UPDATE 11/9/13
Added by Ralph Smith
Reverend Jones was a good man, all the years that I
knew him.
The most important thing he taught me was not to worry -
worry does not solve anything; it only saps your strength and wastes
time. That was a tough lesson, but it has served me well for 40 years
now.
Rev. was a kind man, and always served the Lord. He had everyone's
respect - no one raised their hand or voice to him. Violent gang
members listened respectfully to him and often took his advice. People
came to him for his wisdom and understanding and never went away
disappointed. He was a wonderful father and husband and neighbor. He
lived according to what he truly believed and how many of us can really
say that?
The only dangerous thing he did was drive - he was always tired from
working his job and living his ministry as well as raising his family
and serving his community and he would get road hypnosis faster than
anyone else I knew.
On a trip to Cedar Pointe I sat next to him on the
way home and engaged him in conversation the entire way - no matter how
tired he was he would come to animated life when talking about God and
how we, his children, should be living our lives - taking care of each
other and living a Christ-like life.
He was good-humored, intelligent, knowledgeable of scripture and human
nature. He always had a smile for everyone and cared profoundly about
doing the right thing.
Although it has been many years since I saw him,
it was reassuring to me that he was out there - fighting the good fight
and helping everyone around him. He will be missed, but his lessons and
example live on - and that is the best legacy anyone can hope for.
Rest in peace reverend ClerArthur Jones.
Ralph G. Smith
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Reverend Jones taught me how to believe in miracles.
Not just the miracles of the Holy Bible, but miracles we could witness for ourselves. In our lives. I say "our lives" because I'm not the only one he taught to believe. So great was Reverend Jones' faith, that he made unbelievers choke back their denials because they had to be in quiet awe of the Light, the Power, the Conviction he emanated when he spoke about "his Jesus."
Rev. didn't just speak at the pulpit, although he did do that. And he did it well.He could rock the church with his praise of the Most High and His Holy Son. He made you reach deep into yourself to confront not only the Truth of the Word, but also our QUESTIONS of FAITH. It is within our questions that we find a way to stretch our capacities to receive the ANSWERS.
He rocked the church with the singing he led in a beautiful voice that wove people together in song that testified about the POWER of a shared faith. And he rocked the church with the moments of silence he offered, as a gift, so we could fill our minds with the happy expectation that the message he had yet to utter was somehow going to be exactly what we needed to hear that day.
It was a joy to see his faith in motion because he could open our hearts and minds to the King of Heaven as truth. The Promise of our Father's Love. He wasn't stingy with it, but shared his Jesus' love with everyone.
I say "his Jesus" because when I first met Rev's Jesus, the Jesus he knew in his heart, seen through his eyes and understandings, spoken of by his tongue, was different than the one I was familiar with. He already knew me. He wasn't a statue in a cathedral who probed our guilts and flaws with recriminations. His Jesus did not require repentance and obedience in blind faith and disconnected authority held by the reins of men, or institutions. His Jesus was a living Messiah, a spark of Light booming as a first seed in a new life for me. Love in our own hearts. One who already knew us better than we knew ourselves and loved us anyway. He guided us, taught us, comforted us, and inspired us. He also corrected us when we began to stumble from our own missteps.
Rev's Jesus became MY Jesus when I opened my heart and mind to see Him. The personal Jesus, not the Jesus of the masses, not an icon leading wars, or a symbol which bled humanity's compassion because of our often misunderstood differences. He was not a puppet held by the reins of men or their designs, but one who always loves little children. I met Him as a child, and loved Him back with the open trust of a child.
Rev gave news of his Jesus away freely and lovingly. He could rail against the evils of darkness and ill-choice with all the fire I imagine belonging to the Prophet Jeremiah. But he always brought listeners (believers and non-believers alike) back to the Good News of His LOVE. There is more than enough to go around. Forever. There is not one so guilty, so lowly, or so dispiccible that Jesus would refuse to embrace.
"He's already knocking on your door, girl," he would tell me. "All you have to do is let Him in." And I did. Personally. Sincerely. And He began to remake me that day, into the child of an unimaginably beautiful Spirit. A soul. A Living God who stepped off of the pages and into my life in a very real way. I don't just believe He's there, I feel Him there. I know he's there. Yahshua, Shalom, Selah, Halleluyah.
Reverend Jones did not just speak at the pulpit and step away from his faith when church was over. He took his ministry into the streets. Into the hospitals. Into the jails and prisons. Into living rooms and kitchens, and into his car every time he sat behind the wheel.
I remember him making signs in his driveway, as a side job for businesses in the community and I would sit on the ground beside him and listen to him talk about making signs. And then he would ask me, "Do you know the story about Noah's Ark?" or, "the story about how Jesus walked on the water?" or, "the story about how he healed the blind and the sick?" And I would listen quietly, loving the stories that he told. Sometimes I'd be playing in the back yard and he'd lean on his arms over the fence and tell me stories from the Bible. And I used to wait for him, hoping to catch him doing something outside so I could ask him to tell me another story. And I was always filled by the time he had to finish up and move on with something else to do that day.
