In Remembrance...

Throughout this week Firebrand is celebrating the life of William J. “Billy” Abraham, a brilliant theologian and fierce defender of Methodist orthodoxy, who passed away unexpectedly last week. Many of us on the Editorial Board knew Billy well, and we are deeply affected by his loss. Although we recognize that no single individual is responsible for carrying on the faith once delivered, Billy’s shoulders were broader than most. If you haven’t read his work, we encourage you to do so. Start with Wesley for Armchair Theologians, consider Waking from Doctrinal Amnesia: The Healing of Doctrine in the United Methodist Church or The Logic of Evangelism, and then work your way up to Canon and Criterion in Christian Theology, and if you’re feeling really adventurous, read the four volumes of Divine Agency and Divine Action. Don’t forget his newly edited version of Wesley’s 44 sermons! We are indebted to Billy’s keen mind, dedication to the church, and the friendship he so freely gave. And so together those who love him reflect on his legacy.

D. William Faupel

Billy,

I was on the road when I learned the news that you had decided not to accept the Baylor’s offer to become the first Director of Wesleyan Studies after all, and had taken on a higher calling. I pulled over at the nearest town, located an Irish Pub,and ordered a pint of Irish Lager to drink a toast to fifty-one years of friendship. Then we had a conversation. I think it the only time in those years where I talked and you listened. It went something like this.

Do you remember when we first met. I was sitting in Harold Kuhn’s philosophy class at Asbury Theological Seminary. I think it was the third week in September 1970. Anyway, classes had already been going a couple of weeks when walked in late that morning. You introduced yourself and apologized for being late and explained that you had just finished registration having just arrived from Northern Ireland. After class I introduced myself and welcomed you to the United States and to the seminary.

I had already gotten to know your Irish colleague when you moved in across the hall from me in the men’s dormitory. Soon you were joining us for evening “bull sessions.” Our friendship really began to develop the following month when Archibald Morton, Dean of Sydney Cathedral, arrived on campus. He was on sabbatical and had come to study the impact of the revival that had taken place on the college and seminary campuses earlier that spring. Since I was the only Anglican on campus, President Stanger asked me to be his chauffeur, taking him to see Kentucky sites of interest, and on Sundays to local Episcopal churches in the area that had asked him to be guest preacher. Often he would ask if he could bring his fellow “British Buddies,” Billy and Alan along.

By the end of term, Muriel, your lovely wife was pregnant with your first child. She returned to Ireland to have the baby and you moved in with Alan. As we began our second term, we had become well aware that many of our older faculty were more concerned about indoctrination and they were about intellectual inquiry. So the three of us jumped at the chance when Donald Dayton, who had just graduated with a BD from Yale and joined the B.L. Fisher Library as Acquisition’s Librarian, invited us to to take an unofficial reading course on Barth, Bonhoeffer, Bultmann, and Tillich. David Bundy and a few other student library types joined the group. What a marvelous intellectual awakening that was as we grappled with theological ideas that were thus far, unknown to us. I do remember Don feeling the class to be a failure because neither you, Alan, David or I found his favorite theologian, Barth, to be particularly helpful. We all gravitated to one of the others. Although all four of us developed wide circles of friendship, a special bond formed between us during that unauthorized course that would last a lifetime.

By then end of your first year, Bundy, who had been asked to become editor of the student newspaper, The Short Circuit, the following year, persuaded you to run for Student Body President (SBP). He became your campaign manager. You won in a landslide. Little did you realize at the time what a significant role you would play in that position.

Several of us who had been at the seminary since 1969 when the Woodstock rock festival took place, thought a christian rock festival would be an excellent vehicle to bring young people to Christ. After all, we reasoned, wasn’t part of the Wesley brothers’ success due to setting their hymns to popular barroom tunes? Bob Lyon, Asbury’s, New Testament Greek Professor, liked the idea. Though his circle of students the idea grew and was brought before your student council. Your administration endorsed it unanimously, but President Stanger turned it down flat. He had two basic concerns. His first was that all the drugs that were associated with Woodstock, would become part of such a festival. Secondly, he was concerned that the influx of the number of young people you envisioned, would strain the relationship between town and grow to a breaking point.

You soon had an opportunity to revisit the issue when President Stanger announced that the Seminary had experienced a significant shortfall in anticipated income and was faced with major budget deficit. Departmental budgets were cut to the bone. Several staff layoffs were proposed. At that point you went into action. You went back to President Stanger and proposed that the student government would mobilize the student body to raise the money to balance the budget if we could have our festival.

This time, Stanger reluctantly agreed. You called a meeting of the student body. David, Jim Garlow, student council VP, and you laid out the two-fold proposal. To President Stanger’s astonishment, the students responded enthusiastically, and the “We Care” campaign was born. Students were organized into several task forces, banks of telephones were installed for students to call home churches, families, friends, alumni and others on the seminary’s mailing list. Teams of students, based on our experience of spreading the news of the revival a year before, fanned out across the country to bring the message of the seminary’s need and the proposed festival to the churches we had visited before. A huge cardboard thermometer was erected in Estes chapel where following each Tuesday morning chapel service, the amount of money raised during the past week was added to the total. Chapel attendance was never higher. By the time the campaign was over we had doubled our goal. The next spring we got our festival. It too, was a smashing success. For the next forty years, until 2012, Ichthus was held annually, reaching a peak of close to 20,000 in attendance.

Far from being the disaster that President Stanger feared, it proved to be a win-win situation for all concerned. The college found the event to to be an excellent recruiting tool for student enrollment. As it’s primary feeder school, the seminary benefited as well. Since, for years the event was put on entirely by students, generations of us gained invaluable experience in planning, organizing and advertising. Far from alienating the town folk, the merchants found the three day event to be the “Christmas season” for their annual business year. And, of course, over those years, thousands of young people are to know Christ through the event.

The “We Care” campaign made a long-term impact on the seminary as well. I think we more than doubled the seminary’s mailing list, and the administration came to recognize that student’s can be an effective means of raising money. They have often asked students to call alumni and other friends of the seminary in special fund raising appeals since that time. And though Ichthus was officially closed in 2012 due to low attendance, the run might not be over yet. Two Ichthus festivals have been held since: the first in 2015 and the second this past month, September 2021. It was deemed a great success.

Billy, in retrospect, I seriously doubt that any student body president at Asbury before or since, has left such a lasting legacy as you.

I can’t leave our days at Asbury without telling at least one story on you. You, Alan,David and I put off taking one required course until our final semester. It was taught by a professor deeply loved for his spirituality, but also known for the lack of academic content in his courses. His written assignments were endless, and in our judgement had zero benefit for our future ministries. Alan, David and I decide to play the game, writing the kind of papers he wanted. But the thought of it drove you crazy. You tried to turn the assignments into something academically respectable. As a result the three of us aced the course and you got a C. I think it was the only C you got in your life. I don’t think you ever got over it. You grumbled about it for years.

As we approached our graduation in 1973, all four of us decided to continue our studies by pursuing a Ph.D. overseas. You applied to Oxford, Alan to Edinburgh, David at the French University in Leuven,Belgium, and I at the University of Birmingham. You left immediately after graduation. Alan, who had become pastor at the Wilmore Presbyterian Church during his senior year stayed on a year while her courted and married Vicki. David accepted a two-year appointment at Asbury as teaching fellow in Greek while he took a Th.M. I also continued at Asbury another two years as Reference Librarian while I gathered over five thousand books, and photocopied a 100,000 pages of material in preparation of doing research on the origins of American Pentecostalism at a British University. The four of us promised to get together as often as possible.

When I arrived in England you met me at Heathrow with your Volkswagen van and took me to Plymouth to pick up my materials that had arrived at the docks. We arrived just before noon and had to wait an hour while the office staff took their lunch. Once we got the papers we were then sent to six different offices to get various stamps necessary to release my materials. With each stop your Irish temper rose a notch. When you growled that it was no wonder that England lost her empire, I knew it was time for me to do the talking if we were going to make it to Birmingham that night.

We finally got all of the releases only to discover the wooden shipping crate was so large it barely fit into the back of your van. Things went well until we reached “spaghetti junction” (so named for the convergence of six motorways and it’s hundred plus miles of exit ramps) outside of Birmingham. You missed the correct exit. It took over an hour before we headed into the city, but you calmed down. I got my room at Queen’s College where I would be staying. We carried in all of my boxes of books, archive boxes of photo copies, clothes, and set up my bookshelves. They literally covered all four walls of the room from floor to ceiling. We shoved the desk, bed, and chairs in front of them. Did I ever tell you that for the first three weeks I woke up in the middle of every night dreaming that books were falling on my head?

