Gifts from my Father

In Memory of Dr. J. Christian Wilson, 1945-2024

My father’s favorite thing in life, besides spending time with his wife, children, and grandchildren, was opening people’s minds to the wonders and complexity of Christianity. He was an ordained minister in the United Methodist Church, a Duke PhD in Biblical Studies, and a college professor of Religious Studies.

Dad was not an ordinary minister or professor. He brought intellectual rigor and scholarly curiosity to everything he did. He taught at a small college in central North Carolina for many years, and there he encountered many students who came from fundamentalist Christian backgrounds. Some would find his classes offensive or confusing, as he taught a more complicated view of the Bible and Christian history than they had been taught in Southern Baptist and other churches. Some found a new appreciation and interest in the Bible and their own faith. Some even changed denominations, or pursued careers in ministry. The reach of his teaching extends today, in ways we do not even know about.

He was also a beloved Sunday school teacher in the churches where he and my step-mother Marianne attended every Sunday. At Christ Church in Greensboro, NC, he taught Sunday school for many years. He also taught at Duke Chapel, where he and my mother were married five years before I was born, as well as in Chapel Hill. Marianne told me about how men whose wives dragged them to church came to be interested in Christianity because of my Dad’s Sunday school classes. My Dad never spoke from notes: neither do I, neither does my Mom. (Someone tried to get me to speak from notes he had written in October. That didn’t happen. I have never and will never speak from notes, mine or someone else’s. But we are still friends!) Dad’s Sunday school was like a college course. He would use a map and show people the places in the Holy Land where the scripture was taking place. He had such a deep understanding, yet he was always clear that he didn’t have all the answers.

My Dad also taught courses on Israel. Readers of my Substack know that my Dad is probably the single biggest force behind the Zionism that comes naturally to me. He taught me about Israel from as early as I can remember. I was about thirteen when he gave me Exodus by Leon Uris and The Source by James Mitchner. I fell in love with Ari Ben Canaan and the land of Israel, home of our ancestors, land that is holy to so much of the world. I remember reading the books while I waited for Dad to teach a class. I spent a lot of my childhood reading while my parents taught classes. I wouldn’t trade it for anything.

He took students to Israel. I never could go because I was either in school or working. I have few regrets, but one is that I never went on one of those trips. I’d love to go to the Holy Land with my father, though I know what we would argue about. He would want to see PLACES and I would want to meet PEOPLE! I’d be arranging coffee and lunch and Shabbat dinner and anything else Israelis do to socialize, and he’d be wanting to take me to this site and that. He floated in the Dead Sea - we would both like that. I believe that when I finally make it to Israel, no matter how circuitous my route may be, my dad will be with me, watching me see the places he loved, pray in the places where he prayed. He will be proud in heaven when I can speak Hebrew, something he never mastered, though he read ancient Hebrew well.

My Dad was a great teacher, beloved by students of all ages. He taught Biblical studies, Sunday school, and a class on wine and classical music. If he had knowledge, he wanted to share it. He was intellectual but not off-putting. He was never snobbish about what he knew, rather he wanted to help others gain appreciation for all the complexity of the world, whether it was the flavors in a wine or the notes in a piece of music or a passage of Scripture.

He had a few party tricks that I thought were particularly fun. He could recite the Roman Emperors and their dates of reign, all of them. I used to ask him to do this while we ate pasta and garlic bread at Milton’s Pizza during his visits to me in Raleigh, NC, when I was maybe in middle school. I never tired of hearing the emperors in order. Another favorite trick was that if you read a passage from the New Testament, he could instantly tell you the book, chapter and verse number. I get my memory from him.

My dad loved art, theater and music. When I was a child, he and my step-mother took me to ballets, plays, and the symphony. I got my love of the arts from my dad. I minored in art history at Yale, majored in theater (as a stage manager) at Interlochen, and eventually wrote plays and took pictures of flowers. When he and Marianne came to visit me in Philly in 2022, we went to hear the Philadelphia Orchestra play Rachmaninoff 5. It was incredibly moving. He said it was one of the best nights of his life.

My dad was so proud when I went to Yale. He always valued learning and education and encouraged me to try for the best school I could get into. My mom did the research on what tests I would have to take and courses I would need to have to even have a chance at the Ivy’s. I did it. I graduated from Yale, where I met many of my best friends, in 1996.

One year, my dad sent my tuition check in the mail to me (I would pay it to Yale - I was on massive scholarship and all the loans, but he still paid a lot) along with a packet of tarragon. We both loved to cook, and I couldn’t find tarragon at the local markets in New Haven. The check failed to arrive for weeks, so eventually my dad cancelled the check and sent another. Eventually the check arrived, in an envelope that had been torn open but taped back together. No tarragon. Years later I figured out that the postal service probably thought the humble tarragon was cannabis. No, I just wanted a key ingredient in the tarragon chicken salad from the cookbook my dad gave me for that birthday.

We shared a love of cooking and liked to exchange recipes. He cooked for my step-mother and told me what was on the menu every night. One of the hardest things about his illness, pulmonary fibrosis, was when being on oxygen made it impossible for him to grill. As his illness progressed he could no longer cook or grocery shop, two of his favorite things. I imagine him in heaven, walking up and down every aisle of the heavenly Wegman’s, looking at everything and planning dinners for my step-mother when (I hope a long time from now!) she joins him in God’s heavenly rest. My dad’s idea of paradise was what he had during is last years on earth: a peaceful home with his wife and sweet dog, reading a page of the Hebrew Bible in Hebrew and a page of the New Testament in Greek every morning, cooking dinner at night, with some grocery shopping in between.

