A little girl at a church I served was asked to be in the annual Christmas pageant. The little girl readily agreed and volunteered to play the part of Dorothy. The director of the pageant responded by informing her that Dorothy was a character in the Wizard of Oz, not the Christmas story.

           The little girl was adamant. “I want to be Dorothy!” She cried.

          The director of the pageant, with great patience, gently coaxed the little girl to agree to play the part of the Christmas angel, instead of Dorothy. This diversion tactic proved successful. From that point on, the rehearsals proceeded smoothly with the little girl taking on her role as the Christmas angel with happiness and a good deal of enthusiasm.

           Christmas Eve arrived and the pageant was performed to a packed house of admiring parents and grandparents. At the end of the pageant, in beautiful candlelight, everybody sang “Silent Night”. It was in the silence that followed the singing of the carol that the little girl’s beautiful, high-pitched voice was heard sweetly singing, “Somewhere over the rainbow….”

             That little girl was determined to be Dorothy. She simply refused to give up her dream.

            Too often dreams lie shattered at our feet. We lose our jobs. Marriages rupture. Our kids go astray. Some would counsel to let the future take care of itself and live in the present moment. And yet, to dream of a better day, to dream of a new future, to refuse to give up being “Dorothy”, is not only crucial to our personal well-being, but also has been a dominant motif in human history.

            The Jewish people wandering in the desert for 40 years never gave up their dream of reaching the “promised land.” The African-American slaves, and those who lived post-slavery in the oppressive atmosphere of a segregated south, never stopped singing their songs of freedom. Those who lived behind the “Iron Curtain” never gave up their dream of seeing the walls came “a’tumblin’ down”. In our times, those who live in Syria, Iran, and North Korea may be deprived of their human rights, but those who rule over them cannot take away their dreams. They do not have that power.

            Collectively, we find strength in sharing a dream, but individually it can be far more difficult to hang onto them. One time, I asked a young man who had spent time in prison what I could do to help him. His answer was, “Pay attention to me when you see me on the street.” His dream was not to be reduced to invisibility. He was clinging desperately to his dream of being something more than a statistic on a convicted criminal list.

           Nobody really knows what God is doing or thinking when dreams are reduced to remnants. I am also certain that no religion can wave a magic wand and bring an instant “fix” to a shattered dream or an uncertain future. If there is a good God in the heaven, however, that God must be weeping over every dreamless or hopeless life. If God is a good, then God must also be in the dream restoration business. God may not change our circumstances, but God does touch our hearts and encourages us NOT to live in despair, NOT to lose hope, and NEVER to give up on our dreams! A good God assures us that there is and always will be a “somewhere over the rainbow….”      

 

Thirty years ago today, I stood in the pulpit at West Genoa Methodist Church and read, word-for-word, my very first sermon to a very attentive crowd of about 15 aging souls. I distinctly remember feeling two very intense emotions: fear and panic. After all, I was a steel industry-marketing guy. If church attendance did not conflict with my tee-time at the local country club, I was a somewhat faithful Sunday pew squatter, but I was a complete “ZERO” when it came to religious knowledge. The church powers chose to inflict me upon those unsuspecting parishes, until a more able body could be found!

About 45 minutes after the benediction at West Genoa, I found myself up-to-the-plate again, reading, word-for-word, the very same sermon to a huge throng of about 40 folks at Ledyard Methodist Church. I survived both without cardiac arrest. Nobody at Ledyard or West Genoa stood to applaud, but nobody laughed hysterically at me either. On the way home, I decided that the whole experience was a lot more fun than peddling metal. Six months later, I resigned from my company and went off to seminary.

I have rarely regretted changing the course of my life at the ripe old age of 33. Since that panic-stricken morning in Upstate New York, I have met and been privileged to fall in love with some of the greatest people on the planet! I still can’t believe it? They actually pay me to love people and flap my gums for 20 minutes every week. It doesn’t get much better than that!

A couple of years ago, I found a copy of that first sermon in an old file box in my attic. I read it. I was horrified by what I said to those long-suffering folks in West Genoa and Ledyard. What I read to them, word-for-word, was AWFUL! CRAZY!! NON-SENSICAL!!! EMBARRASSING!!!! There is, however, no escaping responsibility for my words. I said them. I believed them. I only hope and pray that nobody remembered them. I am afraid to dig any deeper into that old file box for fear that I might have (and probably did) say something even worse. However, I do cut myself some slack, because I know that, when I exhaled the words of sermons past, I believed them to be God’s truth. It’s not my fault that God has changed her mind over the years.

