'It Was an Adventure'

Bill Stringfellow "died," whatever that means, in March. "It happens," Bill would say, "I've been [working on that." His visits to our home in Berea, Kentucky, were frequent in the last few years, the evenings spent in conversation with Nancy, my wife, about the latest "monstrosities" in medicine, for their experiences overlapped. The last visit he was taken by the "passion" for the artificial heart. He'd thought a lot about it, probably made notes somewhere on hotel stationery.

Unlike his speech in formal settings, and his characteristic one-or two-liners, he talked at length informally, sometimes in monologues about the first drafts of books and articles, or people and politics. Knowing he'd be with us in the spring semester the following year, it never occurred to us to take notes. It is my hope that Bill's notes will turn up someday, somewhere.

I tell this to introduce Stringfellow's consistency during the 25 years we knew each other—he had the gift of grace to integrate experience, language, and suffering with the word of scripture. Last December when Bill visited, he was weak and the old maladies persisted, but Nancy, my colleagues, and I never thought he would not return as Visiting Lilly Professor of Religion, spring 1986. He had been through decades of physical nightmares, which he discussed as dispassionately as he did baseball or the weather.

One of his most endearing qualities to me was the one-or two-liners. To a television reporter on a live broadcast, in response to whether Bill saw any hope in the national and international crises: "Yes. The Second Coming. Mercifully it won't be long." (The poor reporter never recovered.) To a question from the audience about where the nation was going in the race struggle: "Well. It isn't a race struggle; it's an insurrection. There's a world of difference. The difference is what will be done with the insurgents." On a tough immediate practical problem that called for immediate decision: "No. Let's see what the mail brings."

Bill walking in the just-framed house, the subject being the energy crisis, to my colleague, who was ecstatic about the saving he'd made with the use of electric blankets: "No, I wouldn't do that. X's [a very famous man in politics and diplomacy] daughter used one. She was burned to a crisp." Moreover, Bill made more effective use of his small vocabulary of swear words than anyone I've ever known.

He was a bad correspondent simply because he did not like to write letters. He preferred the telephone—an irresponsibility we recognized we shared before we met the first time. We also recognized from the first that we were close politically, but that there were tactical differences, which we attributed to my then low church and his high church background. These differences were closed over time, and he said, "You came to your senses and stopped listening to a lot of loose talk you never should have listened to."

Bill did not like to chat about "theology"—an important factor behind our friendship, for each of us in our own way earned dollars talking formally about "theology" in the classroom or in lectures and in a bit of writing and editing. "One does not talk 'business' at home," Bill said. We talked politics—national, international, and ecclesiastical—and swapped yarns, some good ones, about people we knew who thought they were "famous."

There were exceptions, of course. He introduced me to Dan Berrigan 20 years ago saying, "I have this sermon you ought to print, given at the memorial service for Jonathan Daniels. It's by this Jesuit I know. It's good. There's a lot of blood in it."

Last December he read to 30 or 40 students and staff a segment from his most recent book, The Politics of Spirituality. Later he gave me a copy and said, "Read this. We'll talk about it next year. If you want to." I did.

December was the beginning of the worst winter we have had here in years. He was stranded two extra days in Boone Tavern because of bad road conditions. The college embargoed its vehicles. On the third day we located a student who was brave enough to drive a friend's car to the Lexington airport. It was a hair-raising ride that included a complete turn-around on the Lexington beltway. I called to get reassurance from Block Island that he had arrived home. He was in good spirits. "Yes, I liked it. It was an adventure."

That's how he thought about death—"an adventure," a doctrine very close to the Old Regular Baptists in eastern Kentucky. He was working on the Psalms, the only palliative, he said, for the severe pain he oft-times suffered. Many of us looked to Bill for a lot of things, especially for his friendship. We love him and need him. We shall not see his like this side of Jordan. He lives not only in memory but as hope in the resurrection.

James Y. Holloway was McGaw professor of philosophy and religion at Berea College in Kentucky and editor of Katallagete when this article appeared. This article was adapted from one that appeared in the summer 1985 issue of Katallagete.