Dear Friends:

My father, Wallace E. Haines, Jr, LL.D., died early this morning, 10 March 2007, at 40
minutes after midnight.

I have talked to his sisters, Isabelle Satterthwaite Haines Ferrell and
Sarah Ann Haines Adams, and his brother Henry Lamm Haines.

As you know, my father was born on the Fourth of July, 1910, in Wichita,
Kansas. He was educated at the University of Missouri, receiving his B.A. in
History in 1934 and his M.A. in History in 1937 with a thesis on Hugh of
Dié. He taught at The Chicago Evangelistic Institute (now Vennard College)
for several years, where he met my mother and wrote his own textbook on
Speech. While attending The University of Chicago and teaching, he also
worked at Marshall Fields and was known as their best clothing salesman.

Although he never completed his Ph.D. at The University of Chicago, my
father was awarded the honorary degree of Doctorate of Laws by Milligan
College in 1977.

He was without doubt the greatest salesman that I ever knew. For many years,
in the 1940s, he was booked across the country as an Evangelist. He was
indeed a great preacher. I remember his sermons, whether at Eaton Rapids or
Keswick, England, never written in advance but always emotional,
challenging, even thrilling, plumbing his travels throughout the world, his
conversations with great missionaries, an anglican priest in Africa, a
penitent in India, or the head of an orphanage in Vietnam...

But in his thirties, my father came to know a great Norwegian immigrant
named Abraham Vereide, who finally prevailed on him to "pioneer" in Europe
the strange new idea of a "Prayer Breakfast," a gathering of lay and
episcopal leaders of all Christian denominations to pray together and
discuss Christ in their practical lives. This very ecumenical movement led
my father to contact the retired Queen Wilhelmina of The Netherlands and
begin adapting this idea to European culture.

He was involved in many of the political developments of Europe following
the Second World War, a friend of government officials throughout the
continent before, during, and after they were in office. He brought Edmond
Michelet together with the struggling Prime Minister of France, Pierre
Pflimlin, in May of 1958, using their common devotion to Jesus as a bridge
toward reconciliation. The fact that Edmond Michelet convinced Pflimlin to
resign in favor of de Gaulle was a political result of the intervention of
prayer.

My father believed in reconciliation. This was the key word of his life. He
told the story of German envoys asking their Dutch hosts for forgiveness and
of the old Queen melting, because of her faith in Christ, and finally
agreeing to meet with them.

My father even reached out to Muslims. His friend Roy Calvocoressi was
working to bring Turks and Greeks together in Cyprus before the invasion of
1974. I remember them talking about the common ground between Christianity
and Islam.

His last two missions were in Bosnia and Serbia in 1994 and 1995. He rode
the bus from Budapest to Belgrade, met with opposition leader Vuk Draskovic,
absorbed Serb fears of the onslaught of their adversaries just as he had met
with the Croats and the Muslims the year before. In every instance, he
believed that there was an answer in Christ.

For our family living in France and vacationing in strange places, our
father was a kind of remote genie who made unusual things happen. I don't
know how he negotiated the places where we lived, the marvelous house at 47
av. de la Belle Gabrielle, the apartment in Paris, the chalet on the
Kattegat in Denmark, the sojourn at the Bibelheim at Beatenberg in
Switzerland. Obviously, he inspired people to bless us with their kindness.

I thank Christian Runkel, Heinrich Minder, and David Williams for the
stories you've told me about my father in his old age. I have many of my own
because he lived with me for seven years. He was eccentric and very
opinionated, sure of his convictions and always a true believer. Although he
often attempted it, he had trouble with artifice. He could be short-tempered
and even rude, he could be long-winded and effervescent. His charm could
wrap all around you, his disapproval could almost cast you into the abyss.

All of you know that I had a very mixed and difficult relationship with my
father. But I was always intensely proud of him and of his conviction and
courage.

The long long dark night of his dying is over.

I think, if indeed he greets his interlocutors on high, he might have that
strange look of paradox in his eye, the look with which he condescended to
greet Pope John Paul II in the picture I attach from 1979:

You see, I believe I know what he was thinking. I believe he was holding in
his heart the fear and the question at the beginning of the pontiff's reign:
"Are you going to dismantle all I've worked for? Are you more devoted to the
Virgin Mary of Czestochowa, who might divide us, or to Jesus who can bring
us, Protestants, Catholics, Orthodox, believers in Christ, together?"

But then, later, after many bouts of persuation, there would always be the
altar call...

My brother David is with me and we plan to take my father's ashes and meet
Philip in Eaton Rapids, Michigan, where my mother rests.

Yours, Stephen Wallace Haines

274 National Highway
LaVale, Maryland 21502
swh@wallacehaines.com

*****

Parental Walks -- Stephen Wallace Haines

After months of prodding, I was finally able to persuade my mother to buy a
wheelchair. She was now nearing ninety and finding it very difficult, even
painful to walk. Bent over with osteoporosis, she begged for frequent rests
and found herself making excuses that veiled the fact that it was so tiring
for her to take every step. All of this, of course, was no reason to spend
money. She was proud of the fact that she could crawl up the inside steps of
my little house to her room.

Only a few years had passed since she had given in to the thought of using a
cane. "Your father and I don't want to be burdens," she had said. "We don't
want to start depending on things." Once you use a cane, she'd thought, it's
like a drug, you're hooked.

An inopportune fall took care of that argument. My father, however, held out
for caneless freedom for a few more years. One day when I met him at the
airport, I handed him a cane: "Here, take this," I said and winked with a
wry smile. "Act your age." My father surprised me with a laugh, took the
walking stick and from that time on told everyone the story: "My son gave me
this and said 'Act your age.'"

My father had long enjoyed the habit of taking long walks. If he finished a
particularly important letter, or, sometimes, the systematic assembly of
church brochures, articles of interest, or thoughts for meditation for a
group of friends, he would purposefully change into his walking clothes,
look out the window to gauge the weather, pick out a suitable cloak and hat,
don his favorite walking stick, and set off for the intersection a half mile
away called "Four Corners." He was quite deaf by this time and could not
easily manage any hearing aids. He thought, of course, that the problem of
hearing was rather external to his person. At "Four Corners," he would often
cross against the traffic without regard to the cars he could not hear and
amble into the Post Office with his missionary loot. At first, of course, he
'd charm the clerk at the window, present the mail he had to send, warn her
that the one letter was to Austria, not Australia, and ask her if she could
manage a little discount for a minister of the cloth.

The clerk would say "I can't give you a discount, Sir" and he would ask how
much. "I said I can't give you a discount," she clerk would say in the same
tone as her first reply. "Yes, I understand," my father would enunciate
patiently, "what I would like to know, my dear young lady, is how much of a
discount you are willing to give. After all, I spent fifty years in Europe,
that should account for something!"

"No, I can't," the clerk would reply and shake her head and raise her voice,
with a rousing alarm and gaping incredulity. "No discounts. This is U.S.
Postal Service. No discounts! No!"

Of course, the incomprehensible reactions of the clerk would offend him even
more than the screaming cars that had nearly killed him outside. "You know,
young lady, I can hear perfectly well. You really ought not to mumble your
words. It's one thing to deny me the consideration of my experience, it's
quite another to be rude and yell into my ear!"

Bargaining was a skill my father had learned in his fifty years in Europe
and he was proud of its power, proud of his aptitude in its pursuit.
Bargaining, he had come to believe was the key to much of living passably.

It was through his bargaining that we had lived in some of the most
beautiful apartments and houses. It was his bargaining power that put us in
the twenty-one room villa at 47 av. de la Belle Gabrielle in the Paris
suburb of Nogent_sur_Marne. It was his business acumen that had negotiated
the apartment at 24 av. Charles Floquet, with full French doors and close
balcony view of nearly the full Eiffel Tower. It was this ability to
motivate others to meet our needs that afforded us the chalet in Denmark
overlooking the fields near the harbor of Hundested, on the Kattegat. We had
no money whatsoever. We depended entirely on donations and my father did not
have the means to make the fund raising trips through America that had once
made him so successful. He depended totally on his ability to garnish
support from a few well-to-do enthusiasts and then make deals.

I confess that I can only speculate as to the nature of my father's
conversations with the postal clerk. From a beginning that made him steam
home with the fury of religious outrage, fuming to me "that woman at the
Post Office treated me most disrespectfully," to a relationship of
cordiality bordering on reverence, my father ended up "capturing the hearts
and minds" of our local Postal employees. I once witnessed him strutting
into the building with a pack of letters, greeting one after the other of
the clerks by some description, "the dear lady with the lovely daughter,"
"the man from Ceylon with the ready smile," asking them about their sons,
their grandchildren, their work. Each one of them called him "Dr. Haines,"
each one of them, as they spotted him, lit up as though he were a celebrity.

