Guns...Guns...Guns...Guns

photo by M & R Glasgow / flickr

How many times must a man look up
Before he can really see the sky?
Yes, and how many ears must one man have
Before he can hear people cry?
Yes, and how many deaths will it take till he knows
That too many people have died?
The answer, my friend, is blowing in the wind
The answer is blowing in the wind..."
            --Bob Dylan


I'm Preaching next Sunday on the third word that came down from the cross. From the cross Jesus saw his mother and spoke to her with a voice of great tenderness. Even as he died he remembered her. 

So I have been thinking of all those mothers from Sandy Hook to Parkland who are trying to deal with the loss of their sons and daughters. After the shootings--life will never, ever be the same again. Mrs. Robertson whose daughter was killed in the Sixteenth Street Church bombing said: "I was getting ready for church when my husband came home that morning to tell me that our daughter Carole had been killed by a bomb. Life was different," she said, "Always different after that."

I wonder in this yet-another-discussion of gun violence and safety ad nauseam--we need to stop and look at those mothers whose lives have been turned inside out. Funerals for fourteen-fifteen year olds were not what they signed up for as parents. 

All this stupid talk and all the pontifications of those who ought to know better--few mention the mothers who stand by their own personal crosses. Their faces and their grief have been lost in the shuffle. Doers the NRA care really about these parents? Has the President really stared at the pathos and pain of this yet-another-shooting? 

We don't need teachers packing guns. We do not need investigations about who fell down on their jobs. The Sheriff. His deputies. The Mental Health facility. The schools. The parents. The FBI. Or--God forbid--the Democrats. These last few months especially we have made a cottage-industry out of pointing fingers the other way. 

It is time, high time to do something about AR-15's. It is high time to do something about a non-law which says 18 years olds can buy these weapons made for war. It is high time to do something about real honest-to-God background checks. It is high time to dry up these gun shows where anybody can buy anything. It is high time to quit making money or power the bottom line in this gun debate. And for those who worship the Second Amendment--which says: "A well regulated Militia, being necessary to the security of a free State, the right of the people to keep and bear Arms, shall not be infringed." The Originalist-addicts of this amendment forget when this sentence was added to the Constitution they had muskets in mind. They had slaves that might rise up and overpower their owners. They had people scared to death of Indian raids and attacks from England and other countries. They had wild hogs and huge bears in mind when they penned this document. 

There was no FBI. No Security systems. No 911. No police in every hamlet and city in this country. No National Guard would could come to our rescue as needed. Nobody will take our guns away--for hunting or even basic protection. Everybody knows this except maybe a few radicals.

But we do need to give attention when the most civilized country in the world is acting like the most uncivilized. Maybe our children will rise up and do what us adults cannot do. Maybe they will take to the streets by the millions until those in Washington might really hear the voices and the pain and the challenges of those who hid under desks and carried the caskets of their friends days later. 

Thomas L. Friedman, a columnist of the first order wrote last week about the utter gut-less-ness of our political leaders who are more afraid of their $174,000 annual paychecks and free parking at Reagan National Airport that they just look the other way when it comes to dealing with a problem that is killing innocents every day. It was first printed in The New York Times which is not particularly as fake as those who hide behind that word, fake to ignore the truth. Friedman ended his article by saying: "...never underestimate what some people will do for a $174,000 job and freer parking at Reagan National Airport."

God bless America--God knows we need it today as never before.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

The Second Word from the Cross: "Today..."

photo by Rosa Helena / flickr

For this Lenten season I have chosen the seven last words that came down from the cross. Last Sunday we talked about that first word: “Father Forgive Them…” But today’s word is addressed to an outcast. Jesus speaks to a criminal who also hangs on a cross. If the first word Jesus spoke was a word of inclusion—it takes us all in. This second word is a word of compassion. 

We must remember that there were three crosses on the hill that day. Sometimes we forget the other crucifixions. But the Scriptures say that two others besides Jesus hung on crosses  that Friday afternoon. Some scholars think they were not criminals as much as revolutionaries. Remember that Rome invaded their country and was in charge of everything. And the Jews hated Rome and its Emperor and all it represented. Even their coins were Roman coins. So these two banded together with others to drive Rome out of their country. They wanted to take their country back. They lived up in the hills and they would slip into the cities after dark and steal from Rome what Rome had stolen from them. Sometimes they would slit a soldier’s throat just to make a point.

These bandits were rough and bloodthirsty. And one day in the temple area a terrible fight broke out. When the dust finally settled a Roman had been killed and three Jews were hauled off and charged with murder. Jews were not supposed to kill Romans. The names of these three culprits were: Gestus, Dysmas and Barabbas. Barabbas, you remember, was to take the middle cross. But the crowd gave him freedom thanks to Pilate and Jesus took his place. So on that hill that sad Friday afternoon were two bandits—one on Jesus’ right and one on Jesus’ left. 

Look at this first man on Jesus' right—our left. His name was Gestus. This is what the Bible says about him: “One of the criminals who was hanged railed out at Jesus, saying, ‘Are you not the Christ? Save yourself and us.’” Jesus if you are who you say you are save us from this mess.

