The Blueberry Man
by Elizabeth Kaeton

He’s now seventy-four years old, but he looks younger than when he left the office six years ago. Healthier. Stronger. The air in the hills near Mt. Hood, Oregon obviously agrees with him. More so than the air high amidst the skyscrapers near 815 Second Avenue, New York City, where he once worked and made his home.

Edmond Browning, the former Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, is a man in the fullness of his life and retirement and it suits him well. He makes his home in Hood River, Oregon, in the midst of miles and miles of pear orchards, in a lovely house with breathtaking views of Mt. Hood. From every window one cannot help but hear the words of the psalmist and take that prayer to heart, "I lift my eyes to the hills; from where is my help to come? (Ps. 121)

I recently had occasion to have a late afternoon visit and early supper with the bishop and his wife, Patti. It was an unexpected reward for the hard work just accomplished after a meeting of the Board of Integrity, of which I am privileged to be a member, which had gathered at Trinity Cathedral in Portland. We made the two-hour journey in a rented van, getting lost in places that gave new meaning to the term "rural."

Bishop Browning graciously welcomed us to his home and, mindful of the long journey we had just made, invited any of us who were so inclined to use the ‘Presidential bathroom’ downstairs before he began a tour of the house and grounds. Presidential bathroom, indeed! On every wall hung several pictures of the bishop in the White House with Presidents Reagan, Bush, and Clinton, all personally signed. Framed newspaper clippings of the various clashes between the bishop and the president were also displayed. Finally, pictures of the two Archbishops of Canterbury with whom Bishop Browning worked were also interestingly exhibited. It was the first of many incarnations of the sense of humor and perspective Ed and Patti Browning have about those very difficult years as leaders in the Episcopal Church.

The man who proclaimed, "In this church, there will be no outcasts" — and paid dearly for it — is still fully committed to that position. These days, however, he lives it out in much quieter ways.

"Sold over a thousand quarts last year," he boasts quietly, chuckling as he adds, "’Round here, they call me ‘The Blueberry Man.’" He shakes his full head of white hair and asks incredulously, "Isn't that something?"

It is, indeed. The man who called archbishops and presidents into account now works side-by-side with migrant workers, laboring in fields of blueberries, surrounded by orchards of Anjou, Bartlett, and other varieties of pears. The man who was once totally absorbed in the politics of church and state has immersed himself in the lives of his grandchildren and standard poodles. "We stayed away from New York for the first few years. That was intentional," he said, admitting without a hint of either guile or remorse, "We needed some time to heal and recover."

One would be mistaken, however, to dismiss him as having shut himself off completely from the rest of the world — of having retreated to the mountains to live a life of bucolic serenity. Nothing could be farther from the truth. He is as adept at traveling the information superhighway in cyberspace as he is navigating the very confusing back roads of his very rural home. "My grandson taught me," he says with obvious pride. And, he still makes a few public speaking events, most recently at the Claiming the Blessing gathering in St. Louis.

As we discussed the latest state of affairs in the church, his insights were keen. He was fiercely opposed to the progression of war, and was fully aware of the protest demonstrations that had been going on all weekend in Portland. When we lamented the positions taken by this bishop or that conservative group, and his advice was sage and wise. He still listens intently and responds passionately. He has retained the ability of every good bishop to convey that, when you are speaking, there is no one more important in the room.

The most remarkable thing is this: He is full of hope. Not so much about the world as about the church! If he said it once, he said it several times to our group, "Oh, you all give me so much hope about the church! …Because you confront her with your truth."

The most remarkable thing is this: He is full of hope. Not so much about the world as about the church! If he said it once, he said it several times to our group, "Oh, you all give me so much hope about the church!" "Why?" I asked him in the kitchen as we were preparing to serve dinner. It didn't take him more than a heartbeat to respond, "Because you confront her with your truth. That's what you do, and I'm so grateful for it. I only wish I had been able to do it more often. As long as you continue to tell the truth, others will be inspired to do that, too. Whether she knows it or not, that's what the church needs. No matter what you know the truth to be, tell your truth, and the church will be a better place for it. And, if the church is a better place, the whole world cannot help but benefit."

It was, too soon, time to leave. Somehow we knew that, even in the darkest night, we'd be able to find our way back home. There was no getting lost this time. The pathway seemed especially clear — no possibility of a wrong turn or misdirection. And, our hearts were strangely warmed.

Around the back roads and market places of Hood River, Oregon, they know him only as ‘The Blueberry Man.’ Isn't that something?

The Rev. Elizabeth Kaeton is a regular contributor to A Globe of Witnesses. Her monthly column is Another Word for Justice. Elizabeth may be reached by email at EMKaeton@aol.com