The Thud That Followed

With my retirement date dead ahead, I find myself waxing nostalgic. My nostalgia is not so much emotional as it is the remembrance of the amazing people I have met on my journey as well as recalling moments of enlightenment. Until that BIG day when I hang up my robe and stole, my weekly posts will highlight those who have made my race worth running and a few of my God-Moments as well.  

Ledyard and West Genoa, New York

January 1, 1985 to June 30, 1985

Little did I know that when I hooked up with the Sub-Bishop for lunch that I would leave the table appointed as pastor of two small churches in Upstate New York. Even more bewildering was that I had absolutely no clue as to what to do or say. Up until that point in my life, I could talk a little about economics and a lot about marketing stainless steel. My religious resume consisted of regularly attending church on Sunday, providing it did not interfere with my tee time.

My first Sunday at my two churches was a nightmare. I was a wreck. My sermon lasted about 6 minutes and consisted of a story about a business trip to Chicago that I somehow (creatively?) linked to a Bible verse. Adding the singing of three hymns, praying a prayer and losing control of the kids during the children’s time, the entire service lasted less than ½ hour. I was relieved that I was able to pull it off and my flock was overjoyed that the service was brief.

After a few Sundays, I slowly got the hang of it. With the help of some resources belatedly provided by the Sub-Bishop and relying on my love for telling stories, some of the more critical people indicated that I might (MAYBE??) have a future in the church. Even more importantly, I liked being a pastor and I loved the people. After six months, the “Powers-That-Be” asked me to quit my marketing job and go to seminary. Unfortunately, that also meant that I had to leave Ledyard and West Genoa. They were sorry to see me go and I was sad to leave them. But…onward and upward!

One of my last Sundays at those two little churches, my Mom, who was visiting us, went along to observe me in action. It was hard for her to get her head around Pastor John. After all, to this day, she will tell you that every grey hair on her head is on account of me and I have two brothers and a sister.

Mom chose to sit about halfway back at the end of a pew, adjacent to the center aisle. I entered the sanctuary like royalty, decked out in my newly acquired robe that resembled a monk’s uniform. I loved my robe. It made feel like a Reverend, like Billy Graham incarnate! I looked to Mom for approval. She never moved a muscle. During the whole service, except when she stood to sing a hymn, Mom sat there like she was frozen in time.

After I gave the benediction, I went to the back of the church to greet my flock. After the mass exodus, Mom remained seated, staring straight ahead. I went to the altar and extinguished the candles, then I decided to place myself at her mercy. I approached her pew. She stood up. I gave her a hug and then asked, “How did I do, Mom?”

With little or no emotion in her voice, she replied, “I loved your sermon, but I hate your robe.”

The thud that followed was me falling down to earth. The trappings of my office are simply trappings. My title and outfits matter not. What matters most is that I stay down to earth, especially since I am no better than anybody else and no closer to God. More importantly, “down to earth” is where most people live. It does very little good to be so “heavenly spiritual that I am no earthly good.”

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

 

Advertisements

Good Luck God!

Five days ago in the late afternoon, I received a call from my secretary. She told me that Herb was in the hospital and on his way to ICU. My experience is that it is best to wait before heading to the hospital in order to give the medical staff time to do what they need to do. So I told her that I would go to the hospital to check on Herb first thing in the morning.

I changed my mind. Right after we finished eating dinner, I left for the hospital. I arrived at the ICU. The staff and Cardiologist were working feverishly to stabilize him. They tried to get his blood pressure up. It worked, but not for long.

The Cardiologist met with the family and said quietly and compassionately, “Herb has made his own decision.”

At 7:09 p.m., Herb drew his last breath and crossed over into the arms of his Creator.

Herb was a special guy; a biblical scholar who loved to argue the nuances of both scripture and theology. For eight years, we had a great “back-and-forth.” He was greatly troubled by the age-old question: “If there is a good and powerful God in the heaven, why do such awful things happen to people?” How much is enough before God should step in to stop pure evil from happening?”

(Wish I knew the answer to that one.)

When we studied Paul’s letter to the Romans. Herb decided that he greatly disliked St. Paul. He repeated for all to hear that, in his opinion, Paul was arrogant and egotistical.

When studying the Christmas story, he announced that he could not believe that Mary was a virgin!

Herb was not making such “confessions” to rile anybody up. He said what he honestly thought.

One day after Bible study, he apologized. “Pastor John, I am sorry if my questions have offended you.”

“Herb,” I replied, “your questions never offend me. Keep asking any question you want. If truth is truth, it will withstand you questions. After all, God created you with a brain and expects you to use it!”

How I wish some of the noisy religious people that suck up the airwaves would stop demanding that we either accept their answers or go to hell. Isn’t a good and honest question much more constructive than a hurtful and thoughtless answer?

“O Divine One, I will keep using the brain you gave me, but you might want to keep an eye out for my buddy Herb. He wants to know what you have been doing as our world spins out of control. He also is asking some good questions about the Blessed Virgin and St. Paul. He is all yours now. GOOD LUCK!”