My father's habit of walking was directly related to another important
trait, his hypochondria. Most of his long life, he thought he was "living on
borrowed time." He imagined he had heart trouble when he felt pain in his
chest, he always complained of insomnia, and, of course, he consulted
doctors who, of course, would give him advice for free. One of them had once
told him he might have Angina and from that day on my father was convinced
that he had to take frequent walks to live. Whenever he felt a little pain
in his chest or abdomen, he took to patting it like Napoleon, claiming it
was that "angina that Dr. Webb-Pebblow diagnosed" and saying he had to lie
down to "avoid the worst."

Whenever my father was home during my childhood, we trembled during the
hours of his naps. Anything could wake him and put him in a sour mood. We
tried at times to read, to keep to our rooms, to avoid walking through the
halls. When we had to venture to the bathroom, we stepped carefully to avoid
the creaking of the floorboards. Nothing we did, however, seemed to keep
from having him later accuse us of "rousting all afternoon about the house."
Even later, in the summers, when we lived in the community of holiness
saints in Eaton Rapids, Michigan, and my father took his naps across the
camp meeting grounds in a borrowed cottage, a half mile away from our own,
we endured his complaints at the dinner table: "You boys slammed the screen
shut three times this afternoon. I heard it and all your noise all the way
down there!"

So, you can imagine the relief we felt when, in his late seventies, he began
to go deaf. Now we could finally move freely while he napped. Now we could
live with him we thought. Now, when he complained - and he did still
complain - of our loudness, we knew that it was mostly a product of his own
imagination.

Finally, I convinced my mother to buy a wheelchair by telling her that I
would wheel her out and join my father in his afternoon walks. She herself
really preferred to stay inside. For that matter, she had never felt any
desire to walk with my father anywhere at all. She fretted about the cold,
she worried about what the wind might do to her hair, she thought it might
unexpectedly rain. The only argument that finally convinced her was the
sudden understanding that I would get some physical exercise. I too was
growing old. She knew she had always discouraged physical pursuits and she
wanted to make up for her mistake. "Well, if that would get you out in the
air some, I'll do it," she said.

My father had, in his youth, quite a pace. Once, we had arrived in Venice
during a football game. The pack of people we met when we alighted from the
ferry was among the greatest crowds I'd ever witnessed. My father started us
out to find a restaurant. In thirty seconds, he was twenty souls ahead of
us. We began to run. At the close of our first minute on the Rialto in the
center of Venice, my father had disappeared. My mother, brother, and I were
left wondering what to do among all those people. My brother and I were
children and my mother knew in Italian only the word for "water," which was
rather useless on the bridge over the Grand Canal. After a few desperate
minutes, she remembered that we had talked of visiting the Piazza San Marco,
so we asked for "San Marco," were slapped with a musical torrent of
directions we could not grasp, but walked in the general direction in which
they pointed. Three hours later, hovering among the pigeons in front of the
gloomy cathedral well after the sun had set, our father showed up with a
quizzical look. "What happened to you?" he said with a rather guilty smile.
"Why didn't you keep up?"

The trick to dealing with my parents was to convince them that they were
getting an offer that they might never see again. I confess that I persuaded
the salesman to turn his fair price into a compound offer: "Please, tell my
mother the chair would be twice as much on the open market." My mother
looked at the wheels and thought they were not plain enough. "That's the
braking mechanism," the salesman explained. "Why do we need that?" my mother
wondered energetically, thinking she had found a loophole to lower the cost.
"Well, ma'am, I'm not allowed to sell..." the salesman cut off his sentence
at the sight of me gesticulating. "I mean, ma'am, that I'm throwing the
braking mechanism in for free."

"You know, my son is going to push me himself. I don't think I need any...
extravagance." - "Definitely, ma'am," the salesman repeated, "I'm giving you
the whole package for just the bare price of the seat and wheels."

My mother told me to write the check with the solemnity of one who is giving
up her heritage for a coarse stone, a harsh reality to which she should
really not yield. "Well, if it gets you out to get some exercise, I guess it
's worth it," she said at last.

And exercise it was. First, I faced the difficulty of packing my mother up
in coats and scarves. Even in the summer, she was afraid of the breeze. I
started with a wool sweater, wrapped around it a winter coat, and finished
the bundle with a blanket for her legs. My father was already on the road.

I pushed my mother in her chair running up the hill toward my father, who at
our calling finally consented to pause and turn. Then I found I could keep
up quite easily if I engaged him in conversation. By his eighties, he was no
longer the unaware sprinter of his youth.

By no account was my father a man of few words. In fact, the happy
recipients of the letters he wrote were often amazed at the variety of ways
he found to say the same thing. My father had been raised by an uncle who
told stories and I think he always wished that he could do the same.
Unfortunately, the stories my father had collected were best kept as the
ingredients of sermons, not everyday conversation. Many of them I had heard
countless times when I sat in the congregation and he expounded on the
corridors of his life and extracted lessons from every one as though they
were the gateways to an eternal truth. How often I had heard him speak of
the African preacher he had met in the Congo! "'Mr. Haines,' this humble man
told me on the porch of his shack, 'do you know that I have a D.D. degree?
- 'Really?' I said becoming quite impressed. You see, I was like every
white man prey to the glitter of glory and the rewards of this world. I
thought it amazing that this simple man of the cloth in a remote village in
the heart of Africa had earned the same honor that was part and parcel of my
own sphere of reference. - 'Yes, Mr. Haines,' the old man continued, his
greying head reaching closer to mine. 'Mr. Haines, I have found, while
working with my people, with my villagers and their sorrows and joys, that
my D.D. degree is "Down in the Dust," yes, "Down in the Dust" at the feet of
Jesus.'"

This afternoon, while walking with my mother in the wheelchair as my charge,
in order to keep my father close beside, I began by asking him about his
trip to see Albert Schweitzer in 1959. "Well, you know it was you who
inspired me," he began. "I had become convinced that the trip into the
interior would be too much. I think you had heard me express my doubts. Gus
Gedat didn't wanted to go all the way to the mission. He stayed in
Libreville on the coast. He was suffering much from the heat. But I
remembered your plea, let's see, I think you were only ten years old. Just
as I was leaving that day in Paris, you remember, you said 'Oh, please,
Daddy, please, won't you go to see Albert Schweitzer?' Your voice was so
tiny and quiet. I felt I had to go for you."

All the while, my mother was observing the flowers of our neighbors. "Well,
look at that," she would say, "How I'd love to have peonies like that in our
front yard!"

"The trip to Lambaréné," my father continued without the least notice of
interruption, "was infernally long. I had to take a bus from Libreville,
filled with Africans of all kinds, many with the live poultry they had
bought in the city, some with bags of linen or sorghum or seed. It took a
full day just to get to the river, the River Ogooué, I believe.

Suddenly, my mother interjected "I don't like where they put those lilies.
They don't favor the rhododendrons and, hoh, I hate yellow!" My mother's
"hoh" in this context was a strong rebuke, like the brushing away of an
awful odor or evil thought. It was more like a bad whiff of wind, meant to
ford off spirits or omens.

"That night I spent at the most horrible hotel. Filled with the French
colonists on their holiday, I could hardly sleep in the teeming night while
they sang their coarse songs and had their drunken brawls. And, of course,
dear son," and my father looked at me knowingly but with a still careful
view to protect me from such things, "I knew they had their African women,
women of ill repute..."

"Now, isn't that the loveliest bed of impatiens?" my mother prevailed for a
moment under my nose.

"The next day, on the river, right past the crocodiles - I'm telling you,
son, I have never been, well, so scared!"

"You have to water them several times a day," my mother warned.

"But, oh, dear son, to meet Dr. Schweitzer in his village and all the poor
people lined up for help..."

"I wonder if those rocks up there were put in that row intentionally," my
mother said, as though uncovering some hidden truth.

"You know about the good doctor in his hut, son, I've told you the story..."

"Wait, this hill seems too steep," my mother worried. "Don't go too fast,
now, or I might fall over."

"Well, there in his hut on his desk was a bowl of sugar. And while we
talked, I began to notice a long procession of ants going up the leg of the
desk."

"Now, wait, go slower," my mother said. "Be careful, hold me tight, ooh that
was a big bump."

"The good doctor looked at me and winked. 'Le grand restaurant,' he said
with a smile."

"I wonder how often they trim those hedges," my mother said. "They look so
perfectly cut, so French."

