The Day the Dead

The Day of the Dead (El Día de los Muertos) is a custom that would have seemed strange or even offputting to many in the American South when I was growing up. With the growing Hispanic influence in the U.S. today, we are being introduced to many new customs that we "anglos" can benefit from. For example, in American society, we tend to push death back. We don't really want to think about it. Even in the medical field, we are much more attuned to life-saving measures than we are at end of life care.

In Birmingham, Alabama, this year marks the 20th celebration of El Día de los Muertos.

Setting aside some time to think about the dead need not be a maudlin or grim occasion. It can be a time to celebrate the lives of loved ones who have died. Having a day to recognize our mortality can certainly be beneficial in giving us a healthy perspective on life. 

With each passing year, there are significant sojourners who have parted from the present company of friends and family; people who have heretofore shared an earthly path.  And thus we grieve, “but not as those who have no hope.”

You probably know of friends and colleagues who have died during the past year. You can use this time to call them to mind and think of how your life was enriched by their shared time in your world.

I found a link from ABC news which has a slide show of notable people who died in 2022. You can visit that site here. 

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Remembering Mother Robyn Arnold

Rev. Robyn Arnold (Parish Photo)

Even though I arrived early, the small parking lot was already full and cars were lined up on the street. When I found a place to park, I had to walk a couple of blocks down to the church. The pews were filled as I and a handful of others entered the sanctuary and managed to find a seat. 

I was not surprised by the crowd. The Rev. Robyn Arnold, “Mother Robyn,” as she was known to the parish, had been a beacon of light in an impoverished neighborhood and a source of strength to a diverse and welcoming congregation. On this warm July morning, many came out to remember the remarkable life of a caring soul, gone too soon.

Grace Episcopal Church is an Anglo-Catholic parish, over 100 years old, located in the once-vibrant-now-declining community of Woodlawn. The needs of the community are great and Grace Church works to meet those needs with ministries that include a soup kitchen, a food pantry, a clothes closet, a warming station for the homeless in the winter, and a summer program for the children in the neighborhood. Known for its high liturgy on Sundays, Grace’s slogan is “Where Street and Altar Meet!”

Mother Robyn Arnold was an exemplary pastor to her parishioners and a source of hope to people in a transitional neighborhood. The church’s funeral announcement stated, “A soul filled with light and love, Mother Robyn Arnold changed Woodlawn, changed the world, changed the lives of so, so many. It is with great sadness, we announce her passing. May she forever remain in our hearts.” (Read her obituary here)

The eulogy by Deacon Kay Williams recounted Mother Robyn’s life from her childhood in rural Kentucky to a career as a Ph. D. environmental scientist to her transition to pastor and priest. 

In her memory, I am sharing my accounts from four of my encounters with Grace Church under Mother Robyn's ministry.  The first is from five years ago when during a low point in the world I made my way to Grace Episcopal Church for her pastoral guidance. That day she said, among other things, 

We must respond to hatred and injustice, but that response will differ with different people: some will respond publicly to oppose injustice, hate, and greed; others will respond more quietly to do small things in love right where they are.   ~ Rev. Robyn Arnold

You can read the full account at Grace in a Time of Hate.

In my essay, A Nurturing God, I found myself unusually moved at the close of the worship service with the post-Communion prayer. It was a prayer that called to mind the feminine aspects of God in a beautifully personal way.

Where Grace Abounds recounts my Advent experiences at Grace which included incense, the tolling of the bells, music, prayers, and thoughtful, heartfelt homilies delivered by the Reverend Robyn Arnold. I also share some of the parish’s rich history.

In Why Pray, I tell how a visit with my friends at Grace Episcopal Church, I was reminded once again of why we pray. I also recount how at an earlier time I discovered liturgical prayer at a time when I had been battered by circumstances and unsure of which way to turn.

These are just snapshots of the ministry she offered for ten years as rector of Grace Episcopal Church.

