Taking a break from the Cutthroat in Dark Canyon on Anthracite Creek to enjoy a Cliff Bar and a nap in the cool of a large spruce tree, I told Helder of my first experience with seminary.

While in my early 30s, a dear friend, a college graduate—I never went to college—left our little community of followers to become the dean of admissions at a seminary founded by a large charismatic fundamentalist church in California. Believing, as I did, I was ‘called to ministry,’ he invited me to stay with him in Orange County to determine if his seminary was a good fit.

I walked to the church early Sunday morning (which I now understand no one does) and sat down to wait on the steps. Before long, a limousine pulled up, and the chauffeur helped a woman dressed in furs and a long, slinky blue dress and her companion onto the sidewalk. I thought perhaps they were movie stars (remember, I am a country boy). When the doors opened finally, being the first one there, I chose a seat in the front row. The church was in the round, with a raised platform in the center. The music from the orchestra pit was loud and well done. The female vocalist, in a sequined gown, complete with smoke machines and colored lights, followed her every move as she roamed the stage. Very entertaining. At the time of the preaching, the preacher walked down the aisle, followed by the lights, and mounted the stairs, bible open in his left hand to the center of the round stage. Those lights followed him every step. I remember the topic of his sermon, “Jesus was a simple man, and it takes a simple man to spread the good news,” but mostly, I remember the way that the lights made the diamond rings on both hands sparkle and shine in blue and white light as the lights followed him everywhere.

Being from Colorado country, Orange County was an affront to my senses in every way possible. Should I become lonely for home, my friend assured me I could look at the mountains out his kitchen window on a clear day. I looked every morning, only Grey. On my last day, mountains! Right there, mountains. So close that I had to lean over the kitchen sink and look up to see the tops. The air pollution I had been breathing for ten days kept them from me.

It was so good to see my friend, and most were kind to me. On the third day of my visit, I was invited to dinner with several local pastors who were seminary graduates. I was excited to hear the stories of their successes, and my friend was excited to introduce me to them. We had a large table at a local restaurant with only one server serving the entire room. She was clearly overworked and frustrated. The problems soon began. The discussion I had been hoping for quickly devolved into easily the worst case of server abuse I have witnessed. After the young woman suffered all she could bear, she fled to the kitchen in tears; the manager appeared and informed the table that their meals were on the house. We didn’t see the server again. I felt so ashamed.

I had seen what I came to see. The end product—the religious professionals it produces—determines the worth of a religious school. Unfortunately, the cheap plane ticket I purchased did not allow for a return trip for another seven days unless I had more money—I didn’t.

• • •

Finally, on my way home over Utah, the Spirit spoke, saying, “Go (a four-hour drive) to meet with the Episcopal Priest you were introduced to last year. I will meet you there.” When I arrived in the small town where the priest in question pastored a church, I had no idea where the church was where we were to meet. I phoned when I got there and got an answering machine. (in 1972, cell phones were not an option.) As I was walking downtown, a young man walked out of an alley to my left and said, “To get to the church you are looking for, turn left after two more blocks, and it will be on your right after three more.” He then crossed the street and entered the alley.

• • •

22 years later, I completed a master’s degree in seminary and was ordained a deacon in the Anglican tradition. A year later, I was ‘priested’ and selected and consecrated as a bishop three years later.

• • •

After our nap, Helder showed me how to make fish sticks of our cutthroat for our evening meal. First, let your fire burn until there is a nice pile of hot coals. Harvest a willow stick for a spit from the bank of the stream and remove excess branches, leaving one branch near the slender end protruding at about 45 degrees. Then, insert the long end into the cleaned fish’s mouth and through the flesh near the tail so that the angled branch is in the mouth’s corner to keep the fish from turning on the spit as you hold over the hot coals. An enameled metal cup of oakey Chardonnay chilled from a bottle resting in the icy stream completed our abundance.