| Check out Ken Sehested's great web site. Always on target. Always has his finger on the pulse of what is good and decent and fair and kind. Prayerandpolitics.org | |||
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Wednesday, May 30, 2018
Do Not Be Afraid--Includes Everybody? Everybody?
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Memorial Day Shame
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| photo by Bill Strain / flickr |
On memorial Day I remember reading Sebastian Junger's book Tribe several years ago. I recommend it to everyone. It tells the story of many of those veterans that came back from deployment after deployment--some up to five and six times. But when they got back to our country many looked around at the warring, the hatred, the jockeying for power and money--the lies and deceptions and asked, "Is this what we were fighting for?" Good question.
Nothing has bothered me so much lately--and that takes in a lot of territory- than the almost-unbelievable story of how our government is separating immigrant children from their parents. Not even when we incarcerated Japanese citizens against their will did we separate parents and children. Talk about Family values. My God--what kind of a people have we come to be. And even more--where is the outrage?
We have no law mandating separation. The closest is the Trump administration's own "zero tolerance" policy. Couple this sad sage with all the Dreamers who are still left in limbo and we wonder about this country. Read the following story. We just do more than shake our heads and get depressed. --RL
| What is happening to immigrant children is an abomination A top official from the Department of Health and Human Services told Congress that HHS lost nearly 1,500 migrant children it had placed into homes. There is now widespread fear that the children could be in the hands of human traffickers. An ACLU report this week revealed that immigrant children suffer “pervasive abuse” while in the custody of U.S. Customs and Border Protection. As part of a "zero tolerance" border policy meant to deter immigrants from coming, the Trump administration is now separating parents from children. The results are horrific, and it is incredibly challenging for parents and children to reunite. Trump is trying to blame Democrats, but this policy of separating children was his own personal directive. Instead of covering this major scandal, Sunday shows looked away. Three of them didn't cover the issue at all. On CNN, the controversy was grist for paid CNN commentator Rick Santorum to call missing children not a real issue. On Fox News, meanwhile, an anti-immigrant guest was only concerned about the missing children because it would be harder to deport them back to the violence they were fleeing in the first place. Right-wing media have accused these children for years of being part of a conspiracy to infiltrate the United States in order to vote for Democrats. It's no wonder that many Republicans believe the lie -- it's all they hear. The truth is that these children are fleeing violence and looking for a better life. Instead of covering this story and the challenge of instituting a humane policy, right-wing media figures mock migrant children. They falsely blamemigrant children for illnesses, baselessly accuse them of being responsible for America's low education ranking, and use debunked data to wrongly assert that immigrants are an economic burden. In one case, conservative media even pushed a charity to abandon its plans to help the migrant children. Meanwhile: The acting director of Immigration and Customs Enforcement (ICE) went on Fox & Friends, where he pushed a sob story about his agency being demonized. The fact is that ICE is wrongly categorizingimmigrants as gang members in order to deport them. And even worse, Trump himself told Fox in an interview that he wants to get rid of immigration courts entirely.
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Sunday, May 27, 2018
Memorial Day--My Favorite Story
(I have told this story many times and written about it in several newspapers. I share it once again because it has so much to say to us all.)
As this Memorial Day approaches I remember a powerful scene that expresses what I feel about this day. It comes from a book by the Kentucky writer, Bobbie Ann Mason. The book is called In Country and told a Memorial Day story in very human terms. The central figure in the story was Sam who lived in this tiny town in western Kentucky. Sam was conceived while her Daddy was home on leave but died in Vietnam before Sam was born. All her life she heard stories about her Daddy, Dwayne and tales about the in Southeast Asia. Emmett, a good friend of the family was also in that war and kept telling Sam about her Daddy and what a hard time it was. He told about many soldiers he knew who never came home. He also told her about all the Vietnam veterans who were on the streets or were crippled in mind or body. Sam took it all in and kept fantasizing about a Daddy she wished she had known.
Emmett decided one day that it would be a good thing to take Sam and her grandmother, Mamaw to see the Vietnam Memorial. He wanted them to see her father’s name on the monument. So one morning they got in Sam’s old car and drove to Washington. It took a long time. Mamaw brought a geranium to leave at the Memorial. Finally they got to Washington, fought the traffic, and found the sign which read: Viet Nam Veterans Memorial and an arrow pointing the way. Parking was a real problem but they found a spot on a side street. They got out of the car and helped Mamaw up the path to see the Memorial.
And there it was. A black slab that just looked like it emerged from the ground. It was massive and held the names of the 58,000 men and women who had died in Vietnam. That huge black slab was nothing like they thought. Name after name really told the story of those that had died in the war. People were everywhere. All ages. Some were kneeling and touching the Wall. Some brought notes and flowers. An old vet dressed in army fatigues held his hand over his mouth as he scanned the names. A woman wiped her face with a handkerchief.
Emmett, Sam and Mamaw found the directory that told where all the names were. They finally found Dwayne’s name and the direction to where his name was. They found the section where the name was to be but there were so many names. They keep looking and way up high they saw the name: Dwayne E. Hughes. They just stood there looking up. Emmett took the Geranium from MaMaw and knelt down and placed it at the base of the granite panel. Mamaw said, “Oh, I wish I could touch it.” So Sam rescued a ladder from some workmen nearby, opened it. Slowly they helped Mamaw up rung after rung. She found the name of her grandson. Ever so slowly she reached up and touches his name. The old woman ran her hand over his name etched in granite. She didn’t say a word. After a long time she said, “Hep me down.”
Then it was Sam’s turn. She climbed up and touched the name of the Daddy she never knew. When she backed down the ladder Mamaw clutched her arm and said, “Coming up on this wall of a sudden and seeing how black it was, it was so awful, but then I came down in it and saw that white carnation blooming out of that crack and it gave me hope. It made me know he’s watching over us.”
This ought to be a day for memories. Remembering all those that have died for us and for this country. Remembering all the brave soldiers of all the professions who have worked and dreamed and labored and lived and loved. We would be different people were it not for some soldier, some teacher, some Mamaw—some person whose name is not inscribed on anybody’s wall—but it etched on the wall of our hearts. None of them died in vain. Take a few moments and remember all the fallen. It is touching time—running our memories over the names and the faces of all those who have made a difference in our lives.
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com
Monday, May 21, 2018
Does Church Matter--Really?
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| Dawson Baptist Church - Philpot, Kentucky - 1962 |
I can think of nothing more appropriate for this Pentecost Sunday than what we do this day. Celebrate your 229th birthday. Thinking about this service and this day I pulled a page out of my own life and did some remembering of my own. I was Pastor of a church I did not like. Things had not gone well. Oh, the church was growing some. But there was this little group that kept after me. I kept thinking well if I work just a little harder—maybe they’ll come around. It didn’t happen. And I was growing more and more bitter and just wanted to give it up. Finally I resigned at age 55 with no place to go. I just threw in the towel.
And after I resigned—the strangest thing happened. The first church I had ever served called and asked me to come back and preach one Sunday. It was as rural a church as you have ever seen. And I was a city boy. And my wife was a city girl. She thought we had gone to darkest Africa. And this little church with a tiny steeple—sat on the side road of old Highway 54. And when its rained water would come all the up and cover the parking lot and almost get in the building. Well on those Sundays—we couldn’t get there and we called off church. So I proposed a simple solution—why don’t we just move. Move somewhere on the new Highway 54 where all the cars pass by—and we’ll be away from all this rising water. After my proposal—the Deacons didn’t say anything. They just sat there. Silence. They looked horrified and looked at me as if I had lost my mind. Move the church? Well—we didn’t. And one day I moved on.
Must have been twenty-five or thirty years later they called one and said: Guess what we have built a new church up on the new highway. Huh? Why didn’t you do that years ago when I was your Pastor. On the phone they said we are having a celebration of our new church. And we want you to come and preach and help us celebrate. And I did.
And my wife and I had a good time seeing old friends and remembering. And the new church was beautiful. So as I left they gave me a video tape of the last service in their hundred-year old building. And back at home—pretty much having given up on the church in general—I put on that video-tape and watched it one evening.
The last service the church had was on a Sunday night. They gathered that evening in June to tell stories about the Dawson Baptist Church and what it meant to them.They filled the house that night. In the tape little had changed. The video began by showing the tiny, white-clap-board building with the gravel parking lot. There was a steeple with a bell and a cord hanging down in the vestibule that somebody rang every Sunday. As the camera moved inside, you could see they had bought new pews from another church which did not quite match the decor. Sure enough there were the two cursed ugly Warm Morning heaters at the front that kept the place too warm or not warm at all. In the gothic shaped windows bits and pieces of colored glass had been knocked out and replaced through the years by other pieces of glass that did not quite match. In the center stood the pulpit with the Pulpit Bible Midge Sadler had given in memory of her oldest son and her husband killed in a terrible automobile accident while I was there. On the right was the Hammond Organ which Miss Jenny had played just as slow as she could. They always told me that Miss Jenny worked in the distillery all week but, they added, she didn’t drink the stuff. Opposite the Hammond organ was the spinet piano. Behind the pulpit was a huge crochet framed piece of the Lord’s Prayer somebody had made. On the left of the Pulpit behind the piano were the two rows where the choir sat.
Different members stood that night and told what had happened to them in that special place. They remembered their own baptisms in the creek…and when their children had been dedicated to the Lord. Someone told about their bout with cancer and how the church gathered around them and loved and prayed. A proud member told of how they took up money and sent one of their girls off to college because she had no money. She became a missionary. They remembered revivals and Vacation Bible Schools and losing jobs and coming together after a long hard week in the fields. Mostly, it was personal stuff. In that little frame church on a side road, for a hundred years they had found something that kept them going. And as I finished watching the video I sat there in the dark brushing away the tears. For they had reminded me that what happened there had made that place holy ground. And that even though I was having a hard time in my own life…I needed to remember all the things that happened through the years in churches everywhere.
And we come here to remember, don’t we. That’s what Heritage Day is all about. 229 years ago a tiny group started this church. First it was Hopewell-Keowee Presbyterian Church. And then Old Stone Church. And then Hopewell-Presbyterian and in 1893 they changed the name to Pendleton Presbyterian Church. 50 Pastors served you as your Ministers for Supply Pastors until 1966. Some of those men were monthly. Some were half-time. Some round-robin with another church. And some stayed as much as 16 years. But your written history stops in 1966. Somebody needs to bring it up to date.
Anything happen here after 1966—of course. Many things. And we have come today to remember baptisms and funerals and weddings and Sunday services and even an occasional sermon. Not too speak of Session meetings. But there was so much more. Prayers and hugs and singing and Holy Communion and casseroles brought and faith strengthened and hope, too despite the ups and downs in the country. All these we come to remember.
Some of you are down in the mouth about the present. What are we going to do? What is going to happen to our church? Well—Heritage Day answers that question. What you do here matters terribly—and the challenge is to keep on keeping on.
Our text is that wonderful passage when a women pushed her way through the door of Simon’s house and broke open a very expensive jar of perfume and anointed Jesus’ head. Those looking on were horrified. Especially the Session. A woman in public of all things. Touching Jesus. Pouring out perfume that could be used to feed a whole lot of people. Interrupting that fine meal with all the men sitting around eating and talking and telling lies . Lot of muttering went on that day—but Jesus said of what the woman had done: “This will be remembered.” It kept them going.
And looking back from then until now—we look back at your long history of ups and downs—of wars and depressions and pneumonia that took little ones and old ones away—not to speak of the heartbreak and fear and longing and failure. But something more. What happened here should be remembered.
Going back to my old church to preach—they helped restore my fragile faith. What had happened there through the years was important—maybe more important than all those other things.
And this is the challenge today. To remember. To do your part—to break open your own flask of perfume—whatever it is and pour it out for the glory of God. Give. Come. Pray. Work. Believe. Hope. Love. And just keep coming. And just keep coming.That’s the great challenge of this day.
Once in a foreign land missionaries came for the first time to preach the gospel. Nobody had ever done that before in that out of the way place. And years later someone found a short history of that place. And it read: “They gathered sticks and built a fire—we kept it burning.”
Well folks—somebody else gathered sticks in all sorts of ways and started a fire and some days it must have sputtered and been weak—but they built a fire…and those that came after them kept it burning. And here—on this day…we look back and remember what Jesus said of that woman. She has done a beautiful thing and this will be remembered. And looking back—years from now may they say of you—oh, those others back there built the fire…but we kept it burning. And my friends that will be a beautiful thing. Thanks be to God.
(This sermon was preached on Heritage Sunday, at the First Presbyterian Church, Pendleton, SC, May 20, 2018
This picture above is of the Old Stone Church in Clemson, SC which was the second home of this church. It is on the National Historic Register.)
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(This sermon was preached on Heritage Sunday, at the First Presbyterian Church, Pendleton, SC, May 20, 2018
This picture above is of the Old Stone Church in Clemson, SC which was the second home of this church. It is on the National Historic Register.)
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com
Tuesday, May 8, 2018
Mother's Day Memory
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| My Mama at my daughter's wedding. |
On this Mother’s Day we pause—we ought to stop for a long time—but mostly we pause. We remember Mama. I know some were lousy Mothers and some couldn’t do the job. And I know that some crippled their kids. I know all that.
But I also know that out there are Mamas aplenty who have given much, much more than life for their children. So I am glad that in 1908 Annas Jarvis held a memorial for her mother at a Methodist church in West Virginia. She gave our country this gift of honoring all our mothers. By 1911 all the states were celebrating this special day. And in 1914 President Woodrow Wilson signed a proclamation setting aside the second Sunday in May as Mother’s Day.
But enough of history. Mother’s Day is really about the heart. Good or bad the word mother brings upon all kinds of memories and emotions. Christopher Buckley wrote a memoir in which he said, “When you lose Mum and Pup you are an orphan. But you also lose the true keeper of your memories, your triumphs, your losses. Your mother is a scrapbook for all your enthusiasms. She is the one who validates and the one who shames, and when she’s gone, you are alone in a terrible way.”
Yes and no, Mr. Buckley. We really are not alone when our Mother’s die—for good or bad they are forever locked in our hearts. And like other griefs, at the strangest times—the smell of a flower, a woman you saw in the Grocery store who looks so much liked your Mother—the grief surges back. You thought all that was over.
You do feel like an orphan. Like the old song: “a motherless child…” But Mother’s Day is a time for dusting off old memories and remembering. After my Mother died—we had the sad duty of cleaning out her little house. There are few harder tasks than this. But when I opened up her Cedar chest at the foot of her bed—it was like an archeological dig. The things she saved just blew me away. Of course there are brand-new gowns she had saved “when she went to the hospital” and towels she never had used. But all those other things just sent me back through the years.
There was my old high school scrap book. Filled with Valentine cards for the fifth grade. There were report cards she had saved. I found letters I had written her while I was in college. There was a picture of a little boy about five years old with curly hair. Me. But my heart turned over when I read her handwriting on the back: “This is Roger. He is 5 year old.” After many years I was the first of two boys to come along. And she never thought she could have children. And I was her first—and she was always proud. I must underline that word: proud. She gave me the gift of delight. Just knowing that I was in the world made her joyous and happy. In that cedar chest there were newspaper clipping of things I had done. I even found a lock of hair. My little girl-friend, not long after that five-year old picture was taken, cut every curl I had off behind the living room couch. I found an old autograph book and a shirt I had worn maybe in high school. There were yellowing programs from High School and College graduations.
I don’t want to bore you—but open up your own memory book and see what your Mother gave you. My mother never had much of the world’s goods. She lived in a little four-room house her whole adult life. She worked in the textile mill across the street until she retired. She sent me three crumpled up five-dollars bills week after week while I was in college. It was not until years later that I realized what an incredible sacrifice that must have been. She dragged me to church year after year sometimes against my will. And maybe one of the reasons I have preached for over forty years is maybe her gift of faith. I have told many people that even if I had been sent to prison my Mother would say, “Oh, but you know he really was a good boy.”
She’s been gone a long time—and she really was the keeper of a thousand memories. Yet—she gave me sweet memories that make me proud and carry me through. So, on this Mama’s day—I rise up and call my Mama blessed. I think this is what Anna Jarvis had in mind in 1908 when she remembered her Mama.
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com
Sunday, May 6, 2018
"Not Fake News, Folks--Wisdom"
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| photo by alexis mire / flickr |
For three Sundays now we have been talking about the Serenity Prayer: “O God, give us the serenity to accept that which cannot be changed, courage to change the things we can, and wisdom to distinguish one from the other.” As I think of these three sermons this third part of the prayer may be the most important.
We’ve all come to some crossroads place. The roadsigns are not exactly clear. The directions they gave us somehow don’t make sense. You don’t have the exact address so the GPS won’t help. So you pull out the map and try to figure out what they said and what you scribbled down—and it is all confusing. You go slow...trying to read and drive—and somebody blows the horn and cars are moving around you. What are you going to do?
It reminds me of the baseball game where in the middle of the game a dog wandered out on the field. Just sat there. They had to stop the game. Somebody in the stands yelled: “Run around all four bases—make a home run.” “Bite the Umpire.” “Take a nap.” And the dog just stood there shaking. And a reporter said, ”In the absence of one clear message—the dog didn’t not know what to do.” And so today, like that dog with all these messages yelling fake news…alternative facts we don’t know what to do.
The Serenity Prayer says that there is some news that is false and some that is true. There are some roads that lead us there—and other roads are just dead-end streets. So our tasks is to try to separate the right roads from the bad.
Adam and Eve faced this problem. They were placed in this wonderful Garden. But—there was this stupid tree in the very middle of the Garden. And God said you can have dominion over it all—trees, plants, animals—everything except the tree in the middle of the Garden. And they whispered to one another: “You know, that fruit on that tree looks pretty good.” And the snake came along saying: “What God said was not true—that’s fake news.” And because they listened to the wrong voice—they were cast out of the Garden and lived East of Eden. They couldn’t go back.
But wait. Even though Adam and Eve could not go back that was not the end of the story. In fact, it was only the beginning. Even though they had lost their innocence and broken God’s rules—God did not turn his back on them. He was with them every step of the way. But still East of Eden they had to deal with highway signs that were confusing and surprised to find a kindly light that could lead them on.
That thread of truth runs throughout the Bible. King Solomon inherited the throne from his father, King David. There at the beginning of his reign he prayed this wonderful prayer. He fell down on the stone floor and prayed:” Give me wisdom. Show me the way.” He was known as the wisest of men.
But wait. Wisest? He split the Kingdom. He bankrupted the Empire. He spent most of his money on his own house. He’d imported all these foreign women with strange accents. He let them bring a whole moving van full of their tacky gods with them, And the kingdom fell apart. He prayed for wisdom but could not put legs on his prayers.
Back to the Prayer. It says: Give us wisdom to know what can be changed and what cannot.” It’s hard to tell. We know that this wisdom means means intellectual knowledge. It’s clearness. It’s coping with life in a healthy kind of way. It’s horse sense and sound judgment.
What does it mean to discover wisdom in our time? Of course it means using our heads—knowledge. Solomon knelt on the floor and prayed for God to show him the way. And knowledge meant facts. History. Degrees. Sometimes credentials. IQ. But Daniel Monihan reminded tis: “You are entitled to your own opinions but not to your own facts.” And it looks like truth has just flown out the window in many quarters. Alternative facts—what’s that? Sometimes there are no alternatives. “There is a way that seemed right but the end thereof is death.”
But there is another word for wisdom. In the New Testament the word is called Sophia. Spirit. The feminine side of God. Paul prayed in I Corinthians of all places—that the people in that messed-up church would find wisdom. So they could sail through the choppy waters of secularism without sinking. And the writer James would write: “If any of you lack wisdom—let him or her ask of God.”
But Paul and James were not talking about head stuff. They saw wisdom as heart stuff.
Everybody in this room has had an old Uncle or Grandfather who, when things got tough—the family or the community—somebody would drop by and sit on porch and say: “Let me ask you something…” And sometimes those old folks that could hardly read would say: “Well…” and they would begin to talk about head and heart both. That’s understanding. Fred Craddock, great preacher used to say that the longest journey is from the head to the heart. And we know it is true. It is knowledge and understanding. We need both as the look at this maze of road signs.
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| photo by nerissa's ring / flicker |
Elton Trueblood said that what the church needs is the ministry of clarification. We are to help one another clarify many things. I start out the door and my wife says: “Are you going to wear that?” That’s the ministry of clarification. And we ought to be able to say in church or anywhere that “What you are saying is hurtful and serves no good purpose.” But we don’t do that. We just say: “Bless your heart!” We go behind somebody’s back and whisper to somebody else: “Did you hear what she said?” We need to help one another with the ministry of clarification.
John Henry Newman wrote a hymn during a dark, dark period of his life. It was a prayer. It is one we all could pray. “Lead kindly light! Amid the encircling gloom—lead Thou me on, The night is dark and I am far from home. Lead Thou me on.” It’s light. It is understanding.
But there is another word for wisdom. And this word is act. If we really are wise we are going to do more than just pray and talk. I get so tired of people saying: “Our thoughts and prayers are with you…” Really. Why don’t you do something. I have had several college churches where folk were as smart as they could be. They had ideas galore and they could talk and talk and talk. But after we had talked they’d go home thinking they had done something .We had done nothing except talk. Nothing accomplished at their meeting. Sounds like Congress. Sounds like church. Sounds like us, too.
And this is why we come here. To find the way. Things get tangled up out there like fishing lines. We all need help. And it’s not just one-two-three points. We do need to help one another find the right road.
What are we going to do with the refugees in those little tents somewhere? What are going to do about all the AK-47’s. What are we going to do with all these kids on drugs? Or poor people having hardly enough to eat? Or sitting in Emergency rooms ten hours because they don’t have any insurance. What are we going to do? Are we just going to say: Well, we have to take care of our own. Really? Is that in the Bible. The Lord did say: “Inasmuch as you do it unto the least of these—and then he pulled out the list and said: “the hungry…the sick…the naked.. .the prisoners…the stranger…” As you respond to them you do it to me. Maybe the reason God seems so far away is because we never really look beyond our own doorsteps.
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| photo by Sheena876 / flickr |
But the preacher that told this story said he thought he maybe knew why this daughter was doing what seemed to be foolish and impossible. Hanging over that daughter’s bed was this framed cross-stitched piece given to her by her mother years before. I think you know what the words said, “O God, give me the serenity too accept what cannot be changed, courage to change what could be changed and the wisdom to know the difference.”
That daughter is still learning the meaning of wisdom and we are we.
(This sermon was preached at the First Presbyterian Church, Pendleton, SC, May 6, 2018. This was part of a three-series os sermons on The Serenity Prayer.)
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| photo by Mathieu Peborde / flickr |
—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com
Saturday, May 5, 2018
Guns and Jesus
Sometimes you want to stand up and applaud some church's actions. This is not easy to do in a toxic political environment. With Ushers standing at the door of some churches with guns...and some pastors totally silent--I am proud of my old church in Memphis. Memphis is not an easy place to serve. But where is? Yet--this sign on their grounds speaks a multitude of prophetic words. I think all those who huddled under desks in Parkland weeks ago--scared for their lives would be proud of this sign. I also think all the parents who have stood by the loss of a child to gun violence would smile at this sign. We cannot lose heart--and I pray the battle for safe gun control will stay before us.
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com