Grace Episcopal Church (website photo)

    

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Saturday Haiku: Accidental Memorial

 

my friend's name appears
a Facebook birthday notice
as if they still lived

______________________

(Getty Images photo)



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9/11: 20 Years Later

[Note: this was first posted on 9/11/2010. I am repeating it here as we look back 20 years later]

Living Through the Grief and the Loss and the Terror

I will never forget that morning on September 11, 2001. My wife called me from work to tell me to turn on CNN. All of us across the country felt the shock and the numbness. All of us felt the uncertainty of what lay ahead.

I heard comments about this tragic event being the first time that terrorism had impacted our own land here at home. Like everyone else in the country, I watched the news each day and hoped for some resolution, some return to normalcy. Even as I was feeling the shock and the sorrow, I knew that this was not the first experience of terrorism on our shores.

On the first anniversary of 9/11, I wrote the following poem as a way to bring my thoughts and feelings together to commemorate the day. The poem is written in two voices. I have italicized every other stanza to help keep the two voices separate while at the same time blending those voices together in a search for where to go from here.

Looking back 20 years later, I'm not sure we've come to a healthy reckoning with our grief or of our place as a people on our one and only planet. More on that later in the week. 

When Towers Collapse

by Charles Kinnaird

It was an invasion
Of stealth, arrogance and deceit
That brought the two towers down
And inflicted a wound that would not heal.

                                                                                       When the steel and concrete gave way
                                                                                       Something inside gave way
                                                                                       As if the soul could drop to Sheol
                                                                                       While the body still finds its breath.

“From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more forever,”
Chief Joseph told us.
There is the urge to fight back,
But fighting will not rebuild the towers.
Killing will not heal our wounds.
Our songs may remember the two towers
But the towers will never be replaced.

                                                                                    How will thousands of bodies ever be found?
                                                                                    How will each soul be remembered?
                                                                                    How will the hole be filled?
                                                                                    Too many empty spaces
                                                                                    Where fathers, mothers, sisters and sons once sat.
                                                                                    So many empty places in too many beds,
                                                                                    All vacated with the passing of a single day.

Your twin towers collapsed.
We had our own towers, so to speak.
There was the Land
And there was our Culture –
Those were the strong towers
That held our lives
And nurtured our spirits.
Our land was taken
And our culture collapsed over time
After a systematic campaign of terror.
Where is the monument that could hold our grief?
Where is the house that can contain our sorrow?

                                                                                    There is the instinct to reciprocate,
                                                                                    To lash back at the enemy.
                                                                                    Let them taste their own bitter tears.
                                                                                    Visit hate with hate.

We lived with devastation and heartache
With a wound that would not heal.
Our names still echo throughout the land:
Tallapoosa, Wetumpka, Sylacauga,
Ohatchee.
Notasulga, Tuscaloosa, Weogufka,
Chatahootchee.
Why could our daughters and sons not grow
In the lands that bear our names?

                                                                                  May we never forget those whose lives were taken.
                                                                                  We must learn to walk with sorrow and wisdom,
                                                                                  Celebration and sadness.
                                                                                  We must learn to live with grief for what was,
                                                                                  Joy for what will be,
                                                                                  And gratitude for what remains.

Chippewa, Tallahassee,
Minnetonka.
Chattanooga, Ouachita,
Oneida.
Our names continue to call out
Like too many empty beds.
Like so many empty homes
Our names call out.
We must learn to live with the pain
From the wound that will not heal
While we reach for the balm
That comes from living
In the hoop of the world.

                                                                                Today we walk on bloodstained ground.
                                                                                Both the blood of our forebears
                                                                                And the stain of our own doing.
                                                                                We see times of collapse
                                                                                And times of building up.
                                                                                Some days, we will fight.
                                                                                One day, we will fight no more forever.

