A Tribute to Rits

Pearl, Rits and Jerry at Pat and Jerry’s wedding in 2010

My good friend and mentor, Rits Tadema, died last Wednesday.  He was 94 years old, though I could be off by a year either way.  I owe his daughter, Billie, a word of gratitude because many years ago she urged me to contact Rits, saying, “You will become great friends.  I just know it.”

She was right.  We met roughly once a month for 25 years.  He became that most rare of friends, a deep soul friend.  I celebrate his life and our friendship.  It is a great loss to me, and to so many others as well.

Rits was born in the Netherlands.  During his teen years he served as a courier in the resistance movement against the Nazis.  After the war he emigrated to the United States to attend Calvin College and Seminary.  He served as a minister of Word and Sacrament in the Christian Reformed Church his entire adult life, mostly in the United States but for several years in Africa.  He remained active as a preacher well into his 80s.

For many years we met for breakfast at Frank’s Diner.  Rits always came prepared, having written notes and questions in his little black book.  We would talk about the Bible, theological issues, cultural trends, political controversies, and of course family life.  He had strong opinions.  He was a lively, tenacious, insightful, and on occasion combative conversation partner.  We did not always agree, especially about politics.  But it didn’t seem to matter much.  We shared in common a commitment to the gospel, to the life of the church, and to the work of the kingdom.  We became fast friends almost immediately.

He grew up in a world that preceded megachurches, pastors as brands, and social media.  His standard of success, therefore, was not informed by modern metrics.  He served small churches.  I never once heard him complain about it.  He developed deep relationships with people without once thinking about breadth of influence.  He cared for them from cradle to grave.  He was an old soul in a world that values youth, yet he exhibited youthful energy in a world grown prematurely old and weary with its constant attention to image.  He smiled frequently.  His eyes had light in them.  He spoke with a firm voice.  Rits was driven by conviction.

He told me stories: of his years living under Nazi rule, of his work in Africa, and of his many years serving as a pastor.

He adored his wife, Pearl.  He lived to celebrate 65 years of marriage to a woman who seemed to grow taller as she grew older.  He viewed her as royalty, and he treated her that way, too.

He became a fixed point for me, the spiritual equivalent of the North Star.  I never worried about Rits, not for one moment.  I knew that, month in and month out, I would meet the same man I had already known for so long.  He was as consistent, steady, and competent as Tom Brady on the football field or Itzhak Perlman in a concert hall. 

Why did we develop such enduring affection for each other?

We both came from a Dutch background.  Surely that played a role.  It was as if our genetic and cultural heritage attuned us to each other.  The Dutch are determined people; grit comes naturally to us.  I never felt like I had to apologize for my “strong” personality, largely because his was stronger than mine.

We also shared a common faith, which ran to the deepest level in our lives.

But there was something else that elevated the relationship, too.  We shared mutual delight in each other: older man to younger, younger man to older.  I cannot describe what it was like to meet with someone every month who enjoyed being with me, nor can I capture what it was like to feel such pleasure in meeting with him.  I have experienced many such moments of delight with my kids and grandkids.  But an adult relationship?  That strikes me as rare.  It is a treasure.

In his later years he used to say to me, “I am living my life through you now.”  It was an unspeakable honor for me to dedicate Water from a Deep Well to him.  He wept when I gave him a copy, and I did, too.

He belonged to the old school of pastoring.  I am probably romanticizing it.  Still, there are dimensions of the “old way” that seem true and enduring.  Last fall I watched a woman from Turkey weaving a carpet.  The economy of her moves, the ability to follow a pattern at a mere glance (if that), the instinct for proportion and color were as effortless as a dolphin in water or a bird in flight.  Rits was like that as a traditional pastor.

It makes me wonder what we are losing.

I honor him as a brother and mentor; I mourn his death.  I gladly accept his mantle of leadership as one of many who benefitted from knowing him.

I will miss him.