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

The Parable of the Pill Box

Before I lost 50 pounds, I used a weekly pill dispenser to make sure that I took the right medications at the right time. Back then, I was medicated to the tune of 7 or 8 pills per day: 4 or 5 in the morning and 2 or 3 at bedtime. After losing weight, my blood pressure and high cholesterol medications were no longer needed. My pill consumption dropped to one per day. My Doc was so proud of me that he deleted the diagnosis of hypertension and high cholesterol in my presence! Thanks “MyFitnessPal” for curing my delusion that these health issues were hereditary, when, in truth, I was just lugging around too much weight and eating all the wrong stuff.

My pill dispenser retired gracefully, without complaint, to the medicine cabinet.

Then, age crept up on me like a thief in the night. A problem emerged. It was NOT that I was taking the wrong medications at the wrong time. The issue was frequently forgetting to take my one remaining pill! With an urgent call to duty, my weekly pillbox leapt from the medicine cabinet to resume its old accustomed spot by the sink; ready to regulate one who is decidedly difficult to regulate. In addition, my faithful pill dispenser has also taken on a new responsibility.

You might ask, “What is that?”

Answer: “To remind me how fast life whips by.”

It is Saturday. Today I will re-load my pillbox for the next week. I cannot believe I have to do it again. It feels like I just did it yesterday. I grumble a bit, but then I thank my Higher Power that a pill dispenser is enough to remind me that every day is a gift, each moment is precious. Time cannot be recovered. It marches on inexorably. Time does not care whether we use it well or not. That is our decision.

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. wrote these powerful words in his Letter from Birmingham Jail: Actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men (and women!) willing to be co workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right.

My trusty little pill dispenser reminds me weekly that my “time is always ripe to do right.”

Of course, all of you reading this are probably thinking that old PJ is fast becoming the master of the obvious, but do you know what? If it takes something as simple as a my pillbox to remind me to love and live in the NOW, then I am content to let my trusted companion sit by the sink until this mortal takes on immortality.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

 

 

Retirement Lurks

Retirement lurks.

 It snuck up on me.

A long sequestered question:

 Who am I?

 

I am NOT what I have.

If the stuff that I have stashed is all that I am,

what if I lose it all?

Then, who am I?

 

I am NOT what I do.

If a pastor’s call is what I am,

what happens when I hang up on that call?

Then, who am I?

 

I am NOT who others think I am.

If I am what they think,

what happens if they change their minds?

Then, who am I?

 

What I am is shaped by love.

Human love given and received.

Divine love gifted from the heavens.

That’s who I am.

 

I am who I am,

because love captured of my soul.

I cannot lose this love.

It is not mine to lose.

 

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

 

Conversing Over Fried Chicken

Roosevelt was sitting at the bar at the Hitching Post Restaurant in Washington D.C., while I waited for our “take out” of southern fried chicken, Cole slaw, collard greens, mashed potatoes and chocolate cake. Forget counting calories, the chocolate cake alone freaks out my daily calorie quota on MyFitnessPal. Nevertheless, I will haunt the Hitching Post as frequently as I can. It is fun, on occasion, to sin boldly. Roosevelt, however, looked as if his “on occasion” was a daily occurrence, but as Pope Francis said, “Who am I to judge?”

As we both sinned boldly, Roosevelt and I connected on matters irrelevant to our waistlines. Roosevelt works for a federal worker’s union. This led to a discussion about the roll of labor unions in the 21st century. We immediately found common ground. Unions are needed to ensure that workers receive living wages and much needed benefits. Sometimes, however, the playing field is not level. Unions and management must come to the bargaining table as “equals.” If the game is “rigged” by government or rife with conflict of interest, neither the worker nor the employer is well served.

Having solved the “union” issue, Roosevelt told me that, for many years, he had been employed as a corrections officer. This disclosure, coupled with his “Black Lives Matter” XXXL T-shirt, led to an intense discussion about policing in America. The years that I served on the Providence Police Commission taught me that to work as a police officer is extremely challenging. Walking a beat or making a traffic stop is a dangerous proposition. A cop never knows what lurks around the corner or lies in wait in a pulled over car. Roosevelt and I agreed that most police departments are made up of conscientious, well-trained officers, who represent their departments and communities with integrity. We also felt strongly that a police department should not be “broad-brushed” as evil or incompetent on account of the actions of a few rogue cops. This does not mean, however, that closer scrutiny, better training and corrective action when things go wrong are not necessary. Whether in Ferguson, Baltimore, Chicago, New York, Washington D.C. or any other city or town in America, police departments must be held accountable for their actions.

Somehow all this led back to a discussion of Roosevelt’s “Black Lives Matter” T-shirt. His union designated last Wednesday as “Black Lives Matter” Day. Everybody was given a “Black Lives Matter” T-Shirt, like Roosevelt’s, and were encouraged to wear them to work. When Roosevelt told me this, I could sense some discomfort. I asked, “Are you OK with that?”