The hawk rises
But our wound will not heal.
We may know joy
But we cannot hide our grief.
We may live with wisdom,
But we cannot erase the sorrow.
We will not erase the sorrow.

About My Father's Business: A Father's Day Remembrance

For Father's Day, I am reposting a blog entry that first ran on September 10, 2010, on the 100th anniversary of my father's birth. I post this every few years, and this year seems to be a good year to tell it again. ~ CK

About My Father's Business

"I think the most important question facing humanity is, ‘Is the universe a friendly place?’ This is the first and most basic question all people must answer for themselves.” – Albert Einstein

Clyde Kinnaird

A friend once asked me, "What motivated your father to be different from those around him?" Certainly, that is the underlying question that motivated the essays I have written about him, and it probably influences much of my response to life. The question itself is much more effective than any specific answer that might be given. Some questions are best left out there calling to us, rather than giving definitive answers. I imagine that if my siblings were to answer that question, you would get some similarities, but many specifics would be different. So you see, any answer I give may say as much about myself and my opinions (by what I choose to remember) as it does about my father. With that in mind, I will tell you a little more about my father, "Pop," as we called him.

On Baptismal day

Clyde Kinnaird was a Baptist minister and educator. He pastored small churches in Alabama. Later on his career he became "bi-vocational" when he began teaching in the public school system while continuing as pastor in rural churches. Unlike most Baptist preachers, his sermons were more often taken from the sayings of Jesus than from the teachings of Paul. In fact, when I picture my father in the pulpit, I have a simultaneous image in my mind of Jesus teaching on the hillside. To this day, when I think of Christ, I see the teaching Jesus and the compassionate Jesus rather than the crucified Christ. I can thank my father for that image.

Pop bringing me down to the waters of baptism at Lake Martin, August 1964

After my father died in 1996, I became especially conscious of the influence he had in his own unpretentious way. When I delivered the eulogy at my mother's funeral, three and a half years after my father's passing, I said, "Both of my parents left the world a little better than they found it. That is their inspiration and challenge to those of us who remain." It is that realization that caused me to do some reflection and to ask myself what kind of influence my own life may have.

One reason I began writing essays was to put down in writing what I believe and what I value. My thinking is that it is of benefit to me to express it, and if nothing else, my daughter will have a written record of what is important to me. I wish that my father had written things down, but he was not one to write. I have two notebooks of sermons written by my maternal grandfather (whom I never met), but not a single note or letter from my father. He was not one to write things down. I have to rely on memories and recollections of what he said and did. In reality, though, memories and recollections are all that anyone has of a loved one who has gone.

Growing up in Centreville

Pop was born in 1910, the seventh of nine children, in Centreville, Alabama. He was born 45 years after the Civil War ended. My father's parents and grandparents had current memory of living in a defeated nation and an occupied territory, while at the same time being absolutely patriotic with an undeniable love for their country. Pop spent his childhood with horses and wagons, and as a young adult, he was a mechanic who worked on Model A's and Model T's. His father, "Lud", was a rough-and-tough rascal who made a living farming, running a black smith shop, driving a taxi, and serving at least one term as road commissioner. His mother was the local midwife who was known in the community as "Aunt Claudia."

Apparently, he knew early on that he would be a minister. Pop told us of an experience he had at five years of age. He said he was out in the yard playing and was overcome by an unusual feeling, or sensation. He could not fully describe it, but he said he knew then that he would be a preacher. He recalled that he ran inside and told his mother, "Mama, I'm going to be a preacher."

To me, this sounds like a mystical experience that would have been precocious at that age. The way I interpret it is that my father became aware that he was living in the presence of something far greater than himself, and that awareness was an uplifting, comforting experience. My father's explanation would probably lie in something I often heard him say, "Sometimes God gives us a little taste of Heaven just to assure us that everything will be alright." Compare this to Einstein's question, "Is the universe a friendly place?" My father would have said, "Absolutely!" A mystic like Meister Eckhart would say, "Without a doubt."

