Ash Wednesday in the Middle of a Plague

                                                            photo by Lawrence OP / flikr

 It's Ash Wednesday--whatever that means. And it means a great deal for a whole lot of us. For years I found my way to the nearest Episcopal Church, parked my car and open the church doors took a bulletin  and slipped into a pew. Sitting not too far back--I wanted to hear. I come to church this day to sit in silence. To look at the gorgeous stained glass windows that, at noon, throw colors over most of us who gather. There are not many there usually. Mostly old  folk. More women than men and there will be a young couple and two or three college students. I come to hear the old Joel passage: "Rend your hearts and not your garments." 

 We are then invited to come forward  and have our foreheads marked with the sign of the cross, listening to those gloomy words:"Dust thou art...and to dust thou shall return." After all have come forward we are invited to come to the altar to kneel and receive the Bread and the Cup. Looking up at the Crucifix at the body that was broken and whose blood was poured out for us all.  I slip out the door and go to my car. Closing the car door I sit there for just a moment in the quiet.

This year I did not find my way to that church. With this virus raging I am not even sure there was a service. Maybe there was. I still remember those other Ash Wednesdays when I came simply to be reminded of my sins and my finitude. To be reminded that I do not need to rend my garments particularly--but oh, I really do need to rend my heart. This Ash Wednesday when most of us are confined to our homes we still need the power of Ash Wednesday. I think of all that multitude who have left us because of this cursed virus. I think of the rending maybe not our garments but the the terrible divide between neighbors, family members and our whole country. The dust of the so-muchness weighs heavy on us all in 2021. So let us remember it isn't them not needing rending but us all. 

It is dark outside and in so many hearts. But I do believe, despite it all that though I am a marked man--literally--that maybe that Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world will take mine too and yours as well. I think about these things on this day when I did not go to church but remember that smudge and it's call to us all. 

                                                     photo courtesy of Church of the Redeemer / flikr

                                                          --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Listen to a Bird Sing

                                                           photo courtesy of fs999/ flikr

This morning I went out to get the paper and a bird was singing his heart out. Maybe her heart. I stood there for just a few minutes and listened to the rapturous music. This morning was rare for me. So many days I stagger out to get the paper and hear outside life out there.  Inside the TV blares on and on about the Impeachment trial, what Trump will do next. How many Republican senators will be punished simply by following their principles. I just want to cover my ears and turn off the telly. And forget my roof that still leaks and my back that hurts. But this morning was different—I heard a bird sing.

I think that bird put things back in perspective for me. I cannot do anything about Washington and the terrible direction this country still seems to make. I will write letters, make phone calls—but most of my actions will hardly matter. A wave of despondency washes over me. I thought the chaos of the last four years was behind us. Now I am not sure. But this morning it all seemed to fade away as I heard that bird sing.

Of course this does not mean I ignore what is happening all around us. To not face the present dilemmas would make me a poor citizen and a worse Christian. But that bird stopped me dead in the water.

There’s more to life than politics. Think about almost half a million who have lost their lives in the past year. Think of the grief that flows like a tsunami through all our streets. i think of so many of our people whose lives have been upended this long past year.  We cannot escape 

what is happening all around us. Yet, strangely the singing of that bird gives me hope.

Yes, hope. It seems crazy I know. And yet that bird is realer than Trump and all the other things out there that weigh us down. Wendell Berry has this wonderful poem called, "Look Out Your Window". There’s life out there. Yes, my bird--but so much more. That couple pushing their baby carriage. The man walking his dog. The two little girls running after each other down the street. The woman with her open Bible sitting on her porch facing yet another operation.The Amazon-UPS delivering package after package. There’s a whole lot out there as I look out my window.

An old preacher I worked with one time kept saying as he preached: “Are you listening…Are you listening?” Maybe we ought to add: Are you looking. Do not let yourself be distracted but all that dark and venomous stuff out there. And inside too. Remember. Look out your window. Listen. Look. If we do that long enough I am pretty sure our perspective will be healthier and we'll wake up as I did this morning—and who knows, you just may hear a bird sing.

(You might enjoy Dr. Bruce Yandle's splendid piece, "Worried About Your Country? Try tending your garden". 

                                   --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Missing Church

 A friend of mine told me this story that sounds like my story. This minister-friend went to see Barbara Brown Taylor one day, She has written a multitude of good books but she has also been a Pastor. My friend asked her, “Could we go see your old church?” And she agreed. They walked up the steps to the church door. “Could I look inside?” She nodded her head. She told him the church was not locked. She turned the knob and nothing happened. “I forgot this door always gets stuck.” So she leaned her shoulder against the door and it opened into a small sanctuary. My friend asked her, “Do you miss it?”  “Oh, yes—I miss it.”  

As a Pastor for many years I can  identify with those words. Looking back on all the churches I served, I miss them. Some, knowing my story would think I was crazy. Some of those places nearly gobbled me up or broke my heart. And yet even in those churches I miss the faces. The memories. The weddings we had. The  funerals—some young folks in the prime of their lives. I     think of the struggles we had and the momentous things we did together. Maybe memories has faded most of the dark things  But, oh I miss church.

And so I look around at this plague that has affected us all. We closed churches everywhere. Since last March or maybe April—a a year ago I haven’t been to church since. Oh, most of the churches tried to open. Six feet apart. Outside. Masks, of course required. Choirs too, six feet apart. And when the virus was worse most closed the door to in-person church. And then after a while we sorta opened them. And the churches have turned to technology. Zoom. Face time. Ytube. Streaming But I haven’t gone back to church and neither has my wife. When you are over eighty we are told not to get to close.

But Sunday after Sunday I miss church. Streaming helps—but it isn’t the same. Some of our members have had the virus. Some have died. And so we stayed away. But I miss it. The stained glass windows—like the burning bush and so many others. I miss the Cross which is the centerpiece of our Sanctuary. I miss the Resurrection window in the back. Like my wife I miss the music terribly. Mostly congregational singing. Those Sundays when my 97 years old buddy and me share a hymn book and sing. Yes, I miss it. Looking around at young parents and squirmy kids, old folk—some crippled or in wheel chairs. I miss the piano solos and our magnificent organ that always lifted me up. And the Choir—we miss those anthems that sometimes brought tears to our eyes. We miss the Bread and the Cup and just waiting our turn in the line—watching old and young and some people of different color. Seeing the servers leaving the Table and take these mementoes of our faith to those who cannot stand. I miss the silence. And those times when I bow my head and sometimes even pray. Sermons—of course I miss them. Our minister works hard and does a good job even in this strange time. But this is not why I come. Sometimes I get homesick and wish I was a standing up there behind that pulpit—but not often. I am like the old basketball player sitting on the bench remembering.

I miss so many of the faces, shaking hands and the hugs. This may be one of the most important part of my longing. Just people. Old and young and college students and families sitting together. I miss those who sit alone because the person they loved the most is now gone. And they come even with their heavy grief.

I miss the Scripture some Sundays. And more than anything  just thinking of my family and letting so many names run through my mind as I whisper: “God help" and often: “Forgive me.”I miss the hoping I find there. And seeing all those others with me just hanging on by their fingernails just praying this crazy virus will go away. And remembering all those everywhere with not enough to eat, those being evicted—and those who cannot touch their loved ones in the hospital. 

 And after Church is over—I look back over my shoulder at that wonderful Resurrection window reminding me that somewhere, somehow we will make it not because we are strong—but because the light that filters through that window falls on all of us. And we go on despite all the heartbreak out there and the craziness of the awful too-muchness and the burden of our own lives.

Do I miss it? Oh yes, I miss it.

*first photo by Ellyn B

                                                      photo by Jolynne Martinez / flikr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

                                                                   
                               

Anniversary Rememberings

One of the great words in the Bible is remember. And even if you are not a believer remembering is an anchor for all of us. President Biden told us the other day : “To heal we  must remember.” And he is right.

And as we move closer to our sixtieth (sixtieth??) anniversary memories of so many things swirl around me. 

I remember our first date at Mario’s pizza place in Louisville. I thought she was the prettiest girl I had ever met.

I  remember three years later on that coid January night when there was 10 inches of snow on the ground and she walked down the aisle on her father’s arm. 

After the wedding we stopped at the first motel we saw. I remember how hard it was trying to navigate my old green Dodge through the snow to Indiana. It was pretty dangerous and we drove over the Ohio River bridge and stopped in the first motel we could find. Not exactly paradise—Gayle said: “There’s a hole in that bedspread.” (Class)

I remember we spent two glorious days after that in French Lick, Indiana a great getaway. Everything was included—even the lobster we had that night. I think our bill was less than a hundred dollars.

I remember when we got back to our Apartment in Louisville our first purchase was a used TV almost as big as a  refrigerator. The highlight of every Saturday or Sunday night was watching: “Perry Mason.”

I remember that summer I was called to a tiny clap-board church on Alternate #54. Neither one of us had ever lived in the country.

I remember they needed a choir director and Gayle  reluctantly volunteered. After a while she thought it would be good if the choir had robes (class) and we ordered these robes that had to be completed by some of the women in our church. The Sunday they were to process in, Gayle had warned the women not to wear dangling earrings and no necklaces. And so when the Choir marched in—one of the women Choir members followed the instructions but had on a huge red hat.

I remember our first child, a girl born there. After a long delivery this red-headed curly haired baby came. Gayle looked up at her said: “ Let me see her ears—I hope they don’t look like her Daddy.

I remember we moved away almost 4 years later and shipped our dog, Pooch, to Virginia in a crate. Our newly purchased Green Volkswagen  was cramped as it was.

I remember it was in Virginia that our son was born. A second redhead who almost didn’t get there. Gayle was having some trouble getting pregnant and had a procedure done at the Doctor’s office and came home to get pregnant. Well—I had the mumps.  Our son really was almost a miracle.We stayed there six years. Good folks. We brought our first color TV the day of Robert Kennedy’s funeral. 

I remember that move brought Faith Baptist Church In Georgetown, Kentucky where we stayed and loved those six years there. 

I can’t forget that all along Churchill’s black dog followed me. Depression. And my long-suffering wife said time after time: “You can make it. You’re not completely crazy.”

And from there we moved to Clemson, SC to the First Baptist Church and our son exclaimed: “They have nailed-down seats!” We left a church with folding chairs. Our daughter learned to play the Violin and our son attempted it at Montessori School.

I could write pages and pages about those thirteen years. Ups and downs there like our football team in Death Valley. Gayle taught piano to 40 students, cooked our meals, juggling our kid’s traumas and schedules while the Reverend (me) was supposedly doing the work of the Lord. Gayle worked in the music program at church and played the piano in church often.

We moved to a church in Memphis where we met some good, good friends. Gayle taught piano in the Preparatory Music Department at Rhodes College. We were there 3 years and Gayle still says we should have stayed. (She was right.)

I left after 3 years without a place to go. 55 years old and scared and the black dog trailing after me. Gayle, God bless her, did what she had done a zillion times. She believed in me, she loved me as she listened to my rantings and my ups and down.  I don’t think I could have made it with her standing there with arms out saying, again: “You’ll get something—you are good.”

I was called to the Baptist Church of the Covenant in Birmingham smack dab on the mean downtown streets. And we worked and prayed and after eight years they gave us a wonderful going away party. People came from every church I had served.  Gayle had played the piano at church, sang in the choir while still cooking meals every night and teaching a multitude of students piano.

After our retirement we went to Paris with some good friends. And one night looking out the window at the glittering lights there, I said to her, “Did you think we would ever get to Pais?” And she said: “Absolutely I knew we would do this.” 

I dragged her around to eight churches where I served as Interim. We lived in condos, old parsonages and apartments. Gayle said after eight years: “Ok. I am tired of all this traveling. I miss my house.” I said, “Yes ma’m.” And home to Birmingham we went.

After a while we moved  back to Clemson. It is a small town. I say you can get anywhere in five minutes. We love being around old friends and sitting in the pew of a church I used to serve. Sitting on the bench takes some doing—but I got used to it.

Our house here is filled with furniture we bought all over. There is so much history as I look at chairs, beds, mirrors, art work--rugs and books. I can tell you to this day where all these treasures came from.

I am winding down the memories. This is much too long but I could fill in the blanks and you would be so bored, as you probably are so I’ll leave it there.

Our two kids—one with the big ears—come often to check on their aging parents and give us instructions. They love us fiercely and we return the favor. The credit  mostly goes to my wife who did so much for them while I was supposedly preaching the gospel.

During this winter of everybody’s discontent we are pretty much at home. We miss the faces and people and talking to them and jokes and just being together. We are still scared of this virus and we have taken one vaccination shot and in a few week we will get the second shot. But we read the Obituary notices in the paper and grieve of those we have lost and all those we do not know.

But looking back on the terrain of these sixty years together we had no idea what would come next. Many times I have wondered but Gayle has said all along: “ It will be OK. You don’t have to worry.”

One of my favorite marriage stories comes from Wallace Stegner, a very fine writer:

“It is something—it can be everything—to have a fellow bird with whom you can sit among the rafters while the drinking and boasting and reciting and fighting go on below; a fellow bird whom you can look after and fine bugs and seeds for; one who will patch your bruises  and straighten your ruffled feathers and mourn over your hurts when you accidentally fly into something you can’t handle´.”

Gayle…I remember.  

Deep in our Hearts We Remember Dr. King

                                                  photo courtesy of Senate Democrats / flikr

I first heard of Martin Luther King during the Montgomery Bus Boycott when the buses in Montgomery, Alabama were segregated. Blacks were confined to the back seats. As a college student in Birmingham I heard about what was happening in Montgomery.  I read Dr. King’s Stride Toward Freedom that told of the bus boycott.

My Story

 But it reminded me of an incident in my life when I was probably 16. This was Columbus, Georgia. I rode the bus home from downtown Columbus to my home just miles away. About mid-way the bus suddenly stopped and a black woman got on. I remember she looked tired. She didn’t sit on the back row but about two seats closer to the front. I sat in front of her. The bus suddenly stopped and the bus driver came down the aisle. “Auntie, you can’t sit there, you know that. Get up and move to the back seat.” She just kept sitting. “Get up,” he said. I turned around and told the driver, “Mr. if you would talk to her like a human being she might move.” She moved and the bus deriver continued to drive. The white folks on the bus kept looking back at me. Some whispered to one another. It was a tense moment. 

The Changes He Made

I still marvel at the incredible change one man can make. Despite the dark days there was no turning back to those days in the fifties. Black young men work out at my Rec Center. Sometimes we talk and laugh at one another another. Do you honestly think Clemson would have won those National Championships without our black players. Many of the workers in our local WalMart are black. And through very few blacks attend our church when they come they are welcomed. Many of our political leaders are Afro-American. Georgia could not have elected two Democrats to the Senate without the voter registration that Dr. King started years ago. Black faces dot all our TV stations.

Of course this is only the tip of the iceberg because one man told us he had a dream. He was assassinated  one sad in Memphis, Tennessee. Evil forces tried to stop him and yet his dream of a beloved community is still a dream. We are a divided people and our days are scary. Joe Biden and Kamala Harris will be sworn in. She is our first black Vice President. 

From a Distance

Every time I hear: “We shall overcome…O deep in my heart I do believe that we shall overcome one day…” stirs me

with hope and promise still. If we turn to the Hebrews and remember the great call of many of our saints: Abel and Enoch and Abraham and Sarah, Noah and Moses. On and on the list goes on. But the book of Hebrews was written like so many of the books in the Bible They came out of very hard soil. The author reminds us as he thought of all those he had mentioned: “All these were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw and welcomed them from a distance…” But the theme sounding like a tom-tom beat reminds us how they kept going: “Faith…Faith…Faith.

Isn’t this still the believer’s charge. “Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction ofd things not seen.”  Over 25,000 guards in Washington protect our government and our new President. What is to be our response?  Maybe on Dr. King’s birthday we remember we are called to be faithful. And this, maybe in every age, is hard indeed.

What I Heard

I only heard Dr. King once. He spoke in our Southern Baptist Seminary chapel. I remember his sonorous words: “Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like a mighty stream.” I shook his hand after that sermon but leaving there I remember feeling strongly I had to do something. Well most of my efforts have been weak. But I have tried in my own way to believe and try to preach and live this dream thatI heard about in that chapel sermon.

Hopefully on this national holiday that we will turn off the tv and quit worrying about buying something from Amazon and ponder the truth of this day. We remember Dr. King and the challenges he left for us all. And that dream could change us all.

(Dr. King’s birthday was January 15. But we have designated the third Monday in January as a nation holiday in his honor.)                   

 *The second photograph was taken by Andy Montgomery / flikr  

                                                                            photo by Ben Brooks / flikr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette

Has the Evangelical Church Lost its Moorings?

David Brooks fine columnist for the New York Times has opened up his heart as he discusses the evangelicals allegiance to Trump. Think about this and weep. Many of those that stormed the Capitol sang hymns, there were crosses in profusion and signs proclaiming: "Trump is My President Jesus is my Savior."

                                                         photo by Gilbert Mercier / flikr

                                                --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Washington's Siege and Christmas Past

  One week ago on a Wednesday evening like many of you I sat glued to the television. Open-mouthed and sick to my stomach I watched part of those terrible six hours when citizens of this country stormed the Capitol. I could not believe my eyes. Smashing windows, nailing up a scaffold and a hanging rope. Many screamed: "Kill Pence! Kill Pence." Someone paraded through those sacred halls carrying a Confederate flag. Some chased down police, beating some with sticks. Several pipe bombs were found. More than one sign proclaimed: "Jesus is my Lord. Trump is my President." A policeman was murdered. Four others died as well. There were crosses in abundance.  Many were wounded. One man jerked a crutch from one man and held it up with glee.The flag came down and up went up saying Trump won. Underneath they raised the American flag. 

Looking out my window that night across the street at my neighbor's house Christmas lights still blinked. Their decorations were still up. It was a surreal moment for me. The TV showing anger and hate and destruction and across my street Christmas was still in the windows.

This was not exactly Silent night or Holy night. 

What does the light which John promised would overpower the darkness square with what I saw on television that night? I wondered if the violence I saw in Washington and the twinkling lights across the street had the old Christmas promise wrong? Will the darkness suffocate the light? Would last week's vengeance and lies piled on top of lies smudge out my Christmas memories. Faith says remember that child in the manger promising "peace and goodwill to all." Doubt says: "Are you kidding power and looting rule this country. Get real. That sea of hatred seemed pretty real." 

And then I remembered those three kings that followed a strange star. And I remembered that

King Herod would snuff out those blinking lights and murder whoever would get in his way. As the Kings moved toward Bethlehem they must have picked up the idea that Herod really did not want to give obeisance to this promised king. Finally the three Kings arrived and discovered that shining light was over a back-street cow stall with with mind-numbing cold and cow dung everywhere. This was no match for the power of Rome and Herod. But those Kings slowly placed their gifts at the foot of the manger and the mewing child. Maybe they really were wise. The story says they "went home another way..." to avoid Herod the king. Much later, under cover of darkness, Joseph, the Father took his wife Mary and their tiny baby and fled to Egypt. We forget the real fear of Joseph and his family. Only later did they feel like it was safe and returned home. 

The light has had a hard time in every age and every Christmas. Wars, mayhem, plagues and starvation everywhere, And yet even with every cruelty the world would show--the flickering candle--a light--never went out. So I must remember the Christmas story yet again when the lion and the lamb will lie down together. (Isaiah 11. 6-9.) Get out your Bible and read this whole promise.

The Christmas lights and decorations up and down our streets are no more.  It may be dark indeed outside but we hang on to Epiphany where the precious light still burns--maybe dimly--but it still burns. And so I stumble into this strange new year believing and not-believing this news which hardly sounds good right now.  We may not be able to whistle while we work. There will be some days when we do not really know yet that "the word became flesh and dwelt among us”. But that word endures. Even in a time of plague especially in a time of plague.

                                                              photo by Martin Sisak / flikr

+ First photo by Blink O'fanaya / flikr

+ Second photo by Alvin Truly / flikr

—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com