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

The three Wise Men left the baby Jesus’ manger with joy in their hearts. The rest of their story, however, is lost in the jumble of history. What we know is that the Holy Family’s “manger” moment was quickly replaced by sheer terror. An angel appeared to Joseph in a dream and said, “Retreat! Get out of Dodge! A deluge of evil is about to come upon you!”

Joseph was not born stupid. He gathered up Mary and their newborn baby and, in the dead of night, beat a hasty retreat to Egypt.

Is it not bizarre that Jesus began his life in full retreat? If Jesus truly was the Messiah, a processional, rather than a retreat, should have commenced. Everybody should have joined in crowning him “King of Kings and Lord of Lords.” Regardless of the absurdity of a Messiah in retreat, now we know that the baby Jesus’ retreat eventually became an advance; an advance not meant to give Jesus political and military control of the world, but rather an advance that ignited a powerful movement of the spirit intended to connect humanity heart-to-heart with God.

Every year at St. Paul’s Church in Newport, several military officers attending the Navy War College and their families affiliated with our church. I never met more gifted people than those men and women. One Sunday, I struck up a conversation with a Navy Commander. He recently returned from a tour of duty in Afghanistan. I said, “You must feel very proud that the Taliban is in full retreat.”

He replied, “Pastor John, do you know that to retreat is an offensive maneuver?”

His answer baffled me, but in hindsight his words appear prophetic. The Taliban retreated, but, sadly and tragically, only long enough to reorganize and resume the fighting using a different strategy.

When we encounter difficulties in life, we often feel compelled to barge ahead. Sometimes, however, it is better to retreat, re-think our strategy and then advance using a different tactic. I often counsel people in trouble and turmoil to retreat and hand off, at least temporarily, their problems to God. Why not rest, regain strength and give consideration to using a different strategy? After all, as Red Adair once said, “When you are up to your rear end in alligators, you forget that you came to drain the swamp!”

As life goes on and on, consider using retreat as an offensive maneuver. Some folks reading this post are “up to their rear end in alligators.” Retreat! Deposit your troubles in God’s hands, relax and regain your strength. Then, ask the Divine One to help you develop a new strategy before moving forward.

For those of you who are successfully advancing right now, bring to mind someone you love that may need to retreat. Pray that God will give your loved one the strength to “let go and let God.”

REMEMBER, if it was OK for Jesus to retreat, it must be OK for us to do it too!

John E. Holt. Cotuit, Massachusetts

This is the first of four posts designed as a guided meditation. My hope is that you will find a moment to pause and reflect upon these thoughts as your life goes “on and on” in 2016.

Inserted into the Christmas story is the appearance of three Wise Men shortly after the birth of Jesus. The Bible says that the Wise Men were “overwhelmed with joy”, but another translation says that the Magi were “thrilled and excited.” Why not? They had followed a star and hit the jackpot. The star led them to the one they believed to be the Messiah. Overwhelmed with joy! Thrilled! Excited! Living the dream! All of the above! There really are no words to describe how they must have felt at that moment, but they fell to their knees in awe and gave their gifts and hearts to the one who later became known as the Christ.

We all experience moments of overwhelming joy, moments that are thrilling and exciting, when we feel as if we are ‘living the dream.” These moments may not rise to the level of the Wise Men stumbling upon a Messiah, but we all wish we had more of them, because such moments take root in our souls. They find room in our hearts. Then, when life loses its thrill, when sadness dampens joy, excitement gives way to the “same old, same old” or a dream or two lies shattered at our feet, we can reach deep into ourselves and resurrect a “manger” moment; a moment of awe that reminds us that God is never far away, that we may stumble upon “a can’t-get-better-than-this-moment” that lies just around the corner.

For me, the most recent “it-can’t-get-better-than-this” moment was the first time I held my grandchild Samantha in my arms. I have never felt so much love and joy. It was thrilling, exciting and she was, and always will be, a dream come true.

The miracle of birth, in and of itself, is miracle beyond words that should drive us to our knees in awe. As St. Paul wrote in one of his letters, the “things that have been made” prove the existence of God. Holding Sammy in my arms for the first time provided me with the assurance that God is never far away. When the dominoes of my life are falling, I can reach into my soul and resurrect that “manger” moment and then whisper to the heavens, “My Lord and my God!”

