I met Hugh Elliott by email back in December of 2002. I had just begun Real Live Preacher, and he sent me some encouraging messages. We've communicated regularly since then, and I consider him to be a real friend, though we have never met.
When Hugh went through a time of grief and loss a few months ago, he quit writing and a number of salon bloggers were worried about him, myself included. On a whim I sent him my name, address, and phone number. I told him to call me if he ever needed to talk.
So much for anonymity.
He remains the only person in the blog world who knows who I am. A few people know my first name, but Hugh knows everything.
He never felt the need to call in his time of sadness. That's a good thing. His own support systems must have been bearing the load, which is a good thing.
Okay, now you know about Hugh. Fast-forward to last week.
I did get a crappy church catalog in the mail. Thumbing through it kicked up the disillusionment and depression that is always lurking just below my surface. In the middle of the depression, it seemed to me that the church was nothing more than an institution. It seemed to me that the memory of Christ was very far away.
Like many of you, I have a love/hate relationship with church. I'm suspicious, and it's hard to trust the church. But I keep hoping because I'm like a lovesick puppy, a hopeless romantic. I just can't let go of the IDEA of church.
It's embarrassing, really.
With my depression starting to kick in, I tried to deflect it by imagining what my life would be like if I just walked away from church. I do this sometimes. I don't think it's a bad thing, but good or bad, I do it.
And just like that Hugh Elliott came to mind. I thought it would be nice to drive to L.A. to meet the only person “out there” who knows who I really am. I thought I would like to stand toe-to-toe with Hugh and talk about what it means to live.
And so I wrote that weird fantasy story with the catalog and the voice and the promise of a second installment. “Real Live Preacher meets Standing Room Only.”
Friday came and writer's block was setting in. I had to create a whole journey to Los Angeles, and the only thing I had written down was a snippet of dialogue that would take place when Hugh answered the door.
Me: “I don't know, I thought you'd be wearing a kimono or something.”
Hugh: “Oh my God!”
[pause]
Hugh: “You think all gay men wear kimonos, don't you?”
Friday night I was at home with the family. Half my brain was wondering what the hell I was going to write. I liked my little kimono bit, but it wasn't much to go on.
And then the phone rang.
It was a man, but I didn't recognize the voice. He said, “Do you know who this is?” I admitted that I didn't.
He laughed and said, “It's Hugh Elliott.”
I shit you not.
We talked for a long time, and we talked about everything. It was wonderful. Hugh said if I DID come to Los Angeles, it would be just like the phone call. Nonstop talking.
Finally it was getting late and the conversation ended something like this:
“Well, if I ever decide to take off this collar for good, I'll come and see you, just like I said in that thing I wrote.”
“That's not going to happen. You're not going to take off that collar.”
“Why not?”
“Because I wouldn't let you.”
“You wouldn't?”
“No. You've been called, and you have important work to do. Keep the collar. If you came to see me, I'd teach you to make bread."
There were a few more words, we said goodbye, and that was that. I didn't need to go to Los Angeles. Hugh came to me.
I gave him my phone number in case he needed me. He used it because he could tell I needed him. I believe that Hugh Elliott became my communion bread on Friday night. He was a vehicle of grace.
He also taught me a profound truth that will help me the next time a catalog comes in the mail.
If the communion wafers are going stale for you, be the bread yourself. Break yourself open and nourish the world.
If the communion table seems cheap and tacky, become a table yourself. Straighten your legs and flatten your back. Become a resting place for the world.
If you feel there are no more angels, pick up the phone and spread good tidings of great joy.
Gather your bread. Set your table. Shout your good news.
And do all of these things in remembrance of HIM.
The Preacher