After thirty years of being in the God-business, I have certainly learned that I am NOT a know-it-all, but I did think that I had SEEN it all. Last week, however, while taking a walk with my wife, I saw something new. As we rounded a bend in a deeply rutted dirt road, we saw a dog taking a young man for a walk. Karin, however, noticed that some other critter was walking beside them. Neither one of us was certain what the third person in that trinity was until we got a bit closer. Then, my wife exclaimed with surprise, “I think it’s a duck!”

Well…if it waddles like duck and quacks like a duck, it most likely is a duck. Yes! It was a dog and a duck, with a few feathers out of place, taking their master for an afternoon stroll walk. They were a trio! They acted as if there was nothing unusual about this as they walked and waddled along in formation down that dirt road.

We stopped to talk. We learned that the duck’s name was Shadow. Karin asked the young man if the dog and Shadow got along. He really didn’t have to answer her question, because as we stood there, that dog and duck were obviously enjoying each other’s company. As we moved on, dog, duck and Dad contentedly walked and waddled off in the opposite direction

I have been asking myself, “Why did that odd trio stick in my bill?” I do have an answer. If a dog and duck can get along, why can’t we get along? Even if there are a few ruffled feathers between them, why can’t the Israelis and Palestinians get along? The Ukrainians and the Russians? Muslims and Christians? Hispanics, Caucasians, Asians and African-Americans? Rich and poor? Democrats and Republicans? Why do we have to draw up sides? Even if we quack rather than bark and walk rather than waddle, we ought to be able to paddle together in the same pond or walk down the same dirt road with one another.

A prophet once dreamed of a peaceable kingdom, a world in which a “lion will lie down with a lamb.” I know of a dog and a duck that are bringing to life that prophet’s vision in real time. So whether of fair or dark skin, fur or feather, why don’t we join that dog and duck in living the Prophet’s dream. Can we at least take a “quack” at it?  

On Christmas Eve, I encouraged folks to relax, close their eyes and use their imagination as I shared the following thoughts:

Think your way back to when were really little. Did you have a place to hide, a secret place where you could go and just be you? I grew up in an old farmhouse that had been encircled by the Pittsburgh suburbs. It had two bedrooms and a bath on the second floor. My two brothers and I shared one bedroom, while the luxury suit belonged to my sister. She was so lucky (spoiled!), because she had access to an outdoor porch and a long narrow attic filled with all kinds of cool stuff, including my Dad’s Navy trunk. My sister ruled her room like a queen, but when she wasn’t around, I would sneak into the attic to a spot I carved out by the Navy trunk. I put on my Dad’s Navy cap and dreamt of being an admiral.  It was my first of two hiding places in that old house. The other one was two stories down.

The basement in that old house was not really a basement as it was on the same level as the backyard. The downstairs had a big play area, a bar that was off limits to kids, a renovated bedroom/bath combination that was my Grandma Holt’s living quarters and a coal cellar that was to be used only in the case of nuclear disaster. My second hiding place was in the coal cellar, behind some unpacked moving boxes. Since no atomic bombs were ever dropped on Pittsburgh, nobody ever thought to look for me in the coal cellar. I could think my thoughts there without commercial interruption.

I loved that old farmhouse on 162 Richmond Circle. I even remember our party-line telephone number: Forest 4-6064. What I loved the best, however, was not IN the house. In the backyard, down a steep hill that had plum and apple trees planted on it, was a summerhouse. It was a remnant of the old farm. It was made of rough, squared timber beams, darkened by age. It was wide open on two sides, while the other two sides consisted of animal feeding and watering troughs and a huge stone fireplace with a concrete bin to store wood next to it. My parents also installed a bench swing and a picnic table that turned what had once been a small stable into a summer gathering place for family reunions. The times we spent at the summerhouse eating, swinging and laughing at my Dad and my Uncles’ antics are some of my happiest memories.