"You see," my father explained, "the good doctor prized all life, anything
living that did not cause disease or destroy other things."

Many spring, summer, and fall days of their very old age I took my parents
walking and they talked and talked. During those pleasant afternoon hours,
however, I never heard them say anything of import to each other.

-- Stephen Wallace Haines

*****

From Dipl.-Kfm. Christian Runkel of Remscheid, Germany:

Wallace came to visit me for the first time in the summer of 1979. It was a
hot day and we sat down in our garden and had cold drinks. I remember that
we talked about some theological problems and that I was fond to show off
some of my knowledge. Wallace was polite, but it nevertheless seemed to me
that he was not listening very well, it was obvious that he was not fully
concentrated.

There was a reason for his behaviour. Coming into my house he had seen that
on the other side of the street a kind of family drama was about to take
place. We had only recently moved into the street and knew only a few things
about the neighbours. We had learned about the daughter of that particular
neighbour that she had broken up a short affair with a man she was pregnant
from. The man was driven wild, and on that day he tried to force his way
into the neighbour's house to have a word with the girl he still loved. The
neighbour had all the doors locked and did not respond to the wild knocking
or ringing of the doorbell. He lived behind the drawn curtains and shutters
in a hot summer sun like a man in a fortress under siege.

Even after hours the wild child-father did not get tired. He used my
garden-wall as a strategic post to sit on and keep the other house under
control. From time to time he would cross the street, would fearcefully ring
the doorbell, knock on one of the windows, scream something and come back to
sit on my wall again.

Wallace interrupted our conversation. "Let us pray for that man" he said,
and we did so (I very hesitant, because I thought the whole thing would soon
turn out to be a matter rather for the police than for prayer, Wallace
nevertheless very firm and compassionate).

We talked theology again, and again Wallace was not listening very
carefully. He soon interrupted me: "Go and tell the man that we have been
praying for him". Now this was clearly against the German neighbourhood laws
on interference in other people's problems. I tried my best to find some
diplomatic words to the wild man about an "American kind-of-pastor" who was
"in a certain way concerned" and according to some strange "foreign customs"
was used to praying in situations like these. Aware that all the neighbours
up and down the street were watching us from behind the curtains, and afraid
that the man might turn his violence against me, I said these short words in
a great hurry and was soon back in the garden, with Wallace and the cold
drinks waiting.

It was theology again and Wallace again listening "with only one ear," as we
say in Germany. He soon came up with the new idea to go and pray with the
wild man in the street. I was scared but followed him. When we reached the
garden wall he asked me to interpret: "I don't know what your problem is",
he said to the man, "but I know the Lord has a solution for all your
problems". And he added that he believed in the power of prayer. And prayed.

This was my first prayer in the open street in front of my garage. I felt
all the curtains behind the windows in the street moving while all my
neighbours secretly watched the strange scene. A group of three men standing
in the street and bowing their heads in prayer.

And it was then that I began to learn, there is no shame in following the
apostle Paul who writes in I Timothy 2:8 that we should lift up holy hands
without wrath and doubting - "in every place".

The wild man soon afterwards went his way and was never seen again in our
street. My neighbour came the next day and explained the situation to us,
and apologised, and I apologised, too, about interfering, and we both found
there wasn't much to apologise for, and had a good neighbourly friendship
from that day on.

Finally - when I told my own father about the prayer in the street, my
father wrote down a note, put it into his wallet and kept it there until the
day of his death. He would often quote it to us and to others.

The note said, in English:

"The Lord Has A Solution For All Your Problems."

- Christian Runkel

*****

David Williams of England:

I guess we all knew that Wallace was very close to heaven but when the event
actually takes place a great sense of loss is with us. Wallace was a
wonderful friend to me - probably the man who has influenced the course of
my life more than any other. He probably too was the most irritating and
difficult man I have ever met but I think in a unique way we had great
respect and love for each other.

Of course, you knew about your father's famous persistence, famous for its
ability to rattle and rouse souls who worked with him. Since you're prodding
me about this, I'll tell you how it was: Your father would ask me to call a
member of Parliament, say in Budapest, and I would promise to do so before
the end of the day. Now your father knew well that I had another job, one
that brought in real income, that allowed me to feed my family. He knew that
this job had responsibilities that I could not just put aside at random...

But, nevertheless, about an hour after he enjoined me to make this critical
call, your father would give me a ring: "David, have you got in touch with
G. yet?" -- "No, Wallace," I would protest, "I haven't had a chance yet. I
need to get his number from J. or R. First, I have accounts to cover at my
work." -- "I understand, David, of course. But it's essential that we get G.
to come to the conference." -- "Yes, Wallace, I promise, before the day is
done..."

That would hold him for an hour or so. Then, another jingle, "David, is G.
going to come?" -- "Wallace, I really haven't had the time to ferret out his
phone number and call him yet... But I promise, before the stroke of three,
I'll do it without fail..." -- "Of course, David, I know you'll do it."

This sort of interruption sometimes occurred tenfold. But then, when one or
two o'clock came by and I found the time to do the calling, I would often
find out that your father had already phoned J. and R. and then followed up
with G. in Budapest!

...

Over the years I must have traveled thousands of miles with him meeting on
our trips a wide variety of people from Kings to paupers.

Have I ever told you about your father and the shoes? Once when we were
driving through a seedier part of town, your father noticed a man trudging
along with tattered stockings and no shoes. "Why, David, that man has no
shoes!" he said in alarm. I think I responded in vague terms, "Yes, Wallace,
there are many needy people in these parts..."

"But, David, I have those shoes in my luggage that M.I. gave me. They're
practically new!"

"Surely, Wallace, you can use them with all your walking." I kept on
driving, anxious to get back after my pick-up at the airport.

"David," said your father, "I don't need those shoes as much as that man
back there! David, please, turn around, let's go back there and give them to
him."

I believe I attempted an argument or two more, such as the probability that
he would lose them just as surely as he'd lost all sense of things in his
life, possibly exchange them for money for drink...

"No, David, please," your father insisted. "Turn the car around. We need to
give those shoes to that poor man!"

I knew that, as always, he would not rest until I had obeyed. I found an
alley and turned around. For a man who dressed with such elegance and was
always reluctant to shake the hands of common folk, I thought this was
remarkable.

Then too, you know, once, while your mother was away in France, your father
called me in a hushed voice, practically out of breath: "David," he said in
a barely audible but frantic whisper, "I have a man in the apartment here,
well, you know... one of those homeless men... he's in the bath at the
moment." -- "Wallace, you're out of breath! What do you mean?"

"David, I couldn't just let him be! I know what you're going to say... He
was so ugly and awful and dirty, but I just felt the Lord wanted me to do
something... David, don't tell Frances. I brought him up here to take a
bath..."

"Wallace, you what?" I said, utterly without belief.

"He's in the bath right now. I don't know. Just call me in an hour or so,
see if I'm alright..."

I stopped for a moment in wonder. This man who was so accustomed to bracing
himself to meet dignitaries, worried about every trespass of etiquette and
who had a horror of the filth of the streets... What force of nature or God
could possibly bring him to risk his home and life for a derelict from the
gutter?

You wondered once how I could embrace him at that Nursing Home as though he
were my own father, my own beloved Big Brother in Christ...

I woke yesterday morning feeling I should pray for him. Then I received your
announcement...

-- David Williams

*****

Dear Family of Wallace E. Haines,

It was a privilege to walk with Wallace in the relationship we shared in
Jesus. Wallace was a man of long experience, deep convictions, and wide
relationships.

In preparation for going to Europe, Dr. Abraham Vereide gave Wallace a
direct and simple charge-Go to a city, see what God is doing there, relate
yourself to what He is doing. Then repeat the same approach in another
city, and in time relate the persons involved in each place to one another.
By this process, a web of relationships developed around Jesus throughout
Europe, both on the continent and in the United Kingdom.

There is no way to adequately express the long-term impact of Wallace on
people worldwide and on our personal lives and family. Wallace was 100%
single-minded. He saw opportunity for God's Kingdom work in every
situation. He wrote voluminous letters filled with the details of God's
Spirit leading him, and the vision he saw of the growth of the family of
faith at home and abroad.

In the many times we traveled together, it was fascinating to hear Wallace's
grasp of history, particularly that of Europe. I had so many questions and
Wallace never tired of answering clearly and expanding on the questions with
increased background and knowledge.

We flew together in a small plane to Vereide, Norway and prayed together by
the cross carved out of live stone beside the fjord. The point at which
Abram Vereide had departed Norway so many years before.

It has been a privilege to serve the Lord with Wallace in our generations.
We commit ourselves to his family and wide circle of friends to continue on
the path which Wallace has helped to blaze and to map for us all.

