May 20 | Plus près du ciel

Last night, Peter Elliott (dean of Christ Church Cathedral and the man who will always be my priest) phoned to tell me that Patrick Wedd had died.

Patrick Wedd was a truly brilliant Canadian composer, organist, and choir director.

Source: Musica Orbium website

He was also my godfather.

A lot of folks from outside the church who might be considered “culturally Christian” have a lot of ideas about what a godparent is. Patrick Wedd was all of those things, but more importantly he was everything a godparent is truly expected to be by the church and family that ordains them to such a position.

When my mother was barely an adult (maybe 18, surely no older than 20), her home parish choir director, Peter Chapel, told her she needed to expand her horizons as a choral singer. She needed to join a bigger, more prestigious choir, he said, and he recommended Christ Church Cathedral in downtown Vancouver. “Go and sing for Patrick,” he said. “You must.”

Mum was terrified. She thought there was no possible way she could hack it…but she decided to give it a shot. So began a forty-year long friendship with Patrick and his husband Robert Wells (my other godfather).

There are two gay couples in my life who were instrumental in teaching me as a child that love was love, no matter who you were. Patrick and Rob were one of those couples. From infancy, to me they were Uncle Paddy and Uncle Robbie.

Their relationship was simply gospel when I was growing up. Where there was one, there was the other. To me they always seemed beautifully complementary. Patrick was well known across the Canadian choral world, and a truly accomplished musician in his own right. Rob was quieter, also a wonderful musician, but in my memory more in the background, and always full of smiles. They were so well-matched.

Uncle Paddy always had an air of busy-ness about him to me. There were things to do, minds to mold, worlds to conquer, divine truths to immortalize in music. He is one of two people in my life who always called me by my full, baptismal name: Clare Elisabeth.

Patrick was director of music and organist at the Vancouver Cathedral until the ’80s, when he was succeeded by Rupert Lang, another titanic musical figure in my life. Patrick went on to Montreal after that to work at the church of St. Andrew and St. Paul, and finally, in 1996, he went on to Christ Church Cathedral, Montreal.

He founded many other groups, including Musica Orbium Acceuil, for which my mum sang for years when we lived in Ottawa. Nearly every weekend, the two of us would pile into the car and put one of three CDs into the deck: The Lion King soundtrack, The Mission soundtrack, or Handel’s Messiah. Then, singing all the way, we would make the two hour drive to Montreal for the weekend. I was around nine or ten at the time.

The rehearsals happened in halls and churches, and my mum would load a bag full of books and toys for me. I would go off by myself in a corner and do my quiet thing, soaking up all of this divine music. I also remember checking tickets at one of their shows.

In the evening, we would go back to their little apartment in Montreal, have some manner of delectable dinner, sit in their back porch garden, play with their dog. They had so many weird and wonderful things – books, knickknacks, all kinds of stuff.

When we moved back, although I didn’t see him as often as I once had, the connection was still there. He was invited to my wedding, of course, and I insisted that he play Widor’s Toccata from his fifth symphony in F. As a child, I had learned that the informal name many organists gave to this piece was “Cat and Mouse,” which delighted me. Patrick made that organ walk and talk that day. When my husband Paul and I recessed to it, Paul insisted we not exit the church. He wanted to stand in the narthex, right beneath the organ, so he could hear the whole thing.
He still talks about it.

Despite an entire lifetime of good memories, I still think my best one was the last time I remember seeing Patrick, on the day of my ordination to the transitional diaconate.

I was so nervous I was practically jumping out of my skin as we ascended the stairs to process into St. Mary’s Kerrisdale for the liturgy. And as I walked, I came face-to-face with a pale mustard-yellow shirt and a tie with huge pink peonies on it as someone came dashing into the church at the last minute.

“What a great tie,” I thought, and then I looked up and saw a round beloved face, pink with the heat of the day.

