him but for the whole family, with the newest cutting-edge books on the humanities; literature; music; art; the sciences . . . He came up against the limits of language as his mind stretched and discovered new capacity and categories for the reality he was trying to do justice to; and he had endless struggles in trying to articulate, write and communicate the ‘density’ of what he was discovering and conceptualizing. It wasn’t that he couldn’t say things in plain English; I often used to say to him, ‘But what do you mean, Dad?’, and after a few minutes he could usually explain what he (or someone else) meant in perfectly simple language. But somehow, creating new words and redefining old ones was an inherent part of the ongoing expansion of his heart, mind and soul – vital to him. Language and concepts stretched him and each other into new realms, and new words and phrases came into being as he participated and went deeper into the re-creative life of the Word itself: the God who says ‘I am who I am. and I shall be who I shall be,’ endlessly innovative and new. My father always made you know that you were part of something much, much bigger.
And although I sometimes just wished that he would be satisfied with the ‘good enough’ and not always have to think everything through for himself (usually right from the start) once again, I grew to realize what a gift it was: to think with such freedom, openness and boldness. He was never intimidated by anything or anyone.
Some of the difficulty he had in trying to find words (he published very few of the many books he had in him) went right back. He was born in New York on 9 November 1930 into an affluent conservative American family (his European ancestors were among the earliest ‘pilgrim’ settlers in the USA) – the third of four children (boy, girl, boy, boy) – to ‘Mr and Mrs John Alexander Hardy’ (as they were always known; his mother’s name was Barbara). While privileged economically, educationally and culturally, the family was perhaps less well off in other ways. Just before my father was born, his paternal grandmother died, and his parents complied with his grandfather’s request that they move to live with him, so that his mother could keep house for him/them. So the family was very much under the rule and thumb of ‘Grandpa’, until he died in 1947 (18 years later, when they finally moved into New York City). This was an ongoing source of tension within the family, particularly with my father’s parents. Another was the fact that one day shortly after the outbreak of the Second World War, and without a word to anyone, his father took himself off and signed up for the army.
They lived in a large house on a peninsula in Whitestone, a wealthy Long Island suburb, with a series of Irish nannies, so although his mother adored him, he perhaps had less of her attention than he might have (especially after the arrival of his youngest brother), and he described her as very formal and emotionally distant. The children went to the best (private) schools, but were always reminded that they were not as affluent as their peers, and were very isolated. They felt socially insecure and were never encouraged to develop friendships or to bring friends back to the house. My father remembered being very shy and how he suffered with a stammer throughout his childhood and adolescence: ‘It was much easier to think and map than to speak.’ He described himself as speechless in some ways (even in later years), particularly in the area of emotional speech and language.
Dan with siblings: in order from the left: Jack (John A. Hardy Jr), Dan, Ann and Dick)
Petrol rationing during the war made it increasingly difficult to travel back and forth to school every day, so the children were sent off to boarding school: Dan (aged 12) and his brothers Jack and Dick to Emerson and then on to (Phillips) Exeter Academy (New Hampshire), and his sister Ann to Abbot Academy near Boston (Massachusetts).
Perhaps one of the saving graces for this generation of the Hardy family was that they found their own place of sanctuary at Twin Lakes in the Berkshire Mountains in upstate Connecticut, where they spent every summer. My grandfather (an engineer) designed and built the much-loved house, which my father later went on to own and tend for himself and which became ‘home base’ (in the USA) for his own family in years to come. Again, it was isolated and often lonely, but a place of great beauty, peace and the elements: a place where (as a child) he read, thought, swam, rowed, kept ducks and boats, and developed his interests in photography, film, classical music and sound systems. Church (fairly low Anglican) seems to have played some – but not a very essential – part within the life of the family as a whole during these years.
He is remembered as having quite a temper, being very stubborn at times, as frequently losing all track of time (so absorbed was he in whatever he was doing), being late for everything, as well as being fundamentally kind, responsible and sweet-natured. Even then, he was the primary care-giver of the family, tending, herding and rescuing, eager to give generously and unconditionally. He was tidy and practical, but is particularly renowned for a moment on his wedding day, when, towards the end of the reception, it suddenly became apparent that Dan was missing, only to be found some time later (much to the relief of his new wife Perrin, together with the whole party), back in his apartment, absorbed in packing for his honeymoon – oblivious of what all the fuss was about.
And my father always loved penguins, for as long as anyone can remember, especially emperor penguins.
But the lake home was also a place where he faced a lot of pain and wrestling. He suffered several prolonged and excruciating bouts of osteomyelitis7 during his mid-teens (just before the days of penicillin); there were many summers when he was longing and yet somehow unable to write. And he was there for his last summer, too – shortly before his death, when, as well as being the place he most wanted to be, it often felt like Gethsemane.
In spite of his reluctance to talk about himself, there was one occasion when my father had no choice. Shortly before his death, he was awarded an honorary DD8 by General Theological Seminary (‘GTS’ in New York City) and was invited to travel to receive it, together with giving a speech about himself, his life and his ministry.
Although there was no question of his being able to travel at this point, he was thrilled at the possibility of my being able to receive the degree and speak on his behalf; and while unable to put anything on to paper, he was still adamant that he wanted to come up with something to say. So he asked us to help him (David his colleague, friend, co-author,9 son-in-law; and myself, his daughter, also an Anglican priest). And we spent time reflecting on his life in a way that had never been possible before: he was somehow able to say things about himself through us that he’d never been able to until then. This is the message he sent:
Dear Friends in Faith,
It is a delight and an honour to receive this honorary doctorate from General Theological Seminary and to be represented by my daughter, the Revd Deborah Ford.
The genesis of my vocation to ordination lay in my years as a student in Haverford College and in the finding of oneself before God that was encouraged and enabled by participation in its regular Quaker worship. The rhythm and pattern of worship of ‘General’ [Theological Seminary], (four services a day in chapel) then built on this and was the most formative thing during my time as a student here. It was a daily invitation to go deeper into the intensity of God, an attraction that has perhaps been the most fundamental dynamic of my life.
My title post (served in Christ Church, Greenwich) added a second key dynamic. This is exemplified best through my engagement with a group of young people – beginning with what really mattered and was significant for them, and then trusting, discerning and helping them to recognize the source and energy of life (God’s Spirit) already at work within their lives – [and] making the deep connections with the truth of the gospel. They were hungry for this, and the group began to thrive in just a short space of time. The curacy culminated in helping to design the new daughter
