The Bishop - Chapter Four: The Lonely Bishop

Chapter Four: The Lonely Bishop

When Mr. Perkins became a bishop, his wife Mary was excited.  Their marriage had come a bit later in life. She had been a young widow and he a bachelor when they met.  She was his church organist and something of a gentle affection had formed between them over the years until one day they realized they were in love.  Of course, this was back in the days before a clergyman was forbidden from entering into a romantic relationship with someone in his parish. In fact, there was a time when a young curate was expected to find a wife during their first placement, and indeed, it was the self-appointed task of many a senior lady in the parish to create the conditions in which the young cleric would come into the company of an eligible daughter of the parish.  

This was not exactly the case when Mr. Perkins and Mary met.  Mary, although younger than Mr. Perkins, had been married previously, and Mr. Perkins was quickly approaching middle age.  The days of a cleric finding a spouse from amongst his flock were drawing to a close.  I think Mr. Perkins and Mary may have been one of the last such couples, for not long afterward, diocesan regulations were in place that forbad such romances for fears of sexual misconduct and exploitation. Those fears were unfounded in the case of Mr. Perkins and his bride. They were a very happy and well-suited couple. They were perfectly in love and if Mr. Perkins had been surprised by his sudden nomination for episcopal office and his subsequent election, Mary was not.  She was overjoyed. She believed in him and was confident he had a vocation to the high office to which he had been called.  He was essentially a humble man. Certainly, he had that normal dose of pride that afflicts us all, and as a young cleric, he was typically over-confident of his gifts, but the years softened all of this.  Although he was prone to internal exasperation when certain ridiculous situations arose, as they do in parishes, and frustration at certain individuals who aggravated him, he was a gentle soul and more often than not, kept that exasperation bottled up where it couldn’t hurt anyone, except, perhaps, himself.  He brought a calm pastoral presence into any tense room and all present would invariably leave feeling calmed and assuaged. This was his particular gift.  Old Canon Swiftman, who had nominated him from the floor of Synod knew this, and had the insight to know that this is what the diocese needed after being ruled by the rather imperious hand of the late Bishop Verity for so many years.

Mary knew this, too. She knew, even if her husband did not, that this what he had been prepared for, moulded for, and formed for his whole life.  Likewise, those who knew him intimately knew that he was the right man for the moment, although many wondered if he had the stomach, or the spine, for the job.  Mary never doubted that his gift of gentleness and kindness would outweigh his deficiencies in this area.

Thus it was that she threw herself wholeheartedly into the role of his chief supporter and encourager.  For all his competence and his excellence as a clergyman, indeed ,he was widely regarded as one of the finest in the diocese, he himself felt deeply unsure about his episcopal call.  But she believed in him and gave him the strength to make that well-beloved prayer his own, “let it be unto me according to your word.” Could there have been a more excellent bishop’s wife and one more fitting for the role?

When illness struck her down, it felt like a cruel tragedy. Even though she had only filled that role for so short a time, there was great mourning in the diocese. It seemed so unfair that one so kind, so good, so true, so faithful would fall victim to the ravages of that dreaded enemy of happiness and contentment — cancer.  As I have related, from diagnosis to the grave the time was short, and so before he was even a year into his new ministry, he found himself quite alone and at sea.