We meet some very interesting people as we move along our way. For me, none was more interesting than Lew Platt. I first met Lew at the home of his father in New Hartford, New York. Lew had flown in from the “left” coast to visit his Dad who was dying of cancer. A few weeks later, Lew called and asked me to visit his Dad again, I immediately went to see him and continued to do so on a regular basis.

One day when I arrived, Lew answered the door. His Dad was sleeping so we sat down in the living room and talked. I asked him what he did for a living. I was surprised when he disclosed that he was Chairman of the Board and CEO of Hewlett Packard, one of the largest corporations in the world. We talked at length about the challenges of our professions. As I left, we agreed to keep in touch.

A few weeks later, Lew’s Dad died. We held his funeral at my church. Lew spoke eloquently and lovingly about his father and made the point that “all the money in the world” could not buy the love that he received from his Dad. It was very touching. After the funeral was over, we parted company agreeing, once again, to keep in touch.

About a year later, I took a new job running a workforce development program in Upstate New York. I was asked to serve on a committee that was planning an economic development conference for our community. We needed a keynote speaker. I suggested Lew. Nobody believed that I could get the head of Hewlett Packard to come and speak, but one phone call later, Lew readily agreed to come! Everybody was really excited, including me. I looked forward to renewing our friendship

Lew did a great job as our speaker. After he finished, however, a cranky guy stood up and complained, “I am a stockholder. Can you tell me why you spend so damn much money on R&D? I think you should return some of that money to the shareholders.” Lew’s answer was brief and to the point, “We spend money on R&D so that we don’t fall behind technologically. If we miss the technology curve, we will be out of business in less than a year.”

There are two ways to go bankrupt in a hurry. One, as Lew Platt suggested, is to miss the technology curve. The other is to forget who you are and why you exist. It saddens me to report that most religion is failing on both counts. Many religions are withering away because they have missed the technology curve. They are out of touch with real life and in danger of becoming obsolete. The only headlines that many religions generate today are negative ones: headlines that highlight a nasty judgmental streak and, even worse, headlines that tell of beheadings and violence in the name of God. Too many religions also cling to a fatal flaw that essentially renders them pointless. They have lost their heart. To believe in the Divine is fundamentally a matter of the heart. Religion must never be reduced to a bunch of heartless, judgmental rules and regulations. As it was said to me long ago, “You can’t go wrong, if you lead with your heart.”

As to my own Christian religion, I believe our founder would be appalled at what we have become. He would indict us on the charge of 1st degree heartlessness. What Jesus taught can be reduced to a trinity of ideas rooted in the heart. First, we should love God and love one another. Second, a religion neither has exclusive access to God, nor does God pick one person over another or love one person more than another. There is equality in the Divine love. Sam Davis wrote: “We are chosen. Now and always, whoever we are, whatever we are like and wherever we go. We are not chosen instead of someone else or in front of someone else…and not chosen because we are better or stronger or wiser. We are simply CHOSEN, period.” Third, true religion requires us to be deeply disturbed by human need. We must never keep our hearts to ourselves. Our hearts are designed to be given away.

A religion with heart never withers or fades. Those who embrace such a religion will bloom and grow into the people God hopes for them to be: a people who love and do good, a people who “judge not” and a people who are disturbed enough by human need to try to do something about it. A religion with heart will never become irrelevant as long as those who embrace it always, ALWAYS, lead with their hearts. After all, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?

On good old Cape Cod, the artic blasts of snow and cold over the past month take me back to a different time and place. Since I am definitely not a fan of winter, that part of that “different time and place” I had hoped would remain out of sight and out of mind (Forever!), but another part continues to warm my soul. Welcome to “O Little Town of Harrisville!”

Winds driving across Lake Ontario give birth to lake effect snow. That does not sound too bad unless you have experienced it. When bands of lake effect snow set up and blow east, Tug Hill and the villages and towns on and around it are often blessed with a foot of snowfall, sometimes for several days in a row. Season snowfall totals on Tug Hill average nearly 17 feet a year. Harrisville is located on the edge of Tug Hill.

On a warm summer’s day in 1988, my boss called and said, “The Grand Poobah has in mind appointing you as pastor of our church in Harrisville.”

“Where on God’s earth is Harrisville?” I asked.

