In the Fullness of Time in My Port Hueneme Community

It was 1965. I was on a pastoral spree, overwhelmed in the Navy town of Port Hueneme. When I received the call as pastor in 1961, the congregation had forty members, and preparations were in process to close the historic church. I took the challenge to save the congregation, growing it to over two hundred members, placing my being into creating dramatic changes leading to growth. The times were changing, and my personal commitments led to community praise as well as criticism. I did not know it at the time, but I was on my way to an early burnout at thirty-two-years old.

It was a sailor’s town with bundles of drugs coming into our Port. There was a bar on every corner where prostitutes and sailors hung out. High school kids were sniffing glue. I had calls at all hours of the day and night for help from my best friend, the Chief of Police, Al Jalaty. It was almost a full-time job helping the kids and meeting with them regularly in the Ventura County Juvenile Hall.

When my delinquent kids were released from their detention, I followed up with each kid, one by one, giving them a chance for a useful, productive life. I believed it was my way of paying it forward for the break I was given when I was ten years old by the Central Falls Police Department, and the generous Honorable Juvenile Hall Judge, who did not send me to Socanasat Reform school.

The church youth program accelerated as a positive step, but criticism was levied when juvenile delinquents were joined with the more balanced kids. Some of my members did not like the idea that I would drive with the kids in my new Austin Healy Sprite, especially when I drove the high school homecoming queen during the Hueneme High School parade. Also, my members did not like that I played semi-pro football, ripped my knee, and could barely walk six feet from the chancel’s oak chair to preach my sermon at the pulpit. I did catch a twenty-five-yard pass in my last game and had my name in the newspaper.

I was an evangelical, liberal, protestant minister of the Gospel, believing in the Lordship of Jesus Christ, while also believing my faith in Christ compelled me to social justice actions. This was not appreciated by standing room only conservative congregation and community. My involvement in the civil rights movement of 1965 propelled me to march with the thousands to Montgomery, Alabama during the Selma March. I was overwhelmed by Christ’s mandate for me to participate and place myself on the line for racial justice, but many of my members were unimpressed and criticized me for supporting the suspicious Martin Luther King. Newspaper articles were full of criticism levied against me and my Negro colleague, pastor Washington, claiming we went to Montgomery because we loved the limelight, and we were grandstanding for personal adoration. In contrast I was awarded a commendable Civil Rights Citation presented to me by pa Mrs. Julian Bonerease, the pastor’s wife, of the African Methodist Episcopal Church. (my Selma Memoir is attached).

My other involvement, criminal justice, peaked when I was elected to serve on the 1964-65 Ventura County Grand Jury. I was one of twenty-three members of the Grand Jury to indict Dorman Talbert for the murder of his friend, David Bartholomew. Dorman Talbert was found guilty of murdering his friend to steal $300, Bartholomew’s Navy mustering out pay. Talbert was a nephew of one of my church members, Thomas Talbert. I was fond of Mr. Talbert and understood the grief the Talbert family experienced when their nephew was charged with this heinous crime. My sympathy did not matter! The rumblings sounded, “Why would our pastor serve on the grand jury? Grand jury is not minister’s stuff. Why did our minister vote to condemn our Dormie to death in the gas chamber?” Didn’t the Presbyterian Church disprove of the death penalty? (My Grand Jury memoir is attached).

There was other gossip; “Did the good reverend simply kiss Nancy, or was he having a torrid affair with the grieving woman who lost her baby?” (See my memoir, ‘Heeding My Professor’s Warning’). Why did Reverend Skelly approve and perform a marriage in his home between the delinquent sixteen-year-old, Alvin Gorgita and pregnant fifteen -year old, Jeannie Conover?” (Memoir to be written.) Why did our pastor Skelly support the Rumford Fair Housing Act in 1963 banning discrimination in housing? After preaching a sermon supporting the Rumford Act, an elder in my church who was a real estate agent met me after the service and emotionally said, “Reverend Skelly, I pray that God will forgive you for supporting the Rumford Act.” Even though my preaching was overshadowing the separation of church and state, I believed this to be a moral issue I had to speak to.

And I went way beyond the bounds of my pastoral role when I wrote a letter to support of my friend, Judge Joe Goss, who was running for reelection to the Superior Court in Ventura County. The letter was written on my church’s stationery with my signature, the President of the Port Hueneme-Oxnard Ministerial Association. It was published in the Port Hueneme Pilot newspaper implying the thirty-two-member ministerial association also supported Joe Goss. Judge Goss was under fire because he wanted to dismiss a female assistant administrator of the court. The County Marshall of the Court, Tommy Thompson, was an adamant enemy of Judge Goss and a strong supporter of the Judge’s female administrator who worked under Tommy Thompson’s County Marshalls office. I was put in the middle of this controversy because I wrote the letter supporting the Judge and Tommy Thompson was an Elder of my Church and its’ Treasurer. I always wondered after the Judge Goss fiasco, why my Treasurer, Tommy Thompson, was often out of money and unable to pay my $450 per month salary.

I was trying to be a good father to my son, Tim, and daughter, Joanie, as well as a good husband to my wife, Una. Unexpected family emergencies threw a wrench into my pastoral interests and exploits. Our one-year old son, Tim, contracted Valley Fever, a fungus infection found in soil. We noticed his erratic breathing and a sore on his left lip that did not heal, as well as a finger he got caught in his crib did not heal as rapidly as we desired. Our pediatrician urged us to take him to the UCLA Medical Center, a teaching hospital. A dozen medical assistants interviewed us to assess if we could be the cause of our son’s illness. Tim had a high white blood cell count, and it was possible he could have the dreaded childhood leukemia. I cried and prayed for forgiveness thinking it was a punishment to me, his father, for my dalliance during my military days in Japan in 1961-1962. Could I have transmitted something frightening to my beautiful son, Tim? I took my pain and fears to my congregation pleading with them, “My baby boy, Tim, is ill in the hospital. I have lifted you up during your struggles and fears and pain. Please lift us up in your prayers.”

For two weeks, we drove to UCLA every day to see our son. Dr. Adams, a renowned oncologist, tested Tim and diagnosed him with Valley Fever. During our discussions with the resident doctors, we shared, “Tim once played in a sand box at a Palm Desert Church.” The sand in the play box was it! Tim was tested regularly and never had to be treated. He grew into a healthy boy and when he was a student at UCLA, he worked at the UCLA Medical Center.

When I was chairman of the Port Hueneme Recreation Committee, we raised enough money to build a new the community center and hire a recreation director. I happily thought it was my job as a minister of Christ’s love and justice. The old Navy town was changing! As a minister in my community, my dream was to gather many voices and musicians to perform George Frederic Handel’s Oratorio, the Messiah to the community. That day came at Christmas, voices from all the neighboring church choirs, accompanied by a harpsichordist, presented the Messiah at the dedication of the community center. I stood tall in my new blue suit before the packed auditorium and welcomed everyone with the sweet words, “Ladies and gentlemen it is a joy to present, George Frederick Handel’s Oratorio, the Messiah. It was breathtaking, and I am still overwhelmed by the experience of singing and hearing the opening lines.

“Comfort ye, comfort ye my people, saith your God.

Speak ye comfortably to Jerusalem, and cry

Unto her, that her warfare is accomplished

That her iniquity is pardoned.”

It is, A Song of Comfort in an Age of Despair, also the title of my brother Joe’s sermon at my installation service in 1961, at the Port Hueneme Church.

Read and hear Handel’s Oratorio Messiah, my beloved family and friends in the years ahead. Experience the joy of Handel’s message of salvation drawn from Holy Scripture. Be overwhelmed with me, your friend, your father, grandfather, and great grandfather, and perhaps your great, great, grandfather, with joy and hope, at the singing of the Hallelujah Chorus.

My love to you.

John Joshua Skelly On my 88th birthday October 25, 2020