It has been more than seven years since I was appointed the diocesan archdeacon, but I must confess I still don’t feel entirely comfortable with being called “The Venerable,” the honorific that goes with the job. For starters, I am much too young for it. “The Venerable Guy P. Hawtin” has a certain ring to it, I guess. But I am certainly not sufficiently distinguished to merit such an imposing handle. And, as I said, I’m much too young to be venerated.
Then there’s the problem of the office itself. Back in the Middle Ages archdeacons wielded extraordinary power. They were the chief legal officers of their dioceses. They presided as judges in the church courts and routinely clapped folks in jail for offenses like failing to pay their tithes, or not attending church, or blaspheming. They even interrogated and tried folks accused of practicing witchcraft.
In fact, their powers were so great and so routinely abused, it was a matter of serious theological debate as to whether, by virtue of the temptations presented by their immense powers, it was even possible for archdeacons to be saved.
So corrupt were they, one might be tempted to speculate that folks called them “venerable” as an act of pure irony. Indeed, some folks have been known to refer to them as “arch demons.”
These days, however, they don’t have anywhere near the authority they wielded in the Middle Ages. But while their wings have been severely clipped, archdeacons of the Church of England still exert considerable authority and are still far from universally loved. Archdeacons, you see, visit parishes annually to check the church books. Woe betide any parson or church treasurer whose accounts are found wanting!
Here in America the duties of an archdeacon are by no means as precisely defined as in England. Basically, their job is to do what the bishop tells them. In principle, I guess, it means they do the jobs their bishops don’t want to do. As Bishop Vaughan is a very nice guy, being his archdeacon hasn’t involved anything terribly onerous.
As to the perks that go with the job, there really aren’t any—other than the right to wear a dashing red sash and red piping on your cassock. I guess they might well be described as the ecclesiastical equivalent of sergeant’s stripes.
There are some, I suppose, who would regard being called “venerable” as a perk. But I’ve never been overly bothered with titles. In New York, I was frequently addressed as “Yo,” as in “Yo Guy.”
Originally I assumed that “Yo” was some sort of foreign honorific until somebody addressed me as “Yo Father.” I then realized that “yo” was simply a means of attracting my attention, and the utilization of the word “guy” didn’t mean we were acquainted but was, rather, the New Yorkers’ equivalent of “old chap” or “old bean.”
Here in Baltimore one’s much more likely to be addressed as “Yo, rev.” than “Yo, father” However I must say I really don’t like the idea of being hailed with “Yo, ven.” It really doesn’t have that certain je ne sais quoi, does it? However, I don’t suppose this would deter the folks inclined to use it.
My old friend, The Rev’d Sam Logan hated with a passion being addressed as “rev” or “reverend.” In fact, one day he posted a notice on the wall of his office at the Union Memorial Hospital where he was chaplain which read:
“The word ‘Reverend’ is an adjective. You may refer to ‘The Reverend Mr. Smith’ or you may address a letter to ‘The Reverend John Smith’ or you may address a letter to the ‘The Rev’d John Smith.’ In direct address these gentlemen are, depending on the custom of the Church and the clergyman’s preference, ‘Father,’ ‘Pastor,’ ‘Mr. Smith,’ or if he’s a D.D., ‘Dr. Smith.’ Here is a little verse which has circulated for years in Episcopal seminaries. No one seems to know who wrote it. Perhaps it will get the lesson across.”
Hi, Reverend!
Breathes there a Priest with soul so dead,
Who never to his Lord hath said:
On bony knees I humbly bend,
Lord, stop men calling me Reverend!
And to his flock on Sunday morn,
Did all the faithful sternly warn:
O, call me Parson, Call me Mike.
Call me Father if you like.
Call me Mister, call me friend,
A Loving ear to all I lend,
But, O, my heart with woe you rend,
When’er you call me Reverend.
A week or so later, a note appeared on the back of the poem. It was from The Rev. Harry E. Shelley, who pioneered the UMH Chaplaincy. It read: “Sam, your poem about ‘Reverend’ comes from the book ‘The Chain’ which I read many years ago. I believe Paul Weilman was the author. The original version goes like this:
Call me ‘Mister,’ if you will,
Call me ‘Rector,’ better still,
Even ‘Father,’ the High Church frill,
Brings to my heart no chill.
But, O, how my heart doth rend,
The man who calls me ‘Reverend.’
Sad to relate, neither version of the poem deterred the homeless folks who regularly visited Father Sam for handouts, prayer, and counsel from calling him “Yo, rev.” And, in all fairness, one has to say he bore it with grace and good humor. So, hey! Rector, mister, father, archdeacon, arch demon, or simply “Yo Guy”—what’s in a name? GPH✠
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