A Celtic Prayer

Deep peace of the
running waves to you.

Deep peace of the
flowing air to you.

Deep peace of the
quiet earth to you.

Deep peace of the
shining stars to you.

Deep peace of the
Son of Peace to you.

a Celtic prayer

This Truth with a Face

This truth with a face cannot be settled,
So it should let me be.
Yet I cannot stop its intrusion,
Even through worthy distraction.
I read, I write, I repeat the same,
I look at its face,
But the details make no sense.
This is clear, but then it’s not.
I see that, but then I don’t.
I hear it, but apparently I’m deaf.
Hokus-Pokus, sleight of hand.
Under which shell lies the prize?
This chameleon truth confounds me.
It smiles, it cajoles, it touches my hand,
Breaks bread with me and shares my bed.
It embraces me, then stuns me.
It wakes me in the night,
Leaving me defenseless.
This truth stands me before silent doors,
Day and Night it shakes my resolve,
Forces me to choose over and over.
It pulls me, pushes me, calls Time Out.
I record it, read and re-read it, I sigh.
It takes my breath away.
No, I cannot reconcile this truth with a face,
I must grow cold to it.

This Truth with a Face—Normangee, Texas (December 7, 2005)
R. Harold Hollis

The Projects

The first time I really saw the projects was on a Sunday afternoon drive in 1971 with some friends who wanted to see my school. We had the top down on the car, and I’m sure it must have seemed to the people on their steps and in the yards that we were cruising the area. The result was an occasional obscenity—“Honky! Goddamned (muffled)!” After a few blocks of this, we realized we had made a mistake and quickly left. This was the only time I drove through the interior of the projects. Before and after this my route was straight to and from school on the main streets.

Surely there were four seasons in the projects. What I actually recall though is the heat, and the stench that occasionally rose from the nearby Trinity River. The main artery leading to this area is lined with minor service stations and drive-in groceries on one side and a large playground and housing on the other side. Crossing the river is the beginning of a life generally unknown by so-called white mainstream. Frankly, African-Americans who have grown up as part of the socio-economic mainstream probably know little about the proverbial other side of the river.

The streets and yards in the projects are strewn with the waste and castoffs of its residents. The litter problem was the target of a letter writing contest we held at our school. Each contestant was to write to the city councilman for that area to get something done about the overflowing trash containers and what seemed like negligence of the sanitation department. Actually, the problem is the lack of effort from both the residents and the city. While the city maintains that the residents don’t care about solving the problem, the residents claim that they can’t solve the problem because the city has inadequate trash pickup. The result is that nothing really gets done. One of my students asked me in jest once, “Mister Hollin, does you have rats at yo’ house?” In disbelief I replied, “No!” He then quipped that the rats were so bad in the projects that sometimes when he came home “the rats be sittin’ on the kitchen table shootin’ craps.”

The appearance of the projects is only a manifestation of what actually exists in the area. Our elderly Black principal told me sadly one day that he had seen many changes in the projects during his ten years at the school. There had been a time when he felt safe walking among the blocks. But no longer. Many of the young adults resent what the school represents, and just as easily as they can rip off fans from a locked school building, they can verbally abuse a graying “Uncle Tom” who is pretentious enough to think that he can walk their streets.

The police have little success controlling the crime in the projects because the residents won’t cooperate in answering questions. Robbery, rape, and even murder, are accepted as part of life’s transience. Partially out of fear, partially of a grim fatalism, the residents are victimized by their own.

One of my saddest awakenings during a year teaching in the projects came in the winter. I had been out one day with a cold. The next morning I was in a neighboring teacher’s classroom before school started when one of my students came in and said matter of fact, “Mr. Hollin, that girl, she dead.” “What?” I asked. “That girl, someone shot her last night,” he replied. “Who? I don’t understand what you’re talking about,” I asked. Again, he explained, “Betty Anderson, someone killed her last night.” I was horrified, sick to my stomach. It seemed I would cry, but the hurt was not personal enough.

Betty Anderson had not made a vivid impression on me. Unlike many of the others, she was not loud. She was a good student. Probably she had not been challenged by the work in my class because I struggled to keep enough activities planned for the wide range of students we all had in our classes. I’m sure Betty was bright, and the thought that she had been killed by an intruder in her home made me bitter and angry. The local morning paper had a practice of listing rewards for aid in solving several murders on the books. I watched the papers for months, but I never saw Betty Anderson’s name on the list.