The next morning we headed off to University of Lancaster ; you had invited me to join you to attend the annual meeting of the British Philosophical Society. Frankly, I got a headache as I listen to one paper after another of analytical philosophy. But I watched in awe as you totally engaged each paper during the Q and A. It was clear you had found your field of study.

I spent the day after the conference at your home in Oxford where we converted my wooden shipping crate into a playhouse for your children. They loved it. You told me later that they cried when they learned they could not take it with them when your family moved back to Ireland.

The four of us we able to get together quite often, usually during the holidays. The only time when the four of us and our spouses we able get together was when we celebrated an American Thanksgiving in Birmingham. Then we took a train to Stratford and took in a Shakespeare play. Another encounter that stands out was the time that David and I joined you in Oxford. After dinner at a restaurant that none of us could afford, we attended a James Barr lecture. David and I thought it was brilliant but you thought it was rubbish. Later in your room (it was your last term, you had sent your family back to Ireland while you finished your dissertation and you were living on campus), we backed you into a corner. Point by point we forced you to admit that Barr was right-on in the case he made. It was the only time in my relationship with you, that I saw you bested in an argument. It still feels sweet when I think about it.

When we returned to the states we tried to keep in touch though correspondence. But our lives soon became to busy to keep that up. We had to settle for chance meetings at conferences we both attended. The one anchor was the annual meeting off AAR/SBL where we always scheduled a lunch or coffee break where we would catch up on the past year. The last time we met was two years ago in San Diego. It was different. Instead of discussing our lasting writing projects, the books we were reading, your speaking engagements and my pastoral duties, we reflected on the times we had shared together over a half a century. When it was time to go to our next conference session we both agreed our conversation wasn’t finished and agreed to meet for lunch the next day. That day we talked about our families, who we love so passionately, about the pain of watching helplessly as loved ones suffer, knowing all we could do was place them in the hands of our loving Lord. And then finally, we gently pulled back the bandage of the deepest sore that we shared, the premature deaths of our oldest sons, your Timothy and my Jimmy. We departed with a mutual prayer. As I left I felt as if I had just had a glimpse into the Holy of Holies. In retrospect, I cannot help but wonder if unconsciously we knew it would be the last time we would meet.

Billy, there are yet so many things I wanted to say to you but never did. Within days of meeting you, I realized that you were light years ahead of me intellectually, but you always treated me as an equal. Though we disagreed on so many things, I gained so much from our conversations and your writings. I admired your faith even as you continually critically examined your assumptions. Your devotion to your church even as you continually prodded it to live up to its heritage, is something I have tried to emulate. Despite your own devotion to Wesley, you pushed me to drink deeply from my own wells — both in seeking to understand the Pentecostal tradition into which I was born, and in studying the riches of the Anglican tradition to which I converted.

Thank you Billy for fifty-one years of friendship. I am a much better person because of you.

Oh yes, one last favor, when the time comes for me to accept my final assignment, will you meet me at the gate as you did at Heathrow? You got me off to a good start on my adventures in England. It is comforting to think that you will be there to introduce me to my final adventure, or rather I should say, my final new beginning.

Your friend always,

Bill

Rev. Dr. D. William Faupel currently serves as the Priest Associate at Saint Mary’s Episcopal Church in Bonita Springs, Florida and was Director of the Library and Professor of the History of Christianity at Wesley Theological Seminary in Washington, DC from 2004-2013

Kevin Watson

I was stunned when I first heard the news of William J. Abraham’s unexpected and sudden death. I did not believe it was possible and so I instinctively picked up my phone and texted him. I am still in shock and struggling to believe that he has really departed this life. Billy seemed invincible. He was full of energy and intellectual curiosity. He had a relentlessly cheerful spirit, even when he knew he was in the midst of a losing battle. When you were in it with Billy, you knew you were going to be blessed by the journey and have a lot of fun, even if it didn’t lead to the hoped-for outcome. 

I often called Billy when I was stuck and needed support and encouragement. And he came through every time. He listened carefully. He responded with tenderness, insight, and unflinching truth. He never told me something would be easy when it wasn’t going to be. But somehow, God was always able to use him to lift my spirits. At the end of a conversation with him, I would have a clearer sense of the next right step. 

A few weeks ago, before his death, I told Billy that I believed his legacy, above all else, was the numerous PhD students he had mentored and guided through their programs. I don’t know why I said this to him. I didn’t think his contribution to the church or academy were anywhere near finished. It was also a bold statement to make, because Billy wrote constantly and published with a breadth and depth that it will take decades to fully appreciate. He was also a crucial leader in the church. He was often a voice that pierced through denominational politics with a surgeon’s precision in a way that lifted the heads of the faithful to press on and keep contending for the faith.

Despite all that Billy accomplished, I am still most awed by how many people he mentored. The church and academy are filled with his intellectual and spiritual disciples.

I was one of many of Billy’s students. Time spent with him, whether in the classroom or outside of it, was intellectually stimulating. I suspect I have purchased more books because Billy recommended them to me than all of the other books I’ve purchased through recommendations combined. I don’t think I ever had a conversation with Billy without him recommending at least one book to me. The breadth and depth of his reading was astonishing. I often purchased the books he recommended and put them at the top of my reading list because of the respect I had for his mind. If he thought a book was worth reading, I trusted it was. I also bought and read the books he recommended because I wanted to keep the conversation with him going. 

I wanted to stay in touch with Billy because he was a model for me in many ways. 

I admired his moral courage. Billy was willing to speak publicly on controversies facing the church in ways that went against the grain of the academy and only made his life more difficult there. His willingness to do so was an encouragement to so many in the church, in part because so few were willing to stand out like he did. I want to be like him in living a life of winsome uncompromised conviction built on the gospel of Jesus Christ. 

I also admired his commitment to his students. Billy was someone who seemed to naturally disciple his students. He pressed students to avoid intellectual vice. He required you to state an opponent’s argument in a way they themselves would recognize before arguing with it. No strawmen! He also drew students outside of their comfort zone and prodded you to stay intellectually curious. This worked because Billy’s curiosity was so interesting it was contagious. 

Above all, I experienced his work as in service to Christ’s church. The only time I saw Billy pull intellectual punches was at conferences with laity where he would leave something that was said that he found to be intellectually problematic if he did not have the time to walk them through criticism of the idea to the other side of deeper and more intellectually sound faith. 

One of things I most admire William J. Abraham has been commented on by many others. He was a happy warrior. Billy was involved in so many different things. And many of them involved him in points of tension and disagreement, sometimes quite acrimonious. And while he clearly had a significant impact on Methodism and theological education, he also experienced setbacks and disappointments in variety of ways. 

Billy was intimately familiar with suffering. And yet, there was a buoyancy and joy in him that was contagious. The two things I will remember as most characteristic of a conversation with Billy were the grunts he would make when he was making a particularly good argument and laughter. He laughed so much. And it was genuine.

His joy came not because he won every skirmish. He didn’t. His joy came from being connected to Christ. Regardless of the circumstances he faced, his faith was deep and abiding and his trust in God seemed to bring an ease and a peace in the midst of conflict, discord, and disappointment.  

Billy also did a remarkable job of working to build bridges across lines of disagreement. It was common to see Billy spending time in deep collegial conversation with people with whom he had just had a vigorous intellectual disagreement at an academic conference. This was not bluster or a political ploy. He built deep and meaningful friendships with people that outsiders would have described as enemies. 

At the end of the day, I am grateful to God for the life of William J. Abraham for selfish reasons. He was a tangible blessing in my life. Time with him was always treasured and memorable. Billy was someone I wanted to be with because I wanted to be like him. He was someone whose blessing I first wanted and then cherished. 

I am grieving because I thought I had a lot more time with Billy. And I am one of many who is experiencing this loss, not only in United Methodism in the United States, but in many parts of the Body of Christ and across the globe.

And yet. Even in my grieving, there is rejoicing. From everything I saw, Billy died happy. The last time I spent significant time with him was at a weekend for the Wesley House of Studies at Baylor University’s George W. Truett Theological Seminary. During the weekend it was announced that a gift had been made that would endow a chair in Wesley Studies to be named in his honor. 

He received this news with characteristic grace and joked more than once that for the money that was given, he wanted a sofa and not just a chair. Beyond that honor, he seemed to just be present and at peace. The weekend ended with us (Methodists!) being invited to watch the Baylor football game in the President’s suite. My favorite part of the night was just watching Billy enjoy it. I had never seen that side of him before. At one point, I sat down next to him and we were chatting and he began reflecting on memories of playing rugby as a child.

There is a genre in early Methodism on dying a happy death. From everything I knew and everything I saw of Billy, he met death with deep and abiding faith in the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. And he met death with the joy of the Lord as his strength and a peace that passes understanding.

I am so grateful for the time I had with Billy. It still seems impossible to me that he has departed this life for the life to come. But even in grief, I give thanks to the Lord for the life of William J. Abraham and for the gift of his presence in mine.

Dr. Kevin M. Watson is the Discipleship Pastor at First Methodist in Waco TX and the Acting Director of the Wesley House of Studies at Truett Theological Seminary. He serves on Firebrand’s editorial board.

Dori Barber

As I sat alone pondering the death of my friend, my mentor, and the one to whom I could take any question; my mind was flooded with memories of Billy - from the early days of dreaming about Basic Christianity, a contemporary catechumenate, to my last visit with him just a month ago, when with enthusiasm akin to a kid in a candy store, he shared his excitement over the Wesley House at Truett Seminary.  

There are many that could write much of Billy’s academic achievements, of his erudite scholarship or his contributions to analytic theology or epistemology.  That is not how I knew Billy, though in his enthusiasm he would occasionally attempt to broaden my knowledge by sharing with me his latest project or encouraging me to read one of his scholarly books.

I met Billy shortly after he wrote The Logic of Evangelism.  As the staff member at FUMC Uvalde working on education, we had a problem.  It was a pleasant problem, but one we wanted to solve.  We had pilgrims fresh from their Emmaus Walk that knew little of the faith they had recently experienced. The men and women fit awkwardly into existing Sunday school classes, and we thought that perhaps a different curriculum was the answer.  After reading Billy’s Method in Evangelism, published by the Southwest Texas Annual Conference, (it could be described as the elementary version of The Logic of Evangelism.) we hoped that perhaps Dr. Abraham, then McCreless Professor of Evangelism, could direct us to a resource similar to the one he described in his handbook.  

However, Billy knew of no such curriculum, but he happily spent a day with us dreaming of what the curriculum would cover. Then he began sending us lecture notes written on yellow legal paper airmailed from Europe or other destinations far from our county seat West Texas town. Billy didn’t just get us started on this project.  He was committed to it.  He repeatedly told me this was a priority.  He wanted it on his calendar so he could be present.  He was present.  When the first class was completed and it ended with a traditional Wesleyan Covenant Service (with, in Billy’s words, “visual aids”) he was there.  He was a part of the team praying as we laid hands on our students, anointed them with oil and asked for their healing and their empowerment.  Billy believed in a God who healed, and he made sure we taught the gifts of the Holy Spirit, the spiritual disciplines, and of course a high view of Scripture and a high view of the creeds.  The curriculum was robust. It was Canonical Theism for beginners. But Billy never wanted anyone to stay a beginner for long.  He also requested a small library of books available for students in the class.  There was just so much to learn!  

We traveled the country, teaching laity to share this course in their communities. Billy loved knowing it was being taught in the fire station in one community and the Federal Drug rehabilitation center in another. I watched Billy pray with farmers and ranchers, small town bankers and art teachers. I was with him after the Oklahoma City bombing and heard his analysis of our country and the way the nation would respond to terrorism.  While he could lightly play the Irish card when it eased the tension or got a laugh, he was happy to be an American.  In later years, he often expressed his gratitude for his new country all the while reminding us of the contributions of the Irish.

His passion for evangelism and his love for the church were brought to life in the manner he gently shepherded so many others. I often recall Billy’s concern for those under his care when he would say: “This must be handled very delicately.”   

Of course, one couldn’t spend much time with him without seeing his incredible curiosity.  He was always looking for more knowledge.  It led him to have fascinating conversations with the participants, whether auto mechanics or the FBI agents, theologians or nuclear physicists. The broad range of topics showed up in the stories he told.  He moved seamlessly with tales of Athanasius, to John Wimber, between the early Methodist women, and Archbishop Dmitri of Dallas.  In one moment, I was hearing of Irenaeus’ understanding of the fall and the next moment the story of a contemporary exorcism or of Dinu and the Methodist work in Romania 

I won’t quickly forget Billy’s ability to lose himself in a book.  He devoured them. He wanted to be present when I needed him at training events, but if he was not busy answering questions for a lay teacher or encouraging a pastor, I would find him consuming another book, sometimes borrowed from a participant.   

Many have spoken of his ability to encourage. I took systematic theology from him.  I was a student at Asbury Seminary, and Billy’s Perkin’s class didn’t transfer. However, I took a year off from pursuing my degree to take this theology class from him. What a challenge! What a joy watching him teach! He moved his students along so carefully, affirming, pushing, and sometimes, disagreeing - yet always treating them with dignity.  

In a world filled with posturing and showiness Billy was the antithesis of this. I remember arriving for a training event where the host church had arranged for us to stay at a luxury hotel and as the bellboys rushed to unload the taxi. Billy got out with a paper bag. He had packed for the weekend in a paper bag because he wasn’t about clothes. He didn’t read Dressing for Success or Sneakers for Cool Pastors. He always chose substance over style.  He was about people and the faith. He was about his family, his students, and the church.  

In the last few years, we would catch up and wonder if the time had finally arrived.  Was there a readiness in the church for a catechumenate that grounds new believers in the faith, which teaches the Gospel as the coming of the Kingdom, and then unpacks the six dimensions of that Kingdom Billy identified long ago in Logic of Evangelism? I continue to teach the class, though not exactly as it was designed by Billy and our team over thirty years ago.  Nevertheless, it works well as a robust entry into the Kingdom. 

I am grateful to be an agent of the Kingdom and grateful to have had such a mentor. May we who were blessed to walk with him, keep the faith until we too have our membership transferred from the church militant to the church triumphant.  Thank you God for Billy. 

Dori Barber, Director of Women’s Ministry, The Woodlands Methodist Church, The Woodlands, TX.

Drew McIntyre

The first time I met Billy I had no idea who he was.

I am embarrassed to say that now. United Methodism (in the US, at least) is astonishingly regional; I didn't go to Perkins and at my seminary we didn't read Billy's work either in theology or Wesley Studies.

But many years ago I dragged a friend and mentor to a conference that United Theological Seminary hosted about the Eucharist. I knew that one of my professors, Geoffrey Wainwright, was presenting, and it seemed like a fun excuse for a nerdy pastor like myself to get out of town. At the end of the conference was a panel on the 2012 General Conference, and there was a Q&A after the panel. At the urging of my friend, I asked a question to the panel that I thought was important, but no one had addressed: what were their thoughts - as theologians and liturgical scholars - on the use of the Communion table as an instrument of protest? I didn't get much response from the panel, and many in the room seemed taken aback by the question. The Q&A was over after that.

Immediately, an excited, wild-eyed older man with a beard came over and introduced himself. "That was a GREAT question!" he insisted. I didn't know that one of the leading minds in Methodism had just validated my curiosity. We chatted for a few moments and he rushed off, promising he was going to press the panelists on this question.

It may sound odd, but this was a significant moment for me. I was terrified to ask that question in a room full of scholars. I was, as I am now, a nobody: just a workaday pastor. But Billy still took the time to talk to me with kindness and he treated me with someone who had something to offer the conversation.

That was the first of three times I was in Billy's presence. Each time was special, each time I was impressed by his warmth and wit. But Billy is significant to me chiefly because of his students. Many have reflected on how much Billy invested in his students. I can testify to that, because his students have invested in me.

I never intended to do a Doctor of Ministry degree, but I jumped at the chance to study with David Watson and Justus Hunter at United. We did read some of Billy's work, and work by those in his circle, but Billy's largest influence was felt over dinners and at the pubs after evening lectures telling stories, arguing, and laughing.

I am blessed to be a spiritual grandchild of Billy Abraham. My time with him personally was very limited, but I've been deeply formed by those in whom he invested. I am not only a sharper thinker and writer because of them, I have also become a more charitable interlocutor. But more significant than that, I have grown as a disciple of Jesus from their influence.

Much of that traces back to habits they learned at the feet of Dr. Abraham. I am grateful for his influence on those who have become my mentors, and that Billy's theological legacy is represented so well by faithful scholars and pastors who are pouring into others as Billy did to them. He was and is a spiritual father to many, and a spiritual grandfather to countless others.

Jesus compared the Kingdom to a mustard seed, a tiny seed that grows into a grand tree in which birds can come and rest. Billy's life has been incredibly fruitful for the Kingdom, and I am grateful to have found a place among its branches.

Drew McIntyre is the Pastor of Grace UMC in Greensboro, NC, and an adjunct instructor at Greensboro College.

Andrew C. Thompson:

When I received a text message last Friday that Billy Abraham had passed away unexpectedly, I was left in shock. I had seen him just two weeks prior at the New Room Conference in Murfreesboro, Tennessee. He was the same lively, full-of-humor, gregarious Billy that I had known for years. In our last conversation, he had brought up a scholarly article on the interpretation of sanctification in John Wesley’s thought that I was familiar with. We discussed it briefly, and I promised him I would correspond with him about it in the coming days. As I walked away from that conversation, I made a mental note to send him an essay I had written that dealt with the same article. I thought briefly about when I might see Billy again in person so we could discuss it. Now, without warning, he was just gone. I was left with that sense of bewilderment that overwhelms you when you hear news that is so unwelcome and so unexpected it leaves you gasping for breath.

Before I go further, I need to make a confession. Billy mentored and taught dozens of doctoral students, and hundreds of master’s-level students, over the course of his long career. I was not one of those students. I didn’t get to sit at his feet in a semester-long course, nor did I have the opportunity to be mentored by him on a major paper or research project. We never taught together either. In that sense, I am something of an interloper in this series of Firebrand reflections honoring Billy’s memory. Most of the other contributors to this series knew Billy better and longer; they are much more qualified to speak about him than am I. Yet the fact that I did get to know Billy—first as a colleague in the academy, and later as a friend—speaks to the breadth of his work and influence. Indeed, I believe the full task of commemorating his life needs contributions from those who came to know him in different ways, and as a result of the fact he refused to stay cloistered in his professor’s study but instead ranged so far and wide in the service of Jesus Christ.

My introduction to Billy was initially through his writing. Then later I came to know him personally at academic conferences and church renewal meetings that we both attended. There have been only two people in my academic life whose manner of presentation in lecture settings makes me feel like I have Pop Rocks exploding in my brain when I listen to them. One of those people is Billy Abraham. He thought faster than just about anyone you would ever come across. When he looked out at an audience there was a discernible sparkle in his eye that always seemed to grow more noticeable the faster the wheels in his mind started to turn. When I encountered his written work, I found myself wanting to engage it obsessively. And I did. One of the first book reviews I ever published was a critical engagement with The Logic of Renewal (which I came to regret, because I was young and ignorant and didn’t understand what he was doing). Later, one of my first academic journal articles used Billy’s work as a primary conversation partner on the so-called Wesleyan Quadrilateral (which I’ve never regretted because he was right and helped me see some things I wouldn’t have otherwise). I was drawn to Billy’s work once again when writing the introduction to my dissertation a decade ago, and my interplay with him there on the nature of the means of grace is part of a project that I’m still not finished with to this day. Once I discovered him, I couldn’t get away from him. I don’t think I ever will.

Billy’s ideas simply danced. They danced as they issued forth from the podium when he lectured and taught. And they danced when he put them down in written form on the page. When you were confronted with those ideas, you’d often find yourself saying, “Of course that’s it! How does he see that so much better than anyone else??” But regardless of whether you fully agreed with what he said or not, he always had the ability to move the conversation forward. There was nothing stale or pedestrian about what came from the investigations and reflections of Billy’s mind—and that was the case whether he was exploring the theology of evangelism, religious epistemology, Wesleyan theology, or the prospects for true renewal in the church.

One of the great aspects of Billy’s personality was the fact that he could just as easily interact with regular everyday folk as he could with some of the sharpest minds in the academy. I heard him refer to himself as “just a bog Irishman” more times than I can count, and I think he may have really believed it (even if nobody else did). He loved people, and he had the ability when he was engaging you one-on-one to make you think you were the only person in the room. He could be piercingly intense, yet was always kind to those with whom he interacted. Genuine kindness is not always one of the chief virtues of academics, but Billy had it in spades. He lived most of his adult life in America, but he was Irish to his bones; his Irishness and his abiding faith in Christ combined to make a man whose love for God and neighbor were infectious.

Billy Abraham was the leading public intellectual in evangelical Methodism. To say such a thing is not only not an exaggeration; it’s barely even debatable. He was taken from us far too soon. At 73 years old, he needed another 15 or 20 years to fully develop the projects that had taken up his scholarly life’s work. Billy’s work in religious epistemology was not complete. His work in Canonical Theism aimed toward a deep, tradition-dependent form of ecumenism that he could have continued to refine (and whose potential for informing a full-fledged Wesleyan ecclesiology, it should be noted, is still almost entirely untapped). He also had much more to give in working towards the renewal of the church, the revitalization of the Wesleyan tradition, and the evangelical spread of the gospel around the world. That he was doing serious work in all these areas over many years is a testament both to his intellectual creativity and his boundless energy. We need Billy. We need his leadership and his witness. We need his humor and his deep optimism about the power of the Holy Spirit at work in the world.

Yet, as the Scripture reminds us, we do not grieve as others do who have no hope (1 Thessalonians 4:13). Our calling right now is to celebrate the life of this man who was given to us for a season. And to rejoice that he has been welcomed into the arms of his Savior and surely even now surrounds the throne singing praises to the Lamb. If he were here to counsel us, I suspect that he would, with a twinkle in his eye, tell us that God has not left us bereft of what we need to move forward. We have the Holy Spirit with us still, and that same Spirit will bear fruits in us and give us abundant gifts for the work of ministry. We also have the full range of the means of grace given to us through the canonical heritage of the church, as Billy himself so often reminded us: Scripture, sacraments, creeds, icons, liturgies, prayer & devotional manuals, and the saints & teachers of the great tradition. 

One of those saints, and one of those teachers, is Billy Abraham. Thanks be to the Lord Jesus Christ that we knew him, and that we will know him again on the Day that is coming. Soli Deo Gloria.

Andrew C. Thompson is the senior pastor of First United Methodist Church in Springdale, Arkansas. He holds a Th.D. from Duke University and previously served for four years on the faculty of Memphis Theological Seminary.

Joy J. Moore:

Grief exposes a territory of human emotion demanding solitude while desperate for community. For this reason I am grateful to join the chorus of witnesses sharing individual expressions of how our lives were among the many influenced by one.

My most memorable early encounter with William Abraham took place outside a South Carolina restaurant. Early in doctoral work, my thoughts and speech accosted bystanders with ideas of preaching as the oral public interpretation of a canonical reading of scripture. Delayed from entering the restaurant as servers cleared tables, the current recipient of my ramblings pointed toward the back of our group and suggested I speak to the bearded man among our party. With no idea to whom I would be speaking, I entered the first of many stimulating conversations with Billy. A few weeks later, I received a draft copy of his then unpublished book, Canonical Theism, and my biblical homiletic met its doctrinal companion. Though we disagreed on some epistemological frameworks, from that moment on I had found a true companion on this Wesleyan journey. Billy's intelligence never ignored my inquiry; his savvy never shredded my sciolism; and his fidelity always fortified my faith. As you read the many remembrances, this is a testimony to Billy's person - a patient teacher, a valued friend, and a true witness. Beyond the many years of scholarly rejoinders, a more recent exchange with Billy occurred after the death of my mother, where he shared his own grief of losing a child. In this sharing, Billy introduced me to the Prayers for the Dead. And so, with apologies for adjustments to the Catholic script, I offer this prayer now:

I commend you, my dear Billy to almighty God, and entrust you to your Creator.

May you rest in the arms of the Lord who formed you from the dust of the earth.

May ... the angels and all the saints welcome you now that you have gone forth from this life.

May Christ who was crucified for you, bring you freedom and peace.

May Christ who died for you admit you into his garden of paradise.

May Christ, the true Shepherd, embrace you as one of his flock.

May he forgive all your sins, and set you among those he has chosen.

May you see your Redeemer face to face, and enjoy the vision of God, forever.

Joy J. Moore is VP for Academic Affairs & Academic Dean and Professor of Biblical Preaching at Luther Seminary

Justus Hunter:

Billy Abraham was immensely gracious. And immensely pugnacious. Usually both at the same time.

