Humor and Holiness, Even from Jersey City

I never encountered Father William Holt, O.P. — Billy Holt, as some who loved him referred to him — without smiling. His joy was contagious. Even after a Confession, he would make me laugh. Maybe especially then. God’s mercy has a way of lifting our spirits and enabling us to remember things that are most important. Father Holt died in Ireland earlier this month while on a trip that was gifted to him by someone whose life was touched by his ministry.

In recent years, Father Holt went viral on social media twice. The first was during Covid shutdowns. A women who took a video of him smoking at the top of the tall staircase to the Dominican priory where he lived on Lexington Avenue posted it on TikTok. (Yes, priests are human. And God works with everything.) The world was freaking out, and he was the same as he ever was. “Why can’t I be more like him . . . ,” she wrote, describing the scene of him in his white habit as “CHILL LEVEL IN THE MIDST OF CHAOS.” (It was Election Day, 2020.) The second time was about a year ago. On Facebook, Humans of New York caught up with him with Grand Central Station in the background — the heart of the city. He recounted a story, the likes of which we could all afford to pray we have at least one of in our lives.

“For two years I was chaplain on the children’s ward of the cancer hospital,” he explained. And was honest: “What can you say? You can’t explain why some things happen. Only that it’s a mystery.” And with faith, added: “And a mystery is reality, imbued with God’s presence.” He remembered: “One Christmastime there was a ten-year old girl from Ireland, dying of leukemia. All this girl wanted was a Cabbage Patch doll. Ugliest doll you’ve ever seen in your life, 75 dollars. Seventy-five dollars! And sold out everywhere. The mother told me, ‘I’ve looked in every store.’” As it happened, a family in the parish where he was living asked him what he wanted for Christmas. So, of course, it was that ugly doll. (My parents had to get me one that Christmas, too, as I recall. And I didn’t think Kimmie was ugly. But it was not so strange a request coming from a little girl!) He also requested walkie-talkies. “The Cabbage Patch doll went to the little girl. Then I gave one walkie-talkie to her, and one to her twin brother. So they could speak while she was in isolation. After she passed away, the mother wrote me a letter. I keep it in my sunshine file. It said: ‘Those walkie-talkies were the best medicine she ever had.’”

We should probably all have a sunshine file. Or more important, make sure we contribute to the sunshine files of others.

Father Holt would often remind people he was from Jersey City, which he loved as much as Ireland. One priest noted it was “on brand” him to go to God there.

One of the last times I encountered Father Holt was at a Hillbilly Thomists concert — they are Dominican priests who sing something like bluegrass. I was standing with my friend Sister Maria Augustine, S.V. — a Sister of Life — who was holding a newborn, one of the children who lives in her convent in Hell’s Kitchen (of all places) with her mother. (They welcome pregnant women into their home who might otherwise feel pressured to abort.) As if breaking news was about to be delivered, he Father Holt told us: Eighty years ago, I looked almost exactly like that!

In recent days, some of his brother friars have been recalling some of his “Helpful Hints from Holt,” or “Holtisms.” Most of them have to do with humility, which probably had something to do with his ability to be chill in the storm of Covid madness.

“You think you’re indispensable, bud? Go up to All Souls Cemetery. Walk down the row and look at all the people who were indispensable and irreplaceable!”

“I’ve never seen a Brink’s truck following a hearse. You can’t take it with you.”

“When you’re invited to dinner, make sure you ring the door with your elbow.” (Because you bring gifts!)

“A woman called the priory to find out which priest was celebrating which Mass on a particular Sunday (looking to find her favorite preacher and avoid others). I told her, ‘Yes, Jesus Christ has the 7:30 and 9:00 and the 11:00.’” That’s so important. Christianity is replete with humans. God saves.

“You walk down to Bloomingdale’s and look in the window and say, ‘I adore that dress.” No you don’t, you adore Jesus Christ.’”

And, in case he is reading this from Heaven: He wouldn’t want me to leave out “Jersey City! Cultural mecca of the Northeast!”

We live in a judgmental age, and Catholics who hold the line on Church teaching are probably seen as the most judgmental. (Though, goodness, I go to church because I am a sinner in need of a Savior! I’m sorry if I ever give any other impression in writing about some of the contentious issues of our day. I know I do. I hope to do better.) By being a normal human — with joy — on Lexington Avenue, Father Holt probably did more to spread the Gospel than any catechetical project has ever done. A few weeks ago, our paths happened to cross and he was just greeting people with love as if that were as normal as breathing. That’s what he did. The priests tell me that, if he was asked how he was doing, he would say, “My usual self: reticent, but cheerful!”

Father Holt’s earthly remains have now been laid to rest in that cemetery in Pleasantville, N.Y. But as a good life does, his legacy remains to make us better.

This column is based on one available through Andrews McMeel Universal’s Newspaper Enterprise Association.