It is only once in an artist’s lifetime that the opportunity presents itself to participate in the memorial service of one’s first, and most formative, teacher and mentor. It’s an honor and a responsibility simultaneously, the very last showing of respect, and the official passing on of the baton. In some Asian traditions, it is said that a man does not become who he is supposed to be until his father dies. Perhaps something similar can be said about an artist and his mentor. Time will tell.
I worked with J. Franklin Clark as a singer in his choir, a piano student, an organ student, and his assistant – until I graduated from high school. J. died in February of this year at the age of 79. What follows is the eulogy I had the privilege to deliver at his memorial service on May 9, 2019.
Friend, teacher, musician, spiritual guide, philosopher, mentor, confidant, inspirer, challenger, J. Franklin Clark was a man of multiple dimensions, all of which he shared freely. J moved to the DC area, and Lewinsville Church, precisely the same time that my family did, the summer of 1967. Within a few weeks after we each started our lives in this part of the world, our lives became entwined in a way that would have profound consequences for us both.
In the yogic tradition, it is said that when the student is ready, the teacher appears. J. and I are testament to that maxim. I want to let you in on a secret: The relationship between an artist and his aspiring pupil is unique and has no parallel outside of the world of the arts. For the role of an artist-mentor and teacher is to nurture the divine spark of creativity, foster love and passion for the art form, and give a context for understanding the Self. Benjamin Franklin once said: “Tell me and I forget, teach me and I may remember, involve me and I learn.” And so he did. J. Clark involved me in his life, in his deep spirituality and in his zest for his vocation as a Minister of Music. Of course he taught me the needed logistics for becoming a respected musician: how to hold my fingers as I play, how to phrase, how to trill, the history of music, the love of Johann Sebastian Bach. But in the thousands of conversations we had while I was in high school, as I was in this building literally every day, he shared something far more substantial than those technical aspects of being a musician; and I daresay that it’s the same thing he shared with each of you: compassion.
J had a depth of compassion that he broadcast through his eyes, through his endless teasing and laughing, and through his uncanny ability to truly listen. When he and I spoke together, I felt that he got me, he understood me as deeply as I could understand myself. That’s a gift. I’m quite certain each of us can recall times when J’s humanity was a saving grace for us. He truly loved people. And there never was a person that came across J’s path that he couldn’t love. He was equally at home with saints and sinners, with rich and poor, with those of high station in life and those of low station in life. J saw through the surface of people, right down to their very soul.
Historically, professional musicians lived with their teachers, assisting in copying out parts, setting up stands and chairs for rehearsals, and yes, getting constant direct instruction as to how to live the life of an accomplished artist. The modern notion of hour-long lessons, once each week, and then Conservatory and a concert career, has only been around about 100 years. Fortunately for me as a youth and as a young man, J and I could, indeed, see each other every day. I was at his side for four years as accompanist for his choirs (both children and adult), singer in his choirs for eight years (first children’s choir and then the high school choir), occasional substitute at the organ (including the only Sunday of his life that he overslept), and trusted housesitter for his dogs when he and Richard would take vacations. He helped form me on a cellular level, and he did so in an incredibly respectful, gentle, and caring manner. When he and Richard would introduce me to their friends in the music world, JC (I always called him JC, to which he always responded: “Hey, JD!”) would say: This is my prize student, the next J.S. Bach. To which I would always retort, “Well that would make you Dietrich Buxtehude, you know!” And he would laugh.
To give you an example of how J and I share what I would consider a cosmic connection, I want to share a brief story with you. Two months ago I was in Worcester, Mass. to play an organ recital at a church which was celebrating the 50th anniversary of its organ. Just before the final piece, J.S. Bach’s Prelude and Fugue in E minor, I spoke to the audience saying that I wanted to dedicate that piece to my first organ teacher, mentor, and friend who had just died that week. I said, his name is J. Clark and he taught me my love for the music of Bach. At the end of the concert, two ladies dashed up to the organ loft, both of them white as ghosts. They blurted out, did you know that J. Clark was the Minister of Music here until 1967, that he designed the organ you have just played, and that he, himself, played the 25th anniversary recital 25 years ago?
What are the chances of that? Zero! J’s and my respective lives had nothing to do with chance!
But I’m only telling half of what I know about J if I dwell on his great strengths as a musician and teacher. When our teacher/student relationship matured into a colleague relationship, it opened the door for a friendship that would touch me to my very core. I came out as a gay man in January 1983; JC was one of the first people I spoke to about this. By that time, we had known each other for more than 15 years, and never, once, had he pried into my personal struggles with that gargantuan internal conflict. The very first date I ever took with my husband of nearly 28 years was a trip to St. Maarten with J. & Richard. I will never forget how supportive and loving he was to me.
In Fahrenheit 451, Ray Bradbury states “We cannot tell the precise moment when friendship is formed. As in filling a vessel drop by drop, there is at last a drop which makes it run over; so in a series of kindnesses there is at last one which makes the heart run over.” I love that quote. It’s all about the heart running over!
We are, of course, two very different people: I could never get him to stop smoking even though I hounded him about it on a very regular basis; nor could I convince him of the wisdom of exercise and healthy eating. But there was one thing that J. Clark truly excelled in, that I can only aspire to approximate. J Clark was a man of deep, profound, soulful, and regular prayer. And I don’t mean the casual, “I’ll keep you in my prayers” routine. J. spent every morning of his life in prayer, usually an hour and often more. And he never needed to brag about it. It just informed him as a compassionate human being.
You all remember his eyes, how he looked at you with that wry sparkle. That came from prayer and constant self-examination. He used to say two things to me regularly: I believe that prayer works, and Angels are real, you know! I do know that, because he definitely was one.
So JC, my friend and soul-nurturer, I bid you adieu in the true meaning of that French word: Go To God. You have touched so many lives. The world is immeasurably richer because of you. We will meet again, but on another shore and in a greater Light.