I first met Billy in his basement office at Perkins School of Theology. It was formerly Schubert Ogden’s, and he loved to note the irony. It was summer 2011, and I was to begin the doctoral program the subsequent fall. Billy was kind enough to take a meeting to discuss coursework, plans, and so on. (Billy hated ‘etc.’ and insisted one should write ‘and so on’; his preference for the Anglo option over the Roman one was universal.) He asked me where I had studied. I told him that, like him, I was a graduate of Asbury Theological Seminary. He feigned shock, eyes twinkling. “Wait, how did you get in here? I thought this place was locked down like Fort Knox!”

So began one of the most formative relationships of my life. That fall I was giving a paper on Methodist ecclesiology at the American Academy of Religion. He suggested we spend the Fall reading ecclesiology together, and so we did. I delivered my first draft of the paper, which was careful and descriptive and altogether boring. I had all the bad habits of an insecure mind, and a strong propensity to hide behind historical description. When we met to discuss the paper, he followed his typical formula: provisional encouragement, followed by winsome, devastating criticism. I left with scrupulous notes on pages and pages torn from a legal pad, red scrawl in two columns, one for substantial critique, another for minor advice. Regretfully, I’ve lost those pages, but I’ll never forget his words. “This is a fine, safe paper, but if you give it no one will remember you when you’re finished. Take a position and shoot straight.”

A few years ago, we awarded Billy the Wesleyan Theological Society book award. I was not only fortunate enough to give him the award, but also to serve as his personal chauffer in Washington DC for a few days. He would hop in the back seat of my rental and, laughing to himself, exclaim, “Oh Hunter, you’ve got to drive your old teacher around now! This is very good.” He was among the very highest profile scholars there, as he was everywhere he went. But he was often engrossed in conversation with a lonely graduate student about their dissertation. I had to pull him from one of these conversations to receive his award.

Billy didn’t care who was doing the thinking. As long as they wanted to think well, he was all in. His energy for rigorous thought was addictive. All he required was that you be clear and open-minded. On this point, he and my doctoral advisor, Bruce Marshall, were a perfect match. The Graduate Program at SMU has a tradition of closed defenses. It’s two or so hours with the student, the committee, and the director of the Graduate Program. My defense was two hours of direct, nonstop debate. When I stepped out with the director, she commented, “I think that was the most intense defense I’ve seen.” I was surprised; it was just another day at the office for me.

Even then Billy was still teaching. He could not have been more suspicious of my opening argument. It was a detailed account of action in general, and divine action in particular, attuned to the categories of medieval scholasticism. He had been drafting the first volume of Divine Action and Divine Agency, a withering criticism of all such attempts to secure a closed concept of action in general and divine action in particular. A lesser mind would have pressed my argument into a debate about the merits of his own thought. Not Billy. He had no reason to be insecure, and he wasn’t. He was focused on me, on my argument, and on what I needed to learn. After a chain of “questions of clarification,” another of his favorite phrases, he looked me in the eye and said, “Hunter, I see what these scholastic figures are proposing. But what about you? Do you agree with them?” After a bit of “academic throat-clearing,” as he called it, I finally looked him in the eye and said, “I do.” He replied, “Very good then, my questions are done.”

To say he was a committed teacher is inadequate. The adjective restricts the claim too far. Billy was a teacher, period. While I was a dissertating doctoral student, he agreed to a reading group with several of us. We met every other week in the shed he had converted into an office on the back of his property. He only had one condition: whoever brings the writing also brings a bottle of Australian red wine to share. Billy served as dissertation advisor for only one of the five of us. But there he was, eager to engage. One week, he brought in a piece of his own writing. It was a rollicking dialogue on human sexuality in the United Methodist Church, in the style of Hume. We were squeamish about Billy’s tone, but he wouldn’t have it. “Desperate times call for desperate measures.” For Billy, some things mattered too much to sacrifice clarity. That the book never received a substantial response confirms his judgment.

Another week we arrived to an uncharacteristically somber Billy. He told us he had just returned from a doctor’s appointment and received a cancer diagnosis. He didn’t send an email. He didn’t leave a note on the door. He cared enough to tell us himself. He faced the grave thing. He didn’t turn away from us, and he didn’t turn away from the facts of human living. What really set Billy apart was his commitment to think on grave matters. He was interested in life’s big questions, including death, a subject on which he wrote and spoke frequently in recent years. It was an ideal subject for him: universal, concrete, profound. It is a question everyone asks, and Billy cared too much about everyone not to give his mind to it. He was going to think it out, and he was going to argue with you so that you would think it out.

Arguing with Billy could be disorienting. The analytic mind is content with minor victories. One proceeds with sharp focus on narrow domains. Better to build it solid than build it large. Billy was totally analytic, but his mind ran in the opposite direction. He was always looking for narrow concerns with broad implications, and finding them. There he was faithful to the analytic philosophical tradition he inherited at Oxford. His key was holding these matters up to the peculiarities of a human life. This led him to ponder the demonic. It led him to ponder the Holy Spirit in concrete acts. It drove his methodological commitments to particularity – particular divine acts, particular canonical resources, particular human experiences – the common foundation of all his thought.

The loss of a teacher like Billy is always complicated. I cannot help but to measure myself according to his ideals - as a scholar, a teacher, and, indeed, as a man. In my case, it was complicated by my recent reception into communion with Rome. It was not the decision he would have me make. Billy had more than a lifetime of plans for books and ministry. And he had plans for his students. Last spring, he impishly asked me if I was going to “Pope up.” I had learned my lesson. I looked him in the eye and said, “Yeah, I think that I am.” He replied, “Wow! Alright then.” Then he dove right back into talking theology. It wasn’t the decision he would have me make. But it was more important to Billy that we make reasonable decisions, stand by them, accept their consequences. Very few men can do such a thing. Even fewer can teach it. Billy did both.

Writing about Billy is difficult. One talks too much about oneself. But that was part of his genius. His life was about others. It was about his family, his students, his partners in ministry all over the globe. He offered his self to us: his sparkling wit, his contagious energy, his penetrating mind, his heart for the world. His life, like the Lord he served, became about ours. And so, like the Lord he served, he lives on.

Dr. Justus Hunter is Assistant Professor of Church History at United Theological Seminary in Dayton, Ohio. His most recent book, co-authored with Dr. Philip Tallon, is The Absolute Basics of the Wesleyan Way.

Tammie Grimm:

I was never a student of Billy’s having attended other schools than where he taught. Still, a William J. Abraham book has been on my shelves since my first semester in seminary. Much ink is being rightly spilled on his intellectual prowess and rigorous scholarship. And yet, the most meaningful read I associate with Billy is the required text he listed for a young clergy seminar he helped facilitate at Lake Junaluska. That book, Father Arseny: Priest, Prisoner, Spiritual Father, recalls the ministry of a Russian Orthodox priest who managed to bear Christ's purifying light in the Soviet prison system. Father Arseny’s example of what it looks like to be explicitly Christian in an environment overtly hostile to faith places this 20th century figure in my go-to list of spiritual giants populated by the likes of Julian of Norwich, Brother Lawerence, Hildegard of Bingen and even John Wesley.

When I began to consider graduate studies, Billy offered sage advice. That my research in formation and discipleship had me swimming in neighboring harbors than his explicit wheelhouse never deterred him from being encouraging and delighted to see me when our paths crossed. He might have made his bread and butter talking about “the pain in his brain” but he was equally faithful to the “dart that pierced the heart.” His prayer that we submit our minds to God, our outward actions to Christ, and our hearts to the Holy Spirit exemplified his deep love for the church and concern for the way in which we live out our love for God in the world.

I miss him already — the loss keenly felt because his impact was so great. I've no doubt that the perpetual light of Christ shines on him now as he rests in peace and rises in glory.

Dr. Tammie Grimm is Assistant Professor of Congregational Formation at Wesley Seminary in Marion, Indiana. She is an ordained Deacon in the North Carolina Annual Conference of The United Methodist Church and serves on the Editorial Board of Firebrand.

Doug Koskela:

Memorial tributes are always difficult to write, and the task feels near impossible with someone like Billy Abraham.  How does one take in all that he was and all that he meant to so many people?  Reading through the beautiful and heartfelt remembrances in Firebrand and across social media provides some glimpse of the breadth and depth of his impact.  The sheer volume of testimonies from those who loved him helps to fill out the portrait in ways that no single tribute could.

The best way I can think of to go about this task is to offer snapshots—that is, to try to convey how Billy could harness his voice, his face, his mind, and his heart in a given moment to work toward some good end.  And because I was one of his many Ph.D. students over the years, I want to focus on some of the ways he engaged the students he worked with.

Billy seemed to have a particular soft spot for students who had both potential and underdeveloped confidence.  He would aim to help these students find their voices by nudging them into situations that they didn’t feel quite ready for.  And when I say “nudging,” I really mean “throwing them into the deep end.”  Sometimes this would be an opportunity that the student brought up, unsure if it was too big of a step at that moment.  But more often it was an opportunity that Billy had arranged—teaching, speaking, writing—before the student even knew about it.  With a wry smile and a slight tilt of the head, his words were the same every time: “of course you’re going to do it.”  It wasn’t an invitation; it wasn’t a command; it was simply a declaration of what was going to happen.  And it would.

Tapping into a student’s potential and cultivating confidence is part of the work of a good teacher.  But without proper care and attention, it’s possible for this process to create a monster.  When a young scholar begins to develop a sense of a voice, the dangers of arrogance and carelessness can quickly emerge.  Billy was adept at recognizing and heading off these dangers in his students.  When that formerly hesitant student would begin to show signs of intellectual bravado in a seminar or in a one-on-one meeting, Billy would choose a moment to respond directly.  An intense gaze and slow, staccato annunciation conveyed the message clearly enough: don’t get ahead of yourself.  It’s a lesson that most young academics need more than once.  

Billy’s strategy was different when the student was proposing an idea that was a bit outside the box.  Upon hearing the proposal, he would turn his head upward and to the side and burst into a delighted laughter that would perhaps last a second or two too long.  And then he would look the student directly in the eye and briskly say: “I love it.  Do it.  It’ll be great.”  That response could simultaneously do two things.  The laughter would ensure that the student understood that the road could be tough going and responses may be mixed at best.  But the direct encouragement would signal the value of taking risks, particularly in an academic world that Billy seemed to find overly cautious.

Billy’s students became friends, and over the years he appeared to take great joy in seeing their lives take shape.  And running into Billy at a conference or getting dinner together when travels allowed were always occasions for him to show that joy.  For those of us whose journeys took us a good distance from Dallas, those chances to spend time with him were both deeply cherished and far too few.  But the picture was almost always the same.  A smile, a slightly lowered head, and a low, friendly “there he is” conveyed all at once that he was glad for the time he had invested in us.  And for that time we are forever grateful.

On Monday, October 11th of this year, I walked into my Christian Theology class at Seattle Pacific University, where Billy had begun his teaching career some four decades earlier.  I began that class with this prayer of gratitude:

God, sometimes you speak in a still, small voice, and sometimes you break in upon us like fire.  Your servant William Abraham was animated by that fire.  His conversations were marked by exuberant laughter, intellectual rigor, and fierce eye contact that could turn from skeptical stare to twinkle in an instant.  Above all, those conversations were seasoned by a deep love for You, and for whichever of your creatures he happened to be talking to at the moment.  It seemed that they, and You, were all that mattered to him in the world.  May we love and care like that, by Your grace.  Amen.

Dr. Doug Koskela is Professor of Theology at Seattle Pacific University in Seattle, Washington. He is an ordained Elder in the Reach Conference of the Free Methodist Church.

Andy Miller III:

Slapping his hands on the table, raising his voice, staring me down with a wild Irish look, and essentially questioning my claim to be a Christian, I had my first intellectual battle with Dr. Billy Abraham. I buckled up and thought, “I came to SMU because I thought Billy Abraham lined up with me theologically.” Hanging on for dear life intellectually, the debate ensued for ten minutes. In a flash, he calmed down. Peace came over the room as he folded his arms and leaned back in his seat, “Alright. I’m satisfied. It’s grand to know ye can properly defend yourself.”  

I have never met a person who understood his opponents so well. Billy was on my doctoral dissertation committee, he endorsed my first book, and he was one of the first to push me toward the academy.  My first meeting with him came after he read one of my papers. He asked to see me. I came into his office, and he held up my paper and said, “Now, what’r you doin’ getting a D.Min?  Let’s stop this nonsense and start a Ph.D.. You have different gifts than ya realize.” He then dropped my paper on his desk for dramatic effect. I am a sixth-generation Salvationist, and had been a sixth-generation Salvation Army officer, I couldn’t conceive of life in the academy. He then took time explaining to me how my tradition had intellectual fruit for the church as a whole. He saw something in me that I couldn’t see. It took me a while to see what he saw.

I thank God for all the time he gave me with Billy. Just about twenty-four hours before he died, he sent me a note saying how “lovely” it is to see me serving in the theological academy at Wesley Biblical Seminary. He was preparing a lecture for an event we are hosting with the IRD, his paper was to be a theological defense of the United States. On top of philosophy, systematic theology, Wesley studies, and epistemology; Billy inspired a renewed embrace of the United States in me. The evangelical Wesleyan movement groaned when word came that he was “promoted to glory.” Nevertheless, we look forward to the resurrection and the renewal of all things. I imagine such a time will include spirited conversations with Billy. 

Andy Miller III is Vice President of Academic Affairs at Wesley Biblical Seminary, Ridgeland, MS

Andrew Kinsey:

In 1992, I began a vocational journey at Perkins School of Theology when I participated in a newly formed program for pastors transitioning from seminary into parish ministry. It was called the Mentor Program, and it provided stimulus for leadership in all facets of the church’s mission. It provided an engaging forum in which I could integrate pastoral practice with deep theological reflection. 

One of the persons who was part of this unique experience was a “Bog Irishman” by the name of Billy Abraham. At first, I was not sure what to make of him – a Northern Irishman proud of his Methodist and Pietist pedigree with an Orthodox upgrade! How interesting! Over time, I became fascinated with him and his approach to theology and with his advocacy of reintroducing the catechumenate into the church, not to mention his conception of evangelism as “initiation into the kingdom of God.” He embodied a missionary impulse I had not witnessed before, especially in the academy. We began to correspond and share more. Indeed, after the Mentor Program I enrolled in the Doctor of Ministry Evangelism Track at Perkins and worked with Billy on this topic. It was the beginning of a long friendship.

The experience at Perkins School of Theology was life changing. There, I got to know Billy more, but I also got to know Andrew Walker from King’s College in London. Both were Orthodox in leaning, but approached Orthodoxy in their own unique ways, often drawing different conclusions. What I remember is how they displayed intellectual virtue of the highest order. Seminars were rigorous but respectful. The goal was learning, regardless of where a person was in putting forth an argument.

I share this experience because not only did I develop a friendship with Billy but also with others who possessed concerns of bringing together the “two so long divided, knowledge and vital piety.” I met others who demonstrated a passion for living at the intersection of the academy and the church, persons who were seeking theological depth with evangelistic integrity. What Billy offered was the intellectual horsepower to keep the theological gristmill churning. Our conversations continued. It was providential.

We were able to forge a friendship in the crucible of these encounters. Billy was not just someone who offered academic training, but he was also a teacher who took an interest in me as a person. He was more than willing to take a phone call or respond to an email. He visited me in my local church and preached on several occasions. He loved our children and always asked how we were doing. We as a family were amazed at the pace at which he lived and worked, and we were thrilled when he went with us to play soccer on the pitch. Where did the energy come from? 

I use the word energy because I feel it is important to understanding Billy. Billy possessed a great deal of energy traveling, lecturing, teaching, preaching, and mentoring. In fact, I remember going with Billy on a trip to Northern Ireland to study C.S. Lewis. I could hardly keep up! And yet, between Andrew Walker and Billy, I discovered how energetic, if not fruitful, life in the academy and church often is. Indeed, I am fortunate to have had professors who took time to challenge me on all fronts. Billy was always forthright about where I needed to focus and the shortcomings of an argument I was trying to make. It was truly a gift.

Indeed, one of the reasons I have continued to work at the intersection of the academy and church is Billy. In 2001, he began a special program for those of us who wanted to pursue work beyond a Doctor of Ministry degree. Patterning a research program along the lines of a doctorate in Europe, Billy created the Polycarp Fellowship, inviting pastor-scholars to study in the areas of missiology and theology. It was simply another way he could impact the church’s ministry, but also how he could come alongside those who wanted to integrate missional witness with theological substance. Thanks to Billy, I and others have been able to follow this trajectory in Great Britain and South Africa. In fact, out of this fellowship has come a Festschrift to honor Billy’s award-winning book The Logic of Evangelism. Indeed, I don’t think that it is too far-fetched to say that The Logic of Evangelism has changed how we teach and envision evangelism in seminary and church today. There is a need, as Billy was wont to say, of coming to grips with the contested nature of reality and the importance of conceptual clarity in theological discourse. A slipshod pragmatism in evangelism, while redeemable, just won’t cut the intellectual mustard over the long haul. We are, after all, involved in a multigenerational endeavor here. Ideas matter.

When I received the news of Billy’s death, my friend Mike Gehring told me to take a seat. He had something significant to share. I was stunned by the news. I had just spoken to Billy two weeks before to catch up and see how his work at Baylor University was going. He was excited at the prospects of what the Wesley House of Studies could mean for the church’s mission. I spoke about how my work at Durham University was going. He concluded the conversation as he always did by saying, “Please don’t hesitate to call me at any time.” 

Those conversations will not be taking place now, but the conversations that matter about theology and evangelism and mission will continue, as they should, in the future. I know I will miss Billy for this reason. He took time to listen. Of course, we didn’t agree on all things, but who does these days? And is that really the point? Within the bosom of the church, after all, is the gospel, and it is in the gospel that we all seek wisdom and strength to serve the present age, working for reconciliation. Billy did just that in his own unique way, as we all do no matter where we are or who we are – witnessing to Christ’s death and resurrection. It is both an incredible responsibility as well as an amazing gift. Or to put it another way, in Wesley’s own words, it is work that will go on, though God may bury the workman. Billy helped us all to enjoy such work as well as to strive to embody it. 

Andrew Kinsey is lead pastor at Grace United Methodist Church in Franklin, Indiana. He is currently working on a doctorate in practical theology at Durham University. He is also a John Wesley Fellow, Harry Denman recipient.

David Bundy:

In September 1970, I began classes at Asbury Theological Seminary. Days later an Irish lad (visa issues) appeared. We walked to the Dean’s office. At that first meeting Billy Abraham and I fell-in-like. A conversation began that has just ended, hopefully to be continued later. 

In Seminary we and a group of generally like-minded folk thought, plotted, planned, and read history, theology and philosophy. We spent hours discussing our reading, often in conversation with faculty members Delbert Rose or Robert Traina, as well as Donald Dayton and Bill Faupel who were on the library staff. We both became friends of ATS President Frank Stanger who, after we supported ATS with fundraising, realized the earnestness of our quests. Although, we did cause Stanger serious headaches with some of the more conservative Oklahoma and Texas donors.

Even then, Billy insisted he was more orthodox than me. He was tempted by, and later fell into the British Analytic tradition. I was already engaged with Structuralism and Phenomenology and hopelessly a historian. We found common ground in our lack of enthusiasm for Barth. But together we read the “classics” of Anglo-European theology and philosophy. Neither of us had much interest in Wesley until a visit by Albert Outler to Asbury engaged us both, me personally and him via the cassette tapes and notes I sent him at Oxford. He would later criticize Outler severely, but at that point both of us found Outler’s interpretation of Wesley transformative. Both of us slowly became Wesleyan and Pentecostal in addition to everything else we embodied.

Our debates continued. We visited each other’s homes in various countries, traveled together, attended conferences together, and collected a myriad of stories about each other. My favorite story about him was a mishap on his first trip to Germany for a conference. Used to the slower British trains, he installed himself with a book after he changed trains in Cologne. Hours later he was in Stuttgart and realized the train was stopped, doors open, and empty but for him. Billy, with no money and an appointment in Bonn, talked his way into a ride on the locomotive as it returned to Cologne without attachments. He was dropped off in Bonn in the wee hours and continued reading in the Bonn station until it was polite to go to his assigned room.

As we became more entrenched in our philosophical orientations, our debates became more intense. He was, I insisted, corrupted by the British Analytic tradition; I was, he lamented, corrupted by the French. We happily agreed that our Celtic genes, and love of pubs, allowed for ongoing conversation. We argued and learned together on three continents, and in many USA states. Shortly after he arrived at SMU, we had lunch at a “French cafe”, La Madeleine on Mockingbird Lane. Seated at a window seat, I provoked him with “…that white car.” He looked at me in disbelief, insisting “That car is grey.” We each argued for our view of the color of the car! I insisted that the name of the color was a convention of culture, and he that “grey” was inherently the name of the color. Eventually in our enthusiasm, we were yelling in disagreement. The rest of the restaurant had become silent. Finally, food finished, debate unsettled, he called me a “relativist” and I called him a “fundamentalist”, we hugged, and happily walked out the door giggling. Conversations in the restaurant resumed. 

At an ecumenical meeting at Princeton Theological Seminary, we brought the refectory to silence by intensely and ever more loudly debating the usefulness of Foucault’s understanding of penance. Eventually we were the only two persons left in the room. We burst out laughing and considered it a good lunch. On a train from London to Oxford, we were reprimanded by the conductor for the decibel level of a debate, the subject of which we later could no longer remember. We remembered these moments as badges of intellectual honor, especially when we had scandalized more discrete theologians. But these delicious games were not just sport, they were part of our continued search to be faithful to God and to the Christian communities with which we identified. Even when we disagreed, we were comrades in our quests.

In addition to our intellectual debates, we shared the good and bad of our lives with each other. In many parking lots, hallways, and over the phone, we prayed together, celebrating good experiences and achievements while supporting each other in our dark moments.

When I “signed on” at the Manchester Wesley Research Centre, he was ecstatic. “You have seen the light; you are coming home.” I assured him that I was still, unlike him, not in the “Magisterial Wesleyan Tradition” and that, yes, I was still French in my head. He expressed his condolences; “So sorry. You are still a wild man,” uttered with enthusiasm, a smile, and twinkling eyes. In 2019, he met Geordan Hammond, director of the MWRC. Connecting Geordan and his book on Wesley in America, Billy exclaimed, “That is a damn fine book.” “Vintage” Billy, to borrow his frequently used term. The week he accepted the position at Baylor, he asked if his center could become a partner of the MWRC. It was a dream of working together again that we did not get to fulfill…yet. 

So, Billy has left us too early, but he has left many friends with shared memories of lifetimes of passionate living and shared passions for faithful Christian thinking and responsible Christ-like life, and hope. I will continue debating with him in my head as we anticipate the resurrection. Thanks Billy!

David Bundy is the Associate Director at Manchester Wesley Research Centre, Nazarene Theological College

Ryan  Danker:

The first time I saw Billy Abraham in person was in England at the Oxford Institute for Methodist Theological Studies. The year was 2007 and I was still in the throes of my graduate work. Billy was one of the keynote speakers that year and I still remember sitting in the balcony of Wesley Memorial Church, Oxford and watching Billy with both amazement and glee as he presented a vision for canonical theism that just made the room explode. To say that the reaction to his lecture was volatile would be an understatement. And I watched – at times laughing because of the ease with which he joyfully dodged his detractors – as speaker after speaker rose up to try and argue against Billy’s presentation. 

At one point, he said (I hope I’m remembering this correctly, but I believe that I am), “You need to get over your over-fascination with the Bible!” I about fell over. It was amazing. Now, fellow evangelicals, before we read too much into that statement, what he meant in context was the Bible shouldn’t be read alone with our contemporary fads and fashions, but rather that it should be read with the early church, the great company of saints, and the creeds. He was making a very traditional Wesleyan argument. 

And so after his lecture, I went downstairs to find him and when I reached him, I introduced myself and simply said, “That was amazing. Let me buy you a drink.” And off we went to one of the great pubs of Oxford. We weren’t alone and that was fine. When one was with Billy, you were often in the company of many admirers. But this was the start of a friendship because Billy believed in me and in my work, just as I admired him and his stand for the faith once delivered. 

Billy and I would see one another at conferences for years to come, we occasionally talked on the phone, and I was honored that he spoke at a conference that I organized some years later. We worked collaboratively on a number of projects. We also argued with one another! Not about anything doctrinally significant. No, we argued about Wesleyan minutia like how many sermons are actually in the “Standard” set, or which one of the sermons best captures Wesley’s via salutis. And that was part of the fun, because as heated as we might have appeared we were always smiling at one another, still thankful for the contribution of the other. There were other times when Billy offered me counsel related to my career and for that I will always be thankful. He believed in me – once telling me and a group of friends how much he liked one of my books that it made me blush – and that meant the world to me. 

Of course, he was much more than an argumentative scholar, pugnacious debater, or even a mentor. He was a faithful and passionate follower of Jesus Christ who loved his family, his church, and his friends. He experienced much heartache; especially the death of his son, Timothy. Billy remained faithful. He was a titan amongst us as a theologian and a down-to-earth disciple at the same time. I will miss him greatly. 

Ryan Danker is President of the Charles Wesley Society. He has taught on the faculties of Wesley Theological Seminary and Greensboro College.

Ted Campbell:

My first encounter with Billy Abraham was a little scary. It was at the Wesleyan Studies Group of the American Academy of Religion meeting in the Palmer House Hotel in Chicago in November, 1985. I had delivered a paper on John Wesley’s view of history as reflected in Wesley's “Letter to Conyers Middleton.” With his friendly smile, Billy began to push back on my thesis, and finally asked, “What would falsify your thesis?” That was the kind of brilliant clarity that Billy could bring to almost any discussion. 

I got to know Billy as a friend at SMU, a colleague in Wesleyan studies, and a conversation partner on a huge range of topics in including Irish history and his impressions of growing up in Ulster in the midst of “The Troubles'' our times in Oxford, and his living in the basement of First United Methodist Church in Wilmore, Kentucky, when he first arrived in the United States. His smile always signaled the kind intention that accompanied almost every conversation with him. 

I saw him in the hallway at Highland Park United Methodist Church five days before he died, and that smile was still there even as we discussed difficult matters about The United Methodist Church and friends facing health challenges. I could not imagine that he would be gone so soon. 

So I say for him, as the Western Church says of departed friends: May light perpetual Shine on Billy. 

And as Eastern churches acclaim at the death of a Christian: Memory eternal! 

Ted A. Campbell is the Albert C. Outler Professor of Wesley Studies at Perkins School of Theology, Southern Methodist University. 

Rob Wall:

The loss of a dear friend is always tough. As we lean into our grief to bear Billy’s passing as best we can, we not only seek the Spirit’s comfort through prayer and worship but we also remember the one we have lost to gladden our hearts.  A world without Billy is to lack someone important to us—a good friend, a feisty conversation partner, a brilliant scholar who agitated and stimulated new thoughts and corrections to old ones. We remember an exemplar who modeled faithfulness to a calling, to a tradition, to his students and friends. Our memories of Billy will  help us restore and reimagine what we lack with his passing—for which none of us were prepared and for which we will probably continue to be haunted and also all we gained by his friendship.

When Billy came to Seattle Pacific University from Northern Ireland in the early 1980’s to teach our students, we didn’t think at the time that those he would teach would include us. We had in mind a curriculum for him to teach: beginning courses in theology, philosophy of religion, and other courses in his intellectual wheelhouse. But we gladly discovered that he brought an extracurricular course of study with him to our lunches together. They typically would begin with Billy raising a theological question to discuss. These questions generally would relate to his research of the moment, but often he would bring to the table questions raised by students in classes we taught. . He quickly became our mentor. We wouldn’t miss those lunches! His primary conversation partners in those early years were biblical scholars: Lemcio, Spina, Wall. Billy enjoyed calling us the “remnant of Wesleyanism” (or something like it). But we discussed all sorts of topics. Here were biblical scholars who were pressed by Billy to hammer out a theological reading of the church’s scripture. We learned to bring Wesley to a range of non-religious questions—to theologize current conversations taking place “out there.” Lots of lamentations too about the state of the church, the world, Northern Ireland, Methodism, evangelicalism. But mostly Billy moderated a truly liberal discourse where ideas were presented, debated, tossed away, modified, and owned.

Billy was a revivalist at heart. A wonderful preacher, lecturer. A public theologian (a “revivalist” in the best sense), not unlike my first mentor in Wesleyan theology at Perkins, Albert Outler, the namesake of the chair Billy would one day occupy.  I still remember Billy was at his best in those small conferences of friends, whether over a pint or cup of coffee/tea, debating good ideas and learning from each other. It was around the table, iron sharpening iron, that Billy was truly our archēgos.

Billy and I remained friends for 40+ years. Whenever we had time, we met and talked catch-up ball. His questions to me were typically about our families, sometimes of SPU or our mutual friends there, and sometimes about our current research projects.  When I retired this year from SPU, Billy wrote a wonderful tribute that was mostly a remembrance of our friendship. I couldn’t help but think when reading his tribute, he was thrilled that I had turned out a bit better than he thought I would!! In any case, that’s exactly where I will remain-stayed as I suffer Billy’s loss: on an enduring friendship. I will continue to use his published work—I have an entire shelf in my study at home lined with “Billy Books” as Carla calls it; but Billy as brother and friend will always take priority.

Rob Wall is the Paul T. Walls Professor Emeritus of Scripture & Wesleyan Studies at Seattle Pacific University and Seminary

Gene Lemcio:

Next year will have been the 50th anniversary of our friendship. I was among his teachers at Asbury Theological Seminary--barely six years his senior. He was in his final (third) year. I had returned from Cambridge to my Alma Mater on a one-year appointment as a sabbatical fill in.

It became very clear, very soon that student would outstrip professor--if such things can be quantified. Intelligence, wit, charm, and commitment to Christ's Church were there in abundance. Our paths crossed again a couple of years later in the UK: I, finishing doctoral study, Billy just beginning it at Oxford.

Later still, when an opening came up at Seattle Pacific University in the Philosophy of Religion, I encouraged him to apply and urged us to hire him. He served during two separate stints, bringing those earlier (now matured) characteristics and gifts--along with wife Muriel and children Timothy, Siobhan, and Sean Wesley.

Bridging several disciplines and befriending everyone--administration, colleagues, staff, and students--Billy helped us to attain a cross-campus intellectual vibrancy that had not (and has not) been matched. He contributed to a fuller understanding of our Orthodox, Wesleyan, Evangelical, and Ecumenical heritage and potential.

Billy took this sense of mission to SMU, where he deepened, broadened, and embodied it to the end.

Eugene E. Lemcio is Emeritus Professor of New Testament at Seattle Pacific University and, Affiliate Professor in the Department of Slavic Languages and Literatures at The University of Washington

Bill Arnold:

I learned much from Billy Abraham’s ministry of scholarship long before we became friends. Early in my ministry, I read his Divine Revelation and the Limits of Historical Criticism (Oxford, 1982), which I have cited in publication and still refer to frequently each fall with new PhD students. Then in 1995, I met him in Jerry Walls’s living room in Wilmore, Ky., shortly after I took a position at Asbury Seminary. I remember that first conversation, and many others since, including our last in San Diego in 2019. I always came away from conversations with Billy encouraged, invigorated, and enthused for our common ministry of Christian scholarship (like reading his books). That was one of his most endearing gifts – the ability to make all the rest of us better versions of ourselves for the sake of the ministry.  

Dr. Bill T. Arnold is the Paul S. Amos Professor of Old Testament Interpretation at Asbury Theological Seminary in Wilmore, Kentucky.

Ken Collins:

Billy Abraham was a larger than life figure. He was an ardent churchman who championed the practices of the ancient church in an revisionist age that had forgotten such wisdom. He defended the doctrinal heritage of the Christian faith among those who had developed a bad case of amnesia. His probing intellect was formidable in its reach, broad in its extent, and it undoubtedly gave pause to his critics. Above all, Billy was an enormously engaged Christian, full of life and energy, always in the thick of things, who passionately loved Jesus Christ by championing the gospel, both near and far, indefatigably throughout his years. His numerous labors are a brilliant testament to his love of God and others. There will never be another Billy Abraham. He will be remembered in tears and known across the ages. 

Dr. Kenneth J. Collins is Professor of Historical Theology and Wesley Studies at Asbury Theological Seminary, a member of Firebrand’s Editorial Board, and author of the new book Jesus the Stranger: The Man from Galilee and the Light of the World.

Suzanne Nicholson:

Others have reflected on the brilliance, charm, and wit of Billy Abraham. His dedication to Methodist orthodoxy provides a legacy that will live on for years to come. Rather than repeat what has already been said, however, I want to offer a personal story that demonstrates the humility and kindness that Billy so often demonstrated. Billy and I regularly crossed paths at scholarly conferences. A number of years ago when I was a relatively new scholar, I met with David Watson for coffee at the Society of Biblical Literature conference, and Billy joined our conversation. We talked about lots of things, scholarly and mundane. Since David and I each have a son with special needs, we shared about our experiences as parents, our concerns for our children, and theological ruminations regarding disability. When I returned to the Society of Biblical Literature conference the following year, I ran into Billy again. Since he was such a renowned scholar and has conversations with hundreds of people at these meetings each year, I didn’t expect Billy even to remember who I was. To my surprise, his first question was, “How is your son doing?” His compassionate concern, even more than his theological celebrity, has shaped my view of Billy ever since.

Dr. Suzanne Nicholson is Professor of New Testament at Asbury University in Wilmore, Kentucky. She is a Deacon in the United Methodist Church and serves as Assistant Lead Editor of Firebrand.