As usual, I have no idea where you are as your life goes on and on. I do not even know who may be reading this post. What I do know is that some are grasped by the thrill of victory, while others are experiencing the agony of defeat. Most of us, however, are stuck somewhere in between the two. No matter where you are, however, when you read this post, reach into your soul and bring to mind “a-can’t-get-any-better-than-this moment.” Remember a moment of overwhelming joy when you were living the dream. Then, in awe let your heart whisper to the heavens, “My Lord and my God!”

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

I first met Farid at a Martin Luther King Jr. Day event in Providence, Rhode Island. I was the newly appointed Executive Minister of the Rhode Island State Council of Churches. Farid was the leader of Rhode Island’s American Muslim community. During the years that I served the council, Farid and I worked together on many projects. We were both deeply committed to making peace and bringing people of different faiths together to make a difference in our community and in our world.

When I first met Farid, I did not know anything about Islam. As a matter of fact, prior to sitting with him at dinner, I do not think that I ever met with or spoke to a member of that faith community. Farid’s gentle and loving nature immediately impressed me and, over the next several years, I was honored to accept Farid’s multiple invitations to attend many different Muslim gatherings. What I discovered was a community that reflected Farid’s peaceful and gentle nature. Because of him and his community, I know, with great certainty, that those now being labeled as “radicalized Muslims” do not in any way mirror the true nature of the Islamic community. Furthermore, “radicalized Muslims” who engage in terror cannot possibly be followers of that faith. They are an evil distortion of true Islam.

It makes me weep when I hear, far too frequently in these troubled times, ugly, angry, judgmental and sweeping generalizations made about those who practice Farid’s religion. Such vindictive judgments come from the mouths of people who should know better or should, at least, become a bit more acquainted with the Muslim community before spewing forth such venom. Hate what is evil, but do not hate out of ignorance.

For months now, I have stopped at a convenience store to pick up my morning caffeine fix. The cashier at one of the stores I frequent is a native of Pakistan. I cannot say that we are BFF’s, but if there is no line waiting to check out, we have talked, more than once, about his religion as well as about my religion. He is as kind and gentle as Farid. His spirit reflects well the essence of his faith.

The last time I was in the store, nobody was around, so I said to him, “I have wanted to say this to you for awhile and I hope my words do not offend you, but I am so sorry for what is being said about Muslims. It makes me both mad and sad. Please know that I respect you and I respect your religion.”

He said quietly, “Thank you. You are the first person to say anything like that to me.”

I replied, “I am glad that I did. See you the next time in.” Then, I took a sip of my Super Big Gulp caffeine drink and headed off to work.”

One of the most well known stories in my religion is that one night, centuries ago, in the skies above a shepherd’s field, a heavenly host of angels sang of “peace and good will to all.” I have a hunch that those angels did not categorize some as deserving of “peace and good will,” while excluding millions of others based solely upon the actions of an evil few. Please make note that the angels sing of a peace and good will that come down from the heavens to ALL, not only to those of a particular religion or to a privileged few. For those who seek to limit God’s peace and good will only to those of their particular faith, I have to ask, “What do you not understand about the word ALL???”

This Christmas, my prayer is that a sense of calm will descend upon us. I pray that angry, sweeping judgments made about far too many good people will cease and, when those of us who attend church on Christmas Eve sing of peace and good will, we will also seek to do good and live peaceably among ALL who walk God’s great earth. The Divine One, born in a stable in Bethlehem, expects nothing less of us.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

 

Has anybody felt like canceling Christmas this year? I was ready to the pull the plug on it. Of course, I am required to go through the motions. A Christmas church supper, a children’s pageant and three Christmas Eve services are all part of my job description. I planned to go through the season with an outward enthusiasm that masked an inner disillusionment. How can we even think about “peace on earth and good will to all,” when unmitigated evil is running rampant in our world? My mind was fixated on a grief-stricken woman and her six kids in San Bernardino. The senseless and horrific act of terror that took the life of a good husband and father as well its impact on so many other lives made me feel as if it would be sinful to sing, “Joy to the world!” If the Prince of Peace “is come”, then the Prince of Darkness clearly is slapping him down. As my mother-in-law often says, however, “Just do it, then it will be done.” Just get Christmas done, Pastor John, then it will be done.

Leave it to some kids to snap me out of my Christmas funk. Not just a few kids, but over a hundred kids who put on quite a show last night at the Riverview School on Cape Cod.

