I had a telephone conversation with an Episcopal priest last week. We’ve never met in person, I’ve never been in her church when she preached a sermon, and I’ve never held out my hands to her so she could put the wafer in them. But I feel I know her well. I have listened to many of her podcast sermons, and her words have always resonated with me. She tells the truth, and she tells it with clarity, but at the same time with wit and humor. Her sermons rival or exceed those of the most experienced and respected of preachers. It’s the sad reality, though, that she hasn’t been treated well at all by the Episcopal Church.

Which was the occasion of our phone conversation. I had wanted to express my outrage at her treatment in my blog, and in an email exchange she asked that I not do so. We talked on the phone so she could explain her feelings in a more personal way than could be done by email. I understood where she was coming from entirely.

In the course of our conversation she asked me if I was a writer. I appreciated that. A lot. I explained to her that I toiled in the fields of high tech, and perhaps while not my vocational calling, it pays the bills and allows for a nice life for Terry and me.

But to have someone whom I respect so much acknowledge my writing — well, that meant an awful lot to me.

Thank you, my friend.

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