Ring the bells that still can ring

Ring the bells that still can ring November 17, 2005

Dwight Ozard died Monday.

I met Dwight in the basement of Eastern Baptist Theological Seminary. He had come to Philadelphia from London, Ontario, in order to study and to change the world. He took the reins of Prism magazine and turned it into an "alternative evangelical voice" and something that mattered. I learned more in that basement, working with Dwight on the magazine, than I did in the classrooms upstairs. Those years were a joy. Dwight left Prism for Americus, Ga., where for several years he led Habitat for Humanity's communications department, eventually returning to Philly to work for evangelist/activist Tony Campolo.

And then he got sick. For the last four years Dwight battled his cancer with grace and gratitude (his cancer journals are online here), always providing more encouragement to others than we provided to him.

Dwight was a good man and a good friend and, in the truest sense, a good Christian. It's too soon for me to write more here, but here's a snippet from an e-mail sent by singer-songwriter Patsy Moore who, like Dwight, has been battling cancer:

But it was always really much more than the C-word which connected us.  It was bent humor, an ever-pervasive sense of Spirit, frustration with North American (anti)culture, full-on ardor for gourmet cuisine with precisely complementary fruit of the vine, our inquisitive underbellies, and our deep, deep love of all things Johnny Cash. It was the need to quote Homer Simpson as often as C.S. Lewis and the belief that universal Truth might be discovered in both places. I loved Dwight because he understood that God lives in humble mountain chapels and James Brown's rebel yell.

He, without knowing it, taught me so many lessons … about facing an insidious disease with grace and, yes, comedy … about being a voice for the voiceless … about putting my hands to work for those in need … about writing my heart … about loving without judgement, for that is exactly the way he loved me.

The last time we spoke — not so long ago — I hung up with the overwhelming feeling that it just might be the last time we'd speak. He sounded weak and, at times, disoriented. He asked me to tell him a story about a conversation I'd recently had and, when I finished, there was a brief silence before he cried out in a frightened and abrupt manner, "Patsy? Are you there?"

"Yes," I replied.

"I'm so sorry!" he whimpered. "I think I fell asleep!"

"That's OK," I said.

"But, no! No, it's not! It's … it's … that was a horrible thing to do! I don't know what's wrong with me!"

"Dwight," I said, trying to calm him down. "It really is OK. Get some sleep. This is me. I've been there. I understand."

But he didn't seem willing to forgive himself. He just kept telling me how sorry he was and how much he loved me.

In his pain … his illness … his discomfort, he was concerned about seeming like a bad friend. Something he never, ever was. Not to me.

Rest in peace, Dwight. You were a giant among men.


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