On his second-to-last “good” day, my Grandpa Morton pleaded with my Uncle Bob not to commit him to a nursing home. He promised not to cause any trouble, not to get in the way, and not to be a burden. He’d spent enough time institutionalized, and didn’t want to spend his final days without freedom. Dementia, glaucoma, and vigorous mood swings ensured life around Grandpa Mort was unpredictable but seldom uneventful.
Two years ago, Grandpa Mort was asked to leave his home church after hijacking a Sunday service. He’d sat quietly listening to a lengthy crusade against the evils of the world, then abruptly stood up and walked slowly to the podium. He’d invited a neighborhood family to join him that day, and to his surprise, they’d showed up. He had no desire for them to think that all Christians believed the same judgemental brand of faith being preached that morning, and made a snap decision to sacrifice his reputation within the church to preserve its reputation to those outside it.
In fairness to the pastor that day, few people could match oratory skills against Morton Joseph. The son of an incredibly critical school administrator, Mort learned quickly that if he could defend himself verbally against his Dad, he could avoid defending himself physically. By the age of 16, he’d completed his schooling and left home, then worked multiple jobs and served subpoenas while attending the Massachusetts College of Arts and Design. Eventually he had a breakdown, and spent some time at recovering at Danvers before being released into the watchful custody of moodiness. He was brilliant, unstable, and kind, but had little tolerance for the overly critical mindset he’d survived as a kid. As he walked to the podium that day, he was quiet and composed.
In the 15 minutes that followed, Mort deconstructed the fuming pastor’s message, but did so calmly, quietly, and with an easy logic. “If every time I saw you, I pointed to your faults, would you ever want to sit and share a meal with me?” he began. “Instead of loftily mocking the world in which we live, could you contribute something meaningful to it?” His points were simple, delivered in a clear voice which neither wavered nor warbled despite his 80-plus years. “What does it say of our faith when Christ’s followers only focus on judgement and negativity--instead of God’s goodness and forgiveness?”
Several of the church elders tried to cut his time short, but Mort stood his ground. He’d realized that his church would rather listen to entertaining stories delivered from the pulpit, and that the judgemental flavor of each message somehow left the audience feeling vindicated as they sought shelter from the outside world. He’d heard the murmured whispers of “Yes, Lord, I’M one of the ones who sees the TRUTH,” and “Yes, Lord, don’t let ME live like those heathens next door,” and “Yes, Lord, keep me SAFE inside this church, away from the evils outside.” He knew that with each day, his clarity of thought became more fleeting, so better to speak up while he could get the words out.
When he was finished, he stepped away from the lectern and left the church. It was pretty well known by that time that Mort “had his off days,” so most of the congregants chalked it up to senility. But those who really knew him knew that when his mind slipped, his left hand curled up as if around a ghostly paintbrush, and both his hands were clearly working as he punctuated his speech that morning. That a “crazy person” could speak so eloquently and so calmly was never asked nor answered. Speaking out of turn was taken as a sign of his weakened mental state, for surely no sane person could find fault with the pastor’s inspiring words....
On his last “good” day, Mort called a cab and disappeared. He left an articulate note, but it was written in oil paint and covered the entire dining room table. It was painted in the same brilliant style Mort always worked in--predominant dull tones contrasted by sparingly applied vigorous accent colors. He offered no clue as to his destination, only to list several friends and family members by name and tell them how they’d brightened the darker stretches of his life and days. The cab company later reported that he’d been dropped off near Montrose Harbor, and that the driver had to help him open the door because his hand was curled up and couldn’t work the latch.
Two years ago, Grandpa Mort was asked to leave his home church after hijacking a Sunday service. He’d sat quietly listening to a lengthy crusade against the evils of the world, then abruptly stood up and walked slowly to the podium. He’d invited a neighborhood family to join him that day, and to his surprise, they’d showed up. He had no desire for them to think that all Christians believed the same judgemental brand of faith being preached that morning, and made a snap decision to sacrifice his reputation within the church to preserve its reputation to those outside it.
In fairness to the pastor that day, few people could match oratory skills against Morton Joseph. The son of an incredibly critical school administrator, Mort learned quickly that if he could defend himself verbally against his Dad, he could avoid defending himself physically. By the age of 16, he’d completed his schooling and left home, then worked multiple jobs and served subpoenas while attending the Massachusetts College of Arts and Design. Eventually he had a breakdown, and spent some time at recovering at Danvers before being released into the watchful custody of moodiness. He was brilliant, unstable, and kind, but had little tolerance for the overly critical mindset he’d survived as a kid. As he walked to the podium that day, he was quiet and composed.
In the 15 minutes that followed, Mort deconstructed the fuming pastor’s message, but did so calmly, quietly, and with an easy logic. “If every time I saw you, I pointed to your faults, would you ever want to sit and share a meal with me?” he began. “Instead of loftily mocking the world in which we live, could you contribute something meaningful to it?” His points were simple, delivered in a clear voice which neither wavered nor warbled despite his 80-plus years. “What does it say of our faith when Christ’s followers only focus on judgement and negativity--instead of God’s goodness and forgiveness?”
Several of the church elders tried to cut his time short, but Mort stood his ground. He’d realized that his church would rather listen to entertaining stories delivered from the pulpit, and that the judgemental flavor of each message somehow left the audience feeling vindicated as they sought shelter from the outside world. He’d heard the murmured whispers of “Yes, Lord, I’M one of the ones who sees the TRUTH,” and “Yes, Lord, don’t let ME live like those heathens next door,” and “Yes, Lord, keep me SAFE inside this church, away from the evils outside.” He knew that with each day, his clarity of thought became more fleeting, so better to speak up while he could get the words out.
When he was finished, he stepped away from the lectern and left the church. It was pretty well known by that time that Mort “had his off days,” so most of the congregants chalked it up to senility. But those who really knew him knew that when his mind slipped, his left hand curled up as if around a ghostly paintbrush, and both his hands were clearly working as he punctuated his speech that morning. That a “crazy person” could speak so eloquently and so calmly was never asked nor answered. Speaking out of turn was taken as a sign of his weakened mental state, for surely no sane person could find fault with the pastor’s inspiring words....
On his last “good” day, Mort called a cab and disappeared. He left an articulate note, but it was written in oil paint and covered the entire dining room table. It was painted in the same brilliant style Mort always worked in--predominant dull tones contrasted by sparingly applied vigorous accent colors. He offered no clue as to his destination, only to list several friends and family members by name and tell them how they’d brightened the darker stretches of his life and days. The cab company later reported that he’d been dropped off near Montrose Harbor, and that the driver had to help him open the door because his hand was curled up and couldn’t work the latch.
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