With a hint of uncertainty in his voice, he replied, “North of Syracuse and east of Watertown.”

I grabbed an atlas. It did not show a Harrisville in New York. With no Google Maps available back then, I went to my car and found a neatly folded, Exxon-produced map of New York. I located Harrisville, 40 miles east of Watertown and 80 miles west of Saranac Lake, on NY Route 3. My heart sank. “What did I do wrong? Why was the Grand Poobah exiling me to Harrisville?”

It got worse.

A couple of days later, I loaded my family in the car and took off on a reconnaissance mission. It was 173 miles from home to Harrisville. After driving for an eternity, we saw a sign that announced “Harrisville.” We drove for another minute, maybe two, before seeing a second sign that read “Pitcairn.” What? Did we miss the turn? We reversed course and drove a bit more slowly, looking for signs of life. Eureka! Just before we crossed a small bridge over the Oswegatchie River, we spotted downtown Harrisville on our left. We made a quick turn onto the main drag and drove past a restaurant, a bar, a gas station, a small store, a bank, a post office, a bakery and a pharmacy. After some additional scouring of Harrisville’s “suburbs,” we found the school, (Grades K-12 all in one building), a couple of churches, a fire station, a bowling alley and a cemetery. That was it.

As we drove home in silence, I thought, “I have got to find a way to get out of this.” But I couldn’t. The Grand Poobah would not be moved. Harrisville was my new church and home. Get over it.

We moved about a month later. Immediately, some strange things happened. I went to the Post Office to sign up for a mailbox. The clerk said, “Welcome to Harrisville, Reverend, we are glad you are here.” The same thing happened at the bank and at the gas station when I stopped to fill up my car. How did they know that I was a Reverend? I did not tell them. My family had the same experience. People knew them, even before they were introduced. It was weird, almost spooky.

There is, however, more to the story. Not only did the good people of Harrisville know and welcome us, but they also gave us the benefit of the doubt. They decided to like and trust us. Their “like and trust” was a gift. It was only ours to lose.

My first Sunday at church, there was not hint of skepticism about the new pastor. They embraced me as if I was one of their kids returning home from college. My children had playmates before the end of the morning and a gaggle of women warmly welcomed my wife. They, without conditions, loved us. The feeling was mutual. Within 24 hours, I fell in love with the good people of Harrisville.

Despite living there less than three years, it has proven to be a lasting love affair. I still get a warm feeling in my heart when I think about gentle Fred and barber Hal or when I get an email from church secretary Marion or follow the Atkinson Family Bluegrass Band on Facebook. I will never forget how they gave a rookie pastor the benefit of the doubt. Their love and acceptance made 17 feet of snow a year acceptable. Even in the long, dark days of winter, they made me feel as if life was a perpetual spring.

We live in such a skeptical world today. Security threats and ID theft make us nervous. Better not to trust anyone. Security rests in being suspect. NEVER give ANYBODY the benefit of the doubt. This may be necessary with regard to conducting our business on the web, but it need not be true with regard to those who live near and around us. The truth is that the vast majority of people who walk this earth are good people. They deserve and need to be given the benefit the doubt. Yes, we may get burned once in a while, but more often than not, when we give the benefit of the doubt, it ignites a spark of love.

That’s the truth, a Divine truth.

John E. Holt, Cotuit, Massachusetts

From the instant I met Jay, I had a wide-eyed crush on her. I was, to quote the famous line from Walt Disney’s Jungle Book, “hooked.” Too bad Jay did not feel the same way. She humored me for a couple of months before informing me, somewhat gently, that I was NOT the man of her dreams. I found out a couple of days later that a dope-smoking, beer-swilling, backstabbing frat brother of mine had swept her off her feet. I only had myself to blame. I introduced Jay to him at a party. How was I supposed to know that Judas-of-a-fraternity-brother would find a way to steal her away from me? But…he did. It took a few consultations with my pastor, before I even considered forgiving him. The good Reverend told me that I had to love and forgive him, but that it was also acceptable to God to hate what he did. I was OK with latter part of the pastor’s equation, but it took a long time to embrace the former.

Despite Jay’s obvious poor taste in men, she was a very devout Christian. I was, at the time, in the throes of a rebellion against the rigid, judgmental Christianity of my youth. That brand of religion judged me to be a dirty rotten sinner. Since I refused to spend the rest of my life groveling before God, eternally begging for forgiveness, I decided I may as well “sin boldy.” After all, sinning was much more fun. Feeling the way I did, there was not an ounce of desire in my soul to go to church, but Jay wanted me to go and, wherever Jay wanted me to go, I went.

We attended the Presbyterian Church on the edge of campus faithfully each Sunday. On the inside, I was cursing the preacher and his God, while on the outside I appeared angelic and devout. One thing I did enjoy, however, was singing. The music in that church was amazing. The organist would pull out the stops on the pipe organ and Jay and I would sing our hearts out. The only problem was that Jay could not sing. She was so off-key that the people standing near us cringed.

One Sunday, the service ended with the singing of the oldie-but-goodie, “How Great Thou Art”. Not too many folks have the pipes to hit the high note on the refrain’s last “How GREAT Thou Art!” Jay, however, zestfully attacked it. Her voice fell far short of the high note, somewhere between bad and “badder,” and finally slivered down to rest on a note that wreaked havoc on any eardrum within a five-pew radius. As the organ moved on to the final verse, I leaned over to Jay and whispered with as much kindness as I could muster, “Jay, you might want to sing a little more softly.”

Jay, without hesitation, responded sharply, “God created my voice and He’ll have to listen to it.”

Poor God did have to listen Jay, but, unfairly, so did I and so did those seated within earshot of us. Her futile attempt to hit that note certainly put a negative spin on the Psalmist’s encouragement to “make a joyful noise unto the Lord.”

Now let me do an about face. Every time I see a picture of Kayla Mueller, I get so angry I can’t see straight. Several months ago, ISIS abducted Kayla, a beautiful young woman who was giving her life to help alleviate human suffering. Last week, she died, perhaps murdered, by those despicable and evil monsters. Every time I feel her eyes staring at me from the photograph her parents released of her, I let God have it. It’s really ugly what I have to say to God. Some of what I scream is not respectful of the one who is “how great Thou art”, but rather I state emphatically “how wrong God art!” With epithets I learned working in the steel mill as a kid, I give God an earful: “What the (expletive deleted) are you doing up there? Why are you fiddling while the world burns?”

I suppose if you were seated next to me while I was shouting my angry “noise” at God, you might lean over and whisper gently, “PJ, you might want to speak to God a little more softly.”  

To which I respond, “God created me with these feelings, so God will just have to listen to me. This has to stop. No more Kaylas! This **** has gone on too damn long. Stop it God! I can’t take it. Stop it NOW.”

Maybe I’ll sing “How Great Thou Art” again, but not until I don’t have to stare into the eyes of murdered innocence. As long as I do, God will have to listen to me. God will just have to listen to my angry noise.

 

 

The secretary announced his arrival: “P.J., there is somebody here to see you.”

“Who is it?” I asked.

There was no response, but a moment later, the secretary stuck her head in the door and whispered, “Don’t know him, but he says he needs to speak with you. Says it’s urgent.”

I did not have a good feeling. Times were tough and the church had a steady stream of “customers” looking for help. There is nothing wrong with helping folks. Lord knows I want to help if I can, but how do I know if a person’s needs are legitimate? If I give somebody money, how will they spend it? On alcohol? Rent? Drugs? Food? Because I have no way of knowing, I usually offer a bag of food or refer the person to a local agency who has the expertise to evaluate the need and the resources to help if the need is real. Nevertheless, it is always a tough call. For those of us in the “church business,” our top guy’s challenging words haunt us: “I was hungry and you gave me nothing to eat. I was thirsty and you gave me nothing to drink.” Therefore, for me to say “no” to anybody in need makes me feel like a big, old hypocrite.

“Send him in,” I said.

The man entered my office. He was well dressed and soft-spoken. “Hello Father, how are you?” He said.

That ruled out that he was a Methodist.

“I’m fine. Thanks for asking. What can I do for you?”

“Father,” he said, “I am trying to get home. Can you lend me 10 bucks for a bus ticket?”

I replied, “We really don’t have money for such things. Have you tried Crossroads?”

“Yes,” he said, “but they said they couldn’t help me. They offered me some food, but food is not what I need. I must get home. My wife is in the hospital and needs my help.”

I believed him. I don’t know why I believed him. I just did. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my wallet and gave him 10 bucks. “Here you go. Good luck. I hope your wife feels better.”

Tears came to his eyes. “Thanks, Father, I’ll pay you back.”

“I doubt it!” I thought. I always hear, “I’ll pay you back,” but I could not remember ever being repaid when I lent money to somebody who came in off the street. (It has happened one time since, but that is a story for another day.)  They always took the money and ran.

“Don’t worry about it,” I said as he headed for the door.

“I DO worry about it,” he replied as he exited.

I got back to work and very quickly forgot about that man.

Several months later, my secretary stuck her head in the door and said quietly, “There is a man here to see you. He has been here before.”

I got up from my desk and went out into the main office. It was easier to say “no” if I was not cornered in my office. The man was waiting for me.  He said. “Hi, Father, I want to repay my loan.”

I was stunned. I invited him into my office. He sat down in the chair next to my desk. He reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a manila envelope, opened it and proceeded to count out 10 silver dollars. I picked one up. I forget the date on it, but I knew enough about coin collecting to know that one of those coins was probably worth $50 or more. “Is this your coin collection?” I asked.

“Yes it is. My wife’s medical care has left us broke. We don’t have insurance, but I didn’t want to wait any longer to pay you back. Somebody else might need some help.”

I did not know what to do. I did not want to take his coin collection, but I also knew that it was a matter of pride for that man to pay me back. I thought for a moment and then took one of the coins and pushed the other nine back toward him.

“What’s your name?” I asked.

“George,” he replied.

“George,” I said, “you know and I know that this coin alone is worth more than the 10 bucks I lent you. Take the rest of them home or, if you wish, sell them for what they are worth to help pay for your wife’s care. I am going to keep this one in my desk drawer and, when times get better for you, c’mon back and I’ll trade your silver dollar coin for a $10 bill. Does that work for you?”

He thought for a moment. “That works,” he said. “Thanks.”

We shook hands and he left.

Months later, George made one final appearance. He came into my office, pulled out his wallet and gave me $10. I opened my desk drawer and gave him his silver dollar. “Glad things are better for you,” I said.

“Me, too,” he replied. We shared a smile. Nothing more needed to be said.

The guy from Nazareth didn’t say it, but he should have. Jesus should have said, “Don’t judge a book by its cover.” I learned that lesson the day George walked into my office to repay his loan. Everybody has his or her own “cover.” Everybody has his or her own unique story.

George sure did.

I do, too.

And…so do you!

 

John E. Holt, Cotuit, MA

 

 

 

 

 

 

The “winter-cane” was upon us. The wind, howling at over 40 miles per hour with gusts up to 80 miles per hour, rattled the windows of our house. It blew the snow sideways. When the persistent, slow moving storm finally moved out to sea, we were left with 2-1/2 feet of snow and drifts that exceeded 5 feet in height. It took a Bobcat to shovel us out. And yet, it was also beautiful. It turned our heavily wooded acre of land into a winter wonderland. It was so peaceful. So quiet.  

In this little corner of God’s earth, the weather is a hot topic of conversation. Flip on the 6 o’clock news and keep track of how much time is devoted to hysterical weather people hyping the latest forecast. All the really important news of the day plays second fiddle to it. 

We can get ready for a blizzard, but we cannot stop it from dumping snow upon us. On Cape Cod, our lack of control of Mother Nature is complicated by our inability to forecast her whims. If there is the slightest shift in the direction of the winds blowing off the water, meteorologists tell us that the weather can change quickly. The Atlantic Ocean and Nantucket Sound certainly qualify as a major body of water. Therefore, Cape Codders should probably only worry about the weather one day at a time.

And yet, after the end of football season, what else do we have to fret about? For those who love winter (Not me!!!) and cannot wait to get out onto the ski slopes, obsessing over snow fall totals is a fulfilling way to occupy some time. Those who don’t like the cold season can study the long-range forecasts in search for evidence of an early spring. Both are a waste of time, but in my mind, during the dark days of winter, time is a wonderful thing to waste.

Which brings me back to last week’s “winter-cane.” There is no question that the Cape was impacted by a very nasty storm. Within a couple of days, however, the streets were plowed and life returned to normal. The over-hyped, “blizzard-like-no-other” turned out to be a “snow-storm-just-like many others.”

Immediately after the winter-cane, I began tracking the next major storm. It arrived today. The forecast started at 8-12” of snow and then declined from 4-8” to 2-4” to 1-2”. The reality, however, is that it is raining! A slushy mix of ice and snow layers the streets and dark puddles hide tire-shredding potholes. It’s lovely! Schools are closed, but I am at work. There is no rest for the wicked.

Today’s stinky weather caused me to think back to last week. I’ll take the light and fluffy 2-1/2 feet of snow over today’s mix of ice and rain, but even more, I’ll gladly take two more snow days so my world can come to an abrupt halt. I need to hit my “pause” button. Last week, there was nothing to do, but to spend some time with myself. I re-introduced myself to ME. I don’t always like ME. I am often too harsh a judge of ME, but last week I made a decision to like ME!

The greatest gift from the Divine One is that ME is loved with a love that will not let ME go. If God thinks ME is OK, ME must be OK, don’t you think? And, obviously, if God likes ME, God must like YOU too! Even if it arrives via a “winter-cane,” we could all use another day of peace and quiet to remind ourselves to like ME, which may be as good a reason as any to continue to waste a little time checking the long-range forecast.

John Holt, February, 2015

 

 

After a morning of fretting, the big news arrived via text message just after 11:30 AM. My first grandchild, Samantha Leah, was delivered safely into our world. Mom and baby were doing well! This text was followed shortly thereafter by another text that included the first picture of Sammy. As Grandma Kadi celebrated and my office staff came rushing in to offer their congratulations, Grandpa John’s heart was so full of joy that it suppressed me into my chair. Never one to be at a loss for words, I was left speechless as tears filled my eyes and began to leak onto my cheeks. There simply are no words to describe how I felt at that moment. How do you wrap words around feelings that transcend love?

The next couple of days were a blur as more pictures of Samantha arrived and we packed to take off for Washington DC. On Saturday, I had to run several errands. I am not at all ashamed to say that, at every stop, I somehow finagled a way to show off my Grandbaby’s picture to the store clerks. Most were more than willing to indulge me. They were very nice to agree wholeheartedly with me that Sammy was A-D-O-R-A-B-L-E! The guy at the hardware store was the only exception. After I dropped a bunch of stuff on the checkout counter, I brazenly asked (demanded), “Would you like to see a picture of my new granddaughter?”

He gave me a look that clearly said, “I could care less.”

Sensing his disgusting indifference to my precious bundle of joy, I looked him dead straight in the eye and said, “Do you want my business or don’t you?”

I think he would have told me to stuff my $15.33 purchase, except that the boss waltzed by, so the clerk replied in a voice dripping with a false sincerity, “I would love to see your grandchild.”

I made him look at 10 pictures just to teach him a lesson.

Upon arrival at my daughter and son-in-law’s house on Monday, I held Sammy in my arms for the very first time. Grandma Kadi caught the moment on her cell phone camera. It is now my favorite picture of all time. I am cradling Samantha in my arms with my daughter smiling in the background. Once again, I was rendered speechless. Once again, my feelings were soaring someplace beyond love.

Now I told you all that, so I could tell you this: Just before leaving for DC, I had a conversation with a good friend of mine. I said to her, “Put God or any sense of a Divine Being aside for a minute and think about the miracle of birth. How is that a baby develops in the womb for 9 months and then, in a matter of minutes, emerges as a living, breathing human being? And…how is it that the instant that baby is born, we fall instantly in love with that precious child? It’s just incredible. It’s awesome.”

The woman looked at me and replied, “That is God to me.”

She is right. I can’t put God aside on this one.

I am speechless.

Johannesburg, South Africa 2009: I was thrilled when we arrived in that city, especially since one of my heroes was and is Nelson Mandela. In many ways, he was more a hero to me than Martin Luther King Jr. I was in my early teens when Dr. King and the Civil Rights movement played out in the newspapers and on TV. During most of those years, Mandela was locked away in the Robben Island Prison and the movement to end South African Apartheid was viciously suppressed. I was, however, in my prime when, in the 1980’s, a worldwide movement against Apartheid gained steam. How exciting and exhilarating it was when Mandela was released from prison and, within a few years, elected President of South Africa! It was, and always will be, one of the great moments of history.