The Projects—Dallas, Texas (1971)
R. Harold Hollis

Granny Lady

A couple of days ago I drove over to East Texas to visit a friend who lives just over an hour away, someone not quite old enough to be my mother, a friend with whom I keep irregular communications, a friend with whom I share great conversations, bread, and wine. Each time we visit, usually in her East Texas home, I remember that here lives treasure…friendship adorned with intelligence, honesty, compassion, and humor. Honesty, yes, for my friend Jane knows much about my family, especially the journey we have traveled for several years, a journey in which our mother’s failing health rode in the seat of honor, a journey that ended officially a year ago. During this time, Jane offered me good counsel. Our friendship goes back much farther than that, though, beginning a couple of years after Jane’s husband, who was 13 years older than she, had died of cancer.

Over these 20 years I’ve met Jane’s four children, but only one of her eight grandchildren, all but one of whom are now grown. This family is made up of interesting people, many interesting stories, and some heartache for sure. I want to remember what Jane told me yesterday about how she and her husband Cliff approached rearing their children. Though I can’t do justice to Cliff’s words, the principles were straightforward. This bunch of four individuals were nurtured and allowed to grow. Jane has been there for them, continues to be there for them, and they have reciprocated. She doesn’t live near any of her children, who are spread from Austin, Texas, practically to Oklahoma, and to the Smokies of North Carolina and northwestern Virginia. Jane tried living near one daughter for five years awhile back, but as it turned out, she missed her adopted East Texas, where she had formed strong friendships after Cliff died.

I know only a little about Jane’s birth family and her roots in southwest Louisiana. There’s some French blood there, and even after spending most of her adult years in Texas, there is a lovely touch of Cajun Louisiana in Jane’s dialect. This heritage comes out in some of her cooking as well. Jane is the youngest of four children—two males and two females—three of whom survive. They are bound by the strong ties typical of southern families. Jane’s sister and her husband must have some serious music genes flowing in their veins because several of the Michot boys/men make music for real and for money, even though most of them have other professional lives as well. When these guys show up to play at a well-regarded venue in Jane’s East Texas town, it’s "Laissez Les Bon Temps Roulez" over at Jane’s house. While I haven’t been there for any of these get-togethers, I understand that the food, wine and good times do indeed roll. Times are bittersweet, though, because both Jane’s older brother and sister, the mother of all these mugicians, have significant health problems.

I missed Jane’s 80th birthday celebration last October. Yesterday was the first opportunity we’ve had for her to tell me about this great celebration, the music, food, flowers, even a documentary produced by her oldest granddaughter, Sarah. Granny Lady is what the grandkids call her. While I don’t get the chance to talk to any of Jane’s offspring, I know that they all know Granny Lady is one fine example of this truth—in life, we are surrounded by goodness. Her children and grandchildren know it, her birth family knows it, and the many folks God has gifted with Jane’s friendship know it.

I was reminded of this yesterday as Jane and I sat talking with a friend. They were recounting the unwarranted rudeness someone who knows Jane well had directed to her earlier in the week. They were much closer to the situation than I, but as I nodded my head in a mixture of understanding and puzzlement, Jane did a very Jane thing. She smiled in resolve, letting her heart and her faith speak for her. Grudges have no room in her heart, and as she offered an explanation, I leaned down, looked her in the eye, and reminded her that she is gracious. Generosity of spirit—that is Jane.

Granny Lady—Normangee, Texas (February 9, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis

River Experience

This is the way I remember it. The year was 1975. The starting point was Austin, Texas. The destination was a tube ride down the Guadalupe River at Gruene, near New Braunfels. Only one of the four of us had tubed the river before, and I can speak only for myself—I hadn’t had any conversations with someone who had warned of danger. We were blissfully ignorant that sunny, cool early spring day as we set out in oversized inner tubes attached to plywood, none of us wearing life vests.

Pretty quickly we encountered small rapids that bounced us easily past them, buoying our spirits. We laughed and joked. It’s been a long time since that day. I guess we had at least a little retrieve of fairly calm water, maybe even another tease where the water bumped us along. There had been a lot of rain. Soon, the scene changed. It happened so quickly that all I could register was white fright as I saw myself quickly approaching rapids that I knew, even in my non-experience, were dangerous. Quickly I was pulled into the vortex, and before I knew it, my tube had flipped, and I was under it, swallowing water so fast as to take away my breath. I was being hammered, held captive, working against myself. A poor, inexperienced swimmer to begin with—although that might not have made a difference—I struggled to keep my head above water.