The summerhouse was also the location of my third and favorite hiding place. I could easily climb up the rough stone side of the fireplace chimney and gain access to the roof. The branches of a huge cherry tree hung over part of the roof. When in leaf, there was a space just big enough for me to fit between the roof and the branches. It was there that I thought my own thoughts and dreamt my own dreams, until the snow and cold of winter forced me back into the attic and coal cellar in the old farmhouse.

I loved my hiding places, but as I look back on it now, what I loved most was the simplicity of my life. Kids don’t tend to complicate things. A few friends to play with, a peanut butter sandwich or two and a hiding place are all most kids need in order to affirm that life is good. Maybe it would be a good idea for aging kids like us to re-capture this sense of simplicity. Perhaps life is really good with not much more than a few friends, a burger and a good hiding place in which we can think our own thoughts and dream our dreams.

As I wrote in an earlier post, religion is not particularly complex. Love God and love one another. If we do, then God lives in us and is alive in our world.  My very simple New Year’s wish for you is that you will find a good hiding place to think your own thoughts and dream your dreams, that you will be surrounded by good friends and munch down a burger (or two) once in awhile (If vegetarian, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich still works!) AND that you will always know that God lives in you, and that because God lives in you, God is alive and well in our world.  

Happy 2015!

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA.

We finished the interview. All went well. I was fairly certain that the job was mine. But then, an aging man of wrinkled face, who had not said a word the whole time, raised his hand. In a voice tinged with emotion and soaked in suspicion, he asked gravely, “The last Pastor said no Santa at Christmas time. It’s not Christian. What’s your position?”  

I was not quite sure whether he was for or against Santa, but I knew that my fate hinged upon my answer.  I thought for a moment trying to figure out a middle ground.  There was, however, no compromise to be had, so I answered honestly, “What’s wrong with an old man giving gifts to kids on Christmas? I say bring Santa on!”

The old man leaned back in his chair and made a motion that I should be that church’s new pastor. The ensuing vote was unanimous.

The next Christmas, Santa arrived at the church Christmas dinner as that old man sat in the back row with an un-Grinch-like-grin on his face.

Me thinks there is nothing wrong or not Christian about good old St. Nick. After all, Santa is love coming down the chimney. 

I also think Santa fits quite nicely with the God-idea.  After all, Christmas is God’s love coming down from the heavens!

Thanks Santa!  Thanks God!  Merry Christmas!

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

Christmas is a “hope-filled” season.  It reminds me that, just as there is much to lose, there is always much more to gain. One thing we must never lose, however, is hope. I incorporated into some prose a few voices from the past that remind us of this essential truth:

“We are tired of waiting.”

The prayers from death camps

leapt to heaven

as if pulled upon by strings.

But words spoken from

a later vantage point

reversed the pull to push:

“Hope is like peace.

It is not a gift from God.

It is a gift that only we

can give to one and then the other.”  (Elie Wiesel)

 

“We are tired of waiting.”

Amidst hangings and hosings,

beatings and jailings,

was hope a dying delusion?

But encouraging words 

moved them forward

down the road to freedom:

“We must accept

a finite disappointment,

but never lose

an infinite hope.” (Martin Luther King)

 

“We are tired of waiting.”

Pleadings that crawled

through cracks in the wall,

shut behind a gate

closed tight and firmly latched.

 But then, commanding words breached despair:

“Tear down this wall!’

A gate pushed open from the inside out.

“A message of hope,

even in the shadow of the wall.

A message of triumph”. (Ronald Reagan)                  

 

“We are tired of waiting.”

From Soweto’s ghettos,

from prison and street,

to black versus white,

and white versus black,

A silenced voice

could not be quieted:

“Human compassion

binds us one to another.

A common suffering turns

into hope for the future.” (Nelson Mandela)

 

“We are tired of waiting.”

A repeated refrain cried

by those oppressed and lost,

and to us sadly whispered

from the foot of a wooden cross.

To the sinking despair of mind and soul.

a sweet but simple new song is sung:

“Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul

And sings the tune without the words

And never stops at all.”  (Emily Dickinson)   

 

In this beautiful season of the year, may your lives be filled with a hope that “never stops at all.”