Mum and he had arranged for him to be there but had kept it from me. I was completely taken by surprise. It was such an incredible gift.

Earlier, I said Patrick embodied everything it meant to be a true godfather.
A godparent is not just a family friend with whom you would trust your children. A godparent in these latter days of Christianity is someone with whom you trust the Christian spiritual development of your child.

Patrick was all of that and more to me. While the culture around us and the church itself had high-minded debates about the appropriateness of the inclusion of LGBTQ+ folks, Patrick and Rob did ministry with a capital M, heedless of what the system said was allowed.

For so much of my childhood, the Anglican choral world in Canada was (and often still is) a haven for gay men in particular to give glory to God through music, and especially the crowning gift of the human voice.

Patrick exemplified the kind of persistent dedication that all Christian people should aspire to, the kind of service that just gets done, because someone needs to do it, and because some are called and must respond to the call.
He showed me that it didn’t matter what anyone said: queer people were doing God’s work, whether they were out or not, and to say they couldn’t or shouldn’t was simply a bald-faced lie.

He also modeled for me the truly Anglican love of beauty which has informed so much of my faith. Again, while so many of my family in Christ debate the “appropriateness” of liturgy or aesthetics in worship, Patrick simply lived into the truth of our denominational calling: that worship should be beautiful, because God is beautiful, and because we should always bring our best to God. It instilled in me a passion for musical excellence and liturgical sensitivity. While over time I have exchanged a frankly snobby musical attitude with a passion for sincerity in church music above technical skill, I yet fall into what my Sufi friends might call holy drunkenness when I hear a perfectly executed anthem by a traditional Anglican choir.

There’s not much more to say at this point. My mother wept herself hoarse last night. She couldn’t even speak to me when I phoned her. I was scheduled to officiate at Compline at the Cathedral, so I went there, wondering if I’d make it through the liturgy without making a fool of myself.

I arrived to see a quartet was scheduled. Most of them already knew Patrick had gone home to glory. They sang several of his pieces that night. I read Gerard Manley Hopkins “God’s Grandeur,” one of my favourite options in the Cathedral’s selection. Parts of that poem feel like a protest, like a Magnificat to me. And Uncle Paddy would have liked it.

Today, I am about to leave to practice Rupert Lang’s “Cantate Domino” with Vancouver Children’s Choir alumni for the choir’s 35th anniversary concert. It seems appropriate.

Today, my mother is doing her best to write down all of her memories of Patrick. I can tell she’s not entirely sure why, except that she doesn’t want to forget. There is so much she remembers that I will not, so I’m very grateful.

My commission to you is this: Whoever in your life has been God for you, whoever has modeled what you find is true, honourable, and lovely, if they are still here on earth – please hug them. And if they have passed into the world beyond our sight, maybe think about them, and give thanks.

“Life is short, and we do not have much time to gladden the hearts of those who travel the way with us, so make haste to love; be swift to be kind.” – Henri Frédéric Amiel

4 comments so far to “Plus près du ciel”

  1. Chris Corrigan says:

    I accept that commission. What a beautiful tribute to your godfather.

  2. Matthew Larkin says:

    Life is such a sorry, sad thing sometimes. I was already feeling that deeply and viscerally, and then I heard about Patrick. I couldn’t believe what I was reading (an email from a mutual friend, telling me of what had happened). Your tribute to him is without price, and beyond compare. I remember one or two of those Montreal trips of which you speak, and I remember remarking to myself how much love he had for you. What an incredible gift it has been to have known him (and, after spending some time today reading your blog, how I wish you were my priest). A learnéd man said of Patrick yesterday, “at his passing, we say ‘Alleluia’”. To this, I humbly add, “Amen”. May he live forever in the hearts and memories of everyone that knew and loved him.

    • clarity says:

      This is such a kind post all through, Matthew. Thank you ever so much.
      “All of us go down to the dust, yet even at the grave we make our song: Alleluia.”

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