My Dad helped me through struggles that no parent wants to face, as did my mom and step-mother. At tremendous emotional and financial cost, my father, step-mother and mother gave me a chance to build my life back from serious trauma and illness. They did not give up on me where many parents gave up on their children. I think my Dad died knowing that I am okay: I am held in the arms of our G-d and two worldwide families.

He was so proud of my Zionist writings. He intuited that my manicure, with blue nails and a silver glitter accent, was the Israeli flag. When I told him this Thanksgiving about my growing subscriber base among Jewish and Zionist readers, he said one simple thing: “This is good.”

We had a good laugh about the people who throw around the term “settler colonialist.” I felt safe as a Zionist at my dad’s house. Supporting Israel was as obvious to him as drinking a glass of water. He believed in Western civilization, in Jewish culture and learning, and in the history of Christianity that was born out of the Jewish world. My dad was never an activist, and was sometimes concerned about the consequences of my activism, but he was proud to see me speaking out in support of our Jewish brothers and sisters. Perhaps I can carry out his legacy in a way he was not constitutionally set up to do. I am outspoken and walk head on into conflict. Dad - not so much. But he taught, and I do too.

He is survived by my step-mother, to whom he was married for 42 years. His favorite day of his last days was their 42nd anniversary. They ordered take out steaks from their favorite restaurant and had a wonderful dinner. He was so happy telling me about the dinner the next day. He loved Marianne so much. They were rarely apart, usually in the same room, like a bonded pair of cats. He also loved their grandchildren, Madeline and Jack. I am so fortunate that my step-brother John and his amazing wife Jessica provided the grandchildren that I never would have. Dad was not a cat person and never saw more than a quick glance of Loviefluffy. But he was happy that she makes me happy.

My father gave me so many gifts: my memory, my aptitude for languages and history, my love of the arts, my connection to Israel, and half of my family: Marianne, John, Jessica, Madeline, Jack and Sunny. And Roxie the sweet little dog who is taking care of Marianne during these times that are so hard I can barely imagine them.

When I began to attend synagogue and think of converting, my Dad suddenly turned into a weird Christian/Jewish father. “Did you go to services? What was the sermon about? Did you go to Torah Study? How do they teach it?” He loved my stories and pictures of the beautiful old synagogue. He just wanted me to be in a faith community, and if I was a Jew, that would have been just fine.

My Israeli friend has speculated that there may be Jewish ancestry on my father’s side. For many a Southern family, there is a gap in the family tree that sometimes turns out to be Jewish immigrants who quickly hid their identify. We know my grandmother’s last name was changed to Windsor, that wasn’t their real name. Were they Jewish, somewhere back there?

There are ways to find out, but I don’t need to know. In a way that is very Christian, and very Dr. J. Christian Wilson, it is not about blood to me. It is about faith. The faith of my father, the faith of our ancestors, all the way back to Jacob wrestling with G-d and before, is where I come from. My faith traced through generation after generation that wrestled with G-d and the world. My father who lived to explain that faith is not simple but it is beautiful in all of its unanswered questions.

He died in peace. He knew we would be okay. His brother, Dr. Gerald Wilson, the longest serving professional employee ever at Duke and a beloved American history professor and pre-law dean, died in September. I suspect that Gerald was there to pick Dad up at the end and take him to peace in G-d’s eternal rest.

We thought we would have more time. I think we always think we will have more time. I had plans to go for this 80th birthday. I am so happy that my step-mother wants me to come and we will celebrate his birthday together and with the family. He hated to see us cry but we can cry now. I remember the day I met her, and how impressed I was that she was a kindergarten teacher. I remember how nervous he was when he told me they were getting married. I was like, “Obviously Dad. Marianne is the best thing that could happen to you.” I was eight and wore a cute dress in their wedding. She has been a true parent to me, and though we are different in many ways, we seem to get closer as the years pass. It’s wonderful to share memories of my dad with the person who knew him best.

My mom loved him too, very much. They always had a good relationship, and as a former hospice chaplain she was able to help them and me with the last months of his life. I’m so grateful that they were always friends and raised me with three parents, not a broken home.

My father was never the kind of firebrand activist that I can be, and I think he held out hope that I’d settle down a bit as I aged. I have - at fifty I don’t have the energy I had at 21 or 38 - but he was proud as I threw my energy into advocating for Israel and against antisemitism.

When I finally feel those wheels start to turn as the plane takes off for the airport near Tel Aviv, my father will be with me. We will pray together in the Holy Land.

My friend Jill who writes The Liberal Jew kindly asked if there is a charity that my dad asked people to donate to in his memory. My step-mother said they donated to different things every year and he didn’t really have a favorite. I’m pretty sure he’d love to support charities that do meaningful work in Israel, so I asked my friend Arnie, who works in helping people effectively spend their philanthropy money to support Israel, for a list. Here is what he gave me: https://draimanconsulting.com/my-favorite-mitzvah-heroes/ If anyone would like to give in memory of Dr. J. Christian Wilson, I’m sure he’d be delighted that you support any of these.

I am amazed and humbled at the outpouring of support and love from my worldwide family. Even though we have never met, I feel your love and I appreciate you every day.

“May his memory be a blessing,” we say when someone has passed.

My dad’s life was a blessing, and his memory is too.

Love you Dad. Thank you for the books you gave me last Christmas.