Pop graduated from high school in 1928. I once looked through his senior yearbook that a classmate had sent him late in life. I was struck by how optimistic his class was in their statements and dreams of going out into the world. I was also impressed with the good-natured humor I found in those pages. The class prophet said of my father, "Clyde Kinnaird thought he was going to be the next Charles Lindbergh and fly across the Atlantic. He hopped into an aeroplane and made it across the Cahaba River. He landed in a field, thinking he was in Paris." It was especially poignant to me as I read the upbeat messages of that class, knowing that those graduates in 1928 had no idea what lay ahead in 1929 when the Great Depression hit.

Moving On During the Depression

My father claimed that the Depression did not have much noticeable effect on his community because most people in their small agrarian town had very little money anyway. Nevertheless, I cannot help thinking that the Depression influenced the timing of my father's higher education. He did not go to college until six years after graduating high school. It must have been a call to ministry that motivated his going on to Howard College in 1934, in the middle of the Depression, without enough money to make it through the first year. Even then, at a time when many Baptist preachers had no higher education, my father completed college and seminary.

One person my father admired, and who surely must have influenced him, was a retired missionary to China, Dr. Napier, who came to pastor the First Baptist Church of Centreville. "Up until then, we had not had an educated pastor in the pulpit. Most pastors would come and stay for about 18 months. By then, they would have preached all their sermons and would move on." Dr. Napier, my father recalled, would carry books with him to the pulpit and share with the congregation what scholars had written about various scriptures. "We had never had anything like that before."

Dr. Napier's son, Davie, also must have had some influence on my father. They were both at Southern Seminary at the same time and would often ride home together. Many times while I was growing up, I would hear Pop comment about something Davie Napier had said. Davie Napier went on to become a renowned professor at Yale Divinity School, a United Church of Christ Minister, and chaplain at Stanford University. Somewhere along the way, my father latched onto the conviction that education and religion were vital to individual and community development. If the Napiers did not instill the idea, they surely encouraged it.

A Career and a Mission

Pop showing my daughter
how to shuck corn

Pop said late in his career that he had essentially done mission work all his life. I think that is very true. He spent his life, by deed and example, trying to bring education and religion to the farmers, mill workers, housekeepers, laborers, and merchants of Alabama. On the one hand, I could tell that my father was often frustrated by the lack of education and the dearth of thoughtful religion among his peers. One the other hand, he demonstrated a sincere respect for people whether they were rich or poor, educated or uneducated. He brought dignity to the pulpit and to the classroom, but always related to the working class and the working poor. After all, his own family were farmers and working class people and he himself had been a garage mechanic who went off to college to "make a minister." He was never interested in moving up the social ladder. Pop considered such actions "uppity and pretentious."

He was a conservative man from the Old South who took some remarkable stands and had some progressive ideas. More important, he left his corner of the world a little better than he found it. My father understood when I left the Southern Baptists after fundamentalism had become so rampant and entrenched. I think, though, that he regretted that I was living with the same frustrations that he had lived with. I may be a little more open to change than Pop was. In some ways, maybe I am a little more tolerant, but that is only because I learned from his example of granting dignity to others and showing respect for all.

Attributes of Distinction

If I may recapitulate, perhaps I can sum up my answer to my friend's question of what motivated my father to be different from those around him:

1) He saw education and religion as two avenues for improvement. Pop had a strong commitment to continuing education and a striving toward thoughtful religion (he used to say that religion should be reasonable).

2) He believed in showing dignity and respect for every person, regardless of their social standing.

3) He believed that the Universe is a friendly place.

If I can hang on to those things from here on out, I think it would do my daddy proud.

In Memoriam: Richard Clyde Kinnaird, Sr. 

