Wiedmer: Oehmig a King far beyond his name

Easter morning at the Church of the Nativity in Fort Oglethorpe arrived with the clanging of cymbals, emphasis on clanging. Though not necessarily a joyful noise unto the Lord, it was certainly a loud enough disruption to turn heads swiftly toward the back of the sanctuary, from whence came the Rev. King Oehmig, dressed neck to toe in the church’s elaborate vestments.

But it was what graced his head that surely separated the 63-year-old Oehmig from any other Episcopal priest in any other church the world over.

“He’d put on these giant Easter Bunny ears,” recalled his first cousin, Brit Oehmig. “Then he went out and delivered one of the greatest Easter sermons you’ll ever hear. But that was King. He could always make you feel good.”

For almost anyone who ever met the impish Oehmig, it’s been more than a little tough to feel even moderately OK since the former Baylor School golf coach passed away last Saturday night of an apparent heart attack while fishing.

We’re taught early in life that everyone’s the same in God’s eyes, and that religious ideal no doubt brings much comfort, hope and inspiration to many. But in the eyes and hearts of men, there’s an inevitable pecking order, and Henry “King” Oehmig was near the top of that list as a husband to Margy, father to John and Henry, friend, minister and coach.

Or as the Rev. Michael “Corky” Carlisle said at the start of his eulogy early Friday afternoon inside an overflowing St. Paul’s Episcopal Church, “All of us probably wish we could be somewhere else today.”

Yet because Oehmig so perfectly mapped out his own funeral two years ago, everyone fortunate enough to cram inside St. Paul’s dark brown brick walls forever will remember the service, which began with Nikki Ellis delivering a hole-in-one with her rendition of the timeless black spiritual “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” only to see her top it later on with a double-eagle performance of Curtis Mayfield’s 1970s anthem “People Get Ready.”

Much like giant Easter Bunny ears, there may be no previous time in the history of the buttoned-down, regimented, traditionalist Episcopal Church — and we’re not just talking St. Paul’s, but globally — where either “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot” or “People Get Ready” was performed, be it a funeral or otherwise.

To hear them both — “People Get Ready” was even accompanied by the somewhat rhythmic clapping of the overwhelmingly white crowd — well, to use another of Carlisle’s tributes to his late friend: “King had the ability to give us eyes to see something bigger and better than the world we live in.”

Perspective and privilege don’t always easily coexist. And having been raised in one of the city’s four most decorated golfing families — along with the Luptons, Probascos and Boyds — young Oehmig quickly became a star at both Baylor and the University of Virginia, where he finished as the golf team’s MVP.

Then there was that coaching stint with the Baylor boys and girls. Twenty-one state titles in 12 years. When it came to prep golf in the Volunteer State, Oehmig was the lord of the links.

And he certainly enjoyed those championships. His slightly secret mantra for the golf team was OACOWA, which stood for “Open A Can Of Whup A–,” each time the Red Raiders faced a big match. And when they appeared certain to win, he was known to make a noise like a can opening, then make a gesture toward his players as if pulling back a pop top.

But that’s also where the privilege ended and the perspective and purpose began. Whether it was Habitat for Humanity, Metropolitan Ministries or the Community Kitchen, Oehmig didn’t just participate, he led.

“You’d talk to King after he’d spent a day at the Metropolitan Ministries or the Community Kitchen, and he would be so full of joy, like he’d just won the Masters,” Carlisle said. “King was more intuitive about human beings than anyone I’ve ever met. He could smell hurt, and he wouldn’t rest until he made it better.”

This is not to say he was perfect in all things, other than perhaps being perfect in generating a smile from others.

“We were invited to play in the Anderson Cup at Winged Foot,” said close friend Doug Stein, who met with Oehmig for coffee, breakfast or just good ol’ conversation every Tuesday morning for 20 years. “We’d made it to match play and we had this caddie with a Yankee accent who was getting on King’s nerves. After one tee shot, the caddie turns to King and says, ‘Man, you can’t even drive it out of your shadow. How’d you get in this tournament?’

“King up and fires him on the spot. It’s hot as Hades, they wouldn’t let us wear shorts and now we’ve both got to carry our bags the rest of the round. But since we’d gotten to match play, they sent us an invitation to come back the next year. King just tore it up. I never even saw it.”

Carlisle remembered when King and Margy moved to Cartersville, Ga., to become part of his church. They’d been in town less than a week when Margy came by the church office to say she had a flat tire. King said he’d take care of it. More than 30 minutes later, an exasperated Margy sought help from Carlisle.

“King had taken the jack out of the trunk but put it under the car upside down,” he related. “He was literally drilling a hole in the pavement. King was never very mechanically inclined.”

But there probably aren’t any tires to change in heaven. Only lives, which Oehmig’s been altering for the good for decades.

“The first thing King Oehmig taught me was that it was all right to cry,” Carlisle said.

The tougher part is getting people ready to stop crying now that he’s gone.

Contact Mark Wiedmer at mwiedmer@timesfreepress.com.