Impeachment Confusion

photo by S Kaya / flickr

I am trying my best to stay out of partisan political matters. It isn't easy these days. I have good friends that are Republicans and friends that are Democrats. This bashing, demeaning, name-calling and very unchristian behavior is not confined to any one group. This choosing-sides makes me hesitate to deal with this issue. Yet I am an American and I love this country immensely. But first I am supposed to be a Christian. God knows I stumble and fall time after time--but I am trying to follow the Lord Jesus. It is hard in any age.

The piousity which engulfs both parties is sickening. Nobody--no body is without sin. Many on both sides of this issue wave their political flag and do whatever their party says. Greedy for power they have closed their eyes to the truth. People are jumping up and down hoping we will crucify Trump on this Ukraine matter. Others are saying whatever the President does is fine--after all he is the President.

Nicholas Kristof whom I have quoted several times--is a wise man. He is not perfect. But his piece on this impeachment issue is worth reading. 

Pray for our President, pray for this Impeachment Committee. Pray for our country. Pray for the whole world that God loves.

A wise old Middle Eastern mystic said this about himself. "I was a revolutionary when I was young, and all my prayer to God was: 'Lord, give me the energy to change the world.' As approached middle age and realized that my life was half gone without my changing a single soul, I changed my prayer to: 'Lord, give me the grace to change all those who come into contact with me. Just my family and friends, and I shall be satisfied.'  Now that I am an old man and my days are numbered, I have begun to see how foolish I have been. My one prayer now is: 'Lord, give me the grace to change myself.' If I had prayed this right from the start, I would not have wasted my life. Let us pray.

It wouldn't hurt to end this piece with the Franciscan Benedition:

"May God bless you with discomfort...

At easy answers, half truths, and superficial relationships, 

So that you may live deep within your heart.

May God bless you with anger...

At injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people,

So that you may work for justice, freedom, and peace.

May God bless you with tears...

To shed for those who suffer pain, 

rejection and starvation, and war.

So that you may reach out your hand to comfort them

And to turn their pain into joy.

And may God bless you with just enough foolishness...

To believe that you can make a difference in this world, 

So that you can do what others claim cannot be done."

I don't have anything else to say on this matter before us. Except--God be with you and with us all.

--Roger Lovette/ rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Are There Any Words for Where We Are Today?

photo by Nina Childish / flickr

“Therefore, since it is by God’s mercy that we engaged in this ministry we do not lose heart. We have renounced the shameful things that one hides; we refuse to practice cunning or to falsify God’s word; but by the open statement of the truth we commend ourselves to the conscience of everyone in the sight of God.” 

                           II Corinthians 4. 1-2

There is an old story that I keep remembering these strange days. There was a farmer who was known as the greatest “cusser” in the county. And one morning he lost the tailgate out of his wagon and strewed potatoes for a half a mile down a long steep hill. Neighbors saw him picking up the potatoes and said, “Why ain’t you cussing?” He muttered, “Words are inadequate to meet the situation.”

And when I look around me I feel like the old farmer. I have no words to express where we are today. A President that has lied ten to twelve thousand times since he put his hand on the Bible and vowed to lead us all. We could look in just about any direction and can say: “Is this real?” Weeks ago I read the heartbreaking story of ill immigrants who have come here from other countries to receive life-saving treatment they do not get back home. A woman from Guatemala was only three feet tall and sitting in a wheelchair. She said: “*If I am sent back home I will die.” The lady has 33 days to leave the country or face deportation. This little known fact One immigrant went to California as a child to participate in a drug study that has helped Americans survive this rare genetic disease. The story could be repeated time after time. No words, no words. 

The cruelty of this President is unbelievable. Children ripped from their parents’ arms—many never to see their children again. Others in cages. The withholding of aid to desperate places that have not saluted our President. States that did not vote for Mr. Trump ignored, neglected or picked out for particular punishment. Remember his promise to send migrant children to cities and states that did not vote for him. No word, no words.

This growing white nationalism movement can be dropped at the door of the man who reluctantly refuses to renounce all those who carry torches and spew hatred. No words.

This anti-science bias that flows from the White House is just unbelievable. Every scientist of repute has warned us about climate change. Our President spent four minutes at the UN discussion of this most serous problem for the whole world. No words. 

The anti-religion movement is growing. Atheism is on the rise. When these folks see the followers of Jesus closing their eyes to all the injustice and heartbreak around us we are reminded of Nazi Germany so silent on Sundays as the Nazis movement grew. Timothy Egan has written an article I’ll pass on to you if you are interested. “What you hear about the phonies, the charlatans who wave Bibles, the theatrically pious, and they are legion. Vice-President Mike Pence wears his faith like a fluorescent orange vest. But when he visited the border this summer and saw humans crammed like cordwood in the Texas heat, that faith was invisible.” No words. No words. 

The passage of Scripture quoted at the beginning off this piece reminds us that we are not to lose heart. Dear God, that is a hard thing to follow these sad days. But if you finger runs down that Corinthian chapter he reminds us broken weak church that “the extraordinary power belongs to God and not too us.” Read Paul's words and take heart: ”We are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down but not destroyed, always carrying in the body the death of Jesus, so that there life of Jesus may also be made visible in our bodies.” (II Corinthians 4. 7-8) And the Apostle ended his diatribe saying once again, “we do not lose heart.” These are the words. for us all.

This is not a piece about voting and politics. Hillary or Biden or Obama for Trump or Pence. It is a larger concern of what kind of people are we in this country. The dream of America is still so hopeful to so many around the world. And today that hope is not gone but it terribly diminished. 

Maybe there are no words to respond to the outrages of our time—but we must try. We must all try.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

My 100 Year-Old Friend

My hundred year old friend called me yesterday. I was his Pastor in Birmingham for eight years. But He was much, much more than just a parishioner. He was a friend. You could always count on him every Sunday. Tall, distinguished, dressed impeccably--he gave out our bulletins but did a whole lot more. As people would come to church he would always say "Welcome to Covenant Church. We love you and God loves you."

I don't think I have ever had a phone call from someone a hundred years old. But he made my day just as he has made the day for so many who came into the church door. Sunday at his church in Birmingham will have have a party for a hundred-year-old man. I wish I could be there. Once in a while you meet someone and every time you think of them you smile. Bill Bennett is like that. I believe that when God looks down on his special man--surely he must smile. 

Ten years ago I wrote this blog-piece about him. If you missed it you might see why I smile when I think of him in Birmingham.

Doorkeeper

"I would rather be a doorkeeper in the house of my God than live in the tents of wickedness." (Psalm 84.10b)

He stands at the door every Sunday without fail. He welcomes people and gives out bulletins. But that’s not the best part of his work. He always says: “Welcome to our Church! We are so glad you are here. We love you and God loves you. Come on in."

What a lot of people don’t know is that he does this at two different churches. At 8:45 every Sunday morning he is standing outside the door of his own church welcoming all those that come in. And then—at 10:45 he moves to another congregation where he picks up a handful of bulletins and does the same thing.

I don’t know any Greeter that does this at two different churches. Maybe he ought to be in the Guinness Book of Records. He is 90 years old. He is always dressed impeccably with white starched shirt, tie and suit. When it is cold he dons an overcoat and gloves. But Sunday after Sunday you can count on him. Standing there—welcoming everyone who comes—and reminding them that they are loved.

One minister, going through a terrible time, told me one Sunday she decided to attend one of these two churches. She had never been there and did not know what to expect. But—the African-American greeter was there with his bulletins and a smile. She told me later, “He made my day—he reminded me that God loved me and that the people of his church, not even knowing my name, loved me, too. I am having a hard time—but that word at the door of the church brought me back to my senses. I am so glad I came that Sunday.”

Often we think it’s the sermon or the carefully planned worship that helps people—and perhaps they do. But more likely than not it is the tiny things that bring us back to what matters. A smile. A handshake. A hug. A stained glass window. A little child on the bench in front of you. Or someone standing at a door giving you a bulletin and reminding you of the essence of it all.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

September Eleventh--We Still Remember

photo by Andy Sick / flickr

How many years since 9/11? Eighteen years. And a whole lot has happened since then. But on this day it is time to stop at least a few minutes and remember that day. All those who lost their lives. All those who on this day feel the grief and pain of those they lost back then. It is time to remember all those brave fireman who risked their lives to help save many of those trapped and afraid. And we remember all those who waded through debis and rubble looking for people that might still be alive. How many died because of lung damage or heartache or even suicide? Don't let this day go by without stopping to remember not the craziness of today but the bravery of so many who still remind us of our better angels. We must remember who we are and give ourselves stubbornly to all those things that make America truly great. Not politicians with their slogans. Not those who have given up on us. But all those who lend a hand and care about all and try to reach out across the chasms and bring some hope. Remember: thee little lights of ours--they really can shine in the darkness.

I love Randy Forbes' poem. Maybe it will make you remember as it does me. 

List of "Don't Forgets" and "Remembers"

We were eight.  

Before September 11th, we would wake up with a list of "Don't Forgets"

Don't forget to wash your face

Don't forget to brush your teeth

Don't forget to drop your homework

Don't forget to wear your jacket

Don't forget to clean up your room

Don't forget to take a bath

After September 11th, we wake up with a list of "Remembers"

Remember to greet the sun each morning

Remember to enjoy every meal

Remember to thank your parents for their hard work

Remember to honor those who keep us safe

Remember to value each person you meet

Remember to respect other's beliefs

Now are nine.

photo by Mike Steele / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Need a Laugh--Try Kate Salley Palmer

Kate Salley Palmer is a political cartoonist and a friend. Good cartoonists often see what most of us miss. Like remind us that sometimes the Emperor really has not a stitch of clothing. Kate is wonderful--and talented. For years she was a cartoonist for The Greenville News. Now she works publishing children's book and often books for adults. Her coloring book about the 2020 election, Race to the White House is great. You can find it at warbranchpress.com. She and her husband Jim live in Clemson and help keep things honest around here. Great friends. Check out this book if you are interested. And her books for children are great. You won't even have to color the pages to enjoy the book.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

We cannot forget the Immigrants

Colleague Ken Sehested does some mighty fine work on touching our pulse and talking about things that matter. You can read his stuff at PrayerandPolitics.org                             .

We cannot forget our brothers and sisters who have fled horrible conditions looking for a better way to live their lives. They don't find it in cages, in tents, in heads shaking when they apply for asylum. I wonder how many children will never see their parents again. And think of the parents who risked everything to get to the border to find nothing that helps or brings hope.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

School Days--I Still Remember My First Teacher

School Days--I Still Remember My First Teacher

School begins this week. All over the country kids are buying shoes and shirts and pants, dresses and backpacks. It’s a New Year and it calls for new duds. Teachers are hauling supplies, bookcases and books into schoolrooms everywhere. We say that January first is the beginning of a New Year. No. For children, parents and teachers, the year really begins at the end of the summer when the school doors open. But like January 1, there is something wonderful and scary about the opening of a new door and walking into the unknown.

I still remember going to school that first scary day. We lived two blocks from the schoolhouse. My school was a great big two-story redbrick building. From a six-year olds viewpoint it looked like the biggest building in the world. Across the street from the school was a long white building we called “The Teacher’s Cottage.” Single women lived in what could easily have been called a Protestant Convent.  I don’t know how many teachers lived there. I do know the Mother Superior in that boarding house for teachers was a tall stately woman named Miss Eva. She seemed to be as old as God and twice as scary. She was the Principal and ruled the school and the cottage filled with unmarried teachers, with an iron hand. After I entered school that first week, I learned the most frightening thing that could happen to a student would be to be summoned to that Principal’s office. Up the long stairs, down the dark hall at the end of the second floor was her office. It was whispered that behind those forbidding doors there was a whipping machine. We were also warned that few who entered those doors ever came out again. Six-year-olds are believers and seven or eight-year-olds would talk about the whipping machine and other unimagined horrors at the top of those stairs.

That first school morning, my mother did not go to work at 7 :00 as she usually did. She stayed home, put on her best dress and waited for the big bell across the street at the mill to ring. The ringing of that bell was a signal that it was time for us to go to school. The bell would ring thirty minutes before school started. The second bell would proclaim that school had started. 

I still remember that September day. The air was cool and crispy for a Georgia morning. My mother opened the screen door on our front porch, turned and said, “Let’s go.” I did not know then what I know now. There was a grief in the opening of that door. She knew, standing there, that something monumental was happening. I would walk down the steps, up the street into a larger world. I would return that afternoon and thousands of afternoons after that. But I would be different. That morning I crossed the Equator. My innocence would slowly fade away.  Surely my Mother knew that this beginning was like no beginning I had ever faced. There would be things to learn, people to meet, failures and defeats and laughter and promise.  There would be mean kids to fight and friends to discover and teachers to cram dreams in my head.

After my Mother left me at the door, she turned around to go back to her job in the mill. Alone and scared, I found my room and my teacher. It has been sixty years ago and yet I can see her still. She stood in the doorway to my class that morning. Dishwater blonde hair, small-frame, freckled and light complexioned. She wore wire-rimmed glasses that glittered when the sun hit them. She wore a starched printed dress and was gentle and seldom raised her voice. Her name was Miss Beggs.  Surely other teachers along the way challenged me more. But Miss Beggs I will always remember. She walked with me across a bridge my parents could not walk. She taught me about a world bigger and finer than I had ever known. There would be no going back—this was the point of no return. I still remember that she held my hand as we walked to recess, to the rest room and to the lunchroom that first year. She must have known I was shy and afraid. The passing of the years often adds far richer colors than are present in real life. Yet as I think of Miss Beggs I really believe the kindness that I remember was truly there.

I don’t recall if she taught at our school more than a year. I never remember seeing her after that first grade experience. Where did she come from and where did she go? It hardly matters. What did matter was that she took me by the hand, she pointed the way. I love school and books and studying to this very day. She opened windows and doors that could never be shut again. Is it any wonder that syarsome seventy later I can still see her face and I still remember her name?

(Several years ago I published this piece in The Greenvile News and on one of blog pieces--this year's school beginnings brings it all back.)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com