Secret Identity

 

My father always wore tabs, the white strips that descend from the throat over the Geneva gown.  Mom starched them every week.  He insisted that wasn’t necessary, but she did it anyway.  I think she considered it part of her role.  I found out later that they stood for the tablets of the law.  The Old Covenant that was the foundation for the New.  It made sense to me.  Those starched tabs were diving boards from which my father’s words bounced into the flips and swans that thundered and whispered from the high pulpit every Sunday.

 

When I started my ministry I wore a shirt and tie with the black robe over.  In some ways I didn’t know what else to do.  I was working, unconsciously, on a style, a voice.  The tabs were from another era.  I did the easiest.  I was busy.  But as I moved into the jungle, I realized I wanted something to help differentiate me in my role from the other denizens of the forest.  I was a missionary, a warrior of the light, a Marshall come to bring order to Tombstone Territory.  I needed a badge, a uniform, something to let folks know the Rev had come to town (Can you tell I was and am an unrepentant romantic?).  So I shopped (It’s the all American thing to do).

 

The Protestant version of the collar, a stripe around the throat, kind of turned me off.  I have no idea why.  I opted for the Roman collar, with a notch.  I guess I’m secure in my Protestant identity, I can wear Catholic.  I wore and wear it for worship and during Holy Week.  It’s my discipline.  It makes sense to me. 

 

I subsequently found out that the collar is a symbol for slavery.  It’s a slave collar.  That reaffirmed the whole thing.  It gave me an angle.  It resonated with the Apostle Paul.  He spent a lot of time in jail.  He called himself an ambassador in chains.  But after 9-11 it became much more than an angle. 

 

I live near New York City.  A lot of my folks work there.  Some of them were there.  Some of them died.  I worked at Ground Zero with the rescue workers, helping them stay sane and at the family of victims’ center in the old ferry station in Jersey.  But I also wore my collar, every day, every where I went.  People stopped me on the street, in diners, wherever. They took my hand, they told me about their son or their sister or their cousin.  They asked for prayers.  They cried.  We all needed something we could depend on.  Our security was gone.  People needed a symbol.

 

It changed my attitude toward my collar.  It changed my attitude toward being a slave of Christ.  It’s closer to my old attitude of warrior of the light and it’s much more real.  I am part of God’s army, the host of heaven.   I am a pillar.  Lean on me.  But never forget, I am a slave.  And never forget the one I belong to.  It’s where I get my authority, my orders, my direction, my hope.

 

Spider Man, not quite.  The Rev, definitely.