He preached at my induction when I was made rector ofAntigonish. The great voice was slightly garbled by Parkinson's, or a stroke, by that time, and he expressed his fear that he could no longer get the message across. I told him, from the heart, that he could tell them that the moon was made of green cheese, and they'd still love it, and him. Indeed, what he believed and what he was spoke louder than any words.

He was no intellectual, and certainly no empath. His faith was a simple trust. I remember in a moment of despair telling him that I was tired of"being halfa Catholic." He firmly said, "You're not halfa Catholic!" But he had no words to deal with my underlying angst. It was almost as if he could not sense what I was feeling. He appeared to have an absolute faith. and perhaps could not comprehend - or assist - the "doubting thomas" in me. And yet, his faith was a mountain ofinspiration. In the long run, inspired by that faith, I'm still an Anglican, still "halfa Catholic“!

In my teenage "peacenik" stage, in the Vietnam era, I remember challenging him about his own, and his son's, participation in the armed forces. His reply again offered no intellectual argument, no attempt to deal with feelings or angst. He said, "Ifyour mother was being murdered in the street, you'd try to defend her, wouldn't you?" He would have been the despair of C.A.P.E. practitioners; but, in retrospect, I prefer his common sense approach any day.

Another time, the Queen Mother was being driven down the street past St. Mark's, and he had the big front doors flung open wide in the hope that she might remember her previous visit to the Church in 1939. and come in for a repeat. I missed seeing her entirely, for he had sent me up into the tower where I was totally enclosed. swaying on the end ofthe bell rope. His hope was that the clamour of the bell ringing would entice her in. It didn't work. But the Queen Mother more than made up for it some years later at his rectory in Charlottetown!

Finally, I recall the requiem mass for Father Staff in All Saints' Cathedral: all his boys carrying the coffin out at the end, clad in traditional funeral garb - including the black cloak. I didn‘t have one, so Connie gave me his. Talk about Elijah's mantle! (And I‘m definitely not in Elisha's league.)

The cloak is now old and worn. Its purplish black dye ran over my previously offvwhite eassock alb when David Reid and I got drowned "standing on tradition" at a very wet committal. Father Tanton would never compromise on tradition: "The place fora committal is in the graveyard“, he would say. No forbearance for inclement weather allowed!

I can't throw that cloak out - and, thanks to him, I can't do indoor committals!

(Contributed by the Reverend Keir/1 Ham/in.)

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