September 8, 1910 - December 18, 1996

For more about my father, check out these other posts:

Trust Yourself: A Message from my Father

A Local Hero

All Saints Day: A Roll Call of the Dearly Departed

One of the things I like about All Saints’ Day is that it is a time to call by name those friends and loved ones who have died over the past year. In the liturgy for the All Saints’ Day, the names of those who have died are added to the prayers of the people. Sometimes I see it as a roll call of “that great cloud of witnesses.”

This past year I have lost family, friends, neighbors, and colleagues whose departure leaves a void, an empty space. I could name them all, but instead, ask you to make your own list of those dear to you who are no longer present in this world.

One of my departed friends was Jerry Moye. I was asked to select a poem to read at his funeral. Fortunately, I had a poem that Jerry had written himself which served and an appropriate remembrance at his funeral. The reading below which I presented at his funeral is taken from his church newsletter. He calls it a poem for Easter, but I can see it just as well as a poem for All Saint's Day.

PASTOR’S POEM — FOR EASTER

By Jerry Moye

In the spring of 2004, I took a sabbatical leave & retreat to Wales. During that time I spent a week at the Llangasty Retreat House in central Wales, a quiet place overlooking a lake.  I had been reading some biographies, people with faith and those without. I was stimulated by one person who felt the Christian faith was illusion. I was pushed into a wonderful time of meditation. What is nonsense to one person is great truth to another. The Christ Reality is more than wishful thinking, nonsense that is holy sense if the Holy Spirit is allowed to work.

HOLY NONSENSE

Some say, “It’s all nonsense—

A man rising from the dead,

Walking with strangers down a country road,

Eating fish at seaside with old friends,

Flying off through clouds which hide his face.

Some say, “It’s dangerous nonsense—

Better to face the harshness of death,

Better to expose fanciful myth.

Some say, “It’s understandable nonsense—

Old men and women long for friends passed on,

Chanting choirs hymn their notes of praise,

Questing souls refuse systems closed.

Some say, “It’s beautiful nonsense—

To think there is a love that cannot die,

To think this love is the eternal engine,

Moving within stardust to make a world,

Love interlocking atoms and thoughts,

Love working from life through death to life.

If this be nonsense,

I choose to be a fool,

I shall dance with my Living Lord

And my nonsense song shall be—Alleluia.

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Remembering a Friend

Last Sunday I attended the memorial service for my friend, Jerry Moye, at the Baptist Church of the Covenant in Birmingham, Alabama. I met Jerry when I worked in Hong Kong back in the 1980s and our friendship continued through the years. Just as he had an exuberant approach to life, he had an exuberant way of welcoming people into his circle.

Jerry's heart was with the Chinese people of Hong Kong, and that is where his physical heart finally gave out shortly after his retirement after having served as a seminary professor and pastor throughout his career. Roger Lovette has written a beautiful tribute to his life that you can read on his blog site, Head and Heart.

   He was a gentle soul, yet larger than life.
   He was devotional as well as academic in his spiritual practice.
   He was a great intellect who led with his heart.
   He will be missed by all who knew him.
   For a life well lived, we honor his memory.

_____________________

(The picture above of Jerry Moye is from the family photo album. The picture below shows him in his professorial mode in the faculty procession for the 2014 opening convocation at Hong Kong Baptist Seminary)

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Remembering Mary Oliver

Photo from Orion Magazine

There are some people who, when they die, all you can think of is the light that they imparted.

It was sad to hear of the death of Pulitzer Prize winning poet, Mary Oliver. She said in an interview on National Public Radio that "The two things I loved from a very early age were the natural world and dead poets, [who] were my pals when I was a kid."

To read or listen to NPR's recollection of the widely loved American poet,  visit the link at "Beloved Poet Mary Oliver, Who Believed Poetry 'Mustn't Be Fancy,' Dies At 83"

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Standing with Friends in Synagogue

Today, I wish to stand with my Jewish friends in the wake of the anti-Semitic violence last week in Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania when a gunman killed eleven worshipers at the Tree of Life Synagogue. Beit Knesset is the Hebrew term for synagogue. It literally means “house of assembly.” It is the focal point of Jewish communal life, a place for prayer, for study and connection. While the synagogue, Beit Knesset, is a sacred place, it is even more sacred when people assemble together in that place.