Riverview School is amazing. It provides an incredible education for severely challenged kids with disabilities. It also creates a loving and joyful home for those kids, many of whom have been repeatedly bullied by their peers in the “outside” world. The goal is to educate and teach them living skills that will enable them, not just to survive, but to thrive upon their graduation.

Last night, joy was epidemic at Riverview School. It was as if you could pick it out of the air, put it in your pocket and carry it with you. The music director started the concert by asking the student body, “Whose house is this?” In unison, they shouted back, “Our house!” Then, the dancing and singing began. Every dance and song was performed with an enthusiasm that I have rarely witnessed on any stage. The student body encouraged every act with cheers, clapping and some even danced in their seats. The kids were really into it, but all of this did not prepare me for the finale.

After a number of small singing and dance groups graced the stage, the director stopped the show and told the audience that it would take about five minutes for the 96 members of Riverview School’s “Deja View” Chorus to make their way onto a very small stage. The kids entered stage left in small groups. Some of them walked to their spot on stage laughing, clapping and dancing. Others moved slowly into place, due to their disabilities, and then waited patiently for the music to begin. The kids called out to one young woman, who was clearly frightened to go on stage, and encouraged her to join them. With such support, she summoned up the courage to take her seat and, eventually, she began to sing. That alone did me in, but the “Deja View” Chorus was just getting started!

The kids and the band played and sang their hearts out. With laughter and smiles, waves to the audience, clapping and dancing, love flowed like a “never ending stream.”

Love cannot be defined.

Love is not limited by words.

Love is lived.

It is transmitted heart-to-heart.

Over ninety-six kids gave us their hearts last night and love found “room in the inn” at Riverview School.

When the concert ended with students and alumni singing “Feliz Navidad,” my wish was that the whole world had a seat in that auditorium. Their singing was a wake-up call that peace, good will, love, hope and joy still live within the realm of the possible.

These words were written about a birth that took place several thousand years ago: “The light has come into the world and darkness cannot overcome it.”

Last night at Riverview School, light overcame the darkness.

Christmas came early.

Pastor John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

Four decades and two years ago, my father, Theodore Henry Holt, died at the young age of 49. That is a long time ago and much has happened since and continues to happen now. Perhaps it is my chosen career, but regardless of the reason, the old cliché holds true when it comes to my journey: “There is never a dull day!”

I thought about Dad quite often last week as I visited my Mom in Pittsburgh. Due to dementia, Mom lost the last vestige of personal freedom. She moved from independent living to personal care. It is never easy to move, especially at 94, but Mom is adjusting well. We are breathing a sign of relief that she is safe and receiving excellent care. It certainly is our turn to take care of the amazing woman who, for so many years, took great care of us. Thanks Mom!

My primary task during her move was to go through her file cabinets. I organized her papers into three piles. The first pile was reserved for documents that we needed to secure for future reference, such as her will and power of attorney. The second pile headed for the dump or the shredder. The third pile contained items that related to our family history. While making my way through that pile, Dad often came to mind. I found, among other memorabilia, his birth certificate, death certificate and his military service record. I cannot believe how emotional it was to go through his stuff, but there was a poignant moment to come that transcended anything I felt sorting through his stuff.

I was driving to our attorney’s office. On the way, I passed our old church and the cemetery in which Dad is buried. Neither one pulled too hard at my heart strings. It was when I passed a wooded hillside on a road less traveled that my emotional thermometer rose quickly. It was on that hill, in those woods, that Dad used to take his boys on hikes. I pulled over and parked in a small, dirt lot. I could not believe it. The path we took from the parking lot up the hill still existed. As a light rain pattered on the car roof, I decided not to go up the hill. Instead, I sat in the car and let the wonderful memories of those days come flooding back.

The hill is not very steep, but to a small boy it was Mt. Everest. Near the top, we stopped to rest. Dad lit a campfire. We toasted some marshmallows. Then, we climbed a tree. Sitting amongst the branches, Dad told us stories that he never dared to tell in front of Mom. He even said, “damn” once or twice! That was a huge “no-no” in our God-fearing family. As the fire subsided from flame to embers, we climbed down out of the tree. We put out the fire via what Dad called “an act of nature,” (We peed on it!) after which we hiked back down the hill singing crazy songs that my Dad invented and headed home.

As I sat in the car thinking about hiking with Dad, something that I say frequently at funerals popped into my head: “Memories are a gift from God. As long as we have one memory of somebody we love, that person still lives.”

