I was having drinks and a cigar with a friend when he said, “If you’d become a priest, you’d be a bishop by now.”
“And Jesus wept,” I replied.
“No,” he said, “I’m serious. I’ve seen you speak, read your stuff, you’re a natural. People listen to you.”
“That’s very flattering,” I said, feeling embarrassed by my friend’s overestimation of my abilities, “But if I got ordained, I think I’d’ve ended up becoming a drunk.”
“Nonsense,” he said. “You don’t get drunk, at least not anymore.”
“Well,” I said, shaking the ice in my glass, “Maybe today’s the day. But I tell you one thing, if I’d become a bishop, I know what my episcopal motto would’ve been.”
“What?”
“Amor Ingeniosus Est – Love is Ingenious.”
“That’s a good one.”
“It’s from the writings of St. Paul of the Cross. It was the motto of a very fine man named Norbert Dorsey, the former bishop of Orlando. I met him once on retreat and he had quite an impact on me. I even used his motto in one of my books. Norbert was one of the good ones.”
“Too bad there aren’t enough like him.”
“True,” I muttered.
Then, looking me in the eye, my friend said, “The Church blew it when they lost you.”
“Stop,” I said, throwing up my hands. “I think I’m exactly where God wants me to be.”
While I’ll admit to sometimes fantasizing about being an irreverent and slightly crazed pope, I know I’d have never become a bishop if I’d stuck seminary out. I have too big a mouth and a perverse love of fucking with pompous assholes, of which the episcopacy is well staffed. But my friend, God bless him, has always been in my corner, seeing me in a positive light even when I didn’t and, while I appreciated his fulsome praise, I chalked it up to his ability to always see the good in people, and more than a few whiskeys.
Then a few days later, I was reading a book about religious history when the author, discussing how pagan Romans were amazed, and sometimes discomfited, by the care early Christians lavished on the poor, orphans, foundlings, widows, elderly, and the sick, noted that, prior to the church, institutions providing continuous care for such people simply didn’t exist. It didn’t happen all at once, nor unfold perfectly, but the message of the Gospel those earliest followers of “The Way” preached – with its call to care for the least of their brothers and sisters – eventually percolated through all levels of ancient society with, through the lens of history, astonishing rapidity, and kicked thousands of years of pagan religion, which was often just religious cover to excuse the cruel barbarities inflicted by the strong upon the weak, to the curb. Other than the occasional kook, you don’t find too many people worshipping Mithras anymore.
Then the author mentioned a 3rd century Christian document I’d never heard of before, the Didascalia, which outlined the duties a bishop had towards his flock. “Encompassing,” the author wrote, “Responsibility for the education of orphans, aid to poor widows, and the purchase of food and firewood for the destitute, as well as strict vigilance over the money flowing through the church, lest it issue from men guilty of injustice or of the abuse of slaves, or lest it find its way into the hands of persons not genuinely in need.” Slack jawed, I realized I was reading my job description. Last week marked my tenth anniversary as the director of my town’s social service’s department and, after reading this knew, in all that time, I’d checked every one of the Didascalia’s boxes.
My department, in addition to maintaining a food pantry, pays for school lunch programs, send kids to summer camp, help maintain widows in their homes, buy medications for elderly folks, collect toys and school supplies for disadvantaged children – some of them orphans – get people warm clothes, pay overdue rents, place the disabled into new jobs and apartments, shelter immigrants fleeing poverty and violence in their homelands, and, while I don’t pass out firewood, we’ve shelled out a bundle helping people pay their heating and electrical bills too. I don’t do all this by myself mind you. Without the help of my volunteers and the generous people who’ve donated their time, money and expertise to my department year in and year out, none of it would be possible. But, because I’m also the steward of the monies and goods we receive, my role also involves making sure it goes to people who are “genuinely in need,” which is the least fun part of my job.
When I started in 2015, my predecessor summed up the job as being a “generosity coordinator” which I’ve always thought very apropos. Like I said, without other people’s help, nothing would get done, so my role is to wrangle people’s talents, time, and resources so as to have the best effect which is basically “overseeing” the whole shebang, and the Greek word for overseer is episkopos – bishop. My wife is always saying running a food pantry was my chance to get the parish I never had but, after reading the Didascalia, I realized my friend could’ve been right – maybe I might’ve had what it took. Yes, I know this all a bit self-aggrandizing but the symmetry of my former vocation with the one I have today is both wonderful, humbling and delightfully weird because, as I see generous people bring in donations day in and day out, I’ve gotten to see ‘oI Norbert was right – love is indeed ingenious. Maybe today at least, I’m exactly where God wants me to be. Looking up from my book, I yelled, ““Honey, I just got a promotion.”
But if I wear one of those pointy hats to work, I’ll probably get fired.