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St. Ray of Houston: Protector of the Margins

St. Ray of Houston: Protector of the Margins

Last updated on: November 25, 2018 at 12:37 am by Jeff Hood

St. Ray of Houston: Protector of the Margins 2018-11-25T00:37:15-06:00 Jeff Hood

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*Back info: Civil rights legend Ray Hill’s obituary in the Houston Chronicle

https://www.chron.com/news/houston-texas/houston/article/Ray-Hill-a-Houston-icon-and-civil-rights-13418968.php

The first time we met…

“Damn! You’re cute for a Baptist minister.” “Thank you?” “Although, most Baptist ministers really are ugly as shit.” “Fuck you Ray Hill.”

Nobody would have mistaken Ray Hill for wealthy. He lived in a small apartment full of mementos from days gone by. Regardless of the (typical) insulting/humorous banter, the space provided context for the man. Ray loved to talk and he had no problem telling me what stuff was and why it mattered. The more we looked the holier the space got. Every object seemed to be turning into a sacrament. How could it not? From abolitionist to LGBTQ campaigner to prison reformer to Supreme Court plaintiff to inmate to radio personality to all sorts of other places, Ray had led an amazing life. I couldn’t help but be in wonder. In the midst of my awe, Ray broke in again.

“Do you drive better than you look?”

Needless to say, the drive to Galveston was anything but quiet. Ray took me to the greasiest place that he could find. I could see the grease dripping off of my fried shrimp. Without hesitation, Ray brought up religion. Since I knew he was somewhat agnostic, I hesitated.

“Come on preacher boy! Ain’t you going to try and convert me? What’s the matter? You scared?”

Occasionally, God breaks into our lives in ways so real that it cannot be denied. Wind. Waves. Birds. Sand. Light. While standing there on the beach, I heard Ray mutter…

“If there is a God, she’s got to feel something like this.”

Much time passed before we got together again. Ray was older. So was I. It was close to Christmas. Ray claimed that our restaurant destination had the best food in Houston. Ray was wrong. Despite the cuisine or perhaps because of it, we got to celebrate life that night. Providing sacrament after sacrament of love and justice, Ray was the priest. At the end of the night, I didn’t want to leave.

“Go on preacher boy…I’ll take you to church again soon.”

I made one appearance on his radio show. I have no idea what we talked about. I just know that I had the time of my life. Something about those microphones felt like communion…perhaps teleporters to beyond. Ray knew how I was feeling…

“Radio is the good shit Jeff. ”

When I walked in, I knew I was in another one of Ray’s hole in the wall restaurants. We were meeting so that he could discuss the death penalty with a camera crew I was taking around. From start to finish, Ray’s passion was obvious. Fists. Eyes. Shakes. Points. Inflection. He had it all going that afternoon. As we were about to leave, Ray pulled me aside and said…

“You know you’re the best minister in the State of Texas on the death penalty?”

I knew it was just another one of Ray’s tall tales…but it made me feel strong as hell. He had a way of doing that. Uplifting the troops in the midst of the battle for justice. When I heard he died today, I was convinced that his voice was gone forever. Then, I closed my eyes and heard a familiar voice.

“Don’t stop fighting queerbait!”

St. Ray is still speaking

Amen.

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