May God comfort, strengthen, and sustain us all in this process.

Your friend,

Douglas E. Coe

*****

Eulogy by Stephen Wallace Haines

Memorial Service at

The First United Methodist Church of Eaton Rapids

Eaton Rapids, Michigan

Saturday 17 March 2007

ËËË

Last night, across the river, I fell to reminiscing with my dear cousin Betty about her cottage and my thoughts fell on the day in 1963 when we received word from Europe that a new Pope had been elected.

We were renovating our own cottage in Eaton Rapids Camp Meeting and so we were allowed by my Aunt and Uncle, Betty’s parents, to borrow their kitchen to make our meals.

And that’s where we were when my father burst in one day to announce that his friend Cardinal Montini of Milan had been elected Pope.

"What an opportunity!" my father said. "Think of the possibilities!" He had spoken at length with Cardinal Montini about the actions of the Second Vatican Council, about the barriers that might fall between the Anglican and Protestant Churches on the one hand and the ancient monolithic bastion of the Catholic Church. Most of all, he had spoken at length with Cardinal Montini about the notion of "Oneness in Christ."

That afternoon, my father began to compose a telegram to the new Pope. As you know, the first decision that a newly elected Pontiff must make is to pick the Name he will assume as the Vicar of Christ and the Head of the Roman Church. The name Cardinal Montini had chosen was "Paul."

My father sketched a telegram that went something like this: "May God bless the Steps you take in the discipleship of Our Paul, the Apostle who preached Christ to the world and him crucified. He Is Risen."

This was June 1963, the beginning of the great, eventful papacy of Paul VI, when the words "ecumenism" and "ecumenical" began to be used throughout the world. The thought of actually uniting Christians as believers in the Crucifiction and purposeful Resurrection of Christ was spreading across the globe.

Now, what does this mean to a congregation of Methodists in this lovely town in Michigan? Well, that’s just the point: we’re not all Methodists! My father’s life was dedicated to Reconciling Christians everywhere – believers in Christ uniting in Prayer. What greater setting could be found for us to put him to rest than this beautiful area across the River from a Camp Meeting he once directed that was focused on Holiness, on the Preparation to a Walk with God regardless of the flavor of doctrine you follow or the culture from which you come?

Notice the people next to you. If you have strong convictions – and my father had many – the person next to you may as well – and they may be different. What can bring you together –- this was his focus! Not the doctrines... What about Christ?

Often, before meeting with a member of Parliament or cabinet minister, my father would prepare a succinct introduction about the focus on Christ. He knew he couldn’t waste time on civilities, although, as most of you know, he certainly had the gift of gab. "Mr. Minister, I know you’re a man of faith. I want to challenge you to use your faith in all your contacts. You have such influence, Mr. Minister, that you can help to change the world..."

Now you may ask, why did I bring this picture with me showing my father with a different Pope? This is John Paul II, the date is some time around 1978 or 1979... just after Joseph Haines was born.

Notice the polite but complicated look on my father’s face. He’s now 69 years old and he’s worried. This Pope is a great anti-Communist – his emphasis is on Eastern Europe. Why would that worry my father?

Knowing the culture of Polish Catholicism and the emphasis on the cult of the Virgin Mary, my father was afraid that this Pope would divide Christians, not unite them. Could this in fact undo much of his life’s work?

In fact, for reasons that my brother Phil might know – it’s good to have a psychiatrist in the family – my father fell into something of a depression the next year.

Once again, we met at Eaton Rapids. But uncharacteristically, my father would go long periods of time without saying anything. Was this the close of his long life of Service? Was there no more he could do? (In fact, no, he did a lot afterwards. He did not "go gently" into retirement).

I asked him about his family, about his own childhood, about the broken home.

"Well, you know, Steve," he said. "My Aunt Pat and I had a deal. I would stop by her house every morning so she could look me over. She would comb my hair, make sure I was ready for school, give me money for lunch and words of encouragement. Nearly every sentence I tried to say came out wrong. I stuttered. I was eight years old. My father had moved away. My mother spent long hours at the piano...

"Then came that awful day when my grandmother showed up with the aunts and uncles and they took my mother away. You know, they divided us up. My sister and brother John went with Aunt Pat...

"And then there was that long train ride. I held on to Henry, my baby brother, for all I was worth. He was only two.

"We sat on that train taking us to St. Louis next to an uncle we barely knew, a tall, austere man, dignified, quiet. Yes, Steve, I can tell you, I was afraid.

"And that night, after my uncle and aunt had put us to bed, they left our door open, as you do with children. Henry was fast asleep... but, well, I overheard them...

"‘That little one,’ my uncle said in hushed tones. ‘I think we can do a lot with him... But that other one, the older one, the one with the stutter, I don’t know... I just don’t know if he’ll ever amount to anything.’

"Well, Steve," my father said, trying to stop the flow of tears, "you know I just said to myself, ‘By Golly, I’ll show them!’"

Well now, my Dear Father, after this long eventful life of service to your Lord, I want you to know... – and Uncle knew this too and was very proud of you —

By Golly, you showed ‘em, you sure did!

- Stephen Wallace Haines

*****

Wallace E. Haines, Jr.

A Service of the Life & Resurrection

First United Methodist Church of Eaton Rapids

Eaton Rapids, Michigan, U.S.A.

Saturday 17 March 2007

———

Wallace E. Haines, Jr. Born Died

July 4, 1910 March 10, 2007

Wichita, Kansas Silver Spring, Maryland

Prelude Jan Denton, Organist

Opening Scripture and Prayer Pastor Tom Evans

Hymn Let the Lower Lights Be Burning

Scripture Readings 23rd Psalm Pastor Tom Evans

Romans 8:28

Eulogy Stephen Wallace Haines

Hymn It Is Well with my Soul Hymnal No. 377

Reminiscences Christian Runkel of Germany Read by Dr. Philip C. Haines

Heinrich Minder of Switzerland Delivered by Heinrich Minder

David Williams of England Read by Sarah E. N. Haines

Violin Solo Meditation from Thaïs by Jules Massenet Alan Carriero

Accompanied by Jan Denton

Prayer Pastor Tom Evans

Hymn A Mighty Fortress Is Our God Hymnal No. 110

Benediction Pastor Tom Evans

———

You are invited to a luncheon in the

Fellowship Hall following the service.

*****

Memorial Service of Worship

Celebrating the Life of

WALLACE E. HAINES, Jr.

July 4, 1910 – March 10, 2007

“I am the resurrection and the life. . .

whoever lives and believes in me will never die.”

Sunday, April 29, 2007

2:00 p.m.

Chapel of the Presidents

The National Presbyterian Church

4101 Nebraska Avenue, N.W.

Washington, District of Columbia

Order of Worship

Prelude William Neil, Organ

Welcome and call to worship Rev. Dr. Gareth W. Icenogle

Scripture Psalm 91 Dr. Philip Haines

▲ Hymn Let the Lower Lights Be Burning Philip P. Bliss

Scripture 1 Corinthians 13 Elaine Thomas

Eulogy Patricia Baker

▲ Hymn It is Well With My Soul Ville du Havre

Words of Remembrance Lord Griffiths of Fforestfach
Christian Runkel

Doug Coe

Dee Dee Winter

David I. Haines

Stephen Wallace Haines

Solo Were You There? Spiritual

Michael Denham, tenor

Homily Rev. Dr. Icenogle

Pastoral Prayer

▲ Hymn In My Heart There Rings a Melody Heart Melody

Benediction

▲ standing, as able

Coordinator: Sharon Dougherty Ushers: Barbara and John Freeman

Back To Top

*****

PSALM 91

He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say of the Lord, He is my refuge and my fortress, my God; in him will I trust. Surely he shall deliver thee from the snare of the fowler, and from the noisome pestilence. He shall cover thee with his feathers, and under his wings shalt thou trust; his truth shall be thy shield and buckler. Thou shalt not
be afraid for the terror by night, nor for the arrow that flieth by day, nor for the pestilence that walketh in darkness, nor for the destruction that wasteth at noonday. A thousand shall fall at thy side, and ten thousand at thy right hand,
but it shall not come nigh thee. Only with thine eyes shalt thou behold and see the reward of the wicked. Because thou hast made the Lord, who is my refuge, even the Most High, thy habitation, there shall no evil befall thee, neither shall
any plague come nigh thy dwelling. For he shall give his angels charge over thee,
to keep thee in all thy ways. They shall bear thee up in their hands, lest thou dash thy foot against a stone. Thou shalt tread upon the lion and adder; the young lion and the dragon shalt thou trample under feet. Because he hath set his love upon me, therefore will I deliver him; I will set him on high, because he hath known
my name. He shall call upon me, and I will answer him. I will be with him in trouble; I will deliver him, and honor him. With long life will I satisfy him,
and show him my salvation. (King James Version)

