GOOD FATHER

My father was up early. Everything was in place:his books in their bag; each prayer and reading marked; his shoes shined, his shirt and collar, his cassock and cope pressed. He sat calmly on the couch. He was always very confident but also very humble and caring before leaving for church. When it was time he would go to the car and sit inside and in his silence, alone, he would heed the call to serve. Occasionally, when I had forgotten his pre-church routine and would ask my mother, 'Where's dad?', she would reply, 'Your father's in the car, which means it's time to go.'

For most of his adult life, my father John Spear was an Episcopalian priest. He was ordained in 1948 in Hartford, Connecticut and his life in the church took him first to Manhattan and Brooklyn, then to missions in Panama, Wisconsin and Texas.

I am the oldest of his five children and I realized very early that, for me, the church resembled a stage. As his son, I saw what went on behind the scenes, but I could-also watch the liturgical drama taking place before the altar. I got used to the figure of my father— his biretta, white robes and bright-coloured cope—bringing up the rear of the procession behind the cross and the feeling of tension that the beginning of a church service brings. As he passed, people would steal glimpses of him, and it was as if a piece of God in some quiet way touched them. He would approach the sanctuary, the altar bathed in light, the brightest place in the church. He would read the lessons, preach the sermon, consecrate and serve bread and wine and proclaim God's will. Lastly he would bless his flock and send them into the world. He did this in churches, in prisons and in hospital rooms. He did it for large groups of people and for a few. He did it for himself and, more importantly in his mind, 'for the greater glory of God'. After the service my father would change from black into a T-shirt and shorts. This is when I began to feel the father side of my father emerge. Often exhausted and drained, having given his energy to God and to the people, he started the journey back to us, bis family. One day in 1981 I asked my father if I could make pictures of him. He had shared his work with me and now I wanted to involve him in mine. He looked at me and winked, tilted his head and with a half smile in his soft raspy voice he said, 'Yes'. I photographed him until his life ended early on a Sunday morning in 1995. With his death, my journey with him in these pictures was done.

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