Now I'm a Mobster

I was warned that retirement could involve a challenging transition, especially for a Christian pastor who was used to being in front of a crowd much of the time. In fact the words of caution carried more truth than I imagined. Retirement  would mean jettisoning my identity as a person in charge, the one others came to for advice, someone frequently called on to speak publicly. Now I would have to take more of a back seat.

At first I became, unwillingly, a medical patient. I was hospitalized with a heart condition, had surgery, proceeded with physical therapy, and then was treated for prostate cancer. The recovery process wasn’t terribly difficult or frightening, but I did become accustomed to being waited on and having friends, even strangers, ask, “How are you doing?” or “Can I get you anything?” Yet after reassuring them several times that I was just fine and no longer needed help, that attention dwindled.

Falling into the identity void once again, I decided I would relate to others as an artist. In the past I had painted several watercolor pictures and I resumed the hobby. I even felt a sense of accomplishment embracing this positive sense of self. I recognized that I was indeed a creative person. And it was good.

Then came a cruel awakening. I was labeled a mobster. I was given no advance notice. Instead I had this epithet thrown at me because I was, in fact, an advocate for people on the margins of society.   I had often mingled with Democrats. Been one who empathized with legal protesters. And the accusation was directed at me repeatedly by certain politicians, including the President and his followers. I was part of an “unruly mob,” angry, left wing, inclined to riot and to overthrow any sense of law and order.

Being troubled by this description (I’ve always considered myself a  good citizen, albeit a pacifist) I searched my past for any behavior that would place me in this violent anarchistic category. And then it became clear. During the summer I had attended what amounted to a civil insurrection. It was disguised as an ecumenical worship service at the Sheridan, Oregon prison. It was promoted as a protest of the illegal imprisonment of a border-crossers. But what appeared peaceful on the surface was obviously a mob action.

Over a hundred people were present, a mob by any measure. They carefully hid their anger at the authorities by maintaining benign looks, but they were clearly on the verge of violence. Some looked accusingly at the razor-wire fence around the prison, while others whispered, perhaps scheming, among themselves. Prison guards warned us not to talk to prisoners through the fence, but some in the group hovered near the razor wire certainly looking for an opportunity to converse with those confined criminals.

Our gang of imposters was organized by members of the Sikh community, a group that supposedly embraced “non-violence” but had engaged in public protests before. At this gathering they chanted, encouraged the raising of hands, and provided hypnotic music. The crowd participated willingly. Many in attendance carried metal objects camouflaged as lawn chairs which could have been wielded as weapons. Speakers from various religious groups spoke forcefully about the need to resist the actions of the government as part of this imprisonment. Then, thankfully, the crowd quietly dispersed.

So now, unavoidably I am part of an unruly riotous group of mobsters. Indeed, I am an American Baptist/Quaker mobster. Like a convicted sex offender I will have to live with this identity for the rest of my life.