On days when he was too busy to stop and tell stories, there was the greeting that become so familiar, it was a comfort and a happiness to me all by itself. And, went like this:
"Hello, Rev. Jones."
"Hey Nancy, how are you today?"
"Fine, Rev. How are you?"
"It's GOOD TO BE ALIVE!"
It was ALWAYS good to Rev to be alive. It made me think about being alive. And, despite whatever mood I might've been in that day, I always felt better that he was alive, too.
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Reverend Jones was not just a man. He was a man AND a woman.
That's right. You heard me, but I'm going to say it again, so pay close attention.
Reverend Jones was not just a man. He as a man AND a woman.
His man was named CleArthur and his woman was named Mary Dean. There was no Rev. Jones without Mary. And his Mary was beautiful. And kind. And giving. And loving. And faithful. She helped him as a minister. She supported him as a wife and she blessed his life as mother to his children. And she bore him Kevin, and Clarether, Valerie, Salena, and CleArthur (known to us as Little Cle for many years). And they took unto themselves Janice and Chanel and raised all of the children lovingly, in the family as well as the faith.
The fruits of their unity continued to bring forth flesh and blood gifts in the beautiful multitude of their many grandchildren.
I cannot limit the number of the Jones' children to only those counted by flesh and blood because they also embraced five children who became fatherless at a very young age. They watched as the single mother next door struggled to raise these five, sometimes overwhelmed with uncertainties during the tumultuous 1970s. The lingering echoes of S.T.R.E.S.S., the '67 riots, police brutality, the assassination of Dr. King and Malcolm X were still reverberating through the streets of Detroit, exacerbating racial tensions between Black and White. Rev. Jones (CleArthur and Mary), wrapped their love around a white family. My family. "God has no respect of person and color is something MAN sees. God will only see your heart," Rev taught us.
And the Smith family was added to the Jones family...Ralph, Nancy, Suzanne, Jessica and Laurie Anne. (They even added our best friend William Johnson, who spent so much time with us that he had his own chores at the house. His own games. His own stories. His own beauty as he, a Black child, also lived the tolerance we embraced.)
When drugs and gangs and violence was coloring Detroit's own image of itself, fear and mistrust became an illness that infected many and we were not without our own fears as children.
It is as real as the Gospel Truth that our mother and all the Smith kids slept a little more peacefully, a little more soundly and feeling a little more loved because of Reverends CleArthur and Mary Jones. And through this bond, we came to form and nurture convictions of tolerance and justice and a determination to never forget the Black and White unity that carried us through our lives to this very day. We are ONE, as a unique extended family. We celebrated each others' happiness and continue to care deeply for one another, despite time and distance.
We spent so much time back and forth at each others' homes that it was hard to tell where we really lived sometimes. We knew what as in the Jones' refrigerator sometimes better than we knew our own because Mary's food was never kept from us and it was always good! (But we cannot forget Rev's famous jello deserts, either!)
Salena may not remember this, because she was very little at the time, but one summer all the Smith kids knew we had to keep an eye out for her because she loved to eat pickles and she would walk right into our house, open the refrigerator door, reach into our jar of pickles and run out of the house with a pickle in each hand before we even knew she was there! She never took anything else and we got such a kick out of it that we would tell her, still pulling in the driveway from the store, the moment our mother bought a new jar, so she'd know.
We're pretty sure that Salena learned how to count and how to do subtraction, because of our pickles...starting with the number in the jar and minus two: one for each hand! She could tell us at any given time how many pickles were left in the jar, even when we were outside playing. "Hey ya'll only got three more pickles. Is your mama gonna get some more soon?" We'd check and sure enough...there'd be three pickles left. We stopped wondering how she knew. She just always seemed to know. And that was OUR Salena. Any other kid trying that stunt would've had a real problem because we would've tried to hurt them!
When we all meet together again at the table, we'll be singing, eating and sharing a most precious love..for an eternity. We, the Smith Kids and our mother, know the Reverends Jones will be saving a special place for us at their table. At our table. Our family table. Yahshua, Shalom, Selah, Halleluyah.
We don't know altogether why we must suffer the pain of separation dished to us by this world, but I do know one thing. It will not last. It will only be for a time. And the seeds planted so long ago will come to an everlasting fruition, in eternal bloom, after which, there will be no more separation.
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Let us Pray:
Heavenly Father, please take Rev Jones into your arms and carry him gently back to his Mary and let him rejoice in full Spirit with the Jesus he has always loved. Please, as you make your decisions regarding the Judgment of his life, to remember how he served You, and Loved You, and Shared You. Let it be noted that on THIS DAY, I speak on his behalf as a righteous man who helped lead me to you, as he did so many others. And please forgive him for any of his inequities and shortcomings and bless Him with the Promise about which He so often spoke. In his honor, I ask this in Jesus' Name, and in the Holy Hebrew Name, as He called Himself: Yahshua.
Good Bye for now, Rev. We'll be seeing you in the Kingdom. And, Thank You. And Thank You. And Thank You, Again...for Everything.
Rev. Nancy J. Bell
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