I had a friend early on, forty-five years early
on, who was a sculptor and priest. He once asked
me if I liked rocks. I didn’t know what to say.
He said his mind worked differently from most
other people. He thought it was because he was
an artist. His sculptures — mostly sand casts,
plaster of Paris and large metal pieces welded
together — were bold and beautiful. His preach-
ing, on the other hand, was circular sometimes
or went off in all directions with little or
nothing to tie the thoughts together. It was
always hard to follow. Thank the Lord Episco-
palians preach homilies instead of full-blown
sermons. What he could put together in sculptures
he lost when it came to words. His parishioners
loved him though and he loved the bells and whis-
tles of the liturgy and he danced the Eucharist.
He moved around the chancel like Bishop Fulton
Sheen making his theatrical entrance at the be-
ginning of each T.V. episode, robes flowing.
Once, when we were at a campus ministers’ con-
ference, we roomed together and he had had a
bit too much Scotch. We talked for a long
time while we were in our bunks and then he
said that I was very handsome and, in fact,
had a beautiful face. I didn’t know what to
say, so I said nothing. Shortly thereafter
we said goodnight. That evening was never
mentioned again. A couple of years later, I
received a call to pastor a church in another
town. We drifted apart. Years later, I heard
that he had died of cancer. In hind sight, I
wish that I had given him a rock, something
nice perhaps like Swedish granite because he
was Swedish as a present for my going away.