The last conversation I had with Steve Montgomery was about a Playboy centerfold.

Montgomery had written an op-ed for The Daily Memphian about a trivia contest he’d taken part in during a church retreat. It was his first weekend as pastor of a church in Atlanta, before he had even preached his first sermon.

Montgomery’s team led going into the final question. But that question created a real dilemma.

Steve Montgomery, beloved Idlewild Church pastor, dies from injuries in bike accident

“The question was ‘Who was the first centerfold of Playboy?’ ” Montgomery wrote. “The problem was that I knew the answer. I could either fake it and say that I, of course, had no idea. Or I could throw caution to the wind and claim victory by answering correctly, all the while possibly jeopardizing my ministry before it even started!”

The op-ed moved on from there to more important matters. But it never cleared up the pressing question: What did Montgomery actually do?

So I asked him.

“The temptation to win overcame all other desires,” he said. “I correctly gave the answer — and ended up staying 10 years!”

That was Steve Montgomery. A man whose message in a recent New Year’s Day sermon was to lay aside conventional resolutions and “try to put into practice an enthusiastic, exuberant love for life which was characterized by Christ.”

Montgomery — the retired pastor of Idlewild Presbyterian Church, where my three sons and I are members — died Friday from injuries suffered in a bike accident. It will take a good long while to believe he is gone.

The man loved life. He loved to sing the “Hallelujah” chorus (and remind you to pause at the exact right moment). He loved it when babies tugged at his glasses or played with his beard. He loved Warren Spahn and he loved his alpaca sweater. He loved to dance with his wife, Patti, and he loved reading “Harry Potter” to his two kids.

“He was the goofiest dad,” said Sumita, his daughter. “For this Father’s Day, I made him a card that said, 'It never gets old, horsing around with you.’ It had seahorses on it, wearing joke glasses and a mustache. He liked it so much, he responded by sending me a list of bad puns.”

Anne Apple has been the transitional head of staff at Idlewild since Montgomery retired. For many years, their offices were directly across the hall.

“He was always his warm, welcoming self,” she said. “One day you might hear him strumming the guitar in his office. It was like, ‘What the heck is going on over there?' ”

Joy was going on, that’s what. Montgomery radiated joy the way other people radiate anxiety.

Apple sent me two things to try to explain how she’ll remember her friend and former colleague. The first is a video of Montgomery dancing at a Grizzlies game to “Whoomp! (There it is)”. The video is something to see. He isn’t dancing like nobody is watching, really. He is dancing like he thinks everyone should be dancing along.

The second thing Apple sent me was a photo. Of the first gay wedding held at the Idlewild, with Montgomery presiding. You can see the joy on his face.

“I saw myself as anything but a big steeple preacher but rather a servant leader devoting my ministry to those on the margins of society,” Montgomery wrote, in the forward to his collection of sermons.

Idlewild, of course, has a mighty impressive steeple. But Montgomery never wavered from his sense of what the church is supposed to be about.

“God and love and doing things for folks,” is how he put it. “Like teaching children, hugging older folks, walking with people through the valley of the shadow of death, loving the sometimes unlovable; listening, really listening to the pain of those who have been hurt by the church, preparing meals for the sick, praying together, working for justice, planting a garden, and building a church that is just as generous as God’s grace.”

He preached about the danger of walls in 2006, well before a wall became a national talking point; he preached about gay marriage in 2001, well before it became the law of the land.

But Montgomery was so warm, so thoughtful, so open about his own spiritual journey, that rather than alienating those who might have thought differently, he had a way of bringing them along.

He was still doing that in his op-eds for The Daily Memphian. Which is another reason it’s so hard to make sense of the hard reality that he’s gone.

“In the midst of all that the world is going through, we need more Steve Montgomerys, people who actually love the world,” said Scott Morris, the founder of Church Health and a friend of Montgomery’s since they were classmates at Yale Divinity School.

“In the same week we lost John Lewis, we now lost Steve Montgomery,” said Barbara Lundblad, another classmate, who teaches at Union Theological Seminary. “The very people we need the most are gone.”

So I asked Lundblad what Montgomery would say, if he were to try and make sense of this moment.

“I think he would surely not give any easy answers,” she said. “He would not offer any platitudes.”

Lundblad mentioned the story of William Sloane Coffin, the civil rights and anti-war activist whose son, Alex, died when his car plunged into a river. Montgomery was known to tell that story, too.

“My consolation lies in knowing that it was not the will of God that Alex died; that when the waves closed over the sinking car, God’s heart was the first of all our hearts to break,” Coffin said.

“It was not Steve’s theology to say that this was the will of God,” Lundblad said. “He would leave a lot of space for grieving. And he would want people to continue to do the work he was doing. He would be focused on the good work.”

Indeed, in 2013, Montgomery preached a sermon in the wake of the Boston Marathon bombing. He looked to one of his favorite theologians — Mr. Rogers — for inspiration on that day.

“When bad things happen around you, look for the goodness around you,” Montgomery said. “Look for the kind deeds.”

So he might point us to the people who stopped to help him after he was struck down on Tuesday. Or to the trauma doctors at Regional One — some of whom happened to be at that first gay wedding at Idlewild — who worked so hard to save Montgomery. Or to Anne Apple’s daughter, Betsy, who immediately decided the proper way to honor Montgomery was to take food and water to the homeless. Or to Scott Morris, who was in the intensive care unit with his friend until the wrenching end. Or to his family — his wife, his children and his siblings — who sang the Doxology to him in his final moments. Or to the hundreds of people who have reached out to Montgomery’s family or recommitted themselves to the issues of social justice he cared so deeply about. Or even to you and me. 

In that sermon after the Boston Marathon bombing, Montgomery talked about a biblical figure named Dorcas, a humble woman who took care of people, who made tunics and knitted afghans and held hands and formed her own sort of welfare system for those who needed help.

So what would Montgomery have said about this moment? He already said it, on that day.

“Friends, I have become convinced over time that our world is transformed not so much by the great lights that walk this earth, but by the lesser lights, the likes of Dorcas and you and me, who do what we can where we are, and by what we do participate in something much greater than what we might have imagined possible.

“And when all is said and done, ours might not be a state funeral as the great and mighty have, but there may be a few mourners who hold up the threads and the cloths we have woven and give thanks for what we have done.

“So are you despairing, afraid, saddened when bad things happen? Look for the good news around you. Look for the kindness. And you know what? You don’t have to look far.”

The family plans to have a memorial service at an appropriate time and requests that any donations be made in honor of Steve Montgomery to Church Health; 1350 Concourse Ave., Suite 142; Memphis, TN 38104.