good man, although I do owe him the burden of having to take on St. David’s in addition to Christ Church, but never mind that.”  Mr. Perkins was playing with her. He did not consider St. David’s a burden at all. “I don’t believe he did himself any favours, mind you, in working as the late bishop’s, ahem…hit man.”

            “He is a good man, Mr. Perkins. A faithful man. A devoted man.  And I…and many others…believe him to be the right person for this moment,” Maddie added, trying not to sound defensive.

            “And you would like me to vote for him when the moment comes?”

            “Yes.”

            “I see.  Well, I will give him this…he really is a fine man, and he would likely make a decent bishop,” Again, Mr. Perkins was entirely earnest and giving the young priest a much more sympathetic hearing than he had given Ernie, “But I have held a firm resolve over the years never to ‘throw in’ with a candidate, to ‘stump’ for them,  or offer any kind of support until the moment comes when I write the name on the ballot that God tells me to write.  And I intend to remain steadfast in that resolve in this current election.”

            Maddie sat silently as she drank down that last of her tea.

            “Don’t be disappointed,” he said I know the Archdeacon’s reputation has suffered much over the last few years; but do trust that he will be judged on the whole rather than on a part of his ministry.”

            “I hope so. I believe so,” she said.

            “My friend,” he added, “Believe this: God already knows who our next bishop shall be, so let us not worry ourselves too much over the future of the Church. Bishops come and go, as do priests, as do we all. ‘Frail as summer’s flower we flourish, blows the wind and it is gone, but while mortals rise and perish…’”

            “’…God endures unchanging on,” she sang, finishing the hymn and smiling.  He smiled back and took her cup.

            “Thank you for coming to visit me,” he said, “You are always welcome in Hampton’s Corners. If you will excuse me, though, I’m due to make a pastoral visit.”

  Later that afternoon, Mr. Perkins was at the hospital beside of that faithful old spinster, Miss Lillian Littlestature, now approaching the centenary of her birth.  Miss Lillian, who had been baptized as a baby at Christ Church, Hampton’s Corners, had sung in the choir, had run the altar guild, and had made perhaps a million sandwiches in her time, was not at all well.  Last winter she had suffered a bad pneumonia and continued to have severe respiratory illness.  Things did not seem to be getting any better for her. After they shared Holy Communion, she said to him, “Thank you for coming to see me every week, Mr. Perkins. It means so much to me.”

            “It is the absolute highlight of my week,” he smiled.

            “Oh, you’re such a liar, Mr. Perkins.” 

            He laughed. He certainly was not a liar, and it was the highlight of his week. She knew it, but she loved to tease him.

            “I suppose I won’t make it through another winter,” she said rather solemnly.

            “Lillian,” he looked at her with a broad smile, “if it pleases God, we’ll be drinking highballs on your front veranda next summer.”

            “That would be nice. I’d like that.” They sat together quietly for a moment and then she looked up at him, “Thank you again, Mr. Perkins.  Promise me one thing…”

            “What’s that?” He asked.

            “Never leave Hampton’s Corners.”

            “I won’t, Lillian. I promise, I won’t.”

 

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