Bob Coghill
I was raised in the Interior village of Nenana. My father was born in Nenana. The Episcopal Church was important in our family. My father was a lay reader and my grandmother played the organ for services. My mother came to Nenana as a missionary-nurse to the Episcopal orphanage and she ran the Sunday School. During my elementary days one of the three sons of the priest was my best friend. In my teens the daughters of another priest were good friends.
One summer there was no priest in Nenana. I do not recall why. The Bishop sent a deacon to Nenana to maintain the church. In the sixties a deacon was usually a stage to becoming a priest.
I was feeling like a fish out of water during those days. I was a quiet boy who loved to read and had no talent at sports. I felt that I lacked the courage and aptitudes that my life long playmates were developing. I was not fitting very well into my skin.
I can only imagine what this poor Deacon felt when he arrived in Nenana. He was a black man from an urban church in the northeastern portion of the U.S.A. cast up on the dusty dry streets of an Indian village on the Tanana River. In the Lower 48, priests white and black were marching for freedom. Some cities were burning as black men reacted to centuries of oppression. And here he was far from the action.
I am sure that he looked around and found almost nothing familiar. However, I was familiar. My mother was from Philadelphia and though white spent her teens in a predominantly black orphanage. Her skinny red headed son looked a lot like the boys the Deacon knew.
The Deacon offered summer school of sorts to train acolyte to understand and perform their duties in the church service. In those days most acolytes were boys. Nenana was a predominantly Episcopalian village with no shortage of boys. However, most of the boys, Native Alaskans, had other things to do in the 70 and 80 degree heat of an Interior summer. I was soon his only student.
I was a sponge for all of the arcane detail concerning the Book of Common Prayer, the services of the church and traditions of the Episcopal Church. The Deacon was comfortable dealing with familiar subjects in an unfamiliar place. Over forty years later I can still see this young man in my mind’s eye and treasure the days we spent even though his name is lost to me. Through him I was able to bridge the gap between childhood and adulthood with some idea of my place in the world.
I had many mentors in the clergy. Father Stratman, my best friend’s father, was a scholarly presence. The girls’ dad, Father Phillips entered into the lives of his flock. Various Catholic priests (we lived next door to the Catholic Church) challenged me to read complex books, to shoot arrows and take care of dogs. As an adult I have enjoyed many conversations with the clergy concerning justice, relationships, faith and vocations.
Still, that nameless black man in his black shirt and slacks who took the time to mentor a skinny kid when he could have been studying in the cool of the church offices in the mid-sixties holds special place in my memory.
For the past twenty years I have run non-profits and Native Village Corporations. Today I am the Executive Director of the United Youth Courts of Alaska
