Episcopal Bishop Katharine Jefferts Schori, Jesus, and me

Before she became the first female Presiding Bishop of the U.S. Episcopal Church, Katharine Jefferts Schori was an adjunct professor of religion at Oregon State University (OSU). I'm certain she was a lot of other things before becoming an adjunct professor, but that is the juncture at which our lives intersected.

Katharine Jefferts Schori on the
cover of Time Magazine,
Sept. 18, 2017

The year was 1990. I was one of about 20 students in a religious studies course (whose title I don't recall) taught by Dr. Jefferts (her maiden name). I liked Dr. Jefferts a lot; she was smart, kind, insightful, and almost uncannily good-natured. And I found her course, whatever it was called, quite enjoyable. 

I rarely spoke up in class, but on one occasion when we were discussing inconsistencies and dubious assertions in the Bible, I decided to insert myself into the conversation. To this day, I question my judgment in doing so.

What did I say that was so questionable? "What if the 'water' that Jesus allegedly walked on was actually just ice? I've read that certain parts of the Sea of Galilee have been known to freeze over on occasion."

Ms. Jefferts' face morphed from smiling to expressionless. It was as if I'd just committed blasphemy. She was flummoxed, literally speechless. So were all my classmates. Because, I guess, everyone knows it would be impossible for ice to form in the Sea of Galilee, situated as it was in northern Israel.

My face and neck were hot. I'm pretty sure I was as red as Judas after he betrayed Jesus with a kiss. It was one of the most uncomfortable moments I'd ever experienced in a college classroom. There was no taking my comment back, no getting past it, no further discussion on the topic whatsoever. 

Fortunately, one of my classmates finally broke the silence with an unrelated comment, ending the interminable silence—which in actuality was probably only a few seconds long. And of course I have no recollection what he or she said, I was still so enshrouded in shame. 

But the moment passed, and life moved on. 

Sixteen years later, in April of 2006, my blasphemy was unexpectedly and scientifically vindicated—by a professor of oceanography at Florida State University (FSU) named Doron Nof, who concluded that Jesus more likely walked on a floating patch of ice than on water. His explanation for the ice? It was caused by "a rare combination of optimal water and atmospheric conditions for development of a unique, localized freezing phenomenon." Nof and the co-authors of the study dubbed the phenomenon "springs ice" [sic]. 

Nof also was quoted as saying that in today's climate, "the chance of springs ice forming in northern Israel is effectively zero, or about once in more than 10,000 years." Which would explain my professor's and classmates' skepticism about my comment—assuming I had been talking about the Sea of Galilee in today's climate. 

Coincidentally, two months after Dr. Nof's study was published, my former professor, who was now Dr. Jefferts Schori (she had married OSU mathematician Dr. Richard Schori), was named the first female leader of the U.S. Episcopal Church. At the time, I was employed as a publications editor and designer at Oregon Sea Grant, which funds, conducts, and publishes the results of marine research. 

I decided to swallow my pride and email Dr. Jefferts Schori a brief note of congratulations. 

"Dear Dr. Jefferts Schori," my email began, "You probably don't remember me, but in 1990 I was the student in one of your OSU religious studies courses who suggested that maybe Jesus walked on ice, not water. Anyway, I'm just writing to congratulate you on being named the Presiding Bishop of the U.S. Episcopal Church. Also, I thoroughly enjoyed your course. Sincerely, Rick Cooper."

To my utter astonishment, Her Eminence replied to my email. Within an hour.

"Dear Rick," she wrote, "Thank you for your nice note. As a former oceanographer myself, I've always had a particular fondness for Oregon Sea Grant and the work it does. You are in good company. In faith, Katharine."

I don't know what was more surprising to me—that she wrote back, that she still refused to address my Jesus comment, or that she was a former oceanographer…just like the FSU professor whose study vindicated me. I wasn't sure what to make of it. 

Not that any of it mattered, ultimately. But I sure would've liked to know how Bishop Jefferts Schori reconciled her scientific training with her religious indoctrination—especially with regard to Biblical claims that Jesus regularly defied the laws of physics.

I forgive Bishop Jefferts Schori. But I still harbor a fantasy of receiving a note from her someday—maybe in the mail, maybe via Facebook Messenger or something—saying, "Rick, I want to apologize for failing to respond to your comment about Jesus walking on ice. Now I realize you may have been right. Regardless, I could have, and should have, said something. I blew it, and I am sincerely sorry. —Katharine."

But I guess even Bishop Jefferts Schori doesn't walk on water, so I should probably stop waiting for...hell to freeze over.