The Great Synagogue of Florence or Tempio Maggiore Israelitico di Firenze (Getty Images)

In thinking of the recent tragedy of men and women being gunned down at a house of worship, my mind also went back to a moment of inspiration when I stood in The Great Synagogue in Florence. It was a day when my appreciation for my Jewish friends was heightened all the more.

It happened many years ago when I had completed a teaching position overseas and was touring Europe on my way back home. With a Eurail pass and a Europe on $25 a Day guidebook, I saw some of Europe’s major cities by train. Three wonderful days were spent in Florence, Italy. It is an amazing city, beautifully set on the Arno River and full of art and history. I was in awe as I stood with my hand on the iron gates designed and built by Michelangelo himself!

Interior view of the Great Synagogue 

One surprise that awaited me was The Great Synagogue of Florence (Tempio Maggiore Israelitico di Firenze in Italian). I had not been a student of Italian history, so I had no idea of the existence of this remarkable structure until I visited it on one of my walks through the city. I was one of my favorite encounters in my self-styled European tour.

The synagogue was built between 1874 and 1882 as a symbol of the new freedom that the Jewish community was feeling after being granted emancipation by the Grand Duchy of Tuscany in 1848. One can only imagine the joy and exhilaration the Jewish community must have felt in being allowed to fully participate in society and finally being given the freedom to bring their heritage to full flower.

(The Great Synagogue has Moorish architecture inspired by the

Hagia Sophia in Istanbul. Here is an interior view of the dome.)

When I stood in that sacred space, I was energized and awe-struck by the beauty and symmetry of that domed structure whose architecture was inspired by the Hagia Sophia in the old city of Constantinople. I took joy in the notion that this community, 100 years earlier, had found the freedom to dwell and to flourish. Even so, I had to recall that there would be darker days ahead for European Jews. Christian antisemitism would continue until faced with the horrors of Nazi Germany. A fresh wind then blew through the open windows of Vatican II in 1962 when the Catholic Church declared that our Jewish friends are indeed fellow pilgrims along the way. It was the herald of a new day, but when will we come to a full realization of that day?

It has been my privilege at various times over the years to stand with friends in synagogues for special events and bar mitzvahs. Today, I wish to stand again with my Jewish friends. I stand just as proudly as I stood so many years ago in the Great Synagogue in Florence. I also weep just as surely as if my own people were cut down.

America should be the place where all are welcome and where no one is excluded – no race, gender, class, or religion should be denied. All people of faith should be able to worship unhindered, certainly no group should be targeted or discriminated against. This is the ideal we stand for. We are not there yet, which is why we must call it out whenever we see violence or discrimination against another. 

We can stand together to make every Beit Knesset, every church, every temple, every mosque, a sacred place. 

For a remembrance of the eleven victims of the massacre at the Tree of Life Synagogue, go here.

To hear Rabbi Jeffry Meyers at the prayer vigil go here.

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Photo of The Great Synagogue by Ruy Barbosa Pinto (Getty Images).
Interior photos courtesy of Wikipedia.



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Remembering a Remarkable Life

The Rev. Canon William Maurice Branscomb, Jr., at his 90th birthday celebration with longtime parishioner Frances Hinckell, also 90, at Grace Church Woodlawn, Birmingham, Alabama, where he was rector for many years. A parishioner writes, “Grace is what it is because of his leadership.” 