*****

1 CORINTHIANS 13

Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal. And though I have the gift of prophecy, and understand all mysteries, and all knowledge; and though I have all faith, so that I could remove mountains, and have not love, I am nothing. And though I bestow all my goods to feed the poor, and though I give my body to be burned, and have not love, it profiteth me nothing. Love suffereth long, and is kind; love envieth not; love vaunteth not itself, is not puffed up, doth not behave itself unseemly, seeketh not its own, is not easily provoked, thinketh no evil, rejoiceth not in iniquity, but rejoiceth in the truth; beareth all things, believeth
all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things. Love never faileth; but whether there be prophecies, they shall fail; whether there be tongues, they shall cease; whether there be knowledge, it shall vanish away. For now we know in part, and we prophesy in part. But when that which is perfect is come, then that which is in part shall be done away. When I was a child, I spoke as a child, I understood as a child, I thought as a child; but when I became a man, I put away childish things. For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then, face to face; now I know in part,
but then shall I know even as also I am known. And now abideth faith, hope,
love, these three; but the greatest of these is love. (King James Version)

*****

Patty’s Memorial for Wallace

My, wouldn’t Wallace be proud to see all of you here to honor him!

I am here for one reason... Wallace asked me to come. I am his beloved first cousin – we called each other that all of our lives. Our mothers were the sisters closest to each other in age – 2 years apart of 9 children. He and I grew up 200 miles apart, but spent idyllic summers at Evergreen Place – the vast family farm and later at Karlam – Aunt Patsy’s place that became her and Uncle Charley’s permanent home in the 1930s. Our ancestors came to the Pettis County, Sedalia, Missouri, area 175 years ago and bought land – much land. Karlam became a Mecca for the family.

Since Wallace was 10 years older than I, at age 5, I can remember this handsome lad – full of joy, talent, boundless energy – played the piano beautifully and sang as well – always running – galloping is the correct word – did he ever stomp through the house at Karlam – dressing up us children, the little ones, in the aunts dresses or, as Scartlett did, in curtains, scarves, anything available – having fashion shows for the adults on the huge porch in the long summer evenings – what fun!! Also writing plays for us to act in. But always lurking in the back of his mind was the devastating loss of his beautiful mother whom he adored and the break-up of his family and the division of the children.

So how did this sensitive lad become the brilliant theologian, compassionate, loving, tireless servant of the Lord who moved through a worldly world but never compromised his commitment to Christ? Let me give you a glimpse into his early life and the beloved people who molded his character and nurtured and encouraged him, for I have known him longer than anyone in this beautiful edifice.

At age 8, with his small suitcase packed with his meager belongings, he and his baby brother Henry – who later became a wonderful and successful Methodist preacher in the Pacific Northwest – boarded a train in Wichita, Kansas, with Aunt Florence and Uncle Irwin and traveled 500 miles to Granite City, Illinois, a highly industrial suburb of St. Louis, where Uncle Irwin was YMCA Secretary. He held Henry on his lap the entire way!

They entered a world of structure, order, discipline, unconditional love and, most importantly, a Christian atmosphere. Uncle Irwin, tall, handsome, ramrod straight, quiet, of German descent, devout former Professor of English at Washington University in St. Louis, also a teacher of immigrants.

"Wallace, you will stop biting your nails... you will stop stuttering... and, do you know why? Because I will help you!" And it happened. A special teacher for the stuttering, a routine and the security of home life for this high-stung lad... Discipline for the studies that they did together every night at the dining room table. Music lessons for piano and voice... Valedictorian of his High School Class... on to Missouri University where he excelled in subjects such as Logic. A Master’s Degree and work on his Doctorate. Next stop, C.E.I. in Chicago, where he experienced a real conversion and decided to dedicate his life to Christ. A broken engagement that nearly destroyed him... then Frances came into his life, a miracle.

You may have heard his classic proposal, "Frances, I’ve decided the Lord wants us to get married, but right now I have to catch a train..." What a beautiful, talented, intelligent helpmate she became, dragging the boys and the silver across the Atlantic God knows how many times. They had no permanent home in the U.S. She had endless gatherings, teas, coffees for the wives of the men he was trying to bring to Christ. Always running by plane, train, bus, goat cart for all I know, trying to reach as many people as he could. And all along the way, the loving encouragement of Aunt Florence, Uncle Irwin, Aunt Patsy, my beautiful mother Sweet-Nan who adored him, and Aunt Hannah... all helped him to blossom into the man he became.

My mother called the good things that happened in your life "Providential" or "the Will of the Lord" and I believe that also, but Wallace had the gift of luck. He found his niche at the right time of his life. He was an elegant man, an intelligent and wonderful speaker, and dedicated to the cause of ICL for spreading God’s Word, impatient – yes – could not abide disorder, always focused. How he did it for so long only the Lord knows, for he gave him the health, stamina, love for people, for 55 years of dedication to do it.

I asked him once what he thought Heaven would be like – I don’t want to walk those golden streets forever – my feet get tired just thinking about it... His reply: "I think greater music will be written, greater songs sung, greater books written – including poetry – greater science will be discovered." In other words, we will progress on to heights never dreamed of here on earth, our lives will be fulfilled beyond our wildest dreams – I like that. He told me this a long time ago and it comforted me a lot.

All of our lives are richer for having known him.

Many of you know the last verse of Thanatopsis, by William Cullen Bryant:

"So live, that when thy summons comes to join

The innumerable caravan which moves

To that mysterious realm, where each shall take

His chamber in the silent halls of death,

Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,

Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed

By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave

Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams."

– Patricia Baker, 29 April 2007

*****

Wallace E. Haines

Memorial Service

National Presbyterian Church, Washington

Lord Griffiths of Fforestfach

I consider it a great honour as well as a personal pleasure to pay tribute to someone today who had a great influence on my life and for whom I in turn have had the highest possible regard, namely Wallace Haines. Indeed I can honestly say that, if it had not been for Wallace, I doubt if I would know anyone in this Chapel today.

Although Wallace was more than 30 years my senior he became one of my closest friends and one of his great qualities in friendship was his loyalty. When I worked for five and a half years in 10 Downing Street for the then Prime Minister, Mrs Thatcher, Wallace came without fail to see me at least once, and more likely, twice a week. Typically he would raise some practical problem in relation to what we were doing, the running of Christian Responsibility in Public Affairs. He’d mention some book or article he was reading, then he’d refer to a verse of scripture which had meant a great deal to him over recent days, and finally and always he would say a brief prayer. One thing however he was meticulous about, – and he told me many times how he was – he made a point of never overstaying his welcome.

For the whole of my allotted time today I could regale you with endless funny stories about Wallace because he had a great sense of humour: one was his teaching my son French with a Kansas accent; ...his insisting that I go along to see the film "Sister Act" with him, which made him laugh so much that he just kept crying; ...then the first time he invited us to the Glyndebourne Opera – which is a black-tie affair – he said "you must come as my guest," only to discover when we arrived that we were all guests of the owners and it was a much more grand affair than he had suggested; ...and then his choice of caps, about which I used to tease him mercilessly because it reminded me of an English cartoon regarding a man called "Andy Capp" and he’d always laugh about that; ...and then there was his reference to me as "my leader" and "my boss" which must rank as two of the greatest oxymorons of the English language – because anyone who ever dealt with Wallace knew that he only had one boss and that He was above us all and that there was no one here who was his boss; ...or I must have hosted at least four farewell dinners for Wallace over a period of 5 years. Although he was proud to be an American and very proud he came from Wichita, Kansas, he loved Europe, its history, its architecture, its culture, its institutions and its people and frankly he found it very hard to leave.

I could also spend all my time speaking about Wallace’s rare gift for reaching people in positions of leadership. He related to people at a spiritual level without in any way being intrusive or embarrassing. The glittering list of names of people whom he reached - Mark Laar (twice Prime Minster of Estonia), Queen Juliana of the Netherlands, Guy de Grieges and Comte Jacques de Vogue (who ran the Suez Company), George Thomas (Viscount Tonypandy, who was the Speaker of the House of Commons), Alois Peterle (Prime Minister of Slovenia), the Liechtenstein Royal family, Boris Trajkovski (who became President of Macedonia), Viscount Caldecot, Sir Maurice Laing (who was a well known industrialist), Alois Mock (the Foreign Minister of Austria) – I could carry on and we could spend half an hour listing names of people who Wallace developed this extraordinary relationship with – which I think are a tremendous tribute to his gifts.

