We Remember Jesus and his Cross

We are at mid-point in Holy Week. And I always remember this time of the year a poem

that moves me to this day. Here it is...

"I wonder if Christ had a little old dog,

All shiny and silky like mine?

And a nose round and wet

With two cute little ears

And two eyes brown and tender that shine.

I'm afraid that He hadn't, because I have read,

How he prayed in the garden alone. 

For all of his friends and disciples had fled, 

Even Peter, the one called Stone. 

I am sure that that little dog,

with a heart so tender and warm

Would never have left Him to suffer alone

but creeping right undere his arm,

Would have licked the dear fingers,

In agony clasped, and counting all favors but loss.

When they took Him away would have trotted behind,

and followed Him right to the cross."

Prayer

Almighty God, who knowest us to be set in the midst

 of so many and great dangers,

grant us such strength as may support us, 

and ask of us such strength as 

You yourself will supply.

Through Jesus Christ, our Lord.

Amen.

--adapted from Paul Scherer, Love is a Spendthrift

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

What's So Holy about Holy Week?

Holy Week begins. Holy? How can we call this holy. But pilgrims early on began to follow what would become in time Holy Week. Burchner has written that the word holy meant that the meark of God was there. Throughout it all carrying his cross up those cobbled streets Jesus fell not once but three times. Still he once again stood and shouldered that splintered cross and stumbled on . We know the rest of the story.

Holy I think means that God was in the whole thing. Isaiah had prophesied:’Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows.” And if this is true it means that Jesus is one with us too. Through it all: the hell, the madness, the depravity and evil so unbearable we have to turn away. Think Ukraine. I don’t know how they keep going. But even now desperate in every way—grief on top of grief—many of them hungry, ragged and frightened will enter some church or what is left of that church. They will kneel and look up at what is left of the wounded crucified.  And somehow they will shuffle out to the bombs and dead neighbors and raped women. Is this holy? How can this possibly bear the mark of God. 

And yet we call it holy still. But what if this holy week talk  is not about just one week. Could it be that this mark of God is on all of it. Which includes us too. I hope. I hope.

God did not take Jesus’ pain and agony away. Even when he cried:”My God, my God why?” he was one with us. So every hospital room and every prison cell and all those living under some bridge in a paper box is not left out. God, I think is there.

Amid the Palm and celebration in church today I looked up at my favorite stained glass window. The burning bush. Flames all over the tree. And I remembered Moses, murderer and reprobate tending sheep one day when God spoke. “Moses take off your shoes you stand on holy ground.” Moses must have thought he was losing his mind. Holy ground—there. There? With rocks and scorpions and stubborn sheep and back home a wife who gave him hell. Holy ground? A bad joke.

I leave a home or hospital room and wonder how they can make it—whatever terrible thing it is. But I see many of them a year later and they have more than survived. Isn’t this holy too? Maybe the gospel song is true after all: “We are (all) are standing on holy ground.” No wonder churches everywhere have picked the song up. For people know whatever thing that they bear and don’t think they can stand it another day just might be standing on ground that is holy too.

We want to box in this holy to church or synagogue or mosque. But that doesn’t’t seem to fit Ukraine or all those in every town that suffer…suffer….suffer. 

I leave you with a wonderful story. A.E. Hotchner wrote a biography of Ernest Hemingway.  He called it Papa Hemingway. Gary Cooper and Hemingway were good, good friends. And Cooper developed cancer and it got worse and worse. But Hemingway was having electric shocks treatments in Idaho and could not possibly see his friend. So he asked  Hochner to take Cooper a message.

So Hotchner went to Cooper’s room. And death was not far off.  Cooper was racked with pain. And when the pain had passed Cooper reached over and picked up a crucifix and put it on a pillow beside his head. “Please give Papa a message. It’s important and you mustn’t forget because I won’t be talking to him again. Tell him…that time I wondered about my baptism and doubted that I had made the right decision”—he moved the crucifix little closer until it touched his cheek—“tell Papa it was the best thing I ever did.”

Strange gospel really. Palms and alleluias and choirs singing their hearts out—ushering in this week we call holy. But let us remember if this is true no ground is not holy. And God is always there.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Lenten Question: Why Suffering?