(From The Daily Office, Asia-Pacific, New Zealand, photo by Elizabeth Anderson)

My Memories of Maurice Branscomb

The life of the Reverend Canon Maurice Branscomb, or as most of us called him, “Father B,” was celebrated at Grace Episcopal Church where his funeral Mass took place on January 20. “A most remarkable man,” “one who stood with dignity,” “a priest whose concern for the poor arose from his prayer life,” were some of the comments heard during the service. At 92 years of age, his had been a life of joyful service that had touched many. He was an anomaly to some: a strong advocate for high Anglo-Catholic liturgy, he also had an undying motivation to reach out to the poor and the outcast. As I told one of my friends, “Even now, just remembering Father B inspires me to keep trying.”

That First Encounter

I will never forget my first encounter with Maurice Branscomb back in 1984. I was at a pivotal point in my life. At 29 years of age, I was a Baptist seminary graduate having spent two years on the mission field and involved in hospital chaplaincy, yet I found myself inwardly driven to break away from my Baptist moorings. Even in seminary, my church history studies had peaked my interest in the Catholic Church, and while serving overseas one of my friends was an Anglican priest who had converted from the Baptist faith.

I was considering a move toward what I was seeing as a more historic expression of the Christian faith and had spoken with a few people about my search. One Baptist pastor suggested I go find Maurice Branscomb and see what he was doing on Birmingham’s Southside. An Episcopal chaplain on another occasion had suggested the same thing, “Go see what Father Branscomb is doing at St. Andrew’s and see what you think.”

I had called ahead to arrange a visit. Father Branscomb welcomed me into St. Joseph's House, the parish house that is adjacent to St. Andrew’s Church. Dressed simply in a blue work shirt and slacks, his open countenance was warm and inviting. I had told him that I was interested in exploring the Episcopal Church. He was interested in hearing about my own journey. As I sat with him telling him my story, I could not recall a time when I had been listened to so deeply and fully.

A Rich Expression of Faith

Father B then told me a few things about his church. He picked up a 1979 Book of Common Prayer and showed me how to navigate it. He pointed out some of the founding documents included therein. “These documents show you our history and how we got to where we are now. They are not necessarily things that everyone has to believe to be part of our church, but they give you an idea of who we are.” He pointed out that I was coming at an opportune time – it was the beginning of Lent. “You will be able to witness the church’s preparation for Easter, our most defining season!”

During that conversation, he told me about the ministries that were happening there at St. Andrew's. There was the soup kitchen (Community Kitchens) that served lunch Monday-Friday to anyone who walked in. Southside Ministries operated from there to provide food, clothing and other types of emergency relief. St. Andrew's Foundation, founded by Fr. Francis Walter, provided independent living training for adults with developmental disabilities.

He then showed me around the sanctuary at St. Andrew’s, explaining every arrangement of that physical space and invited me to join them on Sunday. My goal was to enter in to the life of the church, to observe it long enough to find out if it was a place for me. He was more than happy to have me sojourn among them for as long as I saw fit.

St. Andrew's Church (photo from Church's website)

A New Paradigm

Thus began what would be for me not just a pivotal moment, but rather a complete paradigm shift and the opening to a new approach to life. I don’t think I had any other formal one-on-one meetings with Father B, but for the next three months I “sat at his feet” at Saturday morning Eucharist, Sunday worship, Stations of the Cross, etc. It was a small congregation, so anyone involved in the life of the parish had close contact with one another. Sometimes I would stop Father B to ask him questions about “why do we do this in the service?” or “what does this or that mean in the liturgy?” I even sat in on the confirmation class he led that spring.

Then he was gone. After 12 years as rector at St. Andrew’s he accepted a call to Holy Communion Parish in Charleston, S.C. I was sad to see him go, but he had ushered me into a happy communion. I would continue to explore the life of faith at St. Andrew’s Church for a few months before officially being confirmed in November of that year. 

I became involved in the life of the church, serving as acolyte at the altar and later singing in the choir. I found gainful and meaningful employment in social services with the St. Andrew’s Foundation, working with adults with developmental disabilities in group homes and supervised apartments. On a daily basis, I witnessed the work of the soup kitchen that Father B had started years before (and which continues to this day). In the meantime, I met the woman who would become my wife right there at St. Andrew’s (at the coffee hour – I remember it like it was yesterday when Vicki and I met). It was a most fulfilling time of life for me.