Dad lives.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

 

 

Last Sunday in church, I was minding my own business, while our Director of Children’s Ministries led the children’s time. Actually, I was reviewing my notes for the upcoming sermon and not paying any attention at all to what was happening. Then, it was strangely quiet. I looked up from my notes. Everybody in the church was staring at me. Our director was motioning to me to join her. Sheepishly, I wandered over as she told everybody that it was almost my birthday and the kids wanted to wish me a happy birthday and, on Thanksgiving Sunday, give thanks for ME! They also prepared a very funny video that ended with the kids shouting, “Pastor John, we love you!” To say I was deeply moved is an understatement. I was blown away.

The kids wrapped it up my giving me the gift of a book that they created. Its title is as follows:

“NOW THANK WE ALL OUR GOD,

WITH HEART AND HAND AND VOICES…

To Pastor John, with love from your

“Awesome Rock’n Kids”

After the service was over, I sat in my office and thumbed through that book. What the kids wrote and the pictures they drew, reduced me to rubble:

Pastor, John you are so kind and & a great bowler!

You are so funny…we love u pastor john!

I love you! Go Steelers.

I love you paster John by the way the Patriots are way better than stealers!

Pastor John, I am so blessed to have you!! You are the world and our insparations!!

You Rock 🙂 PJ

There were a couple dozen more expressions of love, but I suspect that you now understand why a page of my Awesome Rock’n Kids “Love” book is still a bit damp from a tear or two. Those kids in a few minutes made my day (Life!).

Last night at 3 A.M., I laid in bed wide-eyed. My mind raced like a hamster in a wheel as I recalled the violence in our world: A video released of young man shot 17 times on the streets of Chicago. Terror attacks in Paris and a plane shot down over Egypt killing hundreds of people. A policeman and two others shot and killed at a Planned Parenthood Clinic in Colorado. So much violence: “Why, Lord, why?” Then I remembered what a guy said recently: “We have so many bad kids. It’s no wonder everybody is killing each other. I am scared for our future.”

As I lay there troubled of mind and heart, our Awesome Rock’n Kids interrupted my negative stream of thought and a “still, small voice” whispered to my soul: “It’s not the kids.”

It’s NOT! There is no such thing as a bad kid. The grown-ups are the problem. Grown-ups can either create a loving and caring community that inspires our kids to make the world a better place or create a harsh, hateful environment that fills children with a rage that, too frequently, incites violence. Grown-ups are the ones who teach our kids to love or hate. Do not scapegoat our kids! As the Good Book says, “The sins of the fathers and mothers are visited upon their children,” to which I would add this addendum: “The love of the fathers and mothers is visited upon their children, too!” Whatever shoe fits, we grown-ups have to wear it.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I attended a clergy meeting at which our Bishop led a Q&A with pastors from across our Conference. It took a turn for the nasty when somebody asked why so many non-Christian organizations rented space at one of our church conference centers. The woman who asked was quite alarmed that yoga groups rented space. She pointedly told us that yoga had its roots in the Hindu religion. She suggested that we should not allow Hindus or other non-Christians to use our camps and conference centers. After all, God “saves” only Christians and those who believe in any other religion are destined to be judged negatively. They are worshipping the wrong God!

My experience is that it is utterly useless to argue with such narrow-minded people. They have already made up their minds. I did, however, have the urge to confess my “sin” of permitting two yoga groups to use our church. I also wanted to shout out, “For God’s sake, woman, Jesus was Jewish!” In her way of thinking, Jesus would not be permitted to hold a meeting or visit one of our conference centers. After all, since Jesus was Jewish, he was not “saved” and was clearly worshipping the wrong God.

For the record, Jesus was never Christian. He never had any intention of founding a new religion. I would argue further that Jesus had a strong dislike for religion in general. He was not interested in such human inventions. What motivated Jesus was the odd notion that what really matters is that we love God and love each other. Those who do yoga can love God. Those who confess the Hindu religion can love God. Even those who do not embrace a particular religion can love God. And those who are religious, non-religious or anti-religious can also love each other. Forget religion and live love! Our world would be a much better place if we did!

