The Right Reverend Jane Holmes Dixon Grief and Gratitude

by Rev. Dr. C. Welton Gaddy

          The death of Bishop Jane Holmes Dixon has left me with a swirling mixture of emotions without precedent in my personal experiences. Gratitude for her life and gifts comes easily. But so do selfishness related to the enjoyment of her presence, protest aimed at giving her up, and disappointment fed by recognition of the need for her conscience and influence in the realms of both religion and politics at this crucial moment in our nation. I know, too, the hurtful impact Jane’s death will have on her family. Some empty places simply cannot be refilled.

         In addition to losing a collegial religious leader of immeasurable influence, an integral participant in Interfaith Alliance—as a board member, chair of the board, staff member, major donor, encourager, and program person—I also lost a confidante, a wise strategist, a pastor, a truth-teller, and a supporter all wrapped up in a much-loved personal friend. That hurts.

         Jane and I kept a somewhat erratic breakfast schedule, both of us knowing that time together was as essential as it was enjoyable. Jane and Dixie (her husband) and Judy (my wife) and I relished Mexican dinners together in which the laughter was always as rich and lasting as the salsa on my tie. Whether alone or with our spouses, no subjects were off the table, and sheer honesty was the common thread in our conversations. Judy and I spent the Election Day evenings of the past two presidential elections in Jane and Dixie’s home with others of their closest friends. Most remarkable, however, was the reality that this woman was true to her convictions and identity regardless of the topic of discussion and the number of people involved in it.

         Many times, Jane and I reflected on our shared experience of growing up in the deep South and forever having to grapple with the racism, parochialism, and closed-mindedness of some of the people who were/are most important in our lives. We both laughed and grieved over that heritage—wanting badly to see a better day in the regions in which we lived as children.

         Jane loved the Episcopal Church with all of its liturgical beauty and drama—I smiled as I thought how proud she must be knowing that she quietly died in her sleep on a Christmas Day morning. Yet, she never was out of touch with the poorest and weakest of people in that communion or people related to no communion at all. Jane knew the best of many worlds and never lost her focus on justice in any of them. Dixie once told me that Jane was the only person he knew who would have her nails done before going to march in a protest.

            Last month, Jane was the person chosen to present to me Interfaith Alliance’s Walter Cronkite Faith & Freedom Award—the award I had been privileged to present to her a year earlier.   She was so herself on both occasions, last month confessing to me her reticence to giving another award to an older white man given how many people of color and outstanding women had been overlooked for awards through the years. That she had that thought did not surprise me. That she made an exception for me, thrilled. But, honestly, I was even more thrilled by the ringing truth of her repetitive high call for fairness and justice. That is who she was. That is who all who knew her and loved her and wanted to be like her, must be.

         Several months ago, when our oldest son was in the hospital for surgery to remove a malignant mass from his body, Jane showed up in the hospital room—as a pastor-priest, yes, but more so as a caring personal friend, a mother who knew what it feels like to see one of your children threatened, and a wonderful human being. She showed such respect for his feelings; her concern for him was transparent. No surprise, this was Jane Holmes Dixon wherever she found herself, whatever she was doing, whenever someone needed her.

         A few years ago, in my sermon for All Saints Day, I talked about Jane as one of my heroes—not just in faith, but in all of life. When I could finally speak after hearing of her death, I told Judy that I did not know anybody else as good as, and certainly not better than, Jane. “She simply was the best person I know; it was a honor for us to be her friend,” I said. “There was no one else like her,” Judy said. Jane would have protested vigorously and been uncomfortable, but it would have been one of the few times in her life that Jane Holmes Dixon had been wrong.