Bless Tony and Anthony Petrotta and Tony Petrotta and ordination

California Visit II, July 2004

Bill Long

Bless Tony

Besides seeing my family, my other reason for visiting the Bay Area in mid-July 2004 was to attend the ordination service of my friend, Tony Petrotta, to the "transitional diaconate" in the Episcopal Church. It isn't as daunting as the title sounds; he will be a Deacon for a while until he "transitions" into the Priesthood, which should take him about a year. Tony has himself gone through several transitions in life, now arriving at this point in his 54th year. His two children have made it through the perils of youth, as the Presbyterian baptismal ritual has it, and are now pleasant people in their 20s, and Tony himself is remarried to Pamela, a strikingly energetic and beautiful woman who splits her time between being a legal secretary and an accomplished musician.

I considered it a privilege to be invited to this event of signal importance in Tony's evolving spiritual quest. We met each other for the first time in the 1980s when I delivered some lectures at a small Christian college in Kansas where he taught, and our relationship deepened when I taught there with him during 1990-91 before he left for what turned out to be less productive pastures in Tennessee. Upon leaving Kansas, he bequeathed to me the pastorate of a small Presbyterian congregation which he had nourished for several years. I assured him I would do my best with the aging saints. Within a year of my coming, however, several of the men had died in the church, which their spouses assured me was completely unrelated to the quality of my sermons, and the church closed. Nevertheless, my friendship with Tony continued, even as he made his way back to Northern California (he was born and raised in CA) and I returned to Oregon.

So, the ordination took place on Sunday at 6 p.m. at the Episcopal Church in St. Helena, in the Napa Valley. I mused as I drove along Highway 29, that ribbon of road that bisects the richest vineyards in North America, that had Carrie Nation gotten her start in hacking vines in Napa rather than saloons in late 19th century Kansas she would still be at work in the first vineyard, and prohibition may never have come to this country. As I basked in the unabashed wealth and sophistication of the viticulture of the Valley, I saw that such a thing as prohibition will certainly not return to America in the forseeable future.

Finally I arrived in St. Helena, an upscale town of 5,100 about 30 miles up the Valley. The Episcopalians had the good sense to locate a church in the middle of fabulous wealth and fabulous wine, both of which they partook of with apparently guilt-free gusto. The welcoming Scripture verse carved into the wooden sign in front of the church says it all. Quoting Jesus' words from John 15, it says, "I am the vine, and you are the branches." After staying in the town only for a few hours, I think a more appropriate verse would have been from the earliest communion ritual, where Jesus took the cup of wine and said, "Drink ye all of it."

In any case, the ordination service was a model of collegiality and good spirit(s). Those not from the Episcopal tradition, including me, were probably entranced by the titles and garments of officials, ranging from the mitre-wearing and crook-carrying Bishop to the crucifer and acolytes and oblations bearers and vesters. I suppose all Christian traditions call ushers ushers even though I slipped up once and referred to them as the refs. The liturgy lasted nearly two hours, but not one of the 250 or so congregants bolted for an exit along the way. It seemed that it was the most natural thing in the world for a cheerful congregation to spend that long celebrating the ordination of a man they had grown to love. The lilt of the ordination liturgy went off without a hitch, even though my mind wandered when the Bishop asked the people if any of us knew any "impediment or crime" which should put a halt to the proceedings. Somehow that was the first time I associated the possiblity of crime with the Episcopal clergy, but that thought passed as quickly as the pause after the Bishop posed the question.

But the length of the liturgy also gave me time to think. I thought a lot about Tony during the pregnant silence and even when I probably should have been thinking of something else. The thoughts that went through my mind were all good and related mostly to gratitude. I was grateful that I was able to see him again, after a several year hiatus, even though he could not greet me at his condo with a handshake since his hands were where most progressive Californian male hands are now, in marinade. We touched shoulders, which no doubt will become the standard greeting throughout the country in the next generation. I was grateful for Tony's sense of call, his focus, his realization that something very significant in his life was at stake in the decision to seek ordination. I was grateful for the woman, Pamela, who came into his life about 5 years ago, and saw that her vivacity and charm adds a dimension to Tony's life that made me think that a relationship with a woman might not be a bad thing. I was grateful to meet so many other friends that Tony has accumulated over the years. Though not a praying man these days, I felt myself whispering to myself, "Bless Tony" as the service came to an end.

We should have days like this before our funerals. Many of them.

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