To my delight, a few years after Maurice Branscomb moved to Charleston, he decided to come back to Birmingham, this time to Grace Church in Woodlawn where he would continue his work of High Anglo-Catholic Liturgy and ministry to the people on the streets. I was deeply involved at St. Andrew’s and felt no urge to go to Grace (though I did visit on occasion to witness Father B in his element). I wrote him upon his return and told him that that it was a joy for me just to know that he was here in town.

Grace Episcopal Church in Woodlawn where Father B continued
his "altar and street" ministries (photo from Church's website)

Final Visits

In 1997, I got word that Father B would be retiring and moving to south Alabama. They had a big celebration for him at Grace. I composed a poem for him on that occasion and presented it to him at the retirement event. It would be another 16 years before I would see him when he returned to St. Andrew’s Church for their 100^th anniversary celebration. Three of their former rectors were present to celebrate the occasion. (I told people it was better than when the five Doctors came together on Doctor Who).

I was no longer at St. Andrew’s Church. I had been working in healthcare for a number of years and my family and I were members at St. Francis Xavier Catholic Church. I would not have missed the occasion to see Father B again – he would have been in his late eighties by then. I was glad to be there for the centennial service. As I walked out of the church where the three former rectors were greeting the people, I took Father B’s hand. The ageing priest smiled, looked into my eyes and reached out to touch my face, as if to say, “Is that really you?” All I could say was, “After all these years!”

I would not see Father B again. He was in fact living in an assisted living center in south Alabama at the time, though he still took part in priestly duties when he could. When word came in January that he had died, I went back to my files to find the poem I had written 20 years before. Re-reading it, I saw that I could change the first lines and it would be a suitable writing in memorium. I shared it on my blog and with friends who knew Father B. I was glad to have the poem to bring his life to mind, but I was so grateful that I had been able to share those words with Father B himself, while he was still a young 72 year old retiree.

In Remembrance

The Rev. Kent Belmore was the celebrant and homilist at Maurice Branscomb’s funeral. Belmore had been a curate under Father Branscomb at the Church of the Holy Communion in Charleston, S.C. In his homily, he mentioned that Maurice did not talk much about Heaven or dwell on it because living faithfully in the here-and-now was what was important to him. Father Belmore told us that instead talking about Heaven, he wanted to look at the biblical term, resurrection. “The word for resurrection in the Koine Greek literally means ‘to stand with dignity’,” he told us. “Maurice Branscomb was definitely one who stood with dignity in all that he did.” He then asked the congregation to stand for a moment to affirm the reality of standing with dignity as we remembered Maurice Branscomb.

Remembering Maurice Branscomb will continue to inspire me to keep trying. Now I have that sure image of the Christian hope and proclamation that we can and will stand with dignity in the presence of God – and that God’s presence is most surely found in the poor and the outcast as well as at the altar.

Here is the poem I wrote for Father Branscomb upon his retirement and then revised as a memorial to his life:

     In Remembrance of Father Branscomb

All good graces

And light eternal

To the one who has shown great compassion

     in all things.

Your boundless energy

With your endless capacity for caring

     has been a blessing from God.

Many have seen how your compassion

     made the liturgy come alive,

     brought sustenance to the needy,

     created a space for those who would rest

         and a ministry for those who would serve.

A true priest,

     a wellspring of joy

        and a midwife to the soul –

To name but a few traits

Of a servant with no regrets,

Whose magnanimity

Welcomed so many

     (and such a variety)

To the Lord’s Table.

Rest in Peace, Father Maurice Branscomb

~ Charles Kinnaird

And you don't have to take my word for it. You can read a wonderful and insightful article from the local newspaper here.     



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