Frank

He was a very quiet institution in Beaufort, the Rector of St. Helena’s Episcopal Church, a deeply spiritual man–not obviously a civic leader, but a spiritual leader nevertheless and the consummate administrator of his church. He is the main reason I came back to the Episcopal Church and the reason I usually go to church (well, it is across the street, as well) on Sundays. He is a sweet man, a decent man, and a tolerant man, despite having conservative and sometimes unpopular views within the church. He is aware of how much humankind suffers from sin of a very private kind: privacy is very important to him, and he understands the sins of others through the sins he knows. He jokingly expresses anger at his lovely, tolerant wife and then makes fun of himself in sermons for expressing such anger. His sermons are a delight, often very funny, though he never forgets Original Sin or the miracle of the Resurrection.

He has been divorced, in the distant past, and he remembers that pain. He is not afraid of admitting that he was an atheist before receiving the call to come into the church. He twits the notorious worldliness of the group often called "Whiskeypalians" in the South, while he embodies its sophistication about clothes, golf, tailgating at Clemson football games, or making the right choice among bourbons or wines. He has been known to say "I like your stuff" to a well-dressed parishioner. He is a spiritual man without a trace of self-righteousness, even in the midst of firmly held beliefs that are not always popular. He does not like to hear Jesus, or even St. Paul, accused of self-righteousness. If either can be rightfully accused, Frank’s religion might be full of holes. Without a touch of self-consciousness, Frank signs his letters with a phrase from the General Confession, "Miserable Offender."


Frank seems so hard on himself that he can forgive other sinners, like me, with apparent ease. He leads a good, thoughtful, tolerant life, even though his church and his diocese have been accused of intolerant perspectives toward gay bishops or gay marriages, among other hot topics in recent church history. I wrote one column mischievously titled "A Queer Eye for a Straight Bishop," but then I squelched it for publication, out of respect for Frank. I am sure he would read it with tolerance and see the humor in the situation.

My favorite photograph of Frank, one I wish I had taken, is of him bopping. The picture is in the social events section of images from the St. Helena’s directory, and the occasion was a dance sponsored by the church. Frank is a runner (he runs at ungodly, godly hours such as 4am), and he is a graceful man, capable of winning an egg-in-a-spoon race for the sake of charity. In the picture he is bopping at a jaunty angle, with the complete assurance that his dancing is, well, cool. You can tell why the ladies have always loved Frank and why he kisses them with godly innocence as they pass through the reception line on Sunday.

When I heard that Frank was retiring in order to take a deanship in a large church in Birmingham–from Frank’s mouth at the eight o’clock service–my eyes filled with uncontrolled tears. The woman sitting next to me must have thought I was a sentimental idiot. Selfishly, I was already missing this man who had been a living link to my mentor, the dear Rev. Churchill Gibson, who had confirmed me in Richmond, Virginia, and had tutored Frank at Virginia Seminary. Both men had been my examples of how and why a Christian should live his life, from day to day, in sickness and in health, in sympathy and in anger, with love and with tolerance.

I was thinking last night, while walking meditatively at bedtime, that I would have followed Frank into battle willingly, if he were my commanding officer, but then I thought of how ridiculous an idea that might be, except in an age of onward Christian soldiers.

Frank goes to be Dean of the Cathedral Church of the Advent in Birmingham, a position of great fanfare and esteem, and the church has, I am told, 3400 parishioners, and a huge administrative staff to administer. Frank moves up in authority, and he would not go if he did not believe that the large responsibility is part of his calling.

When I last saw Frank, after the 6pm service on the day he announced his departure, he was talking freely to the few informal parishioners who attend that service with the guitars and the singing of spirituals: he was there among some of the heaviest previous sinners–those who took the liberties of the Sixties seriously–and he said to one of them, "Someone asked if I was happy, this morning. Of course I am not happy, with leaving." He was dabbing his eyes as he said it. I shook his hand, twice in succession I think, and I said I would be seeing him privately, I hoped, before he went his separate way to Alabama. It was comforting somehow that he was crying the way I had cried that morning.