Long-time Irvingtonian, Ray Stewart, Dies
By: Robert L. Friedly
Friends jokingly referred to Ray E. Stewart with the apparent oxymoron “militant Quaker.” Even at an advanced age, the former Irvington resident did not tolerate what he believed to be injustice. In his 80s, he wore sandwich board signs in downtown Indianapolis while solo picketing against war, unfair treatment of the Palestinians and even the Friends United Meeting — the latter over an internal Quaker matter. He was a frequent writer of letters to editors and to the President. Stewart, still enormously active, died Jan. 20 just a few months short of his 90th birthday,Activism belied a gentle spirit in Ray Stewart. He had a marvelous sense of humor, loved to bake pies, and lovingly cared for his wife Marjorie as she suffered from Alzheimer's disease before her death a number of years ago. The Stewarts lived on North Sheridan, raising three children, and later on the parkway south of Pleasant Run Golf Course. He was for 28 years a utilization coordinator with Indiana Gas Company. Stewart was the “Ray” of the first chapter title in Quaker author Phil Gulley’s Home Town Tales of Hoosier life. In the book, Gulley remembers Ray grilling him about his theology when Gulley first became a minister. They became best friends and Gulley delivered the eulogy at a memorial to Stewart Feb. 4 in First Friends meeting on Kessler Blvd. Gulley told more than 200 in attendance that Ray Stewart had rescued his theology from fundamentalism. Noted Quaker theologian Elton Trueblood and Ray Stewart had a memorable exchange on the pages of Quaker Life magazine in the 1960s and 70s. Trueblood supported the Vietnam War and Stewart, though a World War II Army Air Corps veteran, was fiercely opposed to it. An unabashed liberal though reared in Protestant fundamentalism, Stewart closed out his life attending the Unitarian-Universalist Church in Danville, Indiana, having moved to the west side of town. Earlier he had been a founding member of the Hopewell Friends meeting in Straughn, Indiana. Stewart's liberal theology often put him at odds with more traditional Christians. He believed, among other things, that a loving God would not have required a “blood sacrifice” of Jesus in order to bring salvation. Stewart was a member of the American Civil Liberties Union to which memorial contributions were made. He met regularly with a "Jesus Seminar" theological study group on Indianapolis' northeast side. The children he raised in Irvington included daughter Ann Stewart-Furbeck, now living on the city's northwest side, son Mark of Cincinnati, Ohio, and daughter Karen Stewart of Neptune Beach, Fla. He has two granddaughters. _________________________________________________ Ray Stewart Memorial Service, February 4, 2006 Eulogy by Phil Gulley I met Ray in 1990, when I became the pastor of Irvington Friends Meeting. Within two weeks of my arrival, Ray stopped by one Sunday morning to assess my theology. I was enrolled in seminary at the time, accustomed to the nuanced exchange of theological discourse. But Ray had a way of shining through the fog. “I’m Ray Stewart,” he said, shaking my hand. “Most Quaker pastors I’ve met don’t know their theology. I’ve come to see if you’re any better.” Thus began our friendship. Some people are saved by Mohammed, some by Buddha, others by Jesus. I was saved by Ray. He came along just as I was tempted to abandon the hard way of Jesus for the soft bed of civic religion. It would have been so easy to bed down with the institution, to always have the smooth word, to substitute diplomacy for truth, to turn a blind eye toward narrow faith and shallow practice, but Ray Stewart wouldn’t let me. “Don’t be a pisswilly,” he said. “Don’t lose the wrinkles in your belly and start voting Republican. Don’t get rich and forget the poor.” And just in case I was tempted to forget, he would ply me weekly with articles from The Nation and The Christian Century. I went to seminary, but my education began with Ray. Eventually, Ray and I not only shared the same theology, we had many of the same enemies. Ray was a pedal-to-the-metal Quaker liberal, a member of the ACLU and the bane of fundamentalists everywhere. When Quakers who should have led with servant’s hearts grew pompous and arrogant, Ray called them “bishops”. When they ordered him to fall into line, he informed them that he was “his own man.” He had other words for them too, words I can’t say in a Quaker meetinghouse. There are people who didn’t know Ray well, who saw him only occasionally, protesting against war, picketing at the FUM Triennial sessions or taking Elton Trueblood to task in the pages