For everything that Wallace did in Europe over more that 50 years we owe him an enormous debt.

You may well ask how was it that someone born and raised in Wichita, Kansas – and I have no sense in any way of denigrating Wichita, Kansas – but how was it that someone born and raised in Wichita, Kansas, had this extraordinary impact thousands of miles from where he was born.

I believe that the key to understanding Wallace, as his cousin told us earlier, was his faith. Wallace was first and foremost a totally committed follower of his Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ. He had been brought up in a Christian culture, but as a young man he made a serious commitment to follow the risen Jesus, prepared to go wherever it would take him. The result was that as a person he combined humanity, graciousness and a gift of friendship, all great Christian virtues. At the same time, he was an engaging personality because he had great intellectual curiosity, a love of the arts, especially opera, and an appreciation of all things historical. So when he spoke to people about the Christian faith, he spoke as naturally as a banker might speak about the capital markets or a musician about a piece of music or a scientist about a research project.

In our discussions week after week Wallace would invariably bring the subject round to issues of faith and I would like to mention three phrases which Wallace kept using over all the years I knew him and which will forever stay with me as a memory of him.

The first is, and if he said it to me once he said it to me a hundred times, he said "our task is to reach the marginal man". There was nothing sexist in this comment because Wallace had a remarkable ministry to women as well as to men. His objective in reaching the marginal man was to reach people who were attracted by faith but uncertain of their own faith and for whom maybe institutional religion held little attraction. For marginal people such as this he rightly felt that he could take them one step forward.

I should add that in this he was as focused in reaching the marginal person as Jack Welch was in running GE. Wallace had the same single mindedness as St Paul, St Augustine or St Francis of Assisi, all of whom he revered. I doubt if there was any occasion on which we met without him pleading to be given more names of people he could visit, and if they lived on the continent of Europe, so much the better. He loved traveling and yet was the most parsimonious person I have ever known regarding his own personal expenses.

A second phrase which Wallace used was ‘the work of prayer.’ Wallace was a great man of prayer. I never forgot the first time Wallace mentioned this to me. I had suggested we speak on the telephone at 11.30 or so the following morning and Wallace said unfortunately he couldn’t. At 11 o’clock, he said he would be starting to pray, which would take some time. While most of us make appointments for client meetings or management committees or attending Parliamentary select committees, Wallace saw prayer as a working appointment with God, and something which he made a priority in his diary.

He had a long list of people he prayed for every day. He was proud that top of that list came his beloved Frances and then his three sons and their families of whom he was justly proud. Many is the time sitting around our kitchen table in North London he would recall Frances’s great contribution when they lived in Paris or Ascot or Eaton Rapids, or David passing out at West Point, Philip gaining a place at Yale, Stephen pursuing a career in books which he himself so much loved and then his grandchildren to whom he was devoted.

But that list also included many people here today whom he genuinely loved and cared for, even if at times he felt some did not really understand him.

The third expression he used was from St Paul’s letter to the Colossians, "Christ in you, the hope of glory". It is part of Colossians 1, verse 27. "To them," that is to members of Christ’s body, the Church, St Paul says "God has chosen to make known among the Gentiles the glorious riches of this mystery, which is Christ in you, the hope of glory."

Unlike many Christians brought up in a Protestant tradition, Wallace understood in a profound way that the Christian faith is a mystery. He loved reading the mystics, Mother Julian of Norwich, St Teresa of Avila, St John of the Cross. He was the first person who drew my attention to The Wound of Knowledge, a profound meditation by Rowan Williams, now the Archbishop of Canterbury. When you were with Wallace you were always aware that he was conscious of the presence of God, always open to heaven, and that as a consequence when you were in his presence, you were nearer God’s presence too.

Whenever he was asked to speak in public - at the close of a Windsor conference, giving an epilogue at a dinner, commenting on a verse of scripture at a lunch in Charing Cross - Wallace would always return to the centrality and the reality of Christ in his life, Christ in you, the hope of glory.

Let me conclude with one story. Although I was invited to stay on in No. 10 Downing Street after Mrs Thatcher left, I left soon after she resigned as the Prime Minister. The next time I went into the building must have been something like 18 months later as the guest of John Major and to a special dinner in honour of a think tank of which I was chairman. A number of the duty policemen at the front door, members of the Diplomatic Protection Group, were men with whom I had worked in the past and so entering the building was something of a reunion. As we left after dinner we said goodbye and as Rachel and I were walking along Downing Street to Whitehall, suddenly one of the policemen came running down the street after us, which I have to say made me slightly nervous. Almost out of breath he said, "Lord Griffiths, there was one thing we forgot to ask you about, how is Dr Haines? We miss him."

Like that policeman I miss him too, and there are hundreds if not thousands of people in Europe who miss him as well. His work continues in many and varied ways but our abiding hope is his hope, the hope of glory, Christ in you. That I believe is the abiding memory Wallace would have liked to have left with us today.

Lord Griffiths of Fforestfach

*****

Wallace E. Haines

Memorial Service

National Presbyterian Church, Washington

Words of Remembrance – Christian Runkel

Read By Dr. Philip C. Haines

*****

Fred Heyn, on behalf of Doug Coe

at the Memorial to Wallace E. Haines

29 April 2007

There have been times over the years that I have had to say, "I am not Doug Coe." This is one of those times. Doug’s wife Jan had surgery this week and he felt he should stay by her side... he took her home a day ago. So he sends his greetings and is very grateful that you are here today.

When remembering a person of the stature of Wallace, Doug would always say, I stand here today as part of a family worldwide who are praying for people everywhere at every level for a leadership led by God – specifically on behalf of the young and the poor.

I hope I’m not out of line in making a comment on the hymns we’ve sung so far. They are a very significant choice. The first hymn was written as the result of a shipwreck at Cleveland, Ohio, where during a storm the lighthouse was still working and sending a beam very far and wide, but the lights at the harbor entrance had gone out because of the storm. And as a result, the steamer crashed and everyone was lost. And Wallace was a man who believed in sharing the light on the local level and was very effective in doing so.

The second hymn was written by a man named Stafford who had agreed with D. L. Moody that he would come to England for his crusade and, because he was a Chicago businessman, he sent his wife and three daughters ahead on a ship which sank in the middle of the Atlantic in a storm. The wife sent a cable from Ireland saying "Saved alone." Their three daughters were lost in the ship and when he followed a few weeks later, when they crossed that site, – the Captain noted that they were on the site of the shipwreck, – he went to his cabin and he wrote this hymn. And, you know, one of the things that Wallace often said was "Don’t waste your sorrows. There’s much in the world to be sorry for, but we can’t be sorry for everything... We should just be sorry for the things that touch the heart of God." And, of course, there’s much that does.

In preparing for this, Doug wrote this note: He refers to the fact that when Abraham Vereide sent Wallace to Europe – charged him to go in the late forties, – he sent him with a certain instruction: He said "When you go to Europe, go to a particular place and find out what God is doing there and relate yourself to it. After a period of time, go to another place and do the same thing: find out what God is doing there and relate yourself to it, to the people. And then, the third part, to relate those people to one another. And Wallace was like a weaver for Jesus Christ, weaving relationships together.

I was very interested in the work of Wallace on many levels. In 1954, it was my privilege to be part of a choir that went to the United Kingdom. We sang every day, every night in every place that D. L. Moody had preached one hundred years before. It took us six weeks to cover it, three thousand miles by motorcoach. I don’t know how he did it in his day, but there we were. And so I always could see from that day on how important it was, in the rebuilding of societies that had been so damaged by war, that not only the political or the economic or the structural societies but the spiritual needed the attention and the rebuilding. It was my privilege to go to Noordwijk, an international conference that Wallace would plan, and also to Cambridge when the international conference was transferred there, and to see the work of Wallace in bringing so many different people from so many different societies and countries together around the person of Jesus.

There’s no way, as Doug put it, to adequately express the long-term impact of Wallace Haines – world-wide – and on our personal lives and our family. Wallace was one hundred per cent single-minded. He saw opportunity for God’s kingdom-work in every situation. He wrote voluminous letters. Sometimes we received as many as two in one day, always expressing what he saw God doing in the lives of people everywhere.

And then Doug refers to a trip they took together. "We flew in a small airplane to Vereide, Norway, and we prayed together at the Cross which was carved out of the living rock alongside of the fjord – the moment we spent together seeing the place where Abraham Vereide had left Norway so many years before."