                                                               photo courtesy of Flikr

All this month with the world on fire—some of you have read the questions I am working on this Lenten season. And as we approach the week called Holy it seems to me that suffering is at the heart of being human. The dark side of life surely a part of our world. Wasn’t it true of Jesus:”Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows…” Just follow the Stations of the cross and you will see again and again a suffering God.

The way of sorrows begins with Jesus judged and condemned. Stripped. Beaten. Ridiculed. Spat upon. And the crowd, isn’t there always a crowd that screams: “Crucify him! Crucify him!” And bears and almost crosseyed with pain he took a splintered cross—heavy as lead. And he knew what that meant. And he fell. The cross so heavy he just collapsed. Not once, Before that winding interminable journey will end he will fall, the Stations say, he fell three times. Can’t you just hear the crowd: “Look how weak he is. Messiah? Messiah is not weak and would never get himself where he would carry the cross of a criminal. Little did they know. God what a journey.

And then they stripped him and he stood there just as naked as the day he was born. He knew the pain of vulnerability. Just as those in urine-soaked beds. Or some Doctor pushing the sheet back as the Doctors just stand there just looking. Looking. The vulnerability of not being able to make it to the bath room. And the horror of someone else who must wash you off.

And at the top of the hill there were the soldiers with their hammers and nails. And their did their terrible job as the crucified writhed in pain and delirium. We know what it is to be nailed down. By some sick bed. By some dead-end street. The terrible and nasty job. Wishing you could go back over the years and start again with the kids. They don’t even come home. We know about nails. Crippled with arthritis or Parkinson’s. Sitting in a wheel-chair with ALS and not even able to raise your head. Or cowering in that bunker in Ukraine holding your kids tight—and fear, the terrible hungry, thirsting, hungry fear.

But thank God Jesus whispered: “It is finished.” And death came as it comes to our loved ones and to one day, us too. 

So we stand before the suffering of our time and our lives too. And we ask, as pilgrims have asked it since time began. “Why? Lord. Why cancer and Aids and mental illness and the kids who are so drugged they never stop. Why? Why do we have to contend with suffering. I Keep remembering Annie Dillard’s story in which Hugh—probably standing behind a pulpit or grave reads:”O death where is thy sting?” And someone was said to mutter, “Just about everywhere now that you ask.”

Job the oldest book in the Bible has Job covered in sores, grieving over everything that he loved and taken away. He asked, over and over: “Why Lord…why?” And the heavens were silent. There was no answer. And even when Jesus asked this question. Why? The book says that over and over again he had no answer. Not a mumblin’ word.

We Americans don’t know what to do with these questions that have no answers. We want it settled, tied up, finished. But the only thing that comes is the silence. The terrible silence.

To be human is to suffer. This is what the word made flesh taught us. And what our own human predicament has taught us. Suffering is epidemic and we have no answers for Ukraine or dementia or Covin or cancer or Russia or even death. 

And yet you see them—Mandela. Mother Theresa. Stuttering Joe Biden. Martin Luther King. And in home and hospital and graveside there is only silence as the sick and broken and the grievers stumble away limping yet never stopping.

The only answer I get comes from the Russian, Dostoyevsky: “What keeps me going is that I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for, that in the world’s finale something so great will come to pass  that it’s going to suffice for all our hearts, or the comforting of all our sorrows, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity. And I want to be there when suddenly everyone understands what it has all been for.”

Beyond the maddening silence, staggering up that terrible hill God’s son broken and bleeding and exhausted kept going. That’s my prayer for myself and for all of us.

                                                            photo by Jaaaiiro Souza / flikr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Lenten Question: "Why Pray?"

           

                     

photo by Keith Riley-Whittingham / flik    

My son and I planted some flowers in the back of our house. And when we were finished and said, “You want  to pray that they’ll come up and be beautiful.” He said: “Nah. The last time we did this, we prayed and nothing came up."

A whole lot of us wonder sometimes. Why pray, we mutter? And nothing happens. Looking back on my own pitiable prayer life—on again, off again I’ve wondered. Does prayer matter? I’ve asked the question before broken marriages, cancer, AIDS, suicides, mental illness and a whole lot of heart-breaking topics like this terrible virus and the utter heart-breaking news from Ukraine.

Someone asked Carlyle Marney years ago why God didn’t fix the terrible racial problem in the South. And Marney said, “Why should God fix it when his churches have an absolute majority in the South! Maybe he leaves it up to us.”

So why pray for Ukraine it seems so hopeless. And then I think of all those delivering food to the hungry, digging through debris looking for loved ones, doctors and nurses still ministering to the sick in a bombed out hospital. 

So people say well, prayer might just help the pray-er if nothing else. There are sometimes I have found my attitudes softening or even changed. I have sometimes felt my heart strangely warmed  because someone prayed for me. I think it matters. But just heltping the pray-er leaves a lot of the world out.

After all these years I have found myself still praying. For myself. For my family or for a friend sick or in trouble. Sometimes the divisions in my own life. I pray for a whole lots of folks. And sometimes I just sit in a chair and let the silence surround me  and then I find myself praying one of the oldest prayers in the church. I whisper over and over like a mantra: “Jesus…Jesus…Jesus.”I lay it all out at Jesus’ feet. 

Does it work, who knows? But I believe in the energy of God is released when people pray. I do believe the President of Ukraine and all their tears and grief are not alone.  But I would add the rest of us too.  And deep down despite the chaotic and divided world within us and out there everywhere I still believe it matters. More than I know.

Archbishops Justin Welby and Stephen Cottrell from England wrote this prayer for our brothers and sisters in Ukraine.

"God of peace and justice,

we pray for the people of Ukraine today.

We pray for peace and the laying down of weapons.

 We pray for all those who fear for tomorrow,

We pray that your Spirit of comfort would draw near to them.

We pray for those with power over war and peace,

for wisdom, discernment and compassion to guide their decisions.

Above all, we pray for all your precious children, at risk and in fear,

that your would hold and protect them, 

We pray in the name of Jesus, the Prince of Peace."

Amen

photo by Manhha / flikr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Lenten Question: Who's In, Who's Out

Once upon a time I knew who was in and who was out. I was sure. Oh, I had the answers. We Baptists of course were in. Methodists and Presbyterians were mostly out—they sprinkled. I won’t get into most of the others. Except the Catholics. I was told they had guns in the basement and would soon take over the country. Not to speak of all those statues they worshipped. Muslims did not believe in Jesus and well,I just knew we wouldn’t even consider the atheists. I did not know a single Jew until later. And all those other pagan religions, I just hoped we would send missionaries pronto. 

We would sing: “Safe and secure from all alarms…”. And how good it felt to be in and not out. But it was I think my first year in High School Shirleyand I worked on the newspaper together. Sharp, funny and pretty. And guess what? She was a Catholic and slowly the door cracked open and I realized there were a few others out there who might be in. I loved my Home Room teacher and she was a Methodist. My Journalism teacher was a none and I loved her. 

I’m still working on my list. It is far from settled. But as the world opened in college I guess some of the blinders in my bubble slipped off. And slowly the “Jesus loved all the children of the world…even red and yellow black and white” took on a whole new meaning. 

Carson McCullers wrote once: “Everybody needs somebody to look down on.” But I don’t believe that’s in the Bible. But she is right. We love being in. But the older I get the circle just widens. Jesus did say: “Come unto me all you who are weary and troubled and I will give you rest.” Took me a long time before I unpacked the enormity of that little word all. Even John 3.16 looked different. 

Since then I remember when my best friend finally came out. He was great, funny and brilliant. And years later my son would tell us he was gay. He and his partner have been together over 30 years. The black woman that worked for us was my first counselor and when my Mama died dear Nancy was sitting on the front row with the rest of our family. And Richard my neighbor was one of my favorite people. We would sit on my porch in the evening, drink a little wine and argue about just about everything. He said he didn’t. believe in God but we really were brothers. And one day I wrote him a note and told him that when I thought of him I remembered the words of Carlyle Marney who included this Dedication in one of his books: “To Victor who agreed with me in nothing but was my friend in everything.” 

Jesus said Judge not and he was talking about whores and Gentiles and crooked tax collectors and women and little children and even Judas and Peter the betrayers and those thieves beside him on the cross. 

Jesus and God are so much bigger than anything I ever thought. So…Republicans, Democrats, church folk, those who wouldn’t dare enter a church or synagogue—whole motley crew. 

I am about as far from sainthood as you can get. And I’m still working on the Fudamentalists and the Racists and the Q-anons—whatever they mean, and the Kkkers and all the cruel ones of which they are many. I know, I know Jesus did say Judge not…but couldn’t he cut us all some slack. The judging really is his business.  

So I am still having a hard time answering this Lenten question. But the other day I saw this sign on a church bulletin board that read: “We are all in this together.” I guess that is about as close as I can get to answering this question.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Lenten Question: "Why Do We Keep Doing This?"

Through the years someone comes up to me and asks this question. “Why do you keep doing this?” They really are asking about my being a Pastor and why I am still in the church. And from time to time in some dark night of the soul I have asked it too. Sometimes I say I do not rightly know. I haven’t a clue. Even after all these years I still find myself struggling with this query. Taking off my Pious-Preacher-hat I try not to suffocate my answers with slogans. Somebody said mental illness is doing the same thing over and over. But sometimes I say: I don’t do the same thing all the time. Looking back at my six churches and a multitude of interims I remember now every church I went to was different. Rural, semi-rural, tiny experimental college church with folding chairs, a large college church, as my son put it: “with nail-down seats with a balcony”. Then a large Suburban congregation and followed by an inner-city church smack dab in the middle of the city. In those green first years as Pastor I asked the question a lot. Why? Why? A city boy and wife who had never lived in the country, living on a fragile shoe string, looking out on Sundays at folk that were mostly conservative—with a big “C.” Maybe I did it because I wanted to make a difference. Maybe I wanted to challenge some axioms: “Catholics are going to hell.” “Every word in the Bible is literally true.” “DIvorced men could not hold offices in the church.” My work was cut out for me. Those hard-working farmers and their wives taught me a whole lot more than I taught them. And those loyal school teachers that made a difference. Answering the question I could pathetically respond: “God called me” which answers very little. Maybe I said I wanted to suffer—and some days I did. Maybe I just wanted the spotlight as most of us egomaniacs do. That question still is a mite unnerving. As I Iook back down that winding road of 6 churches and 8 interims and still preaching some. I could answer by saying I do believe Monday, Wednesday, and Friday. But on Tuesdays, Thursday’s, Saturdays I wonder. (Like broken, wounded Ukraine.) I’m no Mother Theresa but I stayed and even after all the ups and downs—I look back and smile. Why did I do this? I do not rightly know. Maybe I am amazed that God writes straight lines with crooked sticks. Maybe the book is right: “We hold this treasure in earthen vessels knowing the transcendent power belongs to God and not to us.” Maybe, maybe that word treasure really is the heart of the matter. --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Lenten Questions

Who wants to live with questions? Not many of us. Our time really is suspicious of questions. We crave answers desperately. So our best sellers tell us how to fix love, marriage, divorce. We are told how to shed forty pounds, make lots of money, put pizzazz back in the bed-room. We are a hungry people and we have to have our answers. The sooner the better.

And Lent comes again and the whole twisting journey Jesus walked is still with us. Who answers the old rugged cross or how we took out the bravest One who ever came this way and we nailed him to a cross. What? Jesus stumbling under the weight of it all. Why? Why? Why? Watching as his old mother stood there sobbing as he stumbled by. Pilate smirked and asked him a question: “ Tell me Jesus are you really the Messiah?” He never said a mumbling’ word. But we’ve asked it too. Burying a son of a overdose. Hearing the Doctor whisper: “It is stage four.” Or turning off the tv because we cannot stand the horror of babies blown to pieces and a whole country in disarray. Or those almost million who left us much too soon from this cursed virus.

Poor Biden or Trump or whoever have microphones too close asking: “give us an answer.” And we listen closely knowing really they have no answers. Rilke the poet exhorts us all to live the questions. “ Do not seek answers,”he said, “which cannot be given you because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far into the future, you will live gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer.”

I remember as a little boy the preachers kept saying: “Christ is the answer.” To what? Because outside those stained glass windows blacks could not even enter those same churches and the rich got richer and the poor may have said piously Christ is the answer. But knowing somehow that answer so self-assured and pious had never even dealt with the hurting questions that first must be addressed. So Lent comes once more beckoning us to follow even if we never ever have the answers. But like those loaves and fishes we will be given just enough to get us down the road.

This is what I want to try to tackle on these 40 days before us.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com