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

              

 

A couple of years ago, while I was waiting my turn at Stefano’s Barber Shop in Providence, Rhode Island, I struck up a conversation with Mr. Leo (Age 92). It was quite obvious that Mr. Leo was visiting the barber for reasons other than hair removal. He was quite talkative, both in the waiting area and after he climbed into the barber’s chair to get his one or two remaining hairs trimmed. As Stefano’s son, Nunzio, feigned haircutting, Mr. Leo kept Stefano and me entertained with some very simple wisdom. I wrote some of it down as soon as I returned home.

Always go to the same barber, even if you don’t have any hair.

Living at the Senior Home isn’t so bad, there’s people there.

Don’t make a big deal over little things.

Take a walk…every day.

When you see somebody doing something interesting, stop and talk.

If you can’t get there on your own, get somebody to drive you.

It’s a good thing to see your shadow. It means you’re still alive.

My wife is always with her friends. I like to keep my own company. Guess that means I love myself best.

The older I get, the more simple it all becomes.

There is something very beautiful about such simplicity, especially when it is rooted in wisdom acquired over 90+ years of living. I suggest that, instead of putting our elders out to pasture, it might be a good idea to listen to them much more than we do. As Mr. Leo suggested, when our elders say “something interesting, stop and talk.”

Let me put a period on this post by sharing some wisdom from an ancient elder: “If we love one another, God lives in us.” To which I would add: When God lives in us, God lives in our world. It can’t get “more simple” than that, can it? 

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

The events in Ferguson, Missouri, quickly transported me back to my teenage years and the turbulent and tense days in our nation as the African-American people rose up against the injustice of segregation. What has come to be called the Civil Rights Movement has been idealized as the years have passed. However, as a young kid watching the images of riots and cities aflame flash across our black-and-white TV, I did not feel idealistic, but rather I felt frightened, unnerved and unsettled. And…I was viewing those events from a distance!

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. witnessed the pain of his people living under the cruel hand of segregation up close and personal. He saw his people tear-gassed, attacked by dogs, beaten with clubs, shot, jailed and even hung from tree limbs. He witnessed a people who had the boot of oppression clamped on their necks. He was severely critical of those who oppressed his people. He refused to accept any solution other than equality. The dark days grew even darker as Dr. King’s people were battered and bruised by those who were unwilling to give up their power. Those entrenched powers, both political and religious, tried to persuade Dr. King to slow down, that change would come, but it would take some time. Dr. King, however, believed that justice delayed was justice denied. He knew that “justice did not roll in on the wheels of inevitability,” therefore he refused to be silenced or to moderate the pace of change. Instead, he called upon his people to ramp up their sacrifice and endure additional suffering in order to gain their freedom.

Even as he spoke harshly to those who perpetrated the evil of segregation, however, his powerful voice unfailingly proclaimed hope. His followers took to heart words spoken by the ancient prophet Isaiah and reiterated by Dr. King: “Every valley shall be exalted and every mountain and hill made low, the crooked will be made straight and the rough places a plain.” Dr. King assured those who looked to him for encouragement and hope that one day their “eyes would see the glory of the coming of the Lord!” This hope was based on his firm belief that God could not be marginalized, that the “Lord would see them through.” Dr. King warned them that the only truly mortal sin was to “live without hope.”

Several years ago, I attended a Martin Luther King, Jr., dinner to celebrate the civil rights victories achieved forty years earlier as well as to embrace the continuing hope that equality and freedom would one day be achieved for all of God’s people. After that inspiring event concluded, I was walking out the door with a young, African-American activist. I said, “That was awesome. Dr. King was a prophet of God, the greatest man of his generation.”

The young man looked at me and said, “King is dead. Who is going to lead us now?”

I still think long and hard about that question. I keep praying for a leader of the stature of Dr. King who will lead our world to the Promised Land, but I continue to be profoundly disappointed. As I look around, I see too much justice delayed and denied. I mute the TV and lower my eyes as videos roll that capture beheadings, shootings in schools and synagogues, tanks and troops rolling into one country after another, killing on our own streets and cities ablaze with violence. I get annoyed when it is said that it takes time to fix things, because nothing EVER seems to get fixed. I go faithfully to the polls and vote only to be rewarded with the same old same old. It’s discouraging, even depressing.

