to popular mythology, however, it in no way brought me special favours from authority figures. I got more than my fair share of tickets for speeding, illegal parking and other minor traffic sins. The officers were polite: “And where are you going at such a clip, Father?” they would query as they drew out their ticket pad. Then, trying to be funny, “We wouldn’t want you going to your own funeral, now, would we?” Garage mechanics saw the collar as a sign of worldly naïveté and adjusted the bill upwards accordingly. Panhandlers seemed to spot the collar a block away. Drunks were particularly moved by the sight of it and would often embark on a recital of their entire life’s story at the sight of a clerical collar.
The worst part, though, was the way the round collar dampened down the repartee and social ease of ordinary people. The Scottish evangelist Tom Allen once put it like this when describing the effect of a minister’s garb: “When an ordinary chap realizes you’re a clergyman, he ceases to be the man he really is and instantly becomes the man he thinks that you think he ought to be.” They’d apologize for swearing, and tell old jokes about religion, all of which most clergy had heard by six weeks after ordination. At six foot four, I would get a lot of “How’s the weather up there?” and “I didn’t know you were such a High Churchman.”
Once, just before ordination to the Anglican priesthood, the bishop summoned us to a rural centre north of Toronto for a spiritual retreat prior to the ritual on the following Sunday. He was a stickler for upholding the dignity of the cloth, and we were told to bring our full ministerial equipment—surplice and cassock and so on—as well as casual clothes for recreation. I arrived late at the retreat centre, well after the first session had begun. I dumped my suitcase and, dressed in casual slacks with one of my favourite red-and-black-checked open-necked shirts—looking a little like an after-hours lumberjack—raced to the main seminar room. As I entered the room, the bishop was laying down the law about always being sure to wear white shirts with French cuffs and cufflinks underneath our black bibs and Roman collars when on church duties. I squeezed into a chair at the back of the room, trying to avoid his eyes. He abruptly interrupted his colloquy and beckoned me to a seat near him at the very front. As I slunk forward, I saw to my embarrassment that every one of my fellow ordinands was dressed in an official, flowing black cassock and round white collar. I squirmed uncomfortably until the lecture’s end, and then bolted to my room to change. Less than ten minutes later I arrived at the next session dressed in full clerical splendour only to find to my total chagrin that the rest had decided to follow my relaxed example and had changed to casual clothes.
Eventually it was time for the profoundly moving ceremony when we were to be ordained in historic St. James’ Cathedral, in the heart of the city. I had purchased a new and very expensive topcoat for the occasion. Unfortunately, I made the mistake of leaving it over a pew at the rear of the cathedral at the rehearsal the night before, and it was stolen, probably to buy a bottle of cheap wine. The police were cheerful when they said, “It’s an ill wind . . .”
Following ordination in May 1956, I was married the next month to my first wife, Mary, who had been a student at Trinity College across the street from Wycliffe, and three daughters, Elizabeth, Margaret and Mary Catharine, were born over the next seven years. Desperately needing money, I obtained a menial job as a sweeper at the Ontario Exhibition Park for a few weeks as my first posting in the ministry didn’t commence right away. (The only thing I learned there was that general labourers prefer a boss who wears big boots, because then you can hear him coming long before you see him, and thus get busy sweeping.)
My first position was curate of St. John’s York Mills, one of the most affluent and influential parishes in the diocese. As a curate (or junior assistant), my mentor and boss, the Venerable Archdeacon Arthur McCollum, presented me with a leather-bound parish list and said he expected me to make a minimum of five visits every afternoon. To be honest, I found this part of the ministry less than fulfilling. It worked well in rural charges where one could go out to the fields or barn and talk with the menfolk. But in the city, in such a wealthy suburb and at a time when many if not most women didn’t go to work, the lady of the house was usually the one there to greet you. We would make polite conversation about the weather, the children and Sunday school, but it seemed a pale image of the kind of muscular Christianity I thought I had been called to.
This part of the work often left me feeling trapped, and it was sometimes a relief to find nobody was at home. One could then leave a card and tally one more visit in the book. One hot afternoon I knocked on a door and was greeted by a little boy of about four years old. I asked if his mother or father were in, and he said in a bright and chirpy manner, “Come on in,” and ushered me into the living room. I was just about to sit down when a startled pair of eyes peering out through a tangle of wet and still-soapy hair appeared like an apparition from behind a half-open door. Spying my clerical form, the woman gave a sudden cry and shouted at little Ricky to “Show the gentleman out, I’m having a bath!” and slammed the bathroom door. I retreated in a hurry.
The following year, I accepted the position of rector of St. Margaret’s-in-the-Pines, West Hill. In 1957 there was just a small chapel and a very sad-looking concrete-block parish hall, but the fourteen-acre setting with its tall, ancient pines and well-kept cemetery was magnificent. The road through the property was part of the old stagecoach route from Toronto to Kingston—the Kingston Road, as its modern successor is still called today. The first church was built in 1832, thirty-five years before Confederation, and the victims of early cholera and other epidemics were said to have been buried along the way, not far from the rectory.
Unlike doctors, until recently most ministers, priests and rabbis still made house calls. In the course at seminary called Pastoralia, we were taught that the typical day should go as follows: sermon preparation and/or hospital visiting in the morning; systematic house-by-house visiting of everyone on the parish rolls in the afternoon; meetings or individual counselling in the evenings. I took over the parish at a time when traditional farmlands and the spread of suburbia were still intermeshed around Toronto. Once, I was visiting a family who lived in an old farmhouse not far from the edge of the Scarborough Bluffs, the cliffs which mark that part of the shore of Lake Ontario. It was a chilly October day and there was a warm fire in the old wood stove. Things looked very cozy and I accepted a cup of tea and biscuits. Just then, a large, elderly dog came in from outside, padded over to me, collapsed at my feet and fell asleep. Unfortunately, the poor animal had recently been in close contact with a skunk, and the heat from the fire on his wet coat made the odour rise like steam from a kettle. Nobody else appeared to notice, but my stomach started to do cartwheels and I knew if I didn’t make a run for it I would soon be sick. I put down the food and drink and beat a hasty retreat. I remember the stunned look on my parishioners’ faces. I didn’t have the courage to tell them the truth. The suit had to be sent to the cleaners twice before it was fit to wear again.
There were always some members of the church who had to be approached with special care. Everyone had warned me that an elderly widow in my first parish, Mrs. Barnfather, could be fierce and that she disliked me sight unseen, on principle, because I was replacing her friend, the previous rector. I very much wanted to make a good impression and win her over to my side. When she opened the door, I realized she was almost as tall as I was, with grey hair pulled into a prim, tight bun on the top of her head. She invited me into her formal parlour and served up tea and fruitcake. She had provided me with a table napkin that I tried to keep on my knee while balancing the cup and saucer and eating a piece of cake. Unfortunately, the napkin kept falling to the floor. To make conversation, I ventured a weak joke. I said, “I wish I had a wooden leg—then I could use a thumbtack to keep this napkin in place.” She glared at me ferociously and replied, “My late husband had a wooden leg, and that’s anything but humorous!” It was to be a long time before we eventually became friends.
Churchgoing was then very much in fashion, and new homes were springing up on all sides in my parish. Soon the church and hall were filled for morning services and the numbers were continuing to grow rapidly. Our congregation decided to build a large new church, as many other growing suburban congregations were doing. Architects were hired, endless