Suddenly I was free of the tube, shooting down the river and still taking in water. I had no doubt that I would die. The thought that raced through my mind—“we wonder how our end will come, and this is my end”. I gave into it. Almost as quickly the water calmed, although I continued to be carried rapidly on my back. I tried to catch hold of limbs hanging over the river, but all I accomplished was to strip leaves from the branches. Now I wasn’t ready to give up. Suddenly, the waters became peaceful, and I was able to make my way to the bank. I reached for a limb that held and struggled out of the water. When I tried to stand, my legs simply would have none of it. Somehow, my friends were there, but on both sides of the river. Someone helped me up. There was much laughter as they recounted the experience with the rapids. One of the friends, who was visiting from Ft. Worth, lost his spectacles, on which he counted for everything. All I could think about was how close I had come to death.

I was changed forever that day. I don’t remember my experience being any big deal to anyone. Later I did tell my parents, who lived northwest of Houston. My mother was a born worrier, but I don’t remember anything exceptional about her response. I’ve recounted that experience on the Guadalupe a few times over the years. Shortly after it happened, our group of innocents discovered that the river was particularly treacherous that day, according to experts, and we also learned that drownings on the river were not unheard of. The last time I told about my experience I was participating in team training for Episcopal Cursillo. We had been asked to tell about an experience where we had felt especially close to Christ. My day on the Guadalupe came to mind, but not because I knew that day that Christ was watching over me. What I did know and accept was the reality that I would die, that I might be aware of it as I was dying, and that I would accept it peacefully. I knew God that day on the river, and I felt safe.

River Experience—Normangee, Texas (February 7, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis

Don't Fence Me Out

As we sat in the darkened room last Thursday evening, out of the corner of my eye I saw the friend sitting to my right remove his glasses and draw his sleeved forearm across his eyes. Earlier I had heard him make that sound we make when we work at trying to hold back our tears. Across the aisle, a young woman quietly dabbed just below where her spectacles struck her face. Earlier in the evening I had noticed her and her companion. They seemed very comfortable in a room filled mostly with undergrad gay men and lesbians. A few of us were older, a few of us even older, old enough even to be the grandparents of these undergrads. We were just about to finish watching the documentary, For the Bible Tells Me So, which strives to capture some of the agony and the ecstasy of gay and lesbian individuals and their families.

Who are we people of the other sexuality that supposedly have been marked for separation, and according to some who claim to understand Holy Scripture, for eternal damnation? For some time now, the politically correct terminology for the group of people who comprise the “other sexuality” has been GLBT—gay, lesbian, bi-sexual, transgender. So I guess that’s what I am. I don’t know that any John or Jane Q. off the street would recognize me as such, although I don’t really go out of my way to blend in. We can’t necessarily be held separate, discriminated against, or punished somehow based on different skin color or tone or shape of eye. Of course, at times all of these factors coincide. I guess that’s what you call a double whammy. I’m just a guy who at 64 has never been married to a woman. I’ve never defined myself based on my sexual orientation. I am a person, I am a male, I am by God’s own hand attracted to men, and I am a person of faith. I have taken my stand in the Church. I am bona fide.

On the lighter side, I don’t want to wear women’s clothes, although my spirit soars when I hear Jerry Herman’s lyrics to “I Am What I Am”, the anthem of La Cage Aux Folles.—“Life's not worth a damn 'til you can say, hey world, I am what I am”. On the serious side, which is the purpose of the documentary, the concern is the life and lives of males and females, adolescent and adult, of every stripe and spot. We are talking about the person who finds himself or herself held separate and marked as unworthy because of sexual orientation. And, we are talking about families sometimes torn apart by ignorance and failed love. And, we are talking sometimes about life and death matters. Worst of all, we are talking about ruin that results from the actions of people, who in the case of Christian folk, claim to be living out the teachings of Christ. Au contraire.

For the Bible Tells Me So takes a close look at several families, including both the birth family and the heterosexual marriage of Gene V. Robinson, the first openly gay bishop in the history of the Anglican church; the family of Senator Richard Gephardt (D-MO), whose daughter faced the truth of her sexuality after an attempt at heterosexual marriage; a Black husband and wife, who share a ministry in the church, and their Ivy League-educated daughter; a young man, raised as a devout Lutheran, who chose to out himself as a teen, ultimately with the support of his mother and father. Perhaps most touching of all is the mother who must tell her story alone because the daughter whose sexuality she rejected took her own life in her early 30s. The documentary brings a message of hope, both for and through these families. In spite of the message of damnation preached from the pulpit, the protests of people who hold up Holy Scripture to justify their placards of hate, and horror of all horrors, those who maim and kill out of ignorance, hope remains.