I’m humbled to be here because there are so many of you who knew Wallace so well and who loved him and worked closely with him. Wallace was not fuzzy-wuzzy emotionally and I had one experience with him which, of course, I will never forget. My wife, Jackie, and I lived in Germany for a total of five years and Wallace would visit us there. One time we were at the train station together in Bonn, Germany. (If you’re familiar with the German train system... I would often joke with the Germans who would arrive by train... I would ask "Was the train on time?" And they would look at me with a curious look.. It’s impossible for a train not to be on time in Germany because they stop for one minute to let passengers off and let people get on in one minute.) So, we had had coffee together at the station and we were down at the bottom... you know how these stations are with all the concrete and the ramps and everything and we were down at the bottom. Wallace didn’t want me to come up to the platform to see him off and we were on a corner in this concrete underpass and we heard the train coming in and so it was just a minute before he’d have to get up the ramp and get on it. And I will always be touched by the fact he put his arms around me and said "I love you, Fred" and that’s an unusual experience for any of us to have and I appreciate it because he sacrificed himself and his time to really be in another part of the world and he could see that we were supportive of what he had been doing and praying for there.

When Frances’ Memorial was held here, Wallace was saying to anyone who shared "Say something significant." I think that’s been true, especially of the first two speakers today and, I hope, of myself.

– Fred Heyn, on behalf of Doug Coe, Leader of The Fellowship Foundation.

*****

Words of Remembrance at the Memorial to Wallace E. Haines

Sunday 29 April 2007

by Dee Dee Winter

Well, I first met Wallace because we had a mutual friend, Norman Grubb, and this was in the middle Nineties. Norman had just passed away and I had wanted to put together a book of his letters. Norman was a prolific letter-writer. I saw copies of his letters all over his home in stacks and I knew that many people had received them. So I sent out five hundred letters all over the world and Wallace Haines was one that was in Norman’s Rolodex. So I sent out a letter requesting letters and I got a letter back from Wallace saying, "Yes, I have letters of Norman’s. Many are in Brian Griffiths’ basement," he told me, but he said "Yes, I have a lot and I will send them to you."

A year passed and I had about five or six letters like that and I sent another letter out to these people to remind them and I got the second letter back from Wallace. And, as I opened the letter I could almost feel it crackling because the retort was so sharp. He just said, "Dear Mrs. Winter," – he always said "Mrs. Winter," as he was a very formal man, – "Dear Mrs. Winter, I have not forgotten your request and I’m busy..." He was in the process, I believe, of moving back to the United States at the time. And so I wrote him back immediately and I said, "My dear Dr. Haines, I would never have wanted to put any pressure on you and, if you find something... But I love that, in those negative things, that God always has the greater positive coming out of them, because, out of that beginning, well, we formed a wonderful friendship for the last nine years of his life.

And his letters were massive. I know, Fred just said there had been some two a day for Doug Coe, well I would get letters that would be written on Church bulletins... on the backs of sealed envelopes... (on the back of one, a note from Frances – "Wallace is always in a rush and seals his letters before I can write a line or two")... there would be scraps of paper... there would be multiple scraps of paper... and I would put them together... or long, they would be long, several pages of letter written and, over the years we went from "Dear Mrs. Winter" to "Dear DeeDee Winter" to "Dear Friend." And when I got the ones that began "Dear Friend," I knew that I had been blessed and that I had been taken into the heart of a man... that I had begun to know a little bit by then, because I had begun to help him. He wanted to write memories of his time in Europe and he couldn’t get his papers typed up and Stephen had beautifully reworded some things for him and typed them up, but couldn’t do it fast enough, and I said "Wallace, I’d be glad to type them for you" and as I began to type, I began to know the scope of the man with whom I had been corresponding. And I’ll have to plead ignorance before that... I really didn’t know. But I was so amazed and so blessed and many of you I’ve read about, heard the names in his papers... and I feel so thrilled today to put a face with the names that I’ve heard.

It’s hard to talk about Wallace without talking about Frances first, though, or including Frances in it, really, because they had such a complementary working partner relationship. And in knowing Norman and his family, – and I know the price that his children paid for what their father did, – I know, Philip and David and Stephen, that you all paid a great price to have your father gone all those years and to have your mother be the Head of the house... she was your contact with parents... and I wrote him this one day, wrote him about that, and this is what he says: "Your letter deeply moved us: Missionary’s wife – yes, Frances let me be free, she raised the boys. Now I must help her." And he took such beautiful care of Frances in those last years at Stephen’s home – rightly with your help, Stephen, and with David. But it was a beautiful thing to watch him and he’d write me letters that he had done this cleaning and he was fixing dinner for Frances and he was doing so many of those things that she had done all those years.

I could only imagine how hard it was for him to give up his life’s work and come back to the United States, first of all, and then, after losing Frances, having to move to an assisted living facility and the Scripture out of John comes to mind... what Jesus said to Peter, that when you’re old you will be bound and people will take you where you don’t want to go. And I felt that in him coming back to the United States even... because I have letters from him saying how lonely it was for him here, because his friendships and his history for so many years had been in Europe. And yet he knew that this was right and he knew it was God’s place for him and that he would do it, you know. But there was a loneliness there. And then again with Frances’ death, and then when Wallace could no longer stay – he was falling and getting lost and things like that at Stephen’s and we had to move him... Stephen graciously invited Linda Bunting and me to come and help him move and we got all his pictures hung and his furniture arranged and everything... and yet I felt like I was leaving my child there in a place he didn’t know... because he didn’t really remember well then and we didn’t really know if he was going to get down to his meals... through they assured us that they would take him...

Well, the next morning when we came back to see him and have breakfast with him, he was so thrilled and so excited because he had gotten to speak to the nurse about Jesus Christ and to his table mates about Jesus Christ and, as I’ve listened to all of us talking about Wallace here today, there’s one thing that he would want. He wouldn’t care about anything being mentioned about himself... it would be all about "You preach Jesus" because when we came for Frances’ service, he says now "You tell them about Christ in you!" He said, "You tell them about that!"

He was a driven man. I know that I don’t even have to say that. But the one thing that he wanted was, he wanted people to know the One in whom he believed and whom he loved and in whom his life was hidden. I have a quote here out of one of the letters he wrote: "As you can imagine, Norman repeatedly urging me to believe Colossians 1:27: ‘Christ in you, the hope of Glory.’ When it dawned on me, it was a sort of second conversion. It liberated me. A tremendous milestone in my spiritual life." Wallace knew what Paul knew when Paul said "For me to live is Christ and to die is gain."

When he was no longer able to correspond, I was comforted in knowing that he was still sharing the life of Christ just by being himself... to the nurses, to his table-mates or the people in the nursing homes, because he was a living Christ to his care-givers and to all those people and I think we can all shout with the Lord today and say, "Well done, good and faithful servant, that was Wallace."

– Dee Dee Winter

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Words of Remembrance at the Memorial of Wallace E. Haines

Sunday 29 April 2007

David Irwin Haines

I am David Irwin Haines, the oldest son, who was named after the uncle who raised my father.

My father loved National Presbyterian Church from the very first time he set foot in your magnificent sanctuary. This was, oddly enough, on the occasion of the Memorial for Colonel James Milner about ten years ago.

After that first taste of what impressed him as "High Church in America," my father insisted on attending every Sunday. If I did not take him, he threatened to walk. If ever we were running late, he threatened to jump out of the car, skip over the traffic, and run as fast as he could.

Even when he could no longer walk, he would think of skipping in "without that chair thing." It was as though the mere thought of going to Church released him from the bondage of all his afflictions.

In fact, once he lost all memory of what had happened the day before, if ever I mentioned Church, he would pine "I wish that I had been there" although the answer, of course, was "but you were!"

He loved the music and criticized the sermons. But most of all, he loved the very presence of the sanctuary filled with worshipers. As an old evangelist himself, he would have gladly added only one thing... an altar call.

My father’s last outing was at Brookside Gardens. As I pushed him in his wheelchair late last September on a glorious day like today, a Sunday, he began to greet people we passed on the path. At first, I was embarrassed. But then I said to myself, "No, let the Evangelist rip..." And for the next two hours, "Dr. Haines" – he liked to be called that – shook everyone’s hand, smiling... and especially the babies. He loved to make over the children, to the great delight of their parents.

– David Irwin Haines

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Remarks for the Memorial to Wallace E. Haines on 29 April 2007

Stephen Wallace Haines

« He that dwelleth in the secret place of the Most High shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty.»

My brothers, David and Philip... I know why you wanted us to use this Scripture. In several ways, we were blessed with Old Testament parents. They both believed in the wrath of God and the terror of the Judgment Day. They both believed in the physical practice of sacrifice and discipline.

