Jamaica Died

Jamaica died. Funny, that seems such a trifle thing to say, but it is true. Jamaica died. My friend, the Rev. Paul Turner, called to tell me the news. Jamaica died.

This did not make the evening news. There are not going to be scores of people at his funeral. But he will be missed; he will be missed because Jamaica was one of a kind, an original, unique, never to be forgotten by those who really knew him.

He was an attraction around the neighborhood of the inner-city church where I was pastor. When Jamaica walked down the streets everyone knew it was Jamaica walking down the streets. Jamaica’s attire could not be missed. On any given Wednesday, or Thursday or Friday, for that matter, you might see Jamaica strolling along singing some tune at the top of his voice for an audience of himself. It was possible to ignore the singing, but one could not ignore the way he was dressed.

Jamaica was way ahead of his time in fashion taste. He may have been centuries ahead. Or, come to think of it, he could have been centuries behind. Who knows? What he was, without a doubt, was one of a kind.

As Jamaica walked down that sidewalk singing his song, he might be sporting a turquoise print skirt worn over navy blue sweatpants. Both of these would stand in stark contrast to the black and white plaid vest worn over a tuxedo shirt with blue button studs. And the top might be tastefully adorned with a pith helmet of faded khaki color.

Jamaica resided on this earth in the parish I served, but Jamaica lived on a separate plain. Jamaica was not inhabited by the normal mores that constrain the average person. Indeed, Jamaica was beyond average. His clothing was but the beginning.

On a frequent but irregular basis Jamaica would attend our church services. As is the custom of fashion plates like Jamaica he always made a late entrance. That entrance would have him parading down the aisle toward the front pews immediately after the first hymn, but after everyone was seated in order to afford them a view of his latest expression of eccentric fashion. He had been known to stop before entering his selected pew to raise his hand in recognition of the pastor and call out to me, “I’m here, Pastor, and I’m yearning to hear the Word.”

My church was a teaching parish. Seminary students assisted with the service. One of my greatest delights was the first time Jamaica showed up in the tenure of one of these students. As the parishioners and visitors and Jamaica filed out, shaking hands and proclaiming how they “enjoyed” my sermon, when Jamaica came by, I’d introduce him to the rookie student and then say, “Jamaica, this is a seminary student. Could you tell her about the Book of Romans?”

He would. Having the student trapped by the subtle way I’d worked her into a corner so she couldn’t escape, he would, in fact, recite the Book of Romans to her.

Jamaica was a star student in high school long ago. He excelled in athletics and academics. And then the accident happened. He struck his head. Brain damage resulted. Jamaica was never the same. A young black kid from a poor black family got limited medical care. Jamaica descended into a world that only he inhabited.  

I could never enter Jamaica’s world. But occasionally, in those rare moments of lucidity, he entered mine. There was the day we sat in the window of Zesto’s devouring the fried chicken, onion rings, and blueberry milk shakes and talked of the recent City Council elections. He explained to me the prejudices and misdirected efforts of the occupants of the local police precinct. And on one of those occasions he even discussed what he classified as the “shallow theology” that had informed my sermon on the previous Sunday.

I’m remembering the last time we ate together in that window. He was dressed in creased blue jeans, with a floral skirt of some summer weight pleated material that would rise and fall with the movement of his walking. These were accented by the oxford blue button down shirt with the black and white striped tie, all of which stood in stark contrast to the bright red straw Easter style bonnet upon his head with white feathery object sticking out the right side. I don’t remember what we talked about that night. But I do remember when we left. I turned toward my car; he turned in the opposite direction and began to skip down the sidewalk singing, “Oh what a beautiful morning …” which sounded incongruous coming from him in the late hours of the night.

My last memory of Jamaica is the day I did a video interview with the Reverend Paul Turner about his faith journey into his ministry to the GLBTQ community. We’d finished the interview in the parlor of the Epworth United Methodist Church, the church of the parish I’d served so long ago and where Jamaica had felt welcomed. During the last twenty minutes or so of the interview Jamaica had his face up against the window with his palms plastered to his cheeks to give him a clear view.

Afterward, I took Paul outside to meet Jamaica. We talked for a while. We shared some good stories. Jamaica told me he loved me. He needed a ride to someplace. I asked Paul if he could take him. As they walked toward the car I called out, “Hey, Jamaica, tell Pastor Paul about the Book of Romans.” The last words I heard Jamaica say were directed at Paul:

 ^“Paul, a servant of Christ Jesus, called to be an apostle and set apart for the gospel of God— the gospel he promised beforehand through his prophets in the Holy Scriptures regarding his Son, who as to his human nature was a descendant of David, and who through the Spirit of holiness was declared with power to be the Son of God by his resurrection from the dead: Jesus Christ our Lord. Through him and for his name's sake, we received grace and apostleship to call people from among all the Gentiles to the obedience that comes from faith ….”  His voice faded as he and Paul drove off.

Jamaica died. He was my friend. I loved him. I will miss him.

Comments

[r warren gill iii]

An amazing eulogy. Amen & amen.

[SingingOwl]

Oh Parson...this made me cry. Poor Jamaica. Thanks for loving him. This part
"As is the custom of fashion plates like Jamaica he always made a late entrance" however, made me laugh.

[MMP]

tissues, blubbling like a baby.........

[Larry]

He was a Great Man. He paid a price that bought tears.