A teenage girl's heart attack, Whitney Houston's assistant, and me

In 1985, when I was a second-year teacher of English and U.S. history at Highland View Middle School in Corvallis, Oregon, I had a student named Stacey who also happened to be my next-door neighbor. Stacey was a special kid; she was sweet, gentle, kind, funny, and just extraordinarily good-natured. (I was tempted to add "for an eighth-grader," but in reality Stacey was extraordinary for any human being.)

My wife (at the time) and I liked Stacey so much, we decided to hire her as a babysitter for our two-year-old daughter Lyris. And Stacey turned out to be a wonderful sitter, as well. Lyris loved her.

One day, while she was doing some household chores at her home and apparently overexerted herself, Stacey had a heart attack. 

I was stunned. Teenage girl? Heart attack? How in hell could this happen? And how could it happen to such an exemplary human being? What is wrong with the universe?

Fortunately, Stacey's mom was home at the time and was able to call 911. An ambulance came and initially transported Stacey to Good Samaritan Hospital in Corvallis, where doctors decided that her particular condition required more intensive care. So she was flown via helicopter up to Oregon Health Sciences University (OHSU) in Portland, 90 miles north.

Stacey had heart surgery and spent several weeks fighting for her life at OHSU, with one or both parents almost constantly by her side. Friends also visited when possible, including myself and Stacey's best friend Kajsa, who carpooled with me. On one visit I brought Stacey a pair of headphones and a cassette tape full of music I thought she might enjoy. It was during this visit that Stacey mentioned her favorite singer was Whitney Houston, and her favorite song was Houston's "Greatest Love of All."

This gave me an idea. Figuring that the hospital bill for Stacey's surgery and recovery was going to be astronomical, burdening her parents with impossible debt on top of trying to keep their daughter alive—along with caring for their three other daughters—I decided to ask Whitney Houston to perform a benefit concert…in Corvallis, Oregon. I knew it was a long shot, but not asking her at all would've made it an even longer shot.

Note that this was in 1985, before personal computers were ubiquitous and before email was even a glimmer in some computer geek's eye. There was also no Google, so I couldn't look up a phone number to call. So I had to mail a letter…care of Houston's agent, whose address I found on one of her albums. In my letter I explained the situation, begged Houston to put on a benefit concert in Corvallis, and gave her my address and home phone number.

After sending the letter, I promptly forgot about it, thinking that the chances of receiving a reply from Houston—or even her agent or anyone else in her sphere—were less than zero to zip. 

Two weeks later, at 7:45 a.m. on a Monday, I'm in my classroom at Highland View, preparing my lessons for the day. A voice comes over the intercom informing me that I have a phone call down in the office. A phone call for me…at school…at 7:45 on a Monday morning? Something must be wrong! Someone has been hurt, or died, or…

I race-walk down the long hall to the office. “Hello? This is Rick."

"Hi, Rick. This is Mary Jones, Whitney Houston's assistant. How are you?"

Mary Jones (left) and Whitney Houston

No fucking way. Whitney Houston's assistant? Calling me? At my workplace? At a phone number I didn't even provide in my letter? How did she get it?

"Um…uh…yes, uh, hello! I—I'm fine!" I stammer, trying to locate my composure, which seems to have left the planet. "Whitney Houston's assistant, did you say?"

"Yes. She actually calls me her aunt, but we're not related."

"Oh. Well, nice to meet you!"

"I'm calling in response to your letter. You were wondering if Whitney could put on a benefit concert there in Corvallis?"

"Um, yes. Yeah, I know it's a long shot, but—"

"Yes, Whitney asked me to tell you that, while she empathizes with Stacey's situation, she apologizes but she does have a policy of not doing benefit concerts. For anyone, for any reason. I'm so sorry."

"Oh. Yes, of course. I understand. No problem. I just thought it was worth a shot."

"Sure. And Whitney and I both wish you and Stacey the best. I hope things work out for her and her family."

"Um, yes, thank you. It was so nice of you to call. Have a great day."

"You too, Rick. And please give my best to Stacey. Goodbye."

"I will, thanks. Goodbye."

I was in a daze the rest of the day. Fortunately, my students didn't seem to notice. (Or did they, and I just didn't notice because I was in a daze?)

Several days later, Stacey was released from the hospital and I paid her a visit at her home. When I told her about the phone call, she was exultant. "Whitney Houston's assistant called you? About me? Wow, that's so cool!"

"Yeah, I just wish Whitney could've come here and performed 'Greatest Love of All' for you, live. That would've been cool."

"It would've been, but I think it was cool enough that you wrote to her, and her assistant called you."

Stacey was right: getting that phone call was cool enough. 

So, it took a 13-year-old girl recovering from a heart attack to school me on when to accept cool enough and stop asking for cooler.

Epilogue: Twenty-seven years later, when Whitney Houston died of drug intoxication, Mary Jones was the one who found the body.