What is going on in our world is nothing new. Muslims and Jews have been killing each other for centuries and now Muslims killing Muslims has been added to the mix. Russia took only a brief break from violently forcing its will upon its neighbors. Kids have been dying in the streets for years, whether by shootings or shooting up. The poor get poorer. Homeless shelters sell out early. An insidious greed reigns supreme. Entrenched and powerful interests seek to abort change by contaminating the political process with money, after all a dysfunctional government is just what the doctor ordered to maintain the status quo. And now, regardless of how you feel personally about the events in Ferguson, our cities are in flames again. What will be next? Unleashed dogs? Mob rule? Oppression? Suppression? Depression? Recession? Maybe Paul Simon was right that “after changes upon changes, we are more or less the same.” His lyrics, however, prompt me to ask more questions: Is the apocalypse upon us? If it isn’t, who will lead us now? Is there any hope for justice and peace? If there is hope, then who will lead us now? But as the martyr Dietrich Bonheoffer wrote before his execution, “They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.”

But then, an answer! It came upon me like a thief in the night: Waiting for someone to lead us now is dodging responsibility. WE MUST LEAD US NOW! As Dr. King suggested, the people of “good will” must raise their voices and be heard over the incessant din of negativity and hopelessness, over the constant clamor of hate and despair. We must speak! We must be heard. We must take a stand and not allow the “same old same old” to reign supreme. Justice must NEVER be delayed by indifference and peace must not be reduced to only a dream. All of God’s children, whether black or white, Asian or Latino, gay or straight, rich or poor, oppressed or free must never give up hope, for it is indeed a mortal sin to live without it.

WHY we take a stand is rooted in the Divine values of justice and peace.

WHERE we take a stand against violence and injustice is up to us.

HOW we take a stand is limited only by our imaginations.

WHEN we take a stand is a matter of great urgency; otherwise, more bodies will end up lying lifeless on our streets.

AND THAT is simply intolerable.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

Last week, I wrote about an “odd duck” named Dr. Ray. The point of the post was that even an odd duck needs a flock to fly in and, in some way, we are all odd ducks, since each one of us is divinely and uniquely created. I also asked if some of you would like to sign up to join the “ODD DUCK FLOTILLA.” I am pleased to report that the flock has multiplied and been lifted up as if soaring on a pair of duck’s wings. Welcome aboard!

Life lessons, courtesy of Dr. Ray, continued after his place in our flock was assured. As time waddled along, Dr. Ray began to call me weekly to check in. His outreach was heart-touching, because he called to find out if I was OK or if I needed anything. It was never about HIM. It was always about ME. Dr. Ray’s weekly calls were a bird of a different feather, because most of the calls I receive on a daily basis are the exact inverse in their intent.

Dr. Ray’s calls were at the heart of his mission in life. He may have been a duck out of water in relating to the masses of humanity, but he easily paddled around in his small pond taking care of his pastor and a flock-mate or two! To further this mission, since Dr. Ray had no close relatives, he invited my family to his house every year for Christmas cookies and apple cider. He also gave each of us a thoughtful stocking stuffer. Since Dr. Ray was so kind to us, we began to invite him as well as Custodian Jim, who also had no family, to Thanksgiving dinner. For the next couple of years, they joined our family, Custodian Jim wearing a worn and overly large suit coat and Dr. Ray in his white suit, red shirt and black cowboy boots. Even though none of us cared for it, Dr. Ray always brought a freshly baked Mince pie to share.

As my ducklings entered the wonders of adolescence, I thought perhaps we should reserve Thanksgiving dinner for family ONLY. A few weeks before Turkey Day, I suggested to my flock that we not invite Dr. Ray and Custodian Jim for Thanksgiving dinner. There was a stunned silence. Then, my daughter stared me down and said with a don’t-mess-with-me intensity, “But Dad, it wouldn’t be Thanksgiving without Mr. Jim and Dr. Ray.” My son nodded his head in total agreement. Instantly, Dr. Ray ceased to be annoying, odd or funny to me…FOREVER. I grasped what my daughter already knew, that although Dr. Ray led with a humble, quiet, and sometimes awkward caring, Dr. Ray loved us with an “uncommon” love. Dr. Ray’s gift of love could easily have been left unopened, for he gave it with no fanfare and no expectation of anything in return.

I flushed my clearly misguided disinvite down the drain and, the next day, invitations went forth so as to give Dr. Ray plenty of time to bake his Mince pie and Custodian Jim to spruce up his oversized suit coat.

Most of the people in my spiritual community did not see the beauty of Dr. Ray’s gift. They thought he acted like a Catholic and that he was a bit odd or off his rocker, especially on Sunday mornings when he doubled over in a formal bow to me. But I accepted his gift and, from the day my kids insisted that Dr. Ray have a seat at our Thanksgiving table, whenever he bowed to me, I bowed back. It was the best (ONLY?) way to acknowledge his love and his gift.

When we feel invisible, unnoticed, unappreciated, funny, different or odd and, even if we feel the inverse, let’s bow to the truth that our Eternal One implanted in us an incredible beauty and goodness. This divine stocking stuffer is not ours to lose; it is only ours to acknowledge and embrace.

A couple of thousand years ago, a funky, somewhat weird and odd-duck-of-a-guy named Jesus extended an open invitation to all of humanity: We are all invited, especially outcasts, outsiders and the bakers of Mince pie, to pull up a chair to God’s table. Seats are forever available. RSVP

Happy Thanksgiving!

John Holt, Cotuit, MA

Dr. Ray was an odd duck. He was a retired professor, a life-long bachelor and a loner. Dr. Ray was, more often than not, the “odd-man-out” in the spiritual community of which I was a part. As a leader of such communities, it is not unusual to have folks like Dr. Ray in the mix. After all, most every odd duck still needs a flock to call home. Sadly, most people found Dr. Ray so very odd and strange that they simply stayed away from him, not because they were mean, but because they just didn’t know what to do with him or what to say to him. Even for me, to try to talk with him was often an exercise in futility.

Not too long after my arrival in Dr. Ray’s hometown, a woman named Barbara approached me in the church social hall. She pulled me aside and, in a confidential whisper that dripped with conspiracy, said with deep conviction, ”PJ, you have to do something about Dr. Ray.”

Having been sucked into the quicksand of a set-up more than once, I asked her innocently, “What’s wrong with Dr. Ray? Is he sick or something?”

“Well,” she said, “He’s Catholic! EVERYBODY thinks it’s terrible!”

What Barbara said was a half-truth. Dr. Ray was not a Catholic. He was, however, a life-long Methodist who acted very much like a Catholic. On Sunday mornings, Dr. Ray would sit in the front row of the church, in front of the pulpit, dressed in an all-white suit, Episcopal red shirt, slim black tie and cowboy boots. Before and after every prayer, he would dramatically cross himself and, anytime I or any other clergy-type drew near, he would almost double over in a slow bow. I kind of liked it. It felt good being king for a day! Although it certainly was rather bizarre behavior, Dr. Ray really was not hurting anybody, so I thought for a moment and then said to Barbara, “You’re right. Dr. Ray is way too Catholic to fit in here. The last thing we need is a replica of Pope John Paul II floating around in our sanctuary.”

“So what are YOU going to do about it?” Barbara demanded.

I replied, “I am going to tell Dr. Ray that YOU and EVERYBODY else here don’t want him around. I’m gonna kick him out of the church. I’ll call him tomorrow and see if he can get together with us. YOU and EVERYBODY else who wants to ex-communicate him, however, must come to the meeting to share your concerns with him face-to-face, before I ask him to leave. It’s only fair. He has been here a long time.”

Horrified, Barbara said, “That’s mean! YOU can’t kick him out!”

I said non-anxiously, “Oh yes I can. As pastor, our Methodist rules are quite clear that I can kick out anybody I want.”

Of course, this is not quite true. It was just a little bit of a fib, but it served its purpose.

“Well, you can’t do that,” she said firmly.

“Well, I suspect that Dr. Ray is not going to change much, so I guess he stays,” said I.

Frustrated with her uncooperative Pastor, Barbara left.

Dr. Ray stayed, bowing and crossing himself, dressed in his red shirt and cowboy boots.

And…I enjoyed a few more years of being treated with a reverence not befitting my true self.

I sometimes wonder where some religious folk get their ideas. They claim to be guided by the Bible or Koran or some other Holy Book, and yet they clearly pick and choose what they like or dislike. They also decide who is in or out, who is “normal” or “odd.” All the Holy Books that I have read, however, advocate for and embrace those who are on the outside looking in or who are odd ducks looking for a flock. My guess is that in the eyes of the Divine One, that’s not only an eternal truth, but also a thing of beauty. What could be more beautiful than a wounded pigeon or a few bedraggled sea gulls flying in formation with a flotilla of ducks or a gaggle of geese?

The Dr. Ray’s of this world will always be invited to fly with me, if for no other reason than that there are more than just a few very odd quirks about yours truly. I think inviting all the “odd-ones-out” to join in flight might also result in leaving “no-one out.” We might even be winging our way closer to the One who created all us odd ducks in the first place.

John E Holt, Cotuit, Massachuesetts

Don is a down-to-earth guy who is perhaps a bit more wide than he is tall. He has a humble spirit and is always willing to lend a hand to anybody who needs a lift…literally. Don, with his grandson in tow, often picks us up in the early hours of the morning in his huge pick-up truck that has every gadget ever invented installed on the dash and hauls us off to Boston Logan as we take off on our latest trek to some part of the world. Don is also a proud veteran. He served in the Army and experienced the worst of war in Vietnam. He is the reason for this story.

My first year on Cape Cod, I decided to organize a community-wide event on Veteran’s Day. If we were going to have a national holiday to honor veterans, then it should be more than a day off work or a chance for a weekend get away. There were a couple of local parades and other celebrations, but it often seemed as if the people on the Cape who really cared about honoring our veterans were the veterans themselves. This was not right, especially since in 2008 our country was fully engaged in Afghanistan and Iraq, with casualty lists appearing daily in the newspapers.

I challenged my flock to give up an hour of their holiday to gather and honor our vets. One friend volunteered to round up a color guard and Tim, another friend, wrote a beautiful song for the event entitled, “Send Me a Soldier Tonight.” The program included stories (that I found on-line) of veterans who fought in wars all the way back to the Revolutionary War. I thought it was better to hear veterans’ stories in their own words, rather than for me to share my thoughts on war and peace, especially since I flunked out of college ROTC! We also planned to sing the Navy Hymn, “Eternal Father Strong to Save,” as well as “America the Beautiful” and our National Hymn, “God of Our Fathers.” I had no idea how many would choose to attend so I was deeply appreciative when about 30 folks showed up for our first-ever Veteran’s Day event. Even better, attendance has grown to nearly 100 over the years.

The first one went quite well. The color guard presented the colors, the songs were sung and the stories heard. At the conclusion, the colors were retired. I gave a blessing and we concluded by singing “America the Beautiful.” As I walked down the center aisle toward the back of the church, I noticed Don. Wearing a colorful Vietnam War Veteran’s leather vest that also displayed the name of his army unit and the dates of his service, he stood at rigid attention in the middle of the aisle. His hand was raised in salute as tears streaked his face. I stopped and gave him a hug. He whispered in a voice choked with emotion, “This is the first time anyone ever thanked me for serving my country.”

From that moment on, I knew that we had to organize a Veteran’s Day event as well as highlight our Memorial Day service every year. After all, Memorial Day is not really a celebration of the first day of the summer season on Cape Cod. Veteran’s Day and Memorial Day are times to express our gratitude to those men and women, like Don, who gave or are giving their lives or a part of their lives so that we may walk this God’s earth free and equal.

Now it may seem odd to you after reading this that I am as close to being a pacifist as you can get. I do understand that occasionally pure evil does arise in the world that might make a war just. Perhaps the horrific war being waged by ISIS in the Middle East is one of them. It makes me nauseous when I think about it. Even as awful as it is, however, I still TRY to believe that there must be a better way, a more peaceful way, to solve our differences other than resorting to violence. I also believe that, if there is a good God in the heaven, that God looks down upon any act of violence and weeps. If God is about love, then God must also be about peace.

When it comes to our veterans, however, it does not matter if I am an “almost-pacifist.” I can and should still take the time to thank Don and any other veterans who I encounter on my earthly journey. After all, I have only theorized about war and peace, while they actually put their lives on the line on our behalf.

On Tuesday, November 11^th, perhaps you will encounter a proud veteran who has never been thanked. I think you now know exactly what to do: A simple expression of gratitude will make a world of difference to a veteran who has never been thanked.

Don, thanks again.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA