The book, The Help Brings Back Memories

"You just can't get good help these days."
      complaint from a white dowager

The book, The Help has made quite a splash in the literary world. Even though the book was published in 2009 it is still first on the list of The New York Times Combined Print and E-Book Best Sellers. Obviously the book has struck a chord with many people or Hollywood would have never turned the book into a movie. Though I have not seen the film, Kathryn Stockett tells a fine story about black domestic servants working in white Southern households in the 1960’s. Though the author is white she wrote the book out of her own growing up in Mississippi in those turbulent sixties.


The Help is about the maids that worked for the white folk. Anybody who has lived particularly in the South would understand much of what the author tells. I was horrified by most of what I had forgotten about that time. In the book most of the maids had to use a special bathroom usually constructed behind the white folk’s house. They ate off one particular plate. They could not eat at the kitchen table and certainly not the dining room. Most of them had to come through the back door of the houses where they worked. If they were driven home by their employers they had to sit in the back seat. As maids they were to appear as invisible as possible. The suffering these women endured is spelled out in chapter after chapter. What is not told is the sexual harassment that many of these maids faced from their male employers. The presence of so many light colored children ought to give us pause. Many of these children were the result of rape and threats. To work they had to keep silent. There are so many layers to that time that was not that long ago.

The Help reminded me of my own growing up in a little cotton mill village in Columbus, Georgia. Though we have little of the world’s goods we had a maid, sometimes full-time and often part time. But our maid, Nancy came into our lives when my brother and I were little boys. Our Mother worked in the mill and Nancy kept us safe and clean. Through the years she slowly weaved her way into our lives. Sometimes even on her day off, she would appear on Saturday and announce: “This house needs a cleaning.” And so she would tear it apart and the dust would fly and by day’s end the house was clean. Even after I left home for college, Nancy kept up with me. She kept my brother’s children when they were little. She was there when I came home from college making sure the macaroni and cheese and banana pudding and the biscuits were in their place. When we brought our children home she proudly held and loved them. Years later when my mother died she sat in the family section at the funeral. After all she was a very real part of our family. As the years passed I would always call her on her birthday in late December and we would reminisce. “Roger we had us some good times, didn’t we?” “Oh Nancy, we did have some good times.”

She had eight children of her own. She would talk about each one and how proud she was of their accomplishments. I often wondered how in the world she lived with the paltry salary we paid her out of my mother’s own paltry salary. Her children stayed in Hurtsboro (AL) with family while Nancy moved to Georgia to get a job and send money back home. It must have been hard to be unable to see her own children except on holidays and weekends.

Several years ago her daughter called me late one evening. “Mama passed away last night, peaceful and without pain.” She told me the funeral would be in Hurtsboro in the little Methodist church she loved. They asked me to say a few words at her funeral service. I unfolded my notes and told those gathered that even though Nancy had only finished the third grade, she was one of the best teachers I ever had.

I told them she taught me about patience. I can remember sitting at our kitchen table many times pouring out my disappointments. She would turn and say sharply, “Roger, just you wait. Just you wait. Chile—you got to be patient.”

She taught me a lot about faith. She would say from time to time, “You got to believe. How can anybody get through this world without believing.” She never talked a lot about faith—she just lived it.

I learned about the dignity of every human being from Nancy. I did not have to remind those black folk at the funeral about how hard it was in the nineteen forties. There was a hard line drawn between white folk and black folk. I told them that I did not know many black people back then. That was one of the awful things about segregation. I told them that I knew Nancy. I trusted her. I loved her. I knew she was as important as anybody else. I told those gathered that I learned a little later how wrong the world was to black folk. I told that group gathered in that little church that when I started preaching I talked a lot about the dignity of everybody. I learned that lesson from Nancy.

Nancy taught me about loyalty and commitment. Even though we could pay her so very little, she was committed to our family. She defended us fiercely. She was there at every juncture of our lives. Births, weddings, funerals—Nancy was there. This is her picture at the beginning of this piece. She proudly held my first born in her arms.

Nancy taught me about gratitude. Born in 1909 I told her grievers that I could not imagine how hard her life must have been. Even though her life was hard she never stayed depressed very long. She was grateful. She was grateful for her children and her family. She was grateful that she had survived when so many others had not.

She had stood by my mother’s casket years before her own death. I remember clearly what she said over that casket, “Miz Ruth, you worked hard in your life. Hard. And you raised two good boys. Now it’s time for you to rest. Miz Ruth, you just rest.” And I told the mourners at her own funeral that I had come all the way from Birmingham to give her words back to her. “Nancy, you have worked hard, very hard all your life. You raised eight wonderful children. Now it’s time for you rest. Nancy, dear Nancy, you just rest.”

We buried her across the street from her church. And as I read The Help it all came back. And I wondered how many thousands and thousands of black folk whose names were never in the headlines have made an incredible difference in the lives of the white folk they worked for. So I thank the writer, Kathryn Stockett for telling the story that so many of us in the South really know by heart.

(You might  be interested in reading "Who I am because mother was a maid" appeared in The Birmingham News, August 8, 2011 Viewpoints section. It is moving and worth reading. )

Debt Crisis--How do We Respond?

Sometimes cliches are more than cliches. Take the old nostrum: "United we stand...divided we fall." Maybe we are in the mess we are in as a nation because we have been so busy fighting each other that we have failed to address our common problems. All children have to go to school, the able-bodied need jobs that pay enough to live on, immigrants want a slice of the American dream, old folks want to make sure they have enough to make it to the finish line. Those facing foreclosure want some help. Somebody needs to fill up the pot holes and attend to our rickety bridges. Even Wall Street and those making over $250,000 are beginning to realize that maybe just giving them their tax break might not be enough for the country. Tom Friedman, wise columnist for the New York Times wrote a piece today that  triggered this article. He entitles his words: "Win Together or Lose Together." He asks a basic question that concerns us all: Can we pull together to generate a national renewal? Some folks are saying our best days are over as a country. I don't believe that for a minute.  But I do believe that united we really do stand and divided we really do fall. Right now we are tottering. There is something more at stake here than who wins and who loses in 2012. I used to tell couples that came to me for counseling, "When you fight--winning is not the name of the game. You might be smart enough to win the argument--but you will lose in the long run. Winning is not the bottom line--it's the relationship that is healthy for both of you thaty matters. And if you don't have that everybody loses.

Reminds of the story I once heard Andrew Young tell. Remember he was a Civil Rights leader in the 60's and went on to become Secretary General of the United Nations. He said that once there was an old farmer that decided to make some extra money by getting into the cock fighting business. He bought two roosters, trained them patiently. On the day of the cock fight he put the two roosters in a cage in the back of his pick up and drove to the fight. When he got there he opened up the cage and there was nothing but feathers and blood. He said, "Shoot--they didn't realize they were on the same side." Reckon embedded in that story there is a lesson for us all?

Sermon for 8th Sunday after Pentecost--Three O'Clock in the Morning

"Eternal Father, strong to save,
 Whose arm does bind the restless wave,
Who bids the mighty ocean deep 
 It's own  appointed limits keep;
O hear us when we cry to Thee 
 For those in peril on the sea."
  
  --Hymn, Eternal Father Strong to Save
      William Whiting, 1825-1878

There is no greater story than the history of how the Gospels came to be. After Jesus’ death those that had lived with him and seen his work were elevated to an important status. These were the eyewitness to the glory of God first-hand. But as the years passed and the eyewitnesses were dying off one by one. The church grew afraid. These wonderful stories and parables and miracles and all the teachings of Jesus would be lost unless they were written down. So somewhere between 75 and 80AD Mark sat down and wrote the first gospel. “The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the Son of God.”(1.1) This was followed by Matthew and Luke somewhere between 80 and 90 AD. John’s gospel would be the last written around 95 to 120 AD. The central point of these four accounts was to answer one question: Who is he? Who is this Jesus anyway?

The backdrop of Matthew 14. 22-33 is interesting. Three gospels leave us with this account. They knew something about hard, hard times. Severe persecution broke out in AD 44. Peter, the leader of the church was imprisoned and barely escaped death. James was, one of the circle of Jesus’ three companions, was beheaded. Peter was crucified during Nero’s reign. Jesus’ brother James, one of the church leaders was put to death. In 64 AD Nero instigated a huge fire in Rome and blame the Christians which started another round of persecution. Jerusalem, their city of cities of totally destroyed in AD 70. This was the world in which the early church found itself. And so, under cover of darkness, they would close the curtains in someone’s house and quietly worship together on Sundays. And someone would say: “Elder, tell us the story again about that night on the sea…”It was a story that spoke to their hearts and lives and conditions. They knew about stormy weather. They had lost leaders and family members and friends because of their faith. Others had simply renounced their faith—one had to live after all. And when Caesar passed an edict that he was God and that all must burn a pinch of incense on the altar and say: “Caesar is Lord” many Christians followed suit to save their lives. But this little cluster remained faithful. Caesar is not Lord they said. Jesus is Lord. Jesus only.

And so the Elder would once again tell the story that everyone there knew almost by heart. Jesus had just fed the 5,000 and for a second time he tried to find a quiet place to rest and to pay. And he sent his disciples by boat across the lake which was five miles wide. This was the first time in Matthew’s gospel that he would leave the disciples alone.

The Leading Elder kept talking. "It was night. Sometimes", he said, "the dark, swirling waters look scary." And they murmured yes. He said " they rowed that little boat or tried to. Matthew said that the wind was against them." Somebody in the crowd chuckled and said: “Seems like the wind is always against us, too.” The Elder said, "Have you ever tried to row a boat with a strong wind blowing hard in your face"? "Yes", they said. "Have we ever". And then the wind got stronger and the waves choppier and those strong fisherman were terrified. Utterly terrified. They knew what storms could do. They had all lost brothers or friends or fathers on the water. It took every ounce of strength they had just to keep the boat from tipping over.

The Elder kept talking. “It was sometime in the fourth watch of the night which was between three and six in the morning. There in the dark with the waves crashing into the boat they knew any minute they could sink. Helpless and afraid—they did not know what to do. And looking across the lake they saw a figure." " It was a ghost," someone said. And you could now hear a murmur in that little house church. A chuckle really. They already knew how the story ended. “But it wasn’t a ghost at all. As he got closer one of them said: ‘It’s Jesus—guys. It’s not a ghost. It’s Jesus.’ And there on the water with the wind blowing so hard they could hardly hear what he said, Jesus spoke to them: ‘Take heart,’ he said, ‘Be not afraid’.”

But the Elder leading the service was not finished. “Simon”, he said, “so glad to see you. Peter asked the Lord if he could come to him. And Jesus nodded. And Simon Peter began to walk on the water, too. But he looked down, taking his eyes off Jesus and he sank. He was drowning. Jesus reached out his hand and pulled Peter up. They both walked back to the boat and crawled in. And the strangest thing happened,” the Elder told them. Matthew recorded it later. “The wind ceased and the waters became calm and the Disciples in awe and wonder said: ‘Truly you are the son of God’.” Do you see why the early church loved that story and left it in the gospels? On a dark and stormy night when they thought all was lost—at three o’clock in the morning Jesus got into the boat with the disciples and the wind and the waves just ceased. Peace—it was so peaceful. That’s what the Elder said.

Somewhere I have heard that Scott Fitzgerald once said, “In the real dark night of the soul it is always three o’clock in the morning.” I think the Disciples would understand those words. There they were alone in the middle of a storm, in a tiny, tiny boat and they were so vulnerable.

Ever had a three o’clock in the morning experience or nightmare? Something scary, something beyond your control, something that could just sweep you away. You know what I’m talking about. You’ve rowed your boat like those fisherman until your arms have ached and the wind was against you and you were exhausted. All your resources were depleted and a depression just descended on you like a fog. Or maybe it was not a depression as much as it was fear. Three times in this story the fear is mentioned. 1) Terrified in vs. 26; 2) When they thought they saw a ghost they cried out in fear—vs. 26; 3) And in verse 27 Jesus tells them: “Be not afraid.”

If we had time this morning and we had the courage I would ask you to stand and name your fear. What’s your three o’clock in the morning? Money. Worried about the Stock Market, the Dow. Banks closing. All these thousands and thousands of home foreclosures. Wondering you’ll have enough to take you all the way to the finish line? Maybe it’s health. Cancer—which we all dread. Maybe Alzheimer’s. I just had a friend that spent $2500 on a test to see if she was in the beginning stages. She didn’t have it at all. Maybe just afraid of winding up in some Nursing Home…or just getting old. Maybe you don’t worry about yourself but you worry about the kids. Grown-up children more than little ones. I heard someone say the other day: “You think they are trouble when they’re little. Just wait until they are grown—you’ll see.” Maybe you worry about some child’s divorce and living on a shoestring as a single parent with your grandchildren shuffled back and forth and back and forth. One Christmas we helped our daughter and her two girls put up the Christmas tree. And as we put the ornaments on the tree our little seven-year-old said: “Oh Mama, I wished you and Daddy wasn’t divorced.” Maybe it’s being young and seeing life stretch out there and not wanting to come back all broken or in a box from Iraq or Afghanistan. What is your three o’clock in the morning? Iraq or Iran or terrorism. OR just watching the 6:30 news and looking out a world where values are so twisted. We could go on and on. But everybody—everybody has some three o’clock in the morning.

Those little house churches in the first century told this story over and over of the stormy sea and Jesus walking on the water. It was about a dark and stormy night when they learned they were not alone. Somebody sent me a quote the other day. A Carmelite Nun, Jessica Powers, wrote it in a poem. And this is what she wrote: “I came upon earth’s most amazing knowledge: Someone is hidden in this dark with me.”

And if I understand the gospel at all it says that at three o’clock some dark night we need to remember this story. The waves were choppy. And sometimes in rowing against the wind it was just too much. And it looked like the boat would sink. And at 3:00 o’clock in the morning Jesus comes. And what did he say. What he says over and over in the Scriptures: “Be not afraid.” Someone is in this dark with us.

You may not know the name Horatio Spafford. He was a successful Chicago lawyer and a close friend of D.L. Moody the great Evangelist. In 1873 because his wife was suffering from exhaustion, her Doctor suggested a vacation. So Spafford arranged for his wife, himself and his four daughters to travel to Europe for a month. At the last minute he had in stay in Chicago and he would follow them in a few days. So they boarded the S.S. Ville du Havre in November of 1873. On November 22 the ship hit an English ship, the Lochearn and sank within twelve minutes. All four of the Spafford daughters were lost at sea. Only the Mother survived. And when she landed in Cardiff, Wales on December 1 she cabled her husband the sad news: “I am the only one left.” He left immediately to meet his wife with a heavy heart. And his ship approached that awful place where his family’s ship had gone down and taken his daughters, he sat down that night. I wonder if it was three o’clock? He sat down and wrote the words we have all come to know. They have been sung at funerals and other sacred occasions since that time. I think they have stood the test of time because they speak to our hearts:

“When peace like a river, attendeth my way,
When sorrows like billows roll;
Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say,
It is well, it is well with my soul.”

So you see it is understandable that the early church, in a hard time would tell this story for comfort and strength again and again. We tell it now because it is our story too. Whatever three o’clock in the morning comes the waves may come high and the water may be cold and the night may be very dark—but Jesus comes and he says to us what he said to them: “Take heart, it is I, be not afraid.” It’s three o’clock in the morning and someone is in this dark with us. Thanks Be to God!

More Thoughts on the Debt Ceiling-- The Poor, Poor Rich

Some wise person said not long ago, "If you came to America for the first time and looked around you would think that rich people have no money." That's the elephant in the living room. This bill that finally passed takes away nothing from the well-heeled. If I understand what was voted on--what it does do is slash benefits to those most in need. Nary a word about extending payments to the unemployed. What are we thinking? We are in a royal mess. Read Bishop Spong's succinct words on this whole issue. Seems like to me he is on to something.

Do we now turn our attention to the hurting needs of this country? Will we wind down these wars? Or will we simply keep on playing Junior High School in Washington. I hope the pundits are wrong...several of those columnists I respect have some pretty hard words to say about what we have just done. Some of my friends are furious at President Obama for what they call "caving in." I vacillate on this issue. In conceding so much I think he has hurt the country and the people most in need. On the other hand--maybe he knew that to default and not raise the ceiling would create havoc. Lord knows we don't need any more of that.

 On my better days I remember something of our history. Democracy has always been messy. Those who speak of the founding fathers misty-eyed forget they went at it tooth and claw. Thomas Jefferson represented states rights and Alexander Hamilton was certain we had to have a strong government in Washington or this whole experiment in democracy would fall apart. Those two strands of less and less government--relying on the states to do almost everything for us is still with us. The other strand deeply believes believes we desperately need a strong government because there are some things that smaller groups cannot do. It has most interesting in Alabama to see how we turned toward Washington during this recent tornado. There have been plenty of howls months later from the anti-government crowd that say the federal government has let them down.

We can't have it both ways. Either we keep nodding toward the rich who are pulling most of the strings in this country--or we keep moving toward "the least of these" that will fall through the cracks without our help.
You might appreciate Joe Nocera's column in today's New York Times entitled, "The Tea Party's War on America."

Wounded Ministers--A Place To Go

It was a long week. It started last Monday afternoon and ended Friday afternoon. I met with a group of ministers that were hurting terribly. Some of them had been terminated by their church. Others felt like the axe might fall on them at any time. One person had been in his church for over 15 years and was told to leave the grounds immediately and not come back. What was it—drugs, sex or other destructive behavior? No, not usually. Almost every story sounded the same. Some group in the church—usually a gang on three—would blindside the Pastor at a special meeting. They said things like: “Your ministry is not effective.” “We don’t like your preaching.” “You failed to meet our needs.” Usually the church had no idea this was happening. The self-appointed threes said, “We’ll give you three or sometimes six months if you just resign and quietly leave”.


Most in the group were shell-shocked. Those having the hardest time were the wives of those dismissed. One couple had moved across the country—bought a house and been there less than a year—and the Senior Pastor said they just were not working out. Almost all of those gathered in our little circle had children. Their lives were torn up by the roots—they had to leave friends and schools and churches they loved. They did not understand what was happening.

Now none of us are naive enough to think that all these pastors and staff people are perfect. Far from it. Almost all of them could look back and see mistakes they had made. Some very serious. To help we had a silent time every day. We told our stories to one another. We had a Consultant that talked about resumes and how to start over. We had a Pastor to discuss leadership and the potholes of ministry. We talked about the importance of a strong support system. There was a therapist that met with us all week long and was available for group and personal counseling.

Samford University in Birmingham picked up the tab for room and board and place to meet. Other colleges have done the same. We cannot do so without their generosity. Those that came to sit in that little circle of caring and grief and pain and understanding came to us at no cost. The week was free because we knew they couldn’t afford much if anything.

Leadership Magazine, a journal for church leaders surveyed 593 ministers. This is what they found.

22.8% had been fired or forced to resign
34% said their predecessor had been forced out

62% of the forced-out pastors said the church that terminated them had done 

          the same thing before to at least one other minister

 43% of the forced-out pastors said a faction in the church pushed them out,

 71% of those indicated the faction numbered 10 or less

 20% of the forced-out pastors said the reason for the real reason for 

          their leaving was made known to the entire congregation.

The group last week came from several denominations. They spanned the spectrum from young marrieds with little children to people in their late fifties. It was interesting to see the theological divide in that room. Age or theological differences did not matter. By weeks end did not matter. For in that circle we found community and love and acceptance. We discovered church as it was meant to be. Sometimes a Minister can go all his or her ministerial life and never find such grace.

Reuel Howe told the story of a church in Philadelphia which at one time had a succession of great preachers. They found themselves with a young man, who after a year had not measured up to the quality that the congregation expected. When a committee consulted with him, and he learned of their evaluation, he offered to resign. The committee refused to accept his resignation and told him that it was up to them to help him become the preacher they believed he could be. Years later when the history of that church was written one of the high water marks were the years this man had served the church. (Reuel L. Howe, Partners in Preaching, The Seabury Press: New York, 1967, p.87)

As my car pulled away Friday afternoon from that retreat I remembered that story. And I thought of those hurting faces in that weeklong circle. Remarkably, most of those ministers said they were ready to find another parish. How many vocations out there have such commitment? And my hope is that like weary Moses long ago on his hard journey, they will find some group to hold up their hands in their time of need.

(If you are interested in finding out more about Ministry to Ministers you might check our web site: www.mtmfoundation.org. Since its inception in 1994 this organization has helped more than a thousand ministers and spouses. MTM has sponsored over 100 weeklong retreats at no cost to the participants. People have been helped from 33 denominations. If you know someone in need, contact this good group.)

Debt Ceiling - We need Light not Heat

Where is that preacher in California when we really need him? The one who kept telling us when Jesus would come back. Maybe it will happen and we won't have to worry about what just might happen Tuesday. If that doesn't work maybe we could get the Preacher in Florida that burned the Koran to burn the budget or the debt ceiling or just about anything to get us out of this mess. Or maybe we could get that tiny church in Kansas that keeps on harassing gays to suspend their campaign long enough to wave signs that would say something like: Hey, Politicians how about thinking about the people...and not your upcoming election. It would be a shame if we tanked just because a bunch of selfish, self-serving politicos couldn't handle the people's business in a healthy way.

Are you scared about Tuesday? I am. I hope when all this settles down we are a better nation. (I am dubious.) I wrote weeks ago about this wonderful information site that is fair "and balanced" --I ain't kiddin'--and gives some light where there is far too much heat and posturing. Check out FactCheck's latest piece which sorta clarifies for me what this " bid-ness" is all about. FactCheck comes out of the Annenberg Public Policy Center at the University of Pennsylvania.

And if you are any kind of a praying person how about stopping and whispering: "God bless America"--we really need it. You might even add the President's name and maybe John Boehner--but I am not at all sure I would add Mitch McConnell.

Remember the Fallen

The war in the Middle East continues and continues. Our men and women still come home in flag-draped boxes. The latest figures we have of our troops killed (June 5, 2011) In Iraq and Afghanistan are 6,026. As our longest war rages on we must not forget those who have died and those that are serving for us while we go on with our lives. Elizabeth Warren pointed out last night on a television program the numbers of foreclosures of families who serve in this war. While they serve their country—banks are taking their homes. This is madness. Meanwhile our politicians play silly posturing games in Washington. The Washington Post has a web site of the faces of the fallen. You may want to read this moving web site.

You also might want to read Sebastian Junger’s splendid editorial piece in last Sunday’s New York Times. He asks “Why Would Anyone Miss War?” Junger is no wild-eyed liberal. He spent five months with a platoon of our troops with US 2nd Battalion in the Koregal Valley of Afghanistan. Though he is a writer, he was allowed to live as a soldier for this time. He tells that story in his book, War. He also filmed much of that five-month time showing footage of war in a film, “Restropo.” He writes about the real horrors of war—not only our casualties—but the casualties we have inflicted on innocents simply because this is the way war is. I keep remembering the English soldier, Siegfried Sassoon and his splendid poem that was written about peace during the First World War.

“Everyone suddenly burst out singing;
And I was fill’d with such delight
As prison’d birds must find in freedom
Winging wildly across the white
Orchards and dark-green fields; on; on; and out of sight.


Everyone’s voice was suddenly lifted,
And beauty came like the setting sun.
My heart was shaken with tears; and horror
Drifted away. . .O but every one
Was a bird; and the song was wordless; the singing will
never be done.”

Let us remember the fallen.