Tom Harpur 4-Book Bundle. Tom Harpur
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such as Google). However, what I began to learn as I read more widely for myself was that there was an even larger lacuna between what our professors were teaching us and the latest scholarship of the day. In other words, Wycliffe wasn’t exactly in the vanguard of critical thinking at that time. I was a little surprised, for example, to find that there isn’t a single teaching in the whole of the Sermon on the Mount that is original. Everything in Matthew chapters 5 to 7, where the Sermon is found, can be matched or found already existing in the Judaism of the time, either in the Old Testament itself or in the Talmud or the Mishnah. Some of the sayings are anticipated in Plato, about four hundred years earlier.
Even more surprising—something that was so cataclysmic in its implications that I deliberately shut it off from full consciousness for many years—was the virtually total dearth of evidence for a historical figure at the centre of Christianity. Because of the fundamentalist “slant” of the overall program, we were never taught to question the Gospels themselves, or the Acts of the Apostles, or the letters attributed to Paul; so it seemed as if there was an abundance of historical material behind Jesus. Certainly the Jesus Story itself had a very long history—but so too had the story of Lucifer! Looking behind the scenes through the eyes of modern critics, I searched in vain for the kind of evidence that my Oxford studies had trained me to watch for: genuinely contemporary eyewitnesses, secular histories, inscriptions, and other archeological artifacts such as busts, coins or artwork of different kinds. This issue would come back to haunt me in future years, but for the time being it had to be repressed. Too much was at stake to venture far into such possibly treacherous waters.
Unfortunately, unless one did as I did and roamed more widely than the courses strictly required, there was little in the seminary experience to kindle either one’s imagination or one’s intellect with any kind of “divine fire” or passion for Christian renewal. I enjoyed the sports, the company of my fellow students and most of the lecturers, especially the principal of the time, the Reverend Dr. Ram-say Armitage, a truly Christian gentleman and a most Christ-like personality. He glowed with a love of God and a love of people. Most especially he glowed with a love of England. “A stout stick and the Sussex Downs,” was his favourite expression, and obviously very close to his idea of heaven. (Once I had been on the South Downs in spring, I knew what he meant.) He is the only person I ever knew who had twice walked the entire length of the Roman wall built by Hadrian to keep the Scots from invading Roman Britain.
When term ended in the spring of 1956, I gave the valedictory address as Senior Student or President of the graduating class. My proud parents were there, together with my two sisters, Elizabeth and Jane, and my brother George. We graduates were ordained to the priesthood in a solemn ceremony at St. James’ Cathedral in May.
The Cree Indians of my student missionary days had no word in their vocabulary for the two crucial stages of becoming a deacon and then a priest of the Church. In both ceremonies, as well as in Confirmation, which all Anglicans receive, the presiding bishop puts his hand on your head as he utters a prayer, using a phrase which in Cree quite literally means “having your head squeezed.” I felt that I had my head squeezed in ordination to the diaconate in 1954 and then again when I was “priested” in 1956 because I felt that I was being “squeezed” to fit a specific mould. I remember being extremely self-conscious as I donned a clerical collar, black stock and sober suit for the first of these ceremonies. I dressed without once looking in a mirror and it was only upon walking along Bloor Street to the ceremony that I first caught sight of my image in a restaurant window. With a sinking feeling, I felt as though I were now part of a sort of “third sex”—cut off from others as a “professional holy man.” It was what I had been planning for and studying for over many years, but the reality gave me a genuine shock. I fervently hoped I was making the right choices. I wanted to serve God and my fellow men, but I honestly didn’t feel very religious per se. I knew what the martyr to Nazism, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, meant when he wrote about “the end of religion” in its narrowest sense.
Of course, at that time the ministry was still considered a noble calling and a great deal of respect was paid to clergy. In time I got used to looking different from other people, and even found the collar a help in pastoral care. Contrary 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