Before we left on our trip, I read Mandela’s inspiring book The Long Road to Freedom. His book led me to believe that it was a whole new world in South Africa. I could not wait to get to Johannesburg and see for myself the fruits of Mandela’s labors.

We arrived quite late at night. It was a starless night so there was not too much visible as the taxi took us from the airport to our hotel. The next morning we rented a cab to take a quick tour of the city. Everywhere we went, there were pictures of Nelson Mandela displayed on bulletin boards or hanging on buildings. Clearly, he was a national icon, but I also noticed that the city was in lock-down. There was barbed wire, security cameras and police cruisers everywhere. The windows and doors of homes and businesses had bars on them, which made them appear as if they were jails. It was a bit nerve wracking. I did not feel safe.

We returned to our hotel for lunch. I struck up a conversation with our server. I found out from him that there was great unrest in the city. Too many Black South Africans were mired in poverty. The server, although polite and careful with his words, suggested that the Apartheid caste system was still firmly in place. The lack of opportunity to climb out of poverty and the fact that economic power was still held firmly in the hands of the White South Africans resulted in frustration, crime and violence. Mandela’s “long road to freedom” had a long way to go. Mandela’s dream and the dreams of the Black South Africans were still very much a work in progress and, in the minds of many, that progress had slowed to a crawl.

Great people, like Nelson Mandela, dream big dreams. The ancient Prophet Isaiah dreamed of a “peaceable kingdom”, a world in which….

     The wolf shall live with the lamb,

                     the leopard shall lie down with the kid,

                     the calf and the lion and the fatling together.

                     and a little child shall lead them.

     The cow and the bear shall graze,

                     their young shall lie down together;

                     and the lion shall eat straw like an ox.

War and exile, however, proved Isaiah’s dream of a peaceable kingdom to be a non-starter.

            During Jesus’ lifetime, many Israelis who longed for freedom from Roman oppression embraced him when he re-invigorated Isaiah’s dream by proclaiming: “The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to set the oppressed free, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.” Then, Jesus concluded by saying, “Today, this scripture is fulfilled in your hearing.” Sadly, most of those who followed Jesus watched him and their dream for freedom die on a Roman cross. They must have asked, “Saviors don’t die on crosses, do they?”

            As we draw closer to the day that has been set aside to remember the life and times of Martin Luther King Jr., we will, once again, hear a lot of chatter about his dreams, one of which he cast in his famous speech from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial: “And so even though we face the difficulties of today and tomorrow, I still have a dream. It is a dream deeply rooted in the American dream. I have a dream that one day this nation will rise up and live out the true meaning of its creed: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal.” And yet, even the most optimistic of those who listened to Dr. King that day often found his dream for equality frustratingly illusive.

            In our times, the unimaginable atrocities committed by ISIS in the Middle East and the terrorist attack in Paris last week, certainly put to rest any idea that our world resembles Isaiah’s peaceable kingdom. The people of North Korea or Syria might have trouble buying Jesus’ dream of the oppressed going free. No matter what your opinion of the shooting of a young black man in Ferguson, Missouri and the subsequent refusal of a grand jury to bring charges against the police officer who fired the shots, that tragedy calls into question the fulfillment of Dr. King’s dream. Is the dream of equality that is “deeply rooted in the American dream” reserved only for some and not for others? Is equal justice under the law a figment of our imagination? Progress toward the achievement of too many great dreams must be graded as “incomplete”. Sometimes it even feels as if we are “progressing” backwards.

            Just because too many big dreams remain unfulfilled, however, does not mean that we should stop dreaming them or give up trying to achieve them. Dreams do not have a life of their own. They will only be fulfilled if it is “within our hearts” to work toward achieving them. Dr. King wrote in his Letter from Birmingham Jail: “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.” Is it within our hearts to become co-workers with God in working to achieve the American dream of liberty and justice for all?

            We cannot ignore big dreams in the hope that they will go away or delude ourselves into believing that it is somebody else’s job to achieve them. Big hearts achieve big dreams. If it is within our hearts to achieve our dreams, human progress is inevitable. Our dreams can come true, but only if we embrace King’s challenge, that as “co-workers with God”, the “time is ripe to do right.”

 

           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.