From the days of our childhood, when they paraded us up in front of camp meetings and sanctuaries like this one to recite these and other Scriptures in English and in French, they drummed into us the notion that we were to live for a greater cause, on the wings of angels, under the shadow of an almighty will.

When he was teaching at the Chicago Evangelistic Institute in the 1930s and 40s, my father started what he called the "Strategic Million Committee." The idea stemmed from a statistic he had noticed in some publication, that there were at that time throughout the world in universities a million students. His goal became simple and limited: convert these one million students and they would earn their degrees and then convert the world.

I heard about this plan from my mother when they were living with me and old. My mother enjoyed laughing about my father’s idealistic years. "That was some time before he talked of taking me to China and living on rice and beans," she said. "He dreamed of great things and I told him that to convert a soul you first had to know how you were going to pay for breakfast."

This is why my mother was the one who so often wrote back to America to complain that we were out of money. My father was busy making the contacts, arranging the meetings with the cabinet ministers or the Billy Graham people or the secretaries to this or that, while my mother was saddled in prayer and the raising of children.

I hear so many of you wonder out loud about how great it was to be raised by a saint and a scholar. What you may not know is that these were difficult people. My father at home had that irascible nature that was so famous in his mother’s family.

And he had a great proclivity to doubt. He worked at faith, it did not come easily. I would often hear my mother preach at him to "Praise God." His fears were always dark. Even in this congregation, some of you may remember the Sunday when, withering in his wheelchair far from the bustle of his life devoted to working out Faith, he cried out, "I’m afraid, I don’t want to go to Hell!"

This was a man who had lived a long life in the pursuit of divinity. Even after succeeding, he was afraid of death. Remember, early in life he had been abandoned. Abandonment was the normal way of the flesh.

Cousin Pat has mentioned the abandonment he felt as a boy of eight. But later, as a young man, his uncle persuaded him to take care of his mother while he was studying for his master’s degree. He took an apartment in Columbia, settled his mother in one of the rooms. He was waiting on tables for 25 cents an hour to earn money, studying in the evenings. During the night, she would often wake him and rant about whatever was on her mind. After months of trying, he found that this was impossible.

My father described the trip back to the asylum with his mother. His brother Henry drove the car. At the door, just as he was about to leave, she burned into him that look of despair. "I never thought that you too, Wallace, would abandon me."

He worked at faith. He also felt he had a duty to keep his word. Several years ago, while my parents were living with me in Silver Spring, I remember overhearing an argument in his room. The door was shut. My mother was not in there with him, I had just come from helping her to bed.. My brother was not in there, he had left that afternoon. I confess I was a little disturbed. I crept a bit closer to the door.

The argument had died down a bit. I heard an endless list of names and conditions. "Now, Lord, I ask you to help that... that, well, you know his name, now Lord, even though I can’t remember! He has the son who has turned away from God, the boy who’s drinking and ran off with that girl... Now, Lord, you know how to bring him back, I pray you’ll do it, that man needs his son!" His voice rose, he practically yelled.

Then, once again, the ongoing list of names. If my father ever told you that he was going to pray for you, my guess is that he did.

In the textbook for his Courses in Speech that he prepared at the Chicago Evangelistic Institute in 1940, he wrote "Great literature all implies the human voice." All of you know about my father’s dramatic flair. For him, the resolution of the primal dilemma, abandonment, had a lot to do with the staging of salvation. That brought him to worship. One of my fondest memories of him was when he would lead a congregation in the singing of our final hymn today. He would wave his arms like a great director and roll his "r"s in the manner of the Old Time Religion, "In my heart there Rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrings a Melody, there rrrrrrrrrings a Melody of love..."

-- Stephen Wallace Haines

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Homily at the Memorial to Wallace E. Haines, Jr.

Sunday 29 April 2007

By The Rev. Dr. Gareth W. Icenogle

Here in this word, the summary of reflection that you’ve heard about the Lord Jesus Christ in the life of Wallace Haines: "From now on therefore, we regard no one from a human point of view; even though we once knew Christ from a human point of view, we now know him no longer in that way. So if anyone is in Christ there is a new creation; everything old has passed away: see, everything has become new. All this is from God who reconciled us to himself through Christ and has given us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, in Christ, God was reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them and entrusting the message of reconciliation to us. So we are ambassadors for Christ, since God is making his appeal through us. We entreat you on behalf of Christ to be reconciled to God." --- II Corinthians 5: 16-20. The Word of the Lord.

"We regard no one else from this point on from a human point of view."

Hearing all the stories about Dr. Haines, it has occurred to me over and over again that this man had an unusual ability to be like the Apostle Paul, to somehow not see the moment of what the world sees but to see the moment of what God sees – to see the person and the relationship and the situation from God’s perspective, and that at every situation there is a potential moment of healing and reconciliation. There is no unredeemable moment. Even in the most difficult of circumstances to see that God is here and can take some action through prayer to bring about a redemptive word, a redemptive look, a redemptive thought, a redemptive request, a redemptive invitation.

I believe that, if he were here, he would be beckoning us, in the altar call, to become ministers of reconciliation. It probably resonated out of that deep sense of abandonment that he had at an early age. But isn’t it typically what God does, to call us to something that fills the great vacuum of our soul with the fulness of the gospel of Jesus Christ, that the solution is a direct response to the dilemma, the conundrum, the trouble, the darkness.

It strikes me that Washington, D.C., and places around us are great places for reconciliation. We know today that it is very difficult for some people to talk to each other civilly. I find particularly at the National Presbyterian Church, as much as we talk about Grace, to practice it on a practical basis is a very strong challenge. And to know that there was a man in our midst who consistently would pray for us to be ministers of reconciliation in a city that does not reconcile easily among a people that are also quick to abandon... if you don’t agree with them. It is a major call for me as a pastor in this Church to recognize that the voice that’s coming through Christ from the grave in the Resurrection is saying "Be a minister of reconciliation," which I have to say at the deepest part of my own heart is my call.

In fact, I came prepared to do a different text. And it so resonated in my heart of who this man is and was and who I am called to be – and who we are called to be as people of reconciliation – that I could not do anything else but speak about this text.

I have had African-American people come to me in fairly significant numbers and say, "When are you white folk in Washington, D.C., going to be really interested in who we are and what we’re about?" I have had liberal Christians come to me and say, "When are you conservative Christians going to treat us with some dignity and not write us off as if we’ve all become apostate idiots?" I have had Democrats come and say to me about Republicans, "You know that no Republican could ever be a serious Christian." I’ve heard the same thing from Republicans. And it strikes me that all of this is looking at humanity from a human point of view rather than the way Jesus would see it. And I believe what Jesus is calling us to today is to see people from God’s perspective... and God doesn’t care whether we’re Republican or Democrat or liberal or conservative or male or female or whether we’re from Europe or the United States or whether we’re a Muslim or a Jew or a Christian. God loves us and wants us to enter into an intentional call, in each person’s life, to a ministry of reconciliation.

So I give you that altar call. If you want to follow Jesus and you want to remember the Reverend Dr. Wallace Haines, practice your ministry of reconciliation in a world that is full of conflict and hostility and irreconcilable differences and divorce and conundrums and trouble and people are starved to have someone treat them as a human being from Jesus’ perspective.

And, with that in mind, I invite us to pray. Oh Lord Jesus, You have laid down your life for us. Give us the courage to lay down our lives for one another and for our enemies and for all those whom we do not know. Let us not let our convictions inhibit our ability to convince others that You love them and that You love us. May our memory of Dr. Haines stir us to a new appreciation for the commitment of the core of your Gospel, which is Christ crucified and risen in order to bring us back to God and to bring us to our senses, to one another. We pray here for the wonderful family and friends that are gathered, as they remember Dr. Haines, we pray that you would be with them in their loss, in their grief, in their struggle. May their sense of loss not go to abandonment but go to a sense of hope, that even in the darkest place, the place of loss and abyss, You are there and that nothing can separate us from Your love. May You provide a new sense of vision and purpose among the sons, the grandsons, the granddaughters, the brother and the sisters and all those that are part of the family and friends gathered here. May we leave this place with a new call, may we hear Your call to kneel at Your altar and to be transformed with a new sense of thinking that we will never again look at a person from a human point of view. May we live out your gospel with a hope, and yet with a fear, that we not descend into hell, but that you would lift us into the glorious, powerful, mysterious presence of heaven... where Wallace Haines now is with you and we hope and desire to be. And so we pray that prayer that You taught Your disciples with that hope in mind,

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread and forgive us our debts as we forgive our debtors. And lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory forever. Amen."

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