My Rabbi

A week ago one of my many rabbis Rev. Dr. Frederick Holmgren died at 97 years of age. He was for decades professor of Biblical Literature at North Park Theological Seminary. He was my Hebrew and Old Testament teacher. I will always remember him as a gentle and happy soul.

I’ll never forget the tense morning of one semester’s final exam. Our bluebooks were ready. Fred entered as always with a smile on his face, settled himself, pulled out a folder with what we feared to be his unanswerable essay question, and then began to pray, something along these lines….”Oh dear God, bless us these students as they write now. They have studied and reflected; give them now freedom from anxiety to write with gratitude about all they have learned of your goodness and love. Amen.” Then taking his paper out of its pocket, he read it to himself silently, giggled a bit as he often did, crunched it into a ball, there it into the corner wastebasket and said, “I want you to write this morning about the God of Bible you have come to know.” And off we went, writing. And off he went, leaving a basket for our finished products.

He diffused the anxiety in the room with grace and humility. He prayed for our comfort and freedom to express ourselves. His test question was not devoid of the need for knowledge but focused on relationship with the Divine, as pietists are prone to do. I have never felt as much as I did that day a teacher being so much “with us” as students.

His life’s work was to connect Hebrew scripture and Jewish faith with New Testament and Christian faith. In many seasons of life he was under fire for this, accused hither and yon from those who saw things differently. Yet he never lost his gentle and soft-spoken witness to the God who cares about us all.

One example, reflecting on the hardest Hebrew text of Abraham and Isaac on Mount Moriah (Genesis 22:1-19): “Nearly every person who reads the narrative concerning Abraham and Isaac gives some thought of the question: How could a father do this to his son? That same question is often at the front of the mind with regard to the death of Christ: Why did God, the Father, do this horrible thing to his Son? However, the New Testament writers present the event in quite another manner. God is not depicted as doing something to Jesus; rather, they see the Father present in the suffering of the Son. Paul’s statement overwhelms the mind but it expresses the experience of the early Christians: ‘God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself.'” He continues, “We are not alone. The Mt. Moriah story, and the narratives that surround it, point the preacher to one of the central themes of the Hebrew Bible: Immanuel — God with us (Exodus 3:11-12, Isaiah 7:14, Psalms 103)…it is this “with us” God of the Hebrew-Jewish tradition who reveals himself in the life and teachings of Jesus(Matthew 2:20-23). The presence of this ‘son’ of Abraham reminds us that God is for us and not against us. He wishes life and future for all of us.” (Glad Hearts, p.325-326)

May his memory be a blessing, and may Fred Holmgren rest in peace and rise in glory.

Peter Hawkinson

Kermit

Christ’s love has the first and last word in everything we do. Our firm decision is to work from this focused center: one man died for everyone. That puts everyone in the same boat. He included everyone in his death so that everyone could also be included in his life, a resurrection life, a far better life than people ever lived on their own. Because of this decision we don’t evaluate people by what they have or how they look. We looked at the Messiah that way once and got it all wrong, as you know. We certainly don’t look at him that way anymore. Now we look inside….. (2 Corinthians 5, The Message)

We were on our usual rush home from Philadelphia, on the Saturday after thanksgiving. For a decade or so, while Bonnie’s brother Dwight was still with us, we’d all gather there where he and his family lived, in Dwight and Margaret’s home, around his bed. Dwight suffered paralysis at the age of 18, and now thirty years later could no longer leave his bed. So we gathered there.

Wonderful memories linger, but we couldn’t! Because of my pastoral ministry we always left early on Saturday morning to rush home for the first Sunday of Advent. It’s a twelve to thirteen hours — the first half across the beautiful but treacherous Pennsylvania Turnpike. Winding from beginning to end, its highlight is a trek through the Laurel Highlands with its tunnels through the allegheny Mountains. I’m here to tell you that in late November it is always snowing or icy up there!

On one of those snowy Saturdays having come through the last tunnel and about an hour northeast of Pittsburgh a sudden bang, a warning light, and a quick rumbling roar told us about a flat tire. Thankfully already in the right lane, we pulled over as far as we could on the shoulder while I immediately cursed the gray day. We were in a hurry and had a long way to go. It was cold, snowy/icy, and dangerous. And the spare tire was deep down under our packed minivan trunk.

Feeling sorry for myself, seemingly out of nowhere I noticed lights of a pickup truck behind us, and then in my rear-view mirror a shady looking character coming toward me. It hadn’t been but a minute, almost as if he had been waiting for us. As he came close and stood at my window my fear allowed me only to open it a bit: he was disheveled, heavily tattooed, and blowing cigarette smoke at me, and we were out in the middle of nowhere. He said, “Hey, why don’t y’all get out of the van”, and I took a deep breath and prepared for the worst.

“Name’s Kermit” he said. This is a dangerous spot. I’ll get that spare tire on there, and then you follow me into town. Let’s get you to a safe place. The owner of the tire shop’s a good friend. He’ll get you back on the road.” So we bundled up and unpacked and Kermit took care of business. I was wondering how much this would cost and was sure he’d take advantage of us even as he muscled the spare tire lug nuts into place. We followed him into town and while the hazards flashed I wondered what kind of hazard we were getting into. Probably would have been better to just wait a while for a real tow truck guy. It was a small small town, and it was thanksgiving weekend. Anything could happen. I remember even thinking “maybe I should turn around, peel off and travel on to some other more reputable place…” even after what Kermit had already done, just because he didn’t fit my image of a solid, trustworthy guy.

Here’s what Kermit did to teach me a holy lesson. He called up his buddy who I’m sure was enjoying his family by the fire, who arrived just to open up the garage for us. While I stayed with the van (still swimming in my unfair perceptions), Kermit took Bonnie and the girls over to the one restaurant in town and ordered them up an Italian pasta lunch. While they were there, a few other guys showed up at the garage to watch the spare come off and a new tire go on. They shared regret about our debacle. They smoked together, and told each other under the breath jokes. And Kermit said, as I prepared to leave, “Now you highfalutin big city folks remember us small town folk out here!” And we all laughed together. The Bill was fifty bucks for the tire. No labor charge, and Kermit refused my attempts to stuff a fifty dollar bill into his coat pocket. “C’mon, it’s thanksgiving, man!” he said. Again, we all laughed together.

It was a bit over an hour, maybe an hour and a half in all from the blowout to our trip’s resumption.

The lesson is obvious and holy. These dear folks joined Kermit in serving us at the expense of their own family celebrations. With good cheer they served and blessed us like good samaritans in the old, old story. I can only speak for myself about the unfair and hurtful perceptions I had about these folks who served us as if they were expecting us in the first place. I failed to give a look inside because of what I saw on the outside; so Kermit and his friends showed me, showed us the good that loving servant hearts can do in the world.

Kermit will forever remain an important person in our family memories. To this day I wonder if he and the rest of them were angels after all.

Love From Here!

Peter Hawkinson

Kermit

Christ’s love has the first and last word in everything we do. Our firm decision is to work from this focused center: one man died for everyone. That puts everyone in the same boat. He included everyone in his death so that everyone could also be included in his life, a resurrection life, a far better life than people ever lived on their own. Because of this decision we don’t evaluate people by what they have or how they look. We looked at the Messiah that way once and got it all wrong, as you know. We certainly don’t look at him that way anymore. Now we look inside….. (2 Corinthians 5, The Message)

We were on our usual rush home from Philadelphia, on the Saturday after thanksgiving. For a decade or so, while Bonnie’s brother Dwight was still with us, we’d all gather there where he and his family lived, in Dwight and Margaret’s home, around his bed. Dwight suffered paralysis at the age of 18, and now thirty years later could no longer leave his bed. So we gathered there.

Wonderful memories linger, but we couldn’t! Because of my pastoral ministry we always left early on Saturday morning to rush home for the first Sunday of Advent. It’s a twelve to thirteen hours — the first half across the beautiful but treacherous Pennsylvania Turnpike. Winding from beginning to end, its highlight is a trek through the Laurel Highlands with its tunnels through the allegheny Mountains. I’m here to tell you that in late November it is always snowing or icy up there!

On one of those snowy Saturdays having come through the last tunnel and about an hour northeast of Pittsburgh a sudden bang, a warning light, and a quick rumbling roar told us about a flat tire. Thankfully already in the right lane, we pulled over as far as we could on the shoulder while I immediately cursed the gray day. We were in a hurry and had a long way to go. It was cold, snowy/icy, and dangerous. And the spare tire was deep down under our packed minivan trunk.

Feeling sorry for myself, seemingly out of nowhere I noticed lights of a pickup truck behind us, and then in my rear-view mirror a shady looking character coming toward me. It hadn’t been but a minute, almost as if he had been waiting for us. As he came close and stood at my window my fear allowed me only to open it a bit: he was disheveled, heavily tattooed, and blowing cigarette smoke at me, and we were out in the middle of nowhere. He said, “Hey, why don’t y’all get out of the van”, and I took a deep breath and prepared for the worst.

“Name’s Kermit” he said. This is a dangerous spot. I’ll get that spare tire on there, and then you follow me into town. Let’s get you to a safe place. The owner of the tire shop’s a good friend. He’ll get you back on the road.” So we bundled up and unpacked and Kermit took care of business. I was wondering how much this would cost and was sure he’d take advantage of us even as he muscled the spare tire lug nuts into place. We followed him into town and while the hazards flashed I wondered what kind of hazard we were getting into. Probably would have been better to just wait a while for a real tow truck guy. It was a small small town, and it was thanksgiving weekend. Anything could happen. I remember even thinking “maybe I should turn around, peel off and travel on to some other more reputable place…” even after what Kermit had already done, just because he didn’t fit my image of a solid, trustworthy guy.

Here’s what Kermit did to teach me a holy lesson. He called up his buddy who I’m sure was enjoying his family by the fire, who arrived just to open up the garage for us. While I stayed with the van (still swimming in my unfair perceptions), Kermit took Bonnie and the girls over to the one restaurant in town and ordered them up an Italian pasta lunch. While they were there, a few other guys showed up at the garage to watch the spare come off and a new tire go on. They shared regret about our debacle. They smoked together, and told each other under the breath jokes. And Kermit said, as I prepared to leave, “Now you highfalutin big city folks remember us small town folk out here!” And we all laughed together. The Bill was fifty bucks for the tire. No labor charge, and Kermit refused my attempts to stuff a fifty dollar bill into his coat pocket. “C’mon, it’s thanksgiving, man!” he said. Again, we all laughed together.

It was a bit over an hour, maybe an hour and a half in all from the blowout to our trip’s resumption.

The lesson is obvious and holy. These dear folks joined Kermit in serving us at the expense of their own family celebrations. With good cheer they served and blessed us like good samaritans in the old, old story. I can only speak for myself about the unfair and hurtful perceptions I had about these folks who served us as if they were expecting us in the first place. I failed to give a look inside because of what I saw on the outside; so Kermit and his friends showed me, showed us the good that loving servant hearts can do in the world.

Kermit will forever remain an important person in our family memories. To this day I wonder if he and the rest of them were angels after all.

Love From Here!

Peter Hawkinson