Religion is taking a beating today. It deserves it. When any group of people suggests that they have exclusive access to God, they are arrogant and delusional. The tragic result of such exclusivist thinking should make us nauseous: People fear God and struggle to love themselves. Even worse, a multitude of murdered souls sleep in the earth due to “it’s my way or the highway” religions. The only good reason for any religion to exist is to create what Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. called the “beloved community;” a community in which God’s love is given and received. If a religion cannot manage to give and receive such love, it ought to liquidate its assets and give the proceeds to take care of those who are lonely, lost and in need. After all, that is the “how and the why” the Jewish Jesus lived.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

Back in August, I prepared for our music staff a schedule of sermons, songs and scripture readings for every Sunday from September through November. Every week, I refer to that schedule and create the program for the upcoming Sunday. Of course, sometimes I change things, but most of the time the essence of the plan remains in tact.   

Last Tuesday, I sat down to prepare the program for Sunday. I referred to my schedule and found the scripture reading for the week. I looked it up and refreshed my memory. Back in August, I planned to talk on November 15th about standing up against an unjust status quo. I entitled the sermon “Taking Offense.” When I re-read the scripture last Tuesday, however, it struck me differently, so I made a change. I re-titled the message and kept everything else as it was in August. I finished the program Wednesday morning and e-mailed it to the office. Done! The program was printed on Friday morning.

            Friday night.

            Evil struck.

            Bombs and gunfire.

            Death.

            Glued to the TV.

            Heartsick.

            Mad.

            Tears.

            No words.

Then a revelation invaded my space like a lightning bolt. I had changed the title of my message on Tuesday to “Disruption.” The opening song that I picked in August and did NOT change was entitled, “Wounded World That Cries for Healing.” 

I am not a spooky person. If God prompts me to pick a hymn and change a sermon title, it is rare (Never…?). If Tuesday night was one of those rare occasions, I still wrestle with an incurable cynicism.

Late Friday night, still no words. Then a prayer once prayed came to mind: “I believe! Lord, help me in my unbelief.”   

            In Paris, a wounded city cries for healing.

            Our world is disrupted.

            We need some light to shine in the darkness.

            For the sake of the people of Paris,  O God…

                        …let hope emerge from despair,

                                    …healing come to broken hearts, 

                                                …love rise above hate and violence.

            For the world’s sake, O God, if you do intervene in human affairs,

                        ….now is the time.

                                    …we believe

                                        …help us in our unbelief.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

There once was a very successful man. He had, as Paul Simon put into lyrics, “everything a man could want, power, grace and style.” He lived in a toney suburb of New York, drove a high-end Mercedes and had a beautiful wife and family. On the outside, he was living the dream. But as it has been said, “A roller coast looks flat from a distance.” The man was profoundly troubled and confused. He had achieved more than he ever thought he could. He had exceeded his wildest expectations, so why did he feel miserable? At night when he went to bed and engaged in a quiet and honest moment, he would ask himself, “Is this all there is? Is this what my life is all about?”  Sleep evaded him.

As the years passed, nothing changed. His confusion deepened. He went to psychiatrists who prescribed medication and, when that didn’t help, he sought refuge in alcohol. He lived a double life. He was one thing on the outside and something completely different on the inside.

One night while traveling on business, he finished his day’s work, changed into jeans and a T-shirt and headed for the nearest bar. He sat down on a bar stool and hammered down a few martinis as he engaged in a meaningless conversation with a guy sitting next to him. Then, nature called and he went to the men’s room. The bar was not exactly high class. This was evidenced by the fact that the mirror over the bathroom sink was not made of glass, but of poorly polished metal. A muddled reflection in that mirror, however, stopped him in his tracks. He saw a man who was bloated and red-faced, a man he didn’t recognize. He looked again and was shocked when he realized that HE was the man staring back at him from the mirror. At that moment, he passionately hated himself. He wanted to die. After looking at himself in the mirror for a few more minutes, he said to the man in the mirror, “Who are you? I don’t know you.” Then, he went back to the bar, paid his bill and returned to his hotel room.

He went to bed, but this time in that quiet moment prior to drifting off to sleep, he had a hint as to the answer to his previous question: “Is this all there is?” He knew there must be something more, but what? With an unconfused determination, he “sort of” prayed: “My God! I don’t know who I am anymore, but for God’s sake help me to find ME.”

In the silence that followed his “sort of” prayer, a voice whispered to his soul, “You are mine.”

In the words of an ancient song-singer, those three words became “ a lamp unto his feet and a light unto his path.”

From one reflection in a mirror and three whispered words, the man saw and perceived, heard and understood. His confusion gave birth to peace.

And…he slept.