LAST WEEKEND I attended the memorial service of a life-long friend.
And then he would have leaned to the person next to him, and muttered, "When do we get to the margaritas?"
Gary Wilburn was a Presbyterian pastor.
In these days of acrimony between religion and atheism, and between one religion and another, it's good to remember that not all religion has to be toxic or divisive, and that in the end it's the character of individual human beings—and their individual spiritual journeys—which matter most.
My friend Gary is an example of this.
The first sound that comes to mind when I think of Gary—among fleeting images of kilts and beaches and margaritas—is his bark of a laugh.
His sudden explosive "HA!" that could fill the room, and then be gone almost before you heard it.
And then I remember how he enjoyed the conversation of his friends—often in his own home: that center of community which he and his wife Bev created together everywhere they lived.
How he would listen with sheer pleasure to the give and take, the flow of ideas.
He most loved it when someone came up with a completely new perspective, a way of looking at or thinking about something that put it in a whole new light.
His grin would stretch beyond its usual boundaries then, and his eyes would sparkle with delight.
That picture says it all, because those three loves were what Gary was about.
- His home and family.
His love for, and total devotion to Bev, and to their son, Sean. There never was a more doting father. - His community.
His friends, his neighbors, his colleagues and congregation. - His personal quest for understanding.
His spiritual journey, which began early on and continued until the end, a long struggle toward ever greater compassion and inclusiveness, toward truth and justice and love.
That journey wasn't easy for Gary.
His early training was against it, as were, at times, members of his denomination and even of his congregations.
In many cases it would have been far simpler for him to cling to old beliefs, rather than take the flack for changing his mind, and admitting he had been wrong before.
But his integrity and his courage stood him in good stead.
It was the same integrity and courage he exhibited on a personal level.
I never knew a man more willing to admit a mistake or more ready to offer an apology.
If he believed he had caused a friend pain, he said so, and apologized. Often in front of witnesses.
Likewise, if he was mistaken about an idea or fact, he faced it squarely—no bluster, no evasion, no spin.
A few weeks ago, he forwarded me an email—a clever little story with an amusing punch line, which he probably gave no deep thought to before passing it on for the sake of the laugh.
I, however, have a bee in my bonnet about emails—as my readers know.
I replied—"to all"—pointing out the unpatriotic and divisive lie artfully buried in the subtext of the email—and I suggested that it wasn't a good idea to promote such dishonest political propaganda.
I had barely hit "send" when I regretted it.
I had told myself, while writing my response, that Gary wouldn't want me to stop taking him seriously just because he was ill.
But on reflection I wondered if, in his weakened condition, he might find it rather cruel of me to embarrass him in front of the others he had forwarded the email to.
I needn't have worried.
He replied with just six words:
You are so right.
Thanks.
-Gary
His response was typical.
That kind of integrity, that kind of personal courage and openness informed his relationships, his causes, his ministry.
It made it possible for him to question his early Fundamentalism: to come to the place where he could say, from the pulpit… (and this is also typical of Gary)
The important thing to remember is that no one has ever been saved by doctrine or religious dogma.
Damned, yes. But saved, no.
Or…
God is not found in our doctrinal distinctive, nor our creedal confession, nor our theological dogmatism, nor our liturgical practice, nor our denominational distinctive. God is found in our relationship with the universe, the spiritual life, and one another.
There was no gap, no break, no distinction, between his theology and his life.
They grew out of the same integrity, the same openness, the same love.
As did his laugh.
And when, in the course of his life, he found his theology at odds with that integrity, that openness, that love, it was his theology which changed.
Gary would have enjoyed—and been embarrassed by—these praises.
And then he would have leaned to the person next to him, and muttered, "When do we get to the margaritas?"
I wish, more than I can say, that I could offer him one right now.
