Anniversary Time...

This morning as I think of our Anniversary I suddenly remember that wonderful

song in Rent, the musical. It goes like this:

525,600 minutes

525,000 moments so dear

525,000 minutes

How do you measure a year?

In daylights, in sunsets, in midnights, in cups of

coffee

in inches, in miles, in laughter, in strife 525,600 minutes

How do you measure, measure year in your life?

How about love?

How about love? 

How about love?

But it’s not 525,600 minutes in a year that I talk about. I don’t want to write about minutes—but more. Much more. I’m thinking of 1961 on a cold January night when we held hands by candlelight and said yes to one another.

Whew! It’s been quite a journey from that Louisville night until now. Looking back over the terrain of these years my heart is filled with gratitude toward Gayle. First red couch in that cold four-room parsonage. Churches on top of churches. Ups and downs. Ups and downs. But children. Leslie first and then Matthew. Two red-heads and all the delight they still bring. And broken-down old used cars. And sitting there trying to make the check book work. And the friends we met—and all those along the way that kept asking : “How’s Gayle?”And her fan club in every church I served. And her seven-foot pianowhich she loves probably more than me. And on the dark days saying to me over and over: “It’s gonna be all right.” And she was right. Still is. The trips all over. The Interims after 6 churches. Not ever, ever wanting to pray in public but there, singing, laughing, wanting be there for me most days. The best, I started to say: the best Christian I know. So much more. The best person I know.

So I close with that wonderful cartoon that appeared in The New Yorker. A couple sits at the breakfast table and she says: “Do you know what 30 years of marriage adds up to? 22,000 scrambled eggs, 4,680 loads of laundry, 10,950 beds made, 300,000 cups of coffee, 60 trips to the dentist…”

Oh my. So much more. 

(Of all the photographs I have of Gayle this is one of my favorites. It was the Sabbatical summer we spent in England. This was taken on the Isle of Wight, off the southern coast of England.)

Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

The End of the Journey--Christmas !

It is Christmas Eve. And I am thinking of Ukraine. On this night of nights many of them wrap up in the cold will put on as much as they can walk in. They hold their children’s hands. The old with their canes and make-shift wheelchairs are there to. Slowly they make their way through their battered streets. The pot holes are everywhere. There  is no electricity.

They find their way to what is left of their church. It’s cold there too. Two of the stained glass window have been shattered. Dust covers most of the seats. The benches are hard and cold. The church  is lit by candlelight. 

And they keep coming. The old. The grievers. Those still bearing their scars. And up front there is the Priest in his tattered robes. There is even a make shift choir.

And so the old drama begins yet again. Why do they come on this cold Christmas Eve? The old story they’ve heard before—many times. They know the Scriptures almost by heart. They sing from memory or what is left of tattered hymn books. 

Why do they come. Because in their desperation they hope there will be something in this scarred battered place that they can hold on to. They come knowing there is no other place to go. There are lumps in their throats. There are tears everywhere. But never mind this old story of stars and pregnant women and shepherds barely eking out a living. They understand that cold barn.There is a makeshift feeding trough that holds a child. They hear that once upon a time an angel came—maybe a chorus of angels singing their hearts out. 

And they will soon turn and leave. For a brief moment they forgot the hunger and their makeshift rooms and the terrible dark and cold. And they will remember the words of the priest. The old story and look around at their brothers and sisters tied together by fear ands pain and injustice. And somehow they know as hard as this Christmas is they will make it. They hear “the people in darkness have seen a great light…”and that other word they pray for daily: peace a strange peace that passes all understanding.

And we come too, don’t we. Dressed in our finery we bring with us our scars and wounds. We come maybe just to see the drama and the huge lighted Chrismon tree and the Advent wreath. The squirming children will come and some wag will look around and stare at a snubbing child. And the room is crowded to hear story we know be heart. Someone might sing O Holy Night.”And we will stand and sing “Silent Night.”

 
We will leave and drive back to beautiful trees and turkey and dressing and the presents. They are everywhere. But as it ends and we slip into bed we just might remember that what those scruffy shepherds found. Words we will tell tell our children and grand children over and over year after year. Knowing the light shines in our fearful darkness and the darkness, however strong, can never, ever put it out.

Maybe this is why they and we come.

--Roger Lovette / roogerlovette.blogspot.com

Still Not There Yet?

Advent 4—No, Not There Yet.

“It is it always is, however much we say it was.”

—Thomas Mann

Years ago the kids kept beating on my car seat. “Daddy, are we there yet?”“No—not yet.” And they moaned: “Will we ever get there?” And these days we ask it too, don’t we?

Did Mary and Joseph also asked it ? Those five long hard days as they traveled from their hometown in Nazareth-to Bethlehem where Joseph was to pay taxes. In the last days of her pregnancy Mary must have thought it again and again.  How much longer. Joseph leaving behind the gossip and scandal he must have faced at home. But on that journey he must have asked it too. Will we ever get there?

How much longer is this rocky road with it’s nausea and weariness and fear too—how much longer will it last? Will our baby be all right? They must have said why couldn’t we just stay in Nazareth. But no—duty called.

And duty calls us too. To say goodbye to those we have loved. To those we almost forgot until that Christmas Card came. Recovering from this cursed virus. We thought it was all behind us. Hearing that terrible news of people— who left us a year or more year ago. And we have just heard.

Will we ever quit worrying about our children, our health, old age, the world. That lab report. That lump. The MRI. Is this road never ending?

What a gloomy word for Christmas. But the child is not quite here yet. And the streets in Bethlehem are crowded with so many. And lodging? It will be hard to find a place for Mary especially who desperately needs a rest. 

I am thinking today about all those moving through deserts and snakes and scorpions and bandits and that cold, cold river. And the wall—that cursed wall. 

And as I don my nice duds on Christmas Eve I can’t get those thousands that desperately look for a room out of my mind. Where their children will be warm and all five of them will feel safe. And their fragile hope will flicker. They must have asked it too: Are we there yet.

I have no answers to this enormously complicated problem. Seems like nobody does. But this I do know these are our brothers and sisters. And somehow amid the wonder of our celebrations we must pause and remember. The tiny child we worship would one day say:“As you do it to the last of these —you do it unto me.”

No, children, we are not there yet. And may that fragile hope we all carry make room for all. Somewhere I read about a kindergarten play. Gary was the innkeeper. And little Joseph knocked on the door of the inn. And Gary decided to be inventive. When Joseph asked if there was room in the inn, he answered, “You are so lucky.  We’ve just had a cancellation.”

And may all of us—whoever we are—be able to say the door is open and we have a cancellation. And we will answer our own question: Yes, we will all get there.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

 

Christmas--Not There Yet

 

Now we are moving closer to Christmas. But we are not there yet. The decorations are all up, most of the presents are bought and outside houses glow with lights and beauty. But with all of this—we are not there yet. The little boy asked his grandmother: “Will there ever be another Christmas ?” And we’ve asked it too. For along this Christmas road we look back at the too-muchness of it all. Hatred and divisions. Refugees wondering, wondering. Putin with all his cruelty and pain. People still sleeping in old papers boxes. And tears far into the night. Yet this is not all. The children bring us wonder again. The old Biblical story tells us where we are and where we will be is not the end of the story.

We have been here before. For when the curtain comes up we see on the stage a man and a donkey and a woman-girl heavy with child. We are told they are on a journey. Forced by the Roman government they go back home to pay taxes—even thought they have little. They carry their bundles on that donkey. And the young man leads the donkey and carries part of what they will need. Maybe water. Maybe handfuls of meat and bread carefully wrapped along with a pan or two. 

It was seventy miles from Nazareth to Bethlehem. Seventy miles. The journey usually took four days but with a woman who had to rest and way-stops along the way—they would be on the road at least five days. And she asks softly : “Will we ever get there?” And Joseph wondered too but said nothing.

We don’t talk or preach much about that winding rocky road from here to there. We forget the wind that blew. How cold the nights must have been. And the rain—the cursed rain that kept coming. They did not know what the road ahead might bring. They took the longer route hoping there would be less bandits along their journey. So they traveled five long days. 

We cannot cosmetize the story with blinking lights and even the gorgeous music of this season. Because, like them we are not there yet. And we wonder like Mary and Joseph if we will ever get there. For if we dare look back at our own treks we had rocks, boulders too in our road, and ups and downs and downs and ups. We lost this year. That loved one with memory loss. The funerals—God, will they never end. And the storms like our own Caesar Augustus and Herods and so many others. We are not there yet. 

So we light a third candle on Sundays—flickering though it may be. But we are not there yet. For our journey too, is long and fraught with danger. The story says they kept going day after day. And so do we despite our divorces and Stage Fours and depression and doubts. And it just piles up around us. Will we ever get there?

This is not the end of the account then or now. For though we must remember that old story that we keep telling as if for the first time—still surrounded with all this too-muchness. And there is hope trudging along on that donkey not knowing exactly what will happen but hoping though we are not there yet—hoping we will light another candle and we will remember once again.

                                       --Roger Lovette  / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Let Advent Come

This stained glass piece rests over our kitchen sink. Leaving Niagara Falls, moving toward Niagara-by-the-Lake in Canada my wife and I saw a tiny village and we stopped there. We saw a shop that said, “Stained Glass Here.” Going inside we met an old man, the shopkeeper. He was surrounded by small beautiful pieces made of stained glass. “Tell us about these glass pieces.” And he said after the Second World War he was able to buy stained glass figures from bombed-out churches. He took those broken pieces and framed them with stained glass. We bought this window and it has hung at different places in our houses since that time.

Over our sink, washing dishes, scraping plates—doing the most mundane of things—we see Mary and beside her an angel that brings her an impossible news. “You shall have a son and his name will be Jesus.” To the most unlikely of people, in the most unlikely of places this angel came whispering, “Do not be afraid." 

And so Advent comes. No 40-piece orchestra. No people standing around clapping and cheering. No message in the sky. Just a pregant woman and her cousin, too. And a puzzled Joseph and scruffy shepherds and three kings. And at the centerpiece a manger filled with straw holding a tiny child surrounded by sheep and goats and steaming dung. 

Some days as I wash the plate after munching on my breakfast I look up at my stained glass. Most days it is just another decorative piece. And some days I remember the story of good news and a great joy that has come to all. 

Nobody is left out. No body. And some days I think maybe, just maybe his coming means that in my old age with a hurting back and too many doctors he comes to me. Let Advent come. Even with all the sadness out there. Even coming to all the broken people and broken things. Let Advent come with this slip of a girl and that angel that even speaks to Ukraine and Hershel and Warnock and Biden and a world in disarray.

God, let Advent come to me and mine and everyone. And may we find some great news and maybe joy, too. It seems unlikely. As unlikely as that poor Mother and husband shivering by that tacky manger. The angel said, “Do not be afraid.” And that too is unlikely. And yet if we turn off the TV  and the fear out there so strong that you could cut it with a knife—Advent may just come. And so in the back room far from the Christmas tree we might find that he comes to cancer and Alzheimer's and enormous grief. But isn't this always the setting of Christmas?

Why do we do this year after year and decade after decade? Because despite it all we need an Advent that comes even just a sliver. Bringing this stubborn word called Hope that might just keep us going.

“O holy child of Bethlehem,

how still we see the lie!

Above thy deep and dreamless sleep

the silent stars go by

Yet in the dark streets shineth

the everlasting lasting light;

and hope and fears

of all the years

are met in thee tonight."

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Despite the Whatevers--Advent Still Comes

Growing up I don’t think I ever heard the word Advent. Baptists came to this liturgical season late. In reaction to Catholics we had no crosses in our churches. We had no candles on the table up front. We wore no robes—choir and certainly no Preacher. Processionals—well, no. There was no candlelight communion. We were busy wrapping presents at home.

But somewhere along my road I discovered Advent. It meant getting ready. It meant arrival on the day of days—Christmas. It meant opening your eyes and seeing. It meant reading the story of the wise and foolish virgins and the admonition: Watch. Unlike the Catholics and Episcopalians we began singing Christmas carols on the first Sunday of Advent. In time Advent became one of my favorite seasons. I love the music, the color, the bathrobe dramas. Everything. 

THEN

So in my first church off the main highway in Western, Kentucky I thought it was time to introduce Advent to our little church. When they finally realized this word did not belong to the Catholics they began to settle down. They tolerated their young preacher and some of his new ways. Our rural church was drab. And down front was the Warm Morning Heater that kept us too hot or shivering. So that first Christmas I decided to deal with some of the drabness by introducing our first Advent Christmas wreath. I put five candles in place and decorated it a little with greenery. I instructed the all-male Deacons on the meaning of the wreath and the five candles. And I chose one of our Deacons to light that first candle on Sunday. We began that service with Miss Jenny playing the Hammond organ. The designated Deacon came forward took out his cigarette lighter and lighted not one but all five of the candles! Five.

Despite my mortification Christmas came. Maybe we celebrated Jesus’ coming not one day but five special Sundays. The candles did not deter my parishioners. They came every Advent Sunday and sat in their chosen seats and stared at the pretty candles. On Sundays there were a trickle of divorcees, an unmarried pregnant girl, and old couple dealing with the ravages of old age. And here and there were the ones who had lost somebody.  And farmers worried about the weather and their tobacco crops in the spring. And there were the squirming children who just couldn’t wait for Christmas morning. I learned a powerful message that season. The baby comes despite our screwups and all our human frailties. 

NOW

And this year I watch that first candle being lighted by a little girl whose Daddy held her shoulder high. For Jesus has come a zillion times to me and people inside and outside churches the world over. Those who never darkened the church door. The drunks and the whores and those crippled with drugs. The homeless sleeping in card board boxes.This Jesus reaches across the enormous political divides.  And the grievers are not left out. Or the refugees and the power-mad politicians. But more—those sitting in our pews last Sunday well-dressed need what we all need. A message as old as time. Jesus comes. And so next Sunday we light the second candle and we will remember. No wonder we call it Advent.

 

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.logspot.com

Let's Not Call Thanksgiving Off

Let’s not call Thanksgiving off. Knee-deep in masks and funerals and sickness and grief piled on top of grief—we did not cancel Thanksgiving. We’ve all got a lot on our plates. And looking back on my own journey Thanksgiving came whether I was depressed or had the blahs or diverted myself with a book, TV, or Netflix or the ball game. And Thanksgiving came anyway. Some times I totally missed it.

I picked up a little book years ago. Interesting title I thought. 365 Thank Yous by someone I had never heard of, John Kralik. He opens up his own heart and tells a powerful story. A lawyer with a passel of clients that just did not pay. He had run out of money. He was struggling through a painful second divorce. Distant from his kids. Living in a tiny apartment cold in winter and hot in summer. He was 40 pounds overweight and his new girlfriend had just ditched him. His dearest life dreams seemed to have slipped away. 

Trudging alone on a mountains trail he suddenly thought of the thank you note his ex-girlfriend had sent him thanking him for his Christmas gift. It made his day.  So still on that path he thought what if I wrote a couple of thank you notes to people who have made a difference to me along the way.

So he started to write two or three thank you notes. He mused: What if I wrote a note every day to somebody out there who helped him along? After he started he decided to try to write a thank you note every day of the year. He said it took him longer than a year to write 365 notes—but finally he finished. Guess what? Thanksgiving began to come into this man in all his desperation. Thinking and thanking more people than he imagined had changed his life. Thanksgiving came and he wrote this book. 

He said he just wrote simple notes not too long. He wrote to people he had not thought about in years. And gratitude changed his life. Not all happy endings for all his troubles but he was turned inside out. And Thanksgiving came.

I love the Neil Young song when he sings:

“One of these days, I’m going to sit

down and write a long letter

To all the good friends I’ve known

I’m going to try and thank them all for

the good times together

Though so apart we’ve grown…

One of these days, one of these days

One of these days it won’t be 

long, it won’t be long.”

Turn off the TV. Give yourself a time out. Maybe not Thanksgiving Day but maybe the next day or the next. But some time to sit and remember them and how empty the days might have been without them. Let’s not call Thanksgiving off. Who knows what it just might do to us all?

--RogerLovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com