We, a mostly educated audience, comprised largely of GLBT folk, watched our lives move in frames across the screen. We nodded our heads in understanding, and then shook our heads in understanding. We have walked the walk and talked the talk. Each of us has our own story to tell, our struggle with loving ourselves, our own family story, our own story of school and work and community. Frankly, it doesn’t matter so much that the producers of this documentary used scholars and their scholarship to refute the proof-texting that has characterized the efforts of those who would shut out any child of God. I would like to believe that such scholarship could really make a difference. Scholarship doesn't change hearts, however. Only through faith in the God who made us all, through embracing God's love can hearts change. Hate is institutionalized, and it is individualized in the heart—hearts that for some reason need to judge others. I am the woman at the well, the leper, the tax collector. I am a gay man knocking at the door, one who reaches into his pocket and opens his own door for those in need of a helping hand. I am a child of God who in the middle of the night reminds himself that he is both blessed and a blessing. Only love, indeed the need to love, can change the hearts of those who would fence me out of the kingdom. This is what the Holy Bible tells me.

Don’t Fence Me Out—Normangee, Texas (February 4, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis

Affirming Our Love

In a corner of the plaza outside the Cathedral-Basilica St. Francis in Santa Fe, a bronze depiction of an angel stands near the entrance to the labyrinth. Messages about love are inscribed on the messenger sculpture. One has stayed with me since the first time I walked the labyrinth. “I am not asking to be loved. I want to love.” I must add to this—but I will let you love me, if you want…maybe. Frankly, I find it fairly easy to feel loving toward others in general or someone in particular, and I don’t have a problem with saying, “I love you.” It’s not so easy, though, to let myself be loved. On some level it feels good to be affirmed by someone else’s love for me. There are certainly explanations for my condition. Let’s start with a perceived need to protect myself and a strong resistance to being controlled by others. I suffer issues of distrust and a fear of being disappointed, yet I would say that I have a strong need to please others, or at least not disappoint them. I suffer some fear of real commitment and the expectations that accompany it. To this list I need to add a poorly developed ability to compromise. Maybe my self esteem is at the root of all this. The list could be longer, probably. Maybe all this just adds up to immaturity, and it’s getting a little late for me to change, although I refuse to accept that an old dog can’t learn new tricks. I give thanks for that which reminds me of love, its healing power, knowing that we can all do better in this department.

It is important that love become manifest in our humanity, that it be translated into action—Love alive, inhaling and exhaling. I don’t know who said it, but I remember that somewhere, someone said, “if you can feel, you are healed.” It might have been some dope-smoking rocker from the 70s. If a picture is worth a thousand words—in this instance an image, a sculpture—the artist/creator of the Basilica Angel surely knows something about love. I feel love emanating from this spirit, captured in bronze, now released with great joy. St. Paul, writing in the first century, didn’t do so well by a lot of us, laying the foundation for attitudes fundamentally contrary to love that remain entrenched in the twenty-first century. What better rendering exists, though, concerning the ideal and the reality of love and the weight of its obligation than what he describes in his letter to the church at Corinth?

1 Corinthians 13:1-13

13 If I speak in the tongues of mortals and of angels, but do not have love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. 2 And if I have prophetic powers, and understand all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have all faith, so as to remove mountains, but do not have love, I am nothing. 3 If I give away all my possessions, and if I hand over my body so that I may boast,* but do not have love, I gain nothing.
4 Love is patient; love is kind; love is not envious or boastful or arrogant 5 or rude. It does not insist on its own way; it is not irritable or resentful; 6 it does not rejoice in wrongdoing, but rejoices in the truth. 7 It bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.
8 Love never ends. But as for prophecies, they will come to an end; as for tongues, they will cease; as for knowledge, it will come to an end. 9 For we know only in part, and we prophesy only in part; 10 but when the complete comes, the partial will come to an end. 11 When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways. 12 For now we see in a mirror, dimly,* but then we will see face to face. Now I know only in part; then I will know fully, even as I have been fully known. 13 And now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; and the greatest of these is love.

Affirming Our Love—Normangee, Texas (February 2, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis