“Holy God, giver of all good gifts, be present with us in ways we can mistake for nothing but your presence moving to us and in us and through us to those to whom you send us.”
As I get older, I am more and more aware of the people who have shaped my life. People who loved me into who I am today. Who saw in me what others might not have … and what I often could not see in myself.
I become more and more aware of how I carry pieces of them with me. Mannerisms. Words the say. Or … how they prayed.
My father was a wonderful man who struggled to show his feelings – no surprise since his father struggled the same way and I imagine it went back for many generations. But as a young man in his early 20s, all I knew was I needed a dad who was able to say he believed in me and was proud of me … and those were words he just couldn’t parse.
But Hays Rockwell could.
I met Hays when I was a last-minute addition to the search committee for the Episcopal Bishop of Missouri (the story I heard was the entire committee had been selected and then someone noticed there was nobody on there under 40 and Tamsen Whistler said she knew this college student at Calvary Church, Columbia, and I was grafted on).
After enduring an episcopate of a deeply wounded alcoholic, whose illness often played out in verbally violent ways, the mantra of the committee was “we need a pastor.”
And then there was Hays.
And we just knew.
And so did the diocese, electing him on the first ballot.
When the psychiatrist who was in charge of screening candidates advised Hays to boot me from the process and not ordain me (some of you would no doubt agree with that assessment) … Hays met with me. He said the issues that the psychiatrist raised were important ones … but the answer was not to kick me out but to call me more deeply in. He sent me to seminary and prescribed a course of therapy – a journey I am still on.
He said it wasn’t about being perfect … but about always doing the work. About facing your wounds and being tough as well as gracious to yourself and others.
He told me he was proud of me.
He sent me a picture of him and Tommy Lasorda, joking that Tommy was standing with his newest “short reliever.”
He specifically encouraged me to push boundaries with my preaching and — once again — told me he was proud of me when I did.
When it came time to find my first job, knowing that I struggled with communities of wealth and privilege, he placed me in the largest, wealthiest church in the diocese … then met with me monthly to read Reinhold Niebhur’s Christ and Culture and discuss what I was learning.
When I drove by a house by Washington University’s campus on the way to a bishop’s staff meeting and picked up a flier and plopped it on his desk and said I thought the diocese needed to buy this house to guarantee an Episcopal presence at Washington University, he did the due diligence of course, but not only okayed it, but found the money for the downpayment and helped push through an internal diocesan loan until we could raise the rest of the money … and that’s how Rockwell House exists still today.
When I had a crisis of faith and wasn’t sure I believed in God anymore, Hays was there to listen. And when the crisis lifted and believing became an option I could choose … he was there, too.
Whenever I would have a struggle in my life, Hays was there.
Whenever I needed a word of encouragement, Hays was there.
Whenever I needed a reminder of the best of what the church could be, Hays was there.
I am a priest because of Hays Rockwell. And yet it’s so much more than that.
I am who I am because of Hays.
And I carry pieces of him with me in ways that have become so natural that I scarcely remember.
Like that prayer:
“Holy God, giver of all good gifts, be present with us in ways we can mistake for nothing but your presence moving in us and to us and through us to those whom you send us.”
I first heard Hays pray this when he came to visit me at seminary and he was praying with a group of us. When he was done, I pulled him aside and said that was beautiful and asked him who wrote it.
He said nothing, but with a twinkle in his eye, he lifted a thumb and pointed to his chest.
I have used it ever since. Because I aspire to be the pastor he always was.
A year and a half ago, I was able to visit him at Massachusetts General Hospital before the surgery that would begin his decline. I asked if I could pray for him and anoint him and he said yes .. and I got to pray over him the prayer he had prayed over me for years.
I will never forget that grace.
My favorite Hays quote is this. I have used it more times than I can count.
“The image of God is on every single person … every one,” he would say.
And then with a wry smile and a raised eyebrow he would add
“on some, it is in deep, deep disguise.”
I have resembled that remark at times, but more important I have remembered it. Through it, Hays has whispered in my ears countless times to keep looking for that image.
It is always there. Always.
Hays died this morning. I cannot type these words without weeping. I have lost a father … again (counting Jim Fallis, this is the third and last time … and what a blessing to have three fathers).
Hays, I love you and I will miss you.
When I was with you, God was with me in a way that I could mistake for nothing but God’s presence.
The image of God on you was never in deep, deep disguise … it was there for all to see. And I am forever grateful that you saw it on me, too.
Love to you as you grieve, Mike. Thank you for sharing about Hays. His impact on your life is beautiful and apparent. The image of God is not disguised in you either.
Hays was a true pastor, particularly with the clergy in his orbit. My dad always felt supported and recognized by Hays. There was always the "Harv, how are you doing?" calls and they weren't just perfunctory. He REALLY wanted to know the story.
My wife told me that the difference between my mom and dad was Mom was all about small talk. She would ask how you were and it wouldn't matter what you said.
"With your dad, when he asks about you he really means it."
That's how Hays rolled. He was tuned in to people.