I think I can safely say that, barring the outright mentally deranged, Mark was unquestionably the weirdest dude I’ve ever known.
I
first met him when I was a teenager and he was about twenty years of age. It
was at St. Luke’s Evangelical Lutheran Church in Long Beach, California in the mid 1970's. My
family had just joined the congregation, and the pastor introduced Mark to me
as the Chairman of Acolytes. He was a chubby, mincing blond young man with a
waistline which seemed to magnetically repel shirt tails. He seemed paradoxically
precise about every movement he made, and yet totally unconcerned about his
personal appearance or the impression he made on others. He was at once
exacting and sloppy. Indeed, I never knew him to have a decent haircut as he
always gave the impression of having had some thirteenth century monk trim his
lank locks by putting a bowl on his head. Mark’s most remarkable feature in
those days, however, was his high-pitched, squeaky voice which made Wayne
Newton sound like Richard Burton in contrast. This mouse-like soprano would
often explode into hysterical, ear-piercing giggles whenever Mark was amused—which
he was frequently.
As
I got to know Mark, it didn’t take me long to realize that I was dealing with
an extraordinary intelligence. His vocabulary, academic achievements, and span
of interests were vast. His greatest love—and the thing which made him stand
out like a nun in a strip club in our middle-class, suburban Lutheran parish—was
his obsessive love of Christian liturgy. In a congregation that was anything
but high church, this odd young man was in the habit of genuflecting, making
the sign of the cross, bowing reverently as the processional cross was carried,
using Latin phrases, and dating correspondences by the feast day of the
appointed saint. He fussed over paraments, lamented that the worship assistants
were not properly consecrated as deacons, and lobbied for the use of incense
and processional torches.
In
the summer of 1976, Mark was chosen to be one of two adult sponsors for my high
school youth group’s trip to the first All Lutheran Youth and Adult Gathering
in New Orleans. The pastor, two sponsors, and ten rambunctious teens (myself
included) traveled from Long Beach to Louisiana in a two-car caravan consisting
of the pastor’s Ford station wagon and a Commander motor home. Mark scrupulously
recorded all data on the travelers—up to and including the serial numbers of
our traveler’s checks. I do not have the space to go into detail about the
perils of his driving, but suffice it to say that having Mark behind the wheel
of a motor home added another layer of adventure to our trip.
One
night, between Pecos and San Antonio, Texas, Mark and I were assigned to drive
the graveyard shift. I was to ride shotgun and monitor Mark as he drove through
the wee hours to our next destination. If you’ve ever ridden in a motor home,
you know that they produce a great deal of banging and background noise when
they’re rolling. Yet over the din of the wheels and the rattling of the oven
door, pots, pans, etc., I could hear Mark’s squeaky voice lifted in song.
He wasn’t singing a pop tune or an old camp song. He wasn’t even singing hymns.
He was chanting the liturgical canticles of the service of Holy Communion—in English
and Latin!
As
bizarre as I found Mark’s obsession with all things liturgical, I have to admit
that he is the one who sparked my interest in the subject and made me realize
how we humans yearn for extraordinary time, the moment when we recognize the
sacred in space, sound, and ritual. I guess if I admit it, one of the reasons
which led me to ordained ministry was the influence of Mark Shirilau.
After
New Orleans I saw little of Mark. I was involved with college and later moved
to Wisconsin for graduate studies in the early ‘80’s. Mark left St. Luke’s for
the richer and grander rituals of the Episcopal Church. When I returned to
California to teach at a small college in 1986, my New Orleans buddies assembled
for a ten-year reunion. I was greatly surprised by Mark’s appearance. He was
tastefully dressed in a tan business suit and sported a gold wedding ring on
his left hand. His squeaky soprano had deepened to a respectable baritone, but
he was as nonchalant and witty as I remember him being. He was also quite
openly gay and proudly announced his marriage to the love of his life, Jeffrey.
This was a full thirty years before
same-gender marriage was even a blip on the national radar.
Jeff,
I should mention, was a thoroughly likable individual. I understood that he had
been a former female impersonator, but, when not in a dress, he had remarkable
skills with hammer and screwdriver. Jeff was able to do all the “macho” chores
which his egg-head husband couldn’t manage. This endeared him to Mark’s
parents, Ken and Marge, two of the sweetest and most sincere Christian people I
have ever known. Jeff’s death from HIV complications in 1993 must have been
devastating for the entire family.
In
December of 1987 I attended Mark’s ordination to word and sacrament ministry at
a seminary chapel in Claremont, California in the Los Angeles foothills. Only a
small handful of family and friends endured the two-hour liturgy. It was
unusually cold for LA that Sunday afternoon, and the chapel had not been
heated. As the last “Go in peace, serve the Lord!” was chanted, my friend Julie
seated next to me hissed in my ear, “I’m
so f---ing cold..!!!” (I believe she went to the Lady’s Room immediately
after the service and soaked her feet in hot water from the sink.)
It
was explained to me that Mark would not be called to the rostered ministry of
the Episcopal Church USA—not because he was openly gay, but because he was
already a successful electrical engineer. It seems the Episcopalians didn’t
need an engineer moonlighting as a priest when they had unemployed priests on
their roster. So Mark elected to form his own denomination, the Ecumenical Catholic
Church. He would later be ordained as the church's archbishop.
I
only attended one service of Mark’s new communion. It was held in the spare room
of the home where he and Jeffery lived in Santa Ana, California. A huge altar
took up about a third of the floor space, but this was not a problem as only
four or five people were in attendance. Friends from St. Luke’s would remark
that it seemed as if Mark was “playing church.”
For
Mark, however, nothing could be further from the truth. He took worship
seriously, believing that where two or more are gathered, Christ is with them.
Little
did I know that Mark would cross the continent proselytizing for his new denomination.
His sole mission was to proclaim the love of Christ to those who hungered for
authentic, historic Christian ritual but had been disenfranchised from the
established church because of divorce or sexual orientation. Today there are ECC
congregations all across the US and even in Latin America and Europe—even though
the clergy, like Saint Paul, must rely on their own means to support themselves
financially.
I
look at pictures of Mark in full vestments—sumptuous copes and miters which
would look over the top on the Pope—and I shake my head. I had mistaken him as
a “character,” and one in love with the rituals of the past. Truth be told, Mark
Shirilau was ahead of his time. Today
Lutherans and Episcopalians struggle to catch up with the radical inclusivity
and outreach Mark was showing back in the late 1980’s. Additionally, I must add
that his “day job" as an electrical engineer focused on stewardship of the
earth—sustainable renewable energy. Nothing could be timelier than that, and for
that alone he deserves to be considered a saint.
Some
weeks ago, an old New Orleans buddy wrote me and informed me of Mark’s death in
January of 2014. Although I had not spoken with Mark in years, I thought of him
often. It saddens me to think this eccentric, good-hearted soul is no longer
with us in the flesh, but I rejoice that he has now joined the liturgy
worshiping around the throne of God. On a shelf in my office is a book Mark
gave me many years ago—The Manual on the
Liturgy of the Lutheran Book of Worship. On the inside cover Mark wrote the
following:
“The 4th Sunday after Pentecost
July 1, 1979
To Owen –
Worship is our highest work and truly the joy of life.
God’s blessings forever.
Mark Shirey
Gratia Patris Dei,
Pax amorques
Christi Dei Filii,
Et communion Dei
Spiritus Sancti
Sit tecum semper.”
And
to you too, my friend. Rest in peace.
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