While there were other Episcopalians at Union besides me, I do not think that any were any other “postulants.” Serious candidates for the Episcopal priesthood typically go to Episcopal Seminaries. This was certainly the case in the Diocese of Tennessee where I was the one exception. General Theological Seminary, also located in New York City (in the Chelsea neighborhood), was the flagship Episcopal seminary at that time, and it could not have been more different from Union. The student body did not include women, (who of course could not be ordained at that time), and the students and many faculty all ate lunch and dinner together in a large dining hall with assigned seating, usually proceeded by a sung blessing. They also attended daily worship services in the chapel, often followed by small gatherings where afternoon sherry was served. I visited General several times and while spooked by the spiritual, monastery-like culture, I was very impressed by the sense of community. It is quite possible–perhaps even likely–that if I had attended General instead of Union, I would have become an ordained Episcopal priest. That I did not go to General I consider a blessing. I dodged a bullet. I believe that being an Episcopal priest–or a Protestant minister, for that matter–has got to be one of the hardest jobs in the world: Showtime every Sunday, low pay, dubious prestige, and ornery parishioners to put up with. Above my pay grade, as they say in Washington. This is not to imply that for many people it is not a rewarding career. Some are born to be religious leaders and genuinely feel “called.” A close friend from my Mexican summer adventure did attend General and went on to have a storied career as rector of several prestigious Episcopal parishes and toward the end of his career served as dean of General Theological Seminary. For those who stick with it and feel called it can be an extraordinary and rewarding life’s work. However, that was not the pathway for me nor for any of the friends that I made while at Union.
While it seemed to me that the students at General were already fully committed Christians with their eye on ball of becoming the rector of a big Episcopal church or similar job, most Union students were, like me, still in the spiritual search mode. We came to Union to better understand Christianity, to seek “Truth,” and to find God. The courses at Union were taught by distinguished scholars and intellectuals and some of the wisest people in Christendom. My hope was to find the Holy Grail of meaning and purpose, to build a spiritual foundation, and achieve some kind of enlightenment– only to realize that scholarly research will not get you there. Experiencing a spiritual presence in one’s life has more to do with prayer and spiritual practice than scholarly pursuits, which of course should have been obvious, but, hey, I was young.
Union had its strong points, however. Most of the faculty were brilliant. Fellow students were friendly and compatible, and many were focused on “church in the world” initiatives. Several remain life long friends. During my four years at Union many students were involved in social justice efforts, the Civil Rights Movement, and Vietnam War protests. I was part of that group, and in the summer of 1966 worked with Embry (We had gotten married four months before.) with SNCC (the most radical civil rights group at the time) in Baker County in Southwest Georgia where we lived with a Black family, registered voters and worked in a fledging Head Start program (described in my book Civil Rights Journey). It was an experience of a lifetime.
An enjoyable part of my early Union experience ironically were the periodic dinners that occurred when the Bishop of Tennessee made the trip to New York to visit his postulants, all of whom except me were at General. As was his custom, he would treat his charges to dinner at a fancy restaurant followed by a show or a visit to a jazz or blues club. I did not know many of the five or six General Seminary students that he treated, and they did not know me or understand how or why someone at Union Seminary should be part of the bishop’s special evening on the town. What made the experience even more puzzling for them was that the bishop would usually insist on having me sit “at his right hand” at dinner. It drove them crazy. I loved every minute. I think these evenings were as much for his benefit as for his postulants. Always seated at the head of the table, he would sip on the first of several martinis as he smiled and enjoyed the company of people who were in awe of him.
My first year at Union was not easy. Most important I had fallen in love with Embry Martin, whom I had met the spring of my senior year at Davidson College and who was a student at Randolph Macon Women’s College in Lynchburg Virginia. We were able to see each other only a few times my entire first year at Union. So that was difficult, but even more difficult was the field work experience I had that year. I was assigned to work every Sunday at an Episcopal church in the Lower East Side. The rector was egotistic and arrogant. He later admitted that he disliked me from the first time we met because I was from the South and all white Southerners were in his view evil people. He told me toward the end of my two years at his church that his primary goal was to break me of my “naïve, adolescent enthusiasm,” and he came close to succeeding. Nor was I that impressed with the classes or the professors at Union. Being famous and writing scholarly books does not necessarily translate into also being a good teacher, though surely many were. Furthermore, there was nothing at Union that came close to the community life I had observed at General. I was beginning to have serious doubts whether being a postulant was a good idea. Nevertheless, having no better alternative, I reupped for a second year and three years later in 1968 graduated.
The summer following my first year of seminary in 1965 was the most challenging. Embry had managed to get a job as a counselor at a day camp in a United Church of Christ parish in a low income, predominantly African American neighborhood in Boston. She and several other volunteers lived in a group home, and we got to see each other on weekends. That was the highlight. The lowlight was my job, which was to function as a chaplain at Boston City Hospital as part of what was called a “clinical training program.” I was assigned to two wards in this inner city hospital where I functioned as a Christian chaplain for anyone who signed up to be visited. Here I was–young and inexperienced and without a strong faith myself– and my job was to provide spiritual healing and comfort to people in great distress, including several on my watch who died. I performed my first (and only) funeral in the living room of a white, working class family in South Boston whose 23 year old daughter died of cancer. Every person I visited was desperately poor and most were very ill. One was a recent Puerto Rican immigrant who had broken both legs when he jumped off a bridge trying to commit suicide and ended up landing on two elderly women both of whom died of head injuries. He had been charged second degree homicide. Making matters even worse was that every day for a couple of hours I was part of a sensitivity training group that included six seminary students and two leaders, all men. I learned later that the purpose of the group was to break down the defenses of each participant and then to rebuild the Christian character of each person. The co-leader of our group, another ordained minister who was arrogant and opinionated, apologized to me at the end of the summer that while the group did a terrific job in breaking down my defenses, he was sorry that there was not enough time left to build me back up again as a better Christian. (I got an “F” on one of the required assignments to write an essay about death because I did not mention that Christians will all be with Jesus and everyone else will burn in hell for eternity.) I believe that it was at this point that I concluded that I had to get off the track I was on. If this was what Christianity was all about, it was not for me.
What happened next will be the subject of my next blog post.
Thanks, Joe. Wonderful essay and very interesting; a story in itself. Even if I did’t know you at all, I would find it very interesting, I think. (Hard to evaluate since I do know you and like you.) How lives most often head off in different directions, yet looking back seem irreversible, is fascinating! That this blog, for me, reads like fiction, yet is very real, tells me that you might be good at short story writing. (I’ve been reading a lot of them lately.)
Joe,
That is a scary story. Yes, the people who scare me the most are usually the ones who are most certain of their world view.
Hope this is first chapter of sequel to Civil Rights Journey!. This is a warm and embracing account.
Oh Joe, what you have experienced! It’s incredible. Some of the stories in the story are heartbreaking and others are incredibly uplifting. I and so many others are beyond fortunate that you and Mimy made it through.
This was a trip down memory lane for me.
Only on part 2 and I am struck with how much I endeavored (and also failed) to follow my fathers spiritual path!