 We know Gestus, don’t we? If you are who you say you are—get us out of this mess. Fix it.

photo by J James Tissot / flickr

A very fine New Testament scholar says if we are to understand the Bible—we are to identify with the bad guys—not the good ones.  We Christians don’t usually do this. But we’ve all been there like Gestus. If there is anything to this religion business—take out the nails and stop the pain. Not only are those kids and parents in Parkland, Florida saying this. Out of their pain and shock they are saying: Fix this. Fix this. Do something about these guns. They’ve got the politicians on the run. In  this morning's paper they said that in 2017-18 50 bills have been presented to deal with the gun problem. Not a single one of these bills has been passed. Fix it, Jesus. We’ve said it too. This cancer. This unruly kid. This disastrous government. Fix this. This lousy job. More money. All these empty, empty pews. Listening to this old broken  down preacher—fix this. The economy. North Korea. All the hurt out there beyond these doors whose names are on those tombstones. Fix it. Make it better. “If you are the Christ—save yourself and us.”

Carlyle Marney , great preacher said one time year’s ago. “I have not asked the Lord God to fix race relations in the South for twenty years. I have not asked him. Why in the world would I do that when we have an absolute majority of preachers and Churches on every corner of the South. God will not do for us—what we can do for ourselves.” We can fix this thing. I think he’s right.

But now let’s turn to that other cross on Jesus’ left. His name, tradition says was Dysmas. He and Gestus had been partners in crime. They had fought the same battles. Told the same dirty jokes. Got drunk together. Maybe there were some other things they never told their wives. 

But this other man did not say: “Fix me.” He did speak, though to his buddy. “Do you not fear God since you are under the same sentence of condemnation? We indeed have been condemned justly,  we are getting what we deserve for our deeds, but this man (Jesus) has done nothing wrong.”

Gestus, don’t you see? It’s plain as the nose on your face. We get what we deserve. We did what they said we did. We were caught red-handed and we are paying the price for our ugly deeds. Gestus, Jesus did absolutely nothing.

But Dysmas did not stop there. He turned his head as best he could to the central cross. And this is what he said, “Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom.” He did not say, “Fix me.” Maybe he knew what the soldiers did not know or Gestus or that mean, ugly crowd. Maybe Dysmas saw not a fix-me power—but a different kind of power. Maybe even in his suffering— maybe we might all find some redemption.

photo by Jason St Peter/ flickr

No fix me or rescue which we have all prayed a hundred times. He did not pray: Get me out of this mess. He simply said, “Remember me. Touch me. Help me.” For maybe the first time in a long pitiable life Dysmas saw clearly the wasted years. The broken relationships. The missed chances. And so he whispered, ”Jesus remember me. Can you heal me, even as I die?”

And now we hear the second word that came down from the middle cross. “Today you will be with me in paradise.”

If the first word was forgiveness—the second word is a promise. Remember old Glenn Campbell. In his prime (before the cursed Alzheimer’s) he would sing so wistfully: 

                                     “Take me home, country roads

                                       To the place where I belong

                                       West Virginia, mountain Momma

                                       Take me home , country roads

                                       Take me home, down country roads

                                       Take me home, down country roads.” 

Today—Jesus said you will be with me in paradise. Jesus remembered him and took him home and Glenn Campbell and one of these days—us, too. 

From that cross Jesus said it—even to the utter, utter hopelessness he said: “Today you shall be with me in paradise.” And so this second word from the cross is: Today. Look around you. Your today. It may not be what you want or what you thought. This today. It may be a far cry than what you dreamed when you twelve years old. Before the mistakes and sins and stupidities of your life piled up. Today. Waking up, opening your eyes and saying: “This is the day the Lord has made let us rejoice and be glad in it.“ Today. He said” Today is the day of salvation.Today? This day. Yes, this day. 

As I was preparing this sermon it all came back. I was a Pastor in Birmingham. And a couple came in one day and said they wanted to talk. As they sat down they were embarrassed and found it hard to say anything. And then they poured it out. “Our boy has lived in New Orleans for a long time. And he got sick with AIDS. We knew he was gay and we were so worried about him and he called us and wanted to know if he could come home. So many of his friends said their families had turned them away. But he said: Can I come home? “Couldn’t work anymore,” they said. “ And what we want to know is, if he decides to come to church—could he come here? Our church would not take him. Why even our best friends in our dinner group would not understand.”

photo by C.P. Lesley / flickr

And I said, “when he comes home have him come talk to me. I think we would take him. I would hope so.” And he knocked on the door one day and said he wanted to come to our church and maybe join. I told him that Jesus stretched out his arms to everybody. 

He joined. He was there about every Sunday. He didn’t look sick but after a while people knew he was not well. Lost weight. Looked terrrible. And two members—our biggest givers—came in one day and said: “What are you gonna do about this homo?” (Back then people thought you could catch this scary disease just by being in the same room.) “What are you going to do?” And I said: “We just open the doors and take whoever comes. And I am not going to turn anyone away.” Well—it got scary. People were mad. Some left. But we just kept opening our doors.

So when Tommy got so sick he couldn’t come anymore—and I would visit him in his parents’ home. And some of our members visited him and his mother and father. They were so devastated. They wouldn’t tell their friends—and they went to another church every Sunday—they didn’t think they would understand. So they kept quiet. But one day they called me and said, “The Doctor came by and said he’s not going make it.”  I brought the Bread and the Cup. And he took them slowly. Painfully. And I also brought my tape recorder and told his Mama and Daddy and Tommy—I want to play something. I asked them to hold hands--and to sing along with the song. And the recorder began to play: “Jesus remember me…Jesus remember me…Jesus remember me when you come into your kingdom.” It was a a prayer. For Tommy. For his broken devastated parents. And for me and those two friends who had come with me that day. 

It was this second word that came down from the cross. And to a dying thief Jesus said, “Today you will be with me in paradