Notre Dame and Easter Sunday

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"The rain to the wind said,
'You push and I'll pelt.
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.
--Robert Frost

Working out the other day I glanced up at the television. I stopped. My hand went over my mouth. "I can't believe this,"  I said, "Notre Dame is burning!" People all over the world had the same reaction. Parisians and people from many places were kneeling, some praying, many crying. A whole lot of us know how the flowers felt. 

We stood in that wonderful place on Easter Sunday 2013. Easter Sunday at Notre Dame! It was the day that many of the great bells had been recast. Many of them had not rung since the middle ages. They were all in place and to stand there on that Sunday of Sundays, well it really did take our breath away. 

photo by Fraser Mummery / flickr

We've visited once since but that visit did not hold the power of that Easter Sunday morning when the bells began to toll. Somebody wrote as book some time ago entitled, "Things We Lost in the Fire." I thought about that as I watched that great cathedral burning and burning. We lost a lot. But not all was lost. Thanks to firemen and other brave people the two towers still stood. Many of the treasures that go back, seemingly forever were carefully taken from the charred embers and will one day be back in place.

There is nothing to say really except that we really do know how the flowers felt. Grief comes down our road in strange ways and even stranger times. Thank God on Easter we will look up as did those first disciples on Easter morning and after the charred embers of Friday and the tears that just kept flowing--we look up and know that the bells just might ring again.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Fritz Hollings--What a Great Leader Looks Like

 courtesy of flickr

Today, April 16, we laid to rest one of the great leaders of our time. Senator Fritz Hollings was not just a politician. He was one of those rare leaders who helped make his state and country better for everyone.  He served as South Carolina Governor from 1959 to 1963. He was a South Carolina Senator from 1996 to 2005. He was 36 year old when he began serving as Governor and was the youngest Governor in the twentieth century.

He was from Charleston and anyone who heard him knew where he was from. That slow Southern downstate drawl. His fingerprints remain all over this country.

*  He served in World War II as an officer in North Africa and European campaigns.
*  He worked hard to lure business to our state.
*  He improved education in South Carolina.
*  As a Senator he pushed for assistance for those in poverty and hunger.
*  He advocated environmental policies and economic growth.
*  He received the Bronx Star and seven campaign ribbons.
*  He is the father of the state's technical college system.
*  He entered politics as a segregationist but changed during the Civil Rights era.
*  As Governor he oversaw the integration of Clemson University in 1963.
*  He opposed attempts to weaken the Voting Rights Act.
*  He co-authored the bill that created the Special Supplement for Women, infants and children.

Jean Toal, former Chief Justice of the SC Supreme Court said, "Fritz Hollings was the first state figure who literally dragged South Carolina kicking and screaming into the 20th century. He was one of those young men who went through the fires of World War II and emerged with the leadership and determination to change his own world."

I remember his defense for the importance of government I read somewhere: 

"A veteran returning from Korea went to college on the GI Bill; bought his house with an FHA loan; got electricity from the TVA, and later from an EPA project. His parents retired to a fam on social security, got electricity from the REA and soil testing from the USDA. When the father became ill, the family was saved from financial ruin by Medicare and a life was saved with a drug developed through NIH. His kids participated in the school lunch program, learned physics from teachers trained in an NSF program and went through college on guaranteed student loans. He drove to work on the Interstate and moored his boat in a channel dredged by Army engineers. When floods hit, he took Amtrack to Washington to apply for disaster relief, and spent some time in the Smithsonian Museums. 

Then one day he wrote his Congressman an angry letter asking the government to get off his back and complaining about taxes for all those programs created for ungrateful people."

Fritz Holdings understood the meaning of public servant. And this state, country and world is better because he passed our way.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Jesus Still Weeps as He Looks at our Southern Border

Monument at Oklahoma City National Memorial / Photo by Tabitha Kaylee Hawk / flickr

In this season of Lent we are slowly making our way toward Calvary. We are past the midpoint of the journey. Palm Sunday with its palms and alleluias lies just ahead. On the cusp of the Holy Week passages in Matthew we are given our Lord’s last parable. It might even be considered Jesus’ last will and testament. As his days were running out—what would he say to his friends? Why did Matthew place this parable just before the way of the cross begins?  And what is the church to say about this story as we put it down before our time?

Read this account for yourself. Matthew 25. 31-46. Verses 37f: “Lord, when was it we saw you hungry and gave you food, for thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and you gave med clothing, I was sick and you, I was sick or in prison and visited you? And the King will answer them: “Truly I say to you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”

When the history of our time is written up and the mandate of these words is placed down before the church and Christians—people will wonder why did we ignore these words of Jesus. On our southern border we do have a crisis. Thousands of poor, scared and hopeful people are finding that we really ignore this basic command of Jesus. Of course we cannot take in all that come. Of course we must be responsible in checking those that come. Of course we must continue to work on keeplng our borders safe. But we do not put children or adults in cages. We do not rip children from their parents’ arms. We do not treat these desperate people as subhuman. These folk are not to be treated as political pawns. We must raise our voices to this President who seems not to care of these people. We need to address the problems in  the countries they come from and find ways to make their homelands safer. 

This Lenten time how can we ignore this last parable that Jesus gave? Cruelty has nothing to do with being an American. Read Sindy Flores’s moving article published in The New York Times and weep for us all.

Dr. Ernie Campbell gave me this poem years ago. I don't know anything more appropriate for our time:

"What, finally, shall we say

In the last moment

When we will one confronted 

By the Unimaginable,

The One

Who could not be measured 

or contained

in space or time

Who was Love  

Unimited?

What shall we answer

When there question is asked

About our undeeds

Committed

in his name--

In the name of him

For whose sake we promised

To have courage

To abandon everything?

Shall we say 

That we didn't know--

That we couldn't hear the clatter 

Of hearts breaking--

Millions of them--

In lonely rooms, in alleys

  and in prisons

And in bars?

Shall we explain

That we thought it mattered

That buildings were constructed 

And maintained 

In his honor--

That we were occupied

With the arrangements

Of hymns and prayers

And the proper, responsible way

Of doing things?

Shall we tell him

That we had to take care 

Of the orderly definition 

  of dogmas

So that there was no time

To listen to the

  sobbing

Of the little ones

Huddled in corners

Or the silent despair

Of those already beyond

  sobbing?

Or, shall we say this, too:

That we were afraid--

That we were keeping busy

  with all this

To avoid confrontation

With the reality of his

  meaning

Which would lead us to

  repentance--

That it was fear that 

  kept us

Hiding in church pews

And in important boards

  and committees 

When he went by?"

  --Ursula Solek

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette/blogspot.com

Mayor Pete Buttigieg Opens Up His Heart

"How many roads must a man walk down

 Before we can call him a man?

...The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind

The answer is blowin' in the wind.

--Bob Dylan

Mayor Pete Buttigieg stood before the cameras yesterday and shared his hard journey in accepting the fact that he is gay. Every American ought to hear his words which were genuine and spoken from the heart. He shares about the difficult path he has had in accepting who he is. He clearly states that to be gay is not a choice. He is serving as Mayor of South Bend for a second term. This Presidential candidate revealed that he is a Christian, a practicing Anglican with a husband. He served in the Naval Reserve from 2009 to 2017 attaining the rank of lieutenant. He also served in the war in Afghanistan. This Mayor speaks seven languages and is a Rhodes scholar. 

 This country is vast and diverse. Surely the day will come when who we are--not what we do--shows the character of our hearts. I recommend this video to all. And I wish Mayor Buttigieg well as he helps us ponder what makes America great. --Roger Lovette

Maybe Church Matters After All

 

photo by David Brock / flickr

Sometimes for preachers a nightmare becomes a reality. Every minister I know has the same dream or close to it. It’s Sunday. The church is singing. But you can’t find your pants or any of your clothes. Sometimes you can’t find your notes or your Bible. They are waiting out there for the preacher and you are not ready. And the dream ends. 

Last Sunday I had my pants on and everything else. Even my tie. My Bible was nearby and I was getting ready to preach in this new church. And at 9:40 they called. “Where are you?” “I’m at home.” “Didn’t you know that our church starts at 9:30?” “What! Nobody told me that. I thought it was eleven.” Silence from the other end of the phone. And then I said: “Hmm. I’ll leave right now. I’ll be there soon. Tell everybody to wait. Oh, I am so embarrassed.” I didn’t know exactly where the church was. I had never been there. I had directions but I wasn’t even sure they were right. So I drove—frantically—you can imagine. What if I don’t get there? What if I can’t find the church? What if a cop stops me? 

This was no nightmare. This was real time—as they say on the telly. I bypassed the church sign which pointed the way. I turned around and about two blocks later—there it was.  This little white church with a tiny steeple sitting on a hill. It was beautiful. Later I learned it went it all the way back to 1836. It was the Mother church of all the Presbyterians churches scattered in the area. 

I stopped my car, grabbed my Bible and walked through the doors. “We’ve done everything preacher but the sermon.” There were eleven sitting  there—all on the back pews of course. So—I opened my Bible and began to read that old story of the man who gave his servants five talents, two talents and one talent. I stood in the back with them and quoted Mary Oliver’s question: “What are you going to do with your one wild precious life?" 

I talked to them and myself. I reminded them that we all have some talents. All of us. None are left out. And we have to decide if we’ll bury that gift in the ground or use it as best we can. 

Most of them had grey hair. Maybe one young man was there. A couple of middle-agers. But I wondered: Is this appropriate for all these grey-hairs sitting out there? The story says: Yeah. We all have a gift even those of us who have far less to travel. Most of our years were behind us. 

We forget sometimes that dotted all over this country there are tiny congregations that meet Sunday after Sunday.  Why—I am not sure. But this I know. They wouldn’t keep coming that handful or that church-full. They come to hear a word they don’t hear any other place. They come with joy and angers and fears and wondering and often a little hope. We’re all the same. And those who never come or don't think about those little white churches on the hill don’t know that something real happens in those tiny places. People hug and compare notes and gossip and tell a multitude of things. They pray for one another. And they find, wonder of wonders, just enough manna to keep them going for another week.

I’m glad I tore out of my drive way and drove to a place I had never been—late though I was. They gave me something last Sunday morning. A reminder that somewhere between the Invocation and the the Benediction God really does walk down those little aisles and stop at every pew—and the pulpit too I think. 

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

When Church is Supposed to Be Church."

Often I have sat there as someone poured out their hearts. "I can't go to church--the church won't accept me." He was gay. "I can't go to church--our son has been such an embarrassment I can't face anybody." The boy had struggled with drugs for years. "You couldn't catch me in church--the preacher and nobody else ever came around when my husband was so sick and finally died. I felt so alone." The young man said, "God, I've done awful things--I could never be forgiven . Church--hah!" "No, I couldn't  come," she said. "I don't have any money. The kids and I have no decent clothes--we wouldn't be comfortable there." Unfortunately she was right.

There are all sorts of reasons people stay away from church. Sometimes a church somewhere broke their hearts. Some times it is a petty reason that should never keep anyone away from anywhere. 

But after six church and eight interims--I still stay. Sometimes friends say: "Are you nuts?"  Maybe I am. 

Sure we've put up barriers and roadblocks through the years. Deacons standing at the back door shaking their heads when blacks came up the steps. Muslims wondering if those people that sneered at them at the mall were Christians. A Mama whose boy died of AIDS remembered some preacher saying he would burn I'm hell. 

But let's not get too gloomy. I remember a Habitat house we build for a family in Memphis. As the Mama was given the keys to there new home she said, "I've wanted me a house all my life. And when I thought I had just about enough for the down payment--something took the money. But after all these years--Today's the day!" I remember a women who had so very little taking her widow's mites and handing them to me for a semester's tuition. After every storm that had taken so much away--down the highway would come men and some women in trucks with hammers and nails. Their church sent them. And it mattered. The Churches in that town that banded together and brought a refugee family there and saved their lives. Sure--we have our barriers and roadblocks to the altar of every church. But don't forget that stream of those--and there are many--who have heard the " Whoever gives a cup of cold water in my name..." and follow through.

We have to keep pulling down the roadblocks and letting everybody know they can come in and they matter. Someone rightly said, "if any" is the most inclusive word in the gospel.

It all came back to me in a strange way. I was visiting Oxford in England when we walked into the Chapel at New College. In the narthex standing before us was this life-sized statue. It looked like a man--or a woman--wrapped in strips of cloth from head to foot. I told my wife, "Why, it's Lazarus." We moved on in to that beautiful chapel but I could not forget the wrapped Lazarus standing in the vestibule. 

Days later I was still thinking about our encounter in the New College chapel. I am told this was one of Jacob Epstein's last major works. How fitting to place this work in the entrance of that chapel. Lazarus stands there and looking closely I was not sure this was a man or a women. But his/her face was turned toward the doors of the chapel. 

Isn't this the task of the church--there at its entrance--to say to every Lazarus you can be unbound. The grave clothes of so much can slowly be unraveled. Jesus said: "Unbind him and let him go" and slowly the dead or sleeping Lazarus awakes and begins to walk. 

What a vision--to say to everyone--at the entrance of every church--like Lazarus you too can  be unbound ands released from all the trappings that have held you back. Slowly the gauze is unwound. Slowly and the dead Lazarus stirs and walks. 

And the promise of the vestibule is that all of all the cripples and hurts and culture that have bound us be stripped away and we can be set free. How far afield we have come to think the bindings of the so muchness is just who we are. That the dressings that binds are  just life itself. 

But if come Sunday those who come: little children...burdened parents...all the old man and women with watery eyes on walkers...and those who lean close to just try to hear what is going on. And what on Sundays all heard this word they never heard before And all their constrictions--and ours--could fall away and life could be different forever.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

President Trump and John McCain--Sometimes You Can't Be Silent

photo by Gilbert Mercier / flickr

Did you find it as strange as I did that President Trump stood before a cadre of tanks and bashed not once, but again and again one of the great heroes of the Twentieth century. John McCain. Maybe he thinks if he says : “I love my veterans” enough that many out there will believe him. Maybe he is just trying to convince himself.

We should have known it was coming. Before he was elected President remember his horrifying statement about Senator McCain. Smearing his good name he said, “He wasn’t captured. He surrendered.” And this was followed by the words that few could believe: “I like soldiers that were not captured.” John McCain was held captive for over years and tortured unmercifully. When he had a chance to be released from that Vietnam prison he refused until all his comrades were released. 

As Senator McCain was dying Trump said mean and cruel things about this great man. And yet seven months after his death our President has the audacity to talk about how McCain was last in grade points at West Point. Not true. Not smart, he said. Until the President was pushed against the wall did he only allowed the flags over the White House and other places to be lowered after Senator McCain’s death. He claimed credits for the planning of McCain’s funeral and lamented he did not even get a thank you note from the family.

This man who dodged the draft under the pathetic malady of a bone spur tries to erase his own cowardice by belittling someone who served courageously. Maybe he thinks if he hugs the American flag long enough and yells: “I love my veterans” we will forget his own lack of patriotism. 

I keep remembering what the great Martin Niemoller said, again and again when he stood against Hitler. And we must not forget he was a Pastor during those terrible days.

“First they came for the Jews

and I did not speak out

because I was not a Jew.

Then they came for the Communists

and I did not speak out 

because I was not a Communist.

Then they came for the trade unionists

and I did not speaks out

because I was not a trade unionist.

Then they came for me

and there was no one left 

to speak for me.”

Why the silence Senators? 

Why the silence Congressmen?

Why the silence of all the evangelicals?

Why the silence of so many in this country?

Years ago someone asked Dick Gregory why he marched and spoke again racism and injustice and our country and around the world. He had received many death threats and many people despised him. He answered that question of ‘why” like this. , “When my grandchild watches on TV what was happening during those days she will say: “Grandpa what did you do when all that was going on?” “And this is why I did what I did.”

(I took this picture in the cemetery in Luxembourg, Germany where over 5,073 American soldiers are buried. General Patton is buried there.)

—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com