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Sermon for Arthur
Williams' Requiem Eucharist
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
The Reverend William A. Greenlaw, Ph.D., Rector
Church of the Holy Apostles, New York City
We come
here tonight to remember, to pay tribute to, to commend our
brother Arthur to God in Arthur’s onward journey in light. We
come in our sadness and in our joy. In our convictions and in our
doubts. In our searchings and all the ambiguities of life. And
we are strengthened because in our beloved Arthur, so many of
these things lived and flourished. And yet underneath it all lay
a foundation of faith which was simply awesome, unshakeable, which
was as real as anything we can know or imagine. Arthur lived his
life deeply; his faith lived and breathed in him remarkably.
Arthur was born on November 6, 1930, in Cape Girardeau,
Missouri. He was the only child of parents who were unbelievably
devout and rigorous members of the Church of God, Anderson,
Indiana—that “Anderson, Indiana” being an important qualifier in
distinguishing just which “Church of God” this was. Conservative,
evangelical, very strict, everything “just so,” reserving baptism
to those who could make a mature judgment for Christ. Arthur was
baptized at the age of 10 in the Church of God (Anderson,
Indiana), in Cape Girardeau.
During the war years the family moved to Anderson,
Indiana, for that was not only where the headquarters of the
church was to be found, but where better jobs were as well.
Arthur went to college in Anderson—but in a move that was to begin
his journey in a very different direction, he decided to go to
seminary—at the fairly liberal and interdenominational Hartford
Theological Seminary.
However interesting Arthur found studying theology, two
things made him take another major turn. He told Ezra Sims, his
dear friend for over fifty years, that it became clear to him that
while he might enjoy preaching and study, he knew he simply wasn’t
cut out to be a pastor. A few years ago, Arthur told me that
having realized he was a gay man, it became clear to him no church
in the mid-1950s was ready to deal with that. And, as Ezra put
it, Arthur never made a point of his being gay—but he never denied
it either.
And so, finishing at Hartford Seminary, Arthur decided
to go to library school at Columbia. He then landed a plum of a
job as a cataloger at the Widener Library of Harvard
University—and this was where he met his friend Ezra. However
much an academic library setting is congruent with the Arthur we
later knew, something in Arthur impelled him toward New York—and
he arrived at the New York Public Library in 1961—and he remained
there until his retirement in the mid-nineties.
He worked in the Picture Collection at the
Mid-Manhattan Library. Arthur had always loved pictures, and here
he was actually paid to collect them, to cut them out of
books and magazines to add to the collection. He also enjoyed
dealing with the public at his library desk. He became such a
revered figure there. Shortly before he retired a series of
cartoons by Art Spiegelman appeared in the New Yorker
featuring the Picture Collection and the famous Mr. Williams
sitting at the reference desk of the library. They will be on
display at our reception following the service.
But Arthur was more than a librarian—for while working
full time at NYPL, Arthur was also a playwright and an actor—and
he was the friend of many playwrights, composers, choreographers,
directors, and actors. He was connected with Al Carmines and the
theater crowd that was centered at Judson Memorial Church in the
Village. As Ezra notes, all of this took place in the “Off Off
Broadway” world, all of it south of 14th Street. I’ll
come back to this in a few moments.
Through all these years Arthur never left the
church—but he was never really affiliated with a local
congregation either. He often went to Quaker meetings. In the
mid 1980s Arthur moved to an apartment on Tenth Avenue—between 27th
and 28th Streets. And that was when he noticed Holy
Apostles. One day in the fall of 1985, he decided he should check
out this place. Well, that Sunday, I was still in my first year
of being rector here, and I was preaching that day. And, would
you believe, the sermon was about, among other things, sex. In
the light of what I might say today, it was a relatively tame
sermon, but it hit Arthur as nothing less than a thunderbolt. For
Arthur sensed that here was a church that was struggling to be
open and honest about all things—including sexuality—and
specifically affirming an inclusive vision of the church that
included recognizing and celebrating gay people in every aspect of
the church’s life.
Needless to say, Arthur came back to Holy Apostles—and
slowly but surely found himself a vital part of this community.
He was confirmed by Bishop Wetmore at Holy Apostles on May 7,
1986. He was home. And here he stayed.
His stern father, on learning how far Arthur had
strayed in becoming a confirmed Episcopalian, was reported to have
observed in horror, “We don’t hold with infant baptism!” But
even his stern father was happy that Arthur had finally found a
church home.
We soon discovered that amazing voice and presence that
Arthur had—and he became a lector and then one of the key
participants in the HART Company, the Holy Apostles Readers’
Theater, directed by one Cathy Roskam. In January of 1987, Arthur
was elected to the vestry and served as a member five years—until
he was elected a warden in 1992—an office he held until 1998.
Arthur was on the vestry when we lost the use of the church in
1989, he was here for the fire in 1990, and he served as a vestry
member or warden during the restoration of the church from 1990
through 1994, through our exile at General Seminary during those
same years. He was one of several volunteers who played a little
pump harmonium for our 9 a.m. Sunday service we held in the
Mission House when our main service was at General.
Arthur was on the Building Committee that determined
what the restored church was going to be like. He was on the
organ committee that worked long and hard in choosing a new organ
to replace our historic Casavant that was destroyed in the fire.
He was head of the Aspirants’ Committee, concerned with working
with those interested in pursuing ordination in the church. He
was simply a remarkable presence here in so many ways.
Several years ago, an errant bicycle messenger ran into
Arthur in front of his home—and Arthur never fully recovered from
that. And then, a year or two later, he had something like a
stroke—with major neurological surgery following, and he lost his
ability to speak for a good long while. He was also diagnosed
with a major heart condition for which open heart surgery was
recommended. Arthur would have none of that even though he knew
he could die at any time. But he had been through enough. He
ended up at Amsterdam House, just opposite the Cathedral. But
instead of soon dying, Arthur lived—and over a period of time
slowly began to recover his speech. I used to joke with him that,
apparently, God was not quite done with him yet. And he would
give me his sheepish grin of astonishment and delight.
And then last Thursday, Mother Liz visited Arthur, and
found the ever-faithful Thursday visitor, Chris Bonet, there. All
seemed well. But on Friday morning, Arthur had a kind of coughing
fit—he collapsed, and could not be revived—and suddenly, he was
gone. But we can rejoice that Arthur went the way he had hoped to
go—without more endless pain and suffering. He had lived one day
at a time, each day a gift from God, but ready—whenever God was to
call him home.
Now, in very rough outline, those were some of the
details of Arthur’s life. But what made Arthur really
special, was the amazing person who shone through those externals.
Arthur was a person of droll, dry wit. He was laid up
for an entire year as a teenager with tuberculosis. Far from
finding that problematic, he later reflected on how heavenly it
was to have “a whole year of bed rest, undisturbed.” In later
years, whenever we would see Arthur on a Sunday morning, shuffling
down the aisle after the service, his answer to an “Arthur, how
are you?” was either, “just barely,” or “old and tired.”
I used to take a sort of perverse delight in making
Arthur blanch—something he did regularly whenever I would refer to
him as “sage Arthur.” I think he blanched not only because he did
not consider himself that “sage,” but he knew it was always a
buildup to my asking him to do or take on something—for which he
would have to rouse himself.
Arthur was often a hit with a variety of ladies. Some
of you may remember Mary Langsam, a woman who was at Holy Apostles
for a time some years back. Mary always used to speak effusively
about “how wonderful” “Mr. Williams” was to her. She adored him.
Several women working at Amsterdam House were most fond of him as
well—and I would kid him, “Arthur, your turning into quite the
ladies man! ….Who would have known?!?” And Arthur would blanch in
a combination of horror, dismay, and delight.
We heard tell that in the Off Off Broadway part of
Arthur’s life, a quite different Arthur was evident than the one
we generally knew here. Some were privileged to hear about a film
or two Arthur was in—the character of which at least certain of
the clergy (including me) were not quite let in on.
Ezra tells of the play Arthur was in in which all the
characters, male and female, wore only what were called “white
porcelain, anatomical enhancements.”
In Venice two or three years ago, there were calendars
for sale at many newsstands, featuring nice young and very
attractive Roman priests in rather excessive and very fussy
ecclesiastical finery. Jane and I thought, this is the perfect
Christmas for several of our friends—including Arthur. I don’t
think I have ever seen Arthur light up the way he did opening that
calendar—most especially his delight in taking in “Father March.”
Arthur kept returning to March, long after it had passed. It was
a one calendar that could be placed on the wall of Arthur’s room
at Amsterdam House—and the general remark of those who did not
have eyes to see was, “oh, what a lovely calendar with such nice
young priests featured in it. What a wonderfully ‘religious’
person Mr. Williams must be to have such a calendar on his wall.”
And Arthur would tell the story with an amazingly broad grin on
his face.
When we were discussing renting the church to outside
groups, and maybe especially a regular congregation to help us
meet our daunting expenses, and we noted that such a group would
likely be much more conservative than we are—how could they not
be?—and the question was asked how he would be with that, Arthur’s
response was direct and practical. “As long as they paid their
bills, they could do anything they want—well, maybe I’d draw the
line if they started sacrificing goats on the altar.”
Arthur Williams was a character. Arthur Williams was a
phenomenon. Arthur Williams was unique. And Arthur Williams was
a man of deep, deep faith. In the complexity and
multi-dimensionality of his very being, he incarnated so very much
of what we hold of value in this place. Of a church that is not
narrow and unidimensional and strict and has everything “just so,”
but a church in process, in progress. A church that is open and
inclusive—and filled with grace and love.
Arthur, we will miss you. We do miss you. But we know
that you are home with the God who loves you, who cherishes you,
and who offers you, and offers all of us more than we can ask for
or imagine.
Amen.
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