of Quaker Life. Some of those people dismissed him as a crank. They couldn’t have been more wrong. Because if you knew Ray well, you knew also that catch in his voice as he talked about his children or spoke of his granddaughters, Rachel and Hannah, how tenderly he cared for Marjorie in her final years. You knew he took in hurt, lonely or peculiar people like some people take in stray dogs. I went to the hospital to sit with Ray the day he died. He was weakened by then, but could still speak. I pulled up a chair next to his bed. We both knew he was dying, that this would likely be our last time together. We talked about our children. "Have you ever had to apologize to your children?” he asked me. “Oh, yes. Several times.” “One day, Karen backed out of the driveway and scraped the car against the garage. I charged outside and chewed her out. Then I went in and read the newspaper about a man whose daughter had died and when Karen came home I hugged her and told her I was sorry, that it was just sheet metal and paint and not to worry about it. Don’t ever be too proud to apologize, Philip.” And that was my last classroom session with Ray. Even though Ray was an unprogrammed Quaker and had a low regard for paid ministry, I never felt personally judged. Though right up to the end Ray made his priorities clear. “I want Gulley to preach my memorial service,” he told his children, “but don’t pay him a dime.” He first asked me to speak at his memorial service about five years ago. Ray liked to plan ahead. He sent me an essay called The Smile of the World, written by the English writer and statesman, John Morley. Ray asked if I would read it when he “shuffled off to glory,” so I set it aside, hoping that day would never come. Ray always seemed so vigorous and vital, I had hoped he might be exempt from death. The Smile of the World, by John Morley “And what is this smile of the world, to win which we are bidden to sacrifice our moral manhood; this frown of the world, whose terrors are more awful than the withering up of truth and the slow going out of light within the souls of us? Consider the triviality of life and conversation and purpose, in the bulk of those whose approval is held out for our prize and the mark of our high calling. Measure, if you can, the empire over them of prejudice unadulterated by a single element of rationality, and weigh, if you can, the huge burden of custom, unrelieved by a single leavening particle of fresh thought. Ponder the share which selfishness and love of ease have in the vitality and the maintenance of the opinions that we are forbidden to dispute. Then how pitiful a thing seems the approval or disapproval of these creatures of the conventions of the hour, as one figures the merciless vastness of the universe of matter sweeping us headlong through viewless space; as one hears the wail of misery that is forever ascending to the deaf gods; as one counts the little tale of the years that separate us from eternal silence. In the light of these things, a man should surely dare to live his small span of life with little heed of the common speech upon him or his life, only caring that his days may be full of reality, and his conversation of truth-speaking and wholeness.” If I could sit down with Ray one more time, I would tell him that when he died, a part of me died with him. And is with him now. Just as a part of him is with me now, and also with you. Ray Stewart was a gift from God. Theologically, I know that is true of all people, but it seemed especially true of Ray. He dared to live his small span of life with little heed of the common speech upon him, only caring that his days were filled with reality, his conversation filled with truth and wholeness. I have a friend in Danville who worked at the gas company with Ray. Last year, at a retiree’s dinner, he saw Ray. He asked Ray how long he’d been retired and Ray told him. “Say, you’ve been retired long enough to become a Republican.” Ray drew himself up - I can just picture this, can’t you? - and said, “I might have retired, but I didn’t lose my damned mind.” I’m not sure how men like Ray are made, but our world is in sore need of them. But I believe in the principle of replacement, that somewhere on this bright orb, on January 20, 2005 a child was born, who will in his or her small span of life, take up where Ray left off. But until that child is able to assume Ray’s mantle, the job falls to us: to bind the broken, to speak truth to power, to root for the underdog, to befriend widows and orphans, and with dogged and charming grace, irritate fundamentalists everywhere. |
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