He paused for a moment and said, “Not really.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“Because I don’t like to be told what to wear.”

A longer pause, then he added, “I’m Black, but my Jesus tells me, “All lives matter!”

What a magnanimous thing to say, especially from a man who belongs to a race that far too often is treated as if their lives don’t matter.

“Roosevelt, if you run for President, I’ll run for Vice President. I’ll see you the next time I am at the Hitching Post. Because our lives DO matter to each other, however, maybe we ought to eat a little less fried chicken and share only one piece of chocolate cake.”

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

 

A Text or a Hug?

While clicking the heals of her magical slipper together, Dorothy, in one of the final scenes of the Wizard of Oz, emotionally affirmed, “There is no place like home.”

Many of us recall fondly a place that, no matter how far away we have moved, we will always call home. Of course, we can and do make ourselves at home in new places. I have called the following cities and towns’ home:

Beaver Falls, Pennsylvania

Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania (3x)

Oil City, Pennsylvania

Warren, Ohio

Tulsa, Oklahoma

St. Louis, Missouri

Detroit, Michigan

Minneapolis, Minnesota

Skaneateles, New York

Syracuse, New York

Canandaigua, New York

Harrisville, New York

New Hartford, New York

Warwick, Rhode Island

Newport, Rhode Island

Cotuit, Massachusetts

All these places eventually felt like home, but if you ask me where I am from, I will always answer Pittsburgh. That is where I grew up. It is also the place I lived the longest. Every time I go back to Pittsburgh to visit my family, I feel like I am truly home. It is a very good feeling.

Where we are from is not insignificant. The place we call home is important. It does not define who we are, but it helps to shape us into who and what we will become. For many of us, home is where we were nurtured, received unconditional love and where we felt safe and secure. I am not so naive as to believe that every home is heaven on earth, but I do know that growing up in a happy and loving home makes a huge difference as to how we navigate the rest of our lives.

The Psalmists often portrayed God as a loving parent who provides love and shelter to each one of us. God wants us all to have a home! What moves me most about Sierra Leone’s Child Rescue Center is what also moved me when I visited Israel’s Yemeni Ord orphanage. Both of these incredibly caring communities create a home for children who once had little hope of ever living in one. They act as God’s homemakers on earth.

Like those orphanages, we can all practice homemaking by helping to create what Dr. Martin Luther King called a “beloved community.” To work to build such a community can be as simple as taking the time to learn the name of whoever bags your groceries at the supermarket. Even though all the technology available today is amazing and helpful, it can also distract us from homemaking. What is more important, sending a text or giving and receiving a hug?

If you are snowed in like I am today, make some space and remember those warm moments when you knew that there really is “no place like home.” Keep in your heart all the children who have no home and, if it is within your power, ponder how you might help provide one for them. And, most importantly, be thankful that God is, first and foremost, a homemaker. Then, in the still of the dark night, pray St. Augustine’s prayer: “You have made us for yourself, O Lord, and our hearts are restless until they find rest in you.”

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

CRYING AND WEEPING

Are you ready take the third step of my Guided Meditation?  If you are, find a quiet place, take a deep breath and be quiet for a moment. Then, take to heart the following meditation:

There is stuff in the Bible that I hate. I hate that in the Hebrew Bible a prophet gets mad at some kids who are teasing him and calls on God to send 42 she-bears out of the woods to rip those kids to shreds. I also detest the story that has become known as the “Slaughter of the Innocents.” It should not be in the Bible. God would never condone King Herod slaughtering all the kids in Israel under the age of two, simply to fulfill an obscure prophecy from the Old Testament. It was definitely not God’s idea that the birth of Jesus was to be followed by a holocaust. I also absolutely hate the idea of “mothers inconsolably weeping for their children” back then, just as it breaks my heart to hear of a mother weeping for her child today. The saddest thing in these troubled times is that far too many parents are weeping for their kids.

I will never attempt to preach a full-blown sermon on the “Slaughter of the Innocents,” just as I find it very difficult to preach about the horror of holocausts and terrorist attacks. I have only this to say about such things: “The God that I think I know is not responsible for such tragedies, but rather, as Dr. Werner Lemke once said, ‘God is in heaven weeping over them.” It is always OK to weep and cry. Big boys need to cry. Big girls need to cry. Weeping does not kill our pain, but it does give us a means by which to express it.

In this post, I will let the story of the “Slaughter of the Innocents” stand without comment or explanation. There are no words to make sense of it anyway, but as our lives go on and on, please do not refrain from shedding tears. It is OK to weep for mothers and fathers who have lost their children at the hand of those who do not represent God, but who do embody pure evil. It is also OK to give ourselves and those we love permission to cry. To hold in pain only increases its intensity. To allow our tears to flow is one means by which we can let go of our pain…a little…and let God’s love tend to us…a little.

As you read this, some of you may need to shed a tear. Go ahead! It is good for the soul. The rest of us might want to shed a tear or two for those who, on this day, are weeping for themselves or for someone they love.

May the Divine One grant us all peace.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA