A very good friend of mine, a man whom I only knew for the final six or seven years of his life, died five years ago today. I learned a lot from him; he is still a very real presence in my life. Here is what I wrote in tribute to Ivan Kauffman on the day of his funeral in late July 2015.
Monday morningโearly. The 30thย Street Amtrak station in Philadelphia is not the sort of place I normally find myself at 5:00 AM on a Monday morning. Iย have not done a lot of train travelling and have never done so overnight, but today is different than any other day. The only way to make it on time to my friend Ivan Kauffmanโs funeral this morning was to take the red-eye from Providence. And thereโs no way Iโm missing Ivanโs funeralโhe was special. One of a kind. Unique. All of the things that traditionally get said about people who have just died. Except that in Ivanโs case they all are true.
Ivan lived a long and full lifeโI met him when he was seventy. It was during my Spring 2009 sabbaticalโIvan and I were both โresident scholarsโ at the Collegeville Institute for Ecumenical and Cultural Research in Minnesota.ย I knew that Ivan and Lois were a different breed than I had ever encountered when I found out that they were โMennonite Catholics.โ That made about as much sense to me as โEvangelical Unitarianโ or โMuslim Jew,โ but I soon discovered that Ivan embodied this strange confluence. He was a bridge builder, seeking to connect traditions vastly different in their practices but deeply rooted in shared mysteries of the Christian faith. An academic, scholar, poet, advocate and activistโIvan was passion and conviction incarnate.
I donโt meet and get to know new people easily, but Ivan โgotโ me more quickly than just about any person I have ever met. We had amazingly similar backgrounds and youthsโhis father was a well-known preacher in Mennonite circles while mine was a preaching rock star in his corner of the Baptist world. Ivan understood everything that being a โPKโ entails in a way that only card-carrying members of that special club can.ย Ivan and I shared a commitment to ideas and philosophical discussion, a love for writing, a distaste and ineptitude for small talk, and a full appreciation of adult beverages (usually wine for him and scotch for Lois and me).
One brief exchange during lunch at a coffee shop in St. Joseph, MNย encapsulates Ivan for me. In the midst of a typically dense and intense conversation, Ivan pronounced in his usual stentorian tone that โThe heart of Christianity is what you believe about the stories. Do you believe the stories are true or donโt you? Yes or No? And if you say โlet me think about it,โ thatโs the same as saying No!โ This was not directed at me specificallyโIvan was just drawing a line in the sand, as those of us who knew and loved him expected him to do. But I remember thinking โIโm in trouble. Because not only am I not sure about whether my answer to his question is โyes,โ โno,โ โlet me think about it,โ or even โwhich stories are you referring to?โโIโm inclined to say that โit doesnโt matter.โโ
Ivan and I frequently agreed to disagree on important issues, the sorts of issues and disagreementsย that sometimes end friendships before they begin. But I learned and practiced the skill of โachieving disagreementโ over the years with Ivan. He had very strong beliefs and opinions, but was also ready and willing to learn something new and to change. He was a careful and effective debater who gave as well as he took. Ivan did not suffer fools gladly, yet could be extraordinarily patient and generous.ย He could sniff out insincerity like a moral bloodhound. Hours of conversations with Ivan helped me not only to crystallize my own beliefs and commitments but also to learn how to communicate them without fear. Because Ivan was fearless and his courage was contagious.
Lois became my Morning Prayer buddy at Collegeville, trudging up the half-mile hill to the Abbey from our Institute apartments in sub-zero temperatures morning after morning just to read psalms and pray with the monks. Ivan was with us in spirit as he snored in the comfort of their apartmentโnot an early morning person. But Ivanโs spiritual antennae were attuned to the strange and wonderful behavior of the Holy SpiritโโBig Birdโ as Ivan, Lois, Jeanne, and I called herโin deep and profound ways. Ivan defined a โmiracleโ as โsomething that everyone says will never, ever, ever happen and it happens anyways.โ I consider Ivanโs presence in my life to be one of those miracles. He recognized early on, perhaps before I did, that deep down I was dealing with a full-blown spiritual crisis and was the first to note that, against all odds, things were changing for me. โYouโre not the same person you were when you showed up a couple of months ago,โ he said one cold March day. And he was rightโI wasnโt. Ivan and Lois were both witnesses to and catalysts for these changesโI am forever grateful.
Jeanne met Ivan and Lois when she visited Collegeville over Easter Break, and the connection was immediate. Over the subsequent years we visited them in Washington D.C. a couple of times, they came individually and together to us in Providence and, most often, we hung out with them in Minnesota, including during a Christmas blizzard. Minnesota grabbed them so strongly that they never left until just a couple of months before Ivanโs passing. Jeanne and Ivan often butted heads over the importance of Catholic hierarchyโIvan as a Catholic convert and Jeanne as a cradle Catholic had quite different perspectives on any number of things Catholic. One day Lois and I returned from noon prayer to find Ivan and Jeanne in the midst of a deep and intense conversation. They were role playingโIvan was playing the role of the Pope, and Jeanne was challenging him to account for any number of things from papal infallibility through an all-male priesthood to the prohibition of contraceptives. Pope Ivan essentially told Lois and I that their conversation was importantโwe could either leave or be present but silent. Far be it from me to contradict a papal edict.
A couple of take-aways from this morningโs funeral. After a red-eye train trip, two subways and one twenty- minute bus ride through a very sketchy part of Philadelphia, I was thrilled to see Abbot John Klassen, monk in charge of St. Johnโs Abbey in Collegeville where Lois, Ivan and I spent dozens of hours together, at the front of the church. John is at least six-foot fourโin his abbot getup he looks like one of the beautiful cranes who hang out in the various Minnesota lakes. After his usual bear-monk hug, we compared Ivan notes.ย John had travelled farther than I to be at the funeral, but shared my feelingsโโThere is no place in the universe that I was going to be this morning other than here,โ he said. The Abbot told me a great Ivan story I had never heard. When Ivan and Lois visited St. Peterโs Basilica in Rome for the first time many years ago, Ivan looked around at the gaudy, baroque splendor and asked โIs all of this really necessary?โ The Mennonite trumped the Catholic on that occasion.
The first reading during the funeral mass was from the prophet Micah. I had no idea that my favorite passage from the Jewish scriptures was also Ivanโs.
He has showed you, O mortal, what is goodโand what does the Lord require of you but to do justly, love mercy, and walk humbly with your God?
More than anyone I have ever known, Ivan lived that verse to its fullest. Rest in peace, Ivanโand say hi to Big Bird. Iโll be seeing you soon