REUNION
A Father and a Son Travel Through Fire and Ice

C. Jack Orr

In the memorable poem "Fire and Ice," Robert Frost debates the means of the world’s demise. He concludes that the world will likely end in fire, but concedes "if it had to perish twice . . . ice . . . would suffice." Our family worlds also teeter between blistering conflicts and cold detachments. This is the story of a father and son who found their way through fire and ice to dialogue and grace.

Father and Son

He was a builder of churches. His last was a country chapel beside an isolated crossroads. In the beginning, the congregation numbered only 15, but by his retirement, the membership had reached 1200. He was a church entrepreneur before the era of mega-churches. Without a seminary degree, he did not preach as "books enable, as synods use, as fashion guides, and as interests demand" (Ralph Waldo Emerson, "The Divinity School Address," p. 73 in D. M. Robinson, The Spiritual Emerson: Essential Writings, Beacon Press, 2003). He spoke from the power of his conversion and held a reputation for "soul-winning."

To most people he was a warm and likable person. He was my father. However, for 20 years there was a wall between us. Simply put, Father was a fundamentalist, whereas I was something else. In our history, all other considerations were moot. From my view, he had embraced a coercive ideology that filled my childhood with melancholy even as it caused him to see college-age questions as signs of disloyalty. Year by year we drifted apart exponentially. I kept track of his path from a distance. He had little knowledge of mine.

The "something else" I was becoming was a communication professor and a consultant. I specialized in helping others overcome the negative effects of authoritarian cultures. In this sense, at least, the child was father to the man.

In 1980, I took a different step in my specialty to become the minister of a congregation that claimed as its motto "A church that affirms, but also questions." My sermons focused on "religion in a new key," and explored the spiritual journeys of persons such as Emerson, Einstein, Kierkegaard, and Hammarskjöld.

So it happened that during the early 1980s my father and I were both ministers but wore different stripes. As I espoused religion in a new key, he preached the old-time faith in non-compromising tones.

A confrontation seemed both inevitable and undesirable. I had heard too many of my father’s sermons on "He who is not for us is against us." Why should I break the illusion of family harmony? Why go through the pain? After all, I was a communication professor; who is better equipped to prevent a truly intimate conversation?

So when Dad and I occasionally met, I sealed my opinions, talked sports, deciphered the weather, and listened without comment to his endless tales of soul-winning athleticism. It was wall work—intended to protect each from the other. Then during a family dinner in 1982, the wall took a hit.

Fire and Ice

The restaurant scene was not suited for a "heart-to-heart," but still it happened. Dad described how he had recently defended a fundamentalist celebrity against a liberal, Commie-loving attorney. I argued that it was fruitless to seek change from "people like that" and he countered that even a liberal lawyer could be overcome by the joy of the gospel.

With that I was overcome. I announced that "the gospel" had been less than joyful for me, since it was used to legitimize "senseless restrictions and unexamined ideas." The battle was enjoined. Heat conquered light, decibels rose, and diners were embarrassed as they pretended not to hear.

Mercifully, the check arrived and we stood to part. "Well, Dad," I said in a proper liberal voice, "we can at least agree to disagree. Let’s shake hands like congresspersons that battle on the House floor, then embrace."

I will never forget his response: "Then you would win."

Dad proposed that we close with prayer. I declined. It was a declaration of independence. No one sang "Jesus Calls Us O’er the Tumult."

Several months later I made a bid to heal the breach. Returning from a consulting trip in Colorado, I told Father that my clients were initially remote but had eventually cooperated to make the workshop a success. This set the stage for a carefully prepared compliment. "Dad, I could not handle difficult audiences apart from the speaking skills I gained from you. I want you to know that."

He responded with a blank stare, mumbled an "Ah" or "Huh," averted his eyes, shifted the subject, and started talking about someone he had recently "won to Christ." I had been dismissed I thought. Without asking for an interpretation of his response, I decided that thereafter our meetings would be benign but cool. No more fire; ice would suffice.

Dialogue

Three years had passed before the ice began to thaw. In 1985, I considered leaving the church for a return to teaching. I sought the advice of Dr. Barbara Krasner, an advocate for Martin Buber’s vision of dialogue (see I. Boszomenyi-Nagy and B. Krasner, Between Give and Take, Brunner-Routledge, 1986).

Barbara teaches that direct address between adults and their parents is the key to the well-being of both. That is, as children we cannot imagine the complex motives behind our parents’ actions. We lack an adequate sense of context. As adults, we often continue to view parents through childhood eyes; indeed, we may dangerously project these views on parental substitutes such as bosses or spouses. Good relationships require a revision of how we thought as a child.

Such revision, however, is not gained by insight alone. It requires a respectful turning toward our parents—directly asking for their views on the family’s past—even as we create with them terms for engagement in the here and now. In dialogue we walk the narrow ridge between self-affirmation and consideration for the other. Barbara urged me to begin a dialogue with my father.

Back then I saw her views as wacky in general and especially off-target for me. "Barbara, you don’t know my dad," I insisted. "He doesn’t listen."

"Ask for his attention," she said. I usually impress the average counselor but this one was unyielding. "Ask for your father’s perspective on your early years. You don’t need to agree with him, but hear him. Ask him how he made vocational decisions. Ask him to listen to your story. Ethically and spiritually, it’s the right thing to do."

At last Barbara prevailed. I initiated the recommended conversation. "Dad, you watched me grow up. I am interested in your view. What kind of a child was I?"

To my surprise he answered, "You were an adult before you were a child. I depended on you to be a model parishioner. You shouldered burdens beyond your years." He even noticed the pew time I clocked as a kid. I never suspected that my interests registered on the radar screen of his ministry.

The dialogue continued as Dad explained his fear that my Ph.D. had created an insurmountable barrier between us. He felt silenced by my education as I felt silenced by his religion. Apparently he believed that within the realm of "advanced learning" his contributions counted as nothing.

He recalled the day of my Colorado compliment. "Do you remember the time when you returned from Boulder and you said something about public speaking and dealing with hostile clients?"

"Yes," I replied, "I’m surprised that you remembered."

He continued, "When you left that day, I said to your mother, ‘I think that was a compliment.’ We weren’t sure, so we prayed and agreed that it was. We’ve told everyone how wonderful it was to be complimented by you!"

With the help of prayer, Dad had eked out a compliment that I had believed was clearly sent and immaculately received but casually brushed aside. Three years had passed before this misperception was put into words. During that time, Dad had not told me about the prayerful epiphany he shared with "everyone" nor had I asked him for his thoughts on an incident I read as final proof of our perpetual alienation. I was learning that in family life, as elsewhere, "we have not because we ask not, or because we ask amiss."

After the door to dialogue opened, Dad and I visited more often and enjoyed a new vitality in our talks. In his words, we were becoming "a family again." One barrier remained. It took three more years to risk a discussion of religion. Would bringing religious opposition into our reunion destroy it, or take us to deeper levels of trust?

Grace

Finally I approached the subject that was central to years of anger and isolation. "Dad, we’ve become much closer. Yet there is one barrier that stands between us—religion." He nodded as I continued. "I do not want to argue with your faith. It has served you well and you have made it a blessing for others. But I would like you to hear about my spiritual journey." He gestured a willingness to listen.

What followed was a candid description of my childhood religious regrets as well as the Emerson-like resolutions I embrace as an adult. Much that I said was difficult for Father to hear, but he listened. Ironically, (and I want to emphasize this to parents who may now worry about their children’s religion) my father was never a more effective witness for his faith than on the day he listened to my story.

After he listened, we talked. We looked at disagreements and past disappointments. We spoke from the "I" that describes experience and avoided the "you" that precedes accusations.

This conversation was not about affixing blame, or vindication, or winning, or giving in, or compromising. We searched for the positive intentions that almost always rested behind our mutually confusing behavior. Piece by piece we worked our way through two spiritual histories—his and mine—asking questions, gaining insights and being surprised. In the end, we composed from fire and ice a legacy of reconciliation.

In time, Dad would share with me not only his faith but also the questions that made it vital. Gone was my passé fear of being named prodigal son of the year. I was free to recall the fuller range of family life. It had not only been indoctrination but stories told, games played, songs sung, affections expressed, and the day-to-day maintenance of responsibility without which a child’s house does not become a home.

Paradoxically, the preaching that pushed me out the door to become "something else" also led me to seek new creation, abundant life, and the truth that sets us free. Today, as a parent, I trust that when my children and grandchildren bring to me the defining questions of their lives I will hear them as well as my father at last heard me. I also hope to exemplify for them a strength of conviction that they can move against or move toward in their quest for newness of life.

All relationships are fragmented and flawed. Perfection is not possible; blame does not help; family detachment is an illusion. But here and there, between I and Thou, we are given grace to discern the "Something that does not love a wall" (Robert Frost in "The Mending Wall").

Father wanted to preach until the day that he died. He did. On April 9, 1993, he delivered the Good Friday sermon, "Today thou shalt be with me in Paradise." He joined in singing a congregational hymn and slipped into eternity.

Over a thousand people attended his memorial. Many spoke of life transformations experienced through his preaching. I remembered most the moments when he listened.

—C. Jack Orr, West Chester, Pennsylvania, is Professor of Communication Studies at West Chester University. He wishes to acknowledge the friendship and wisdom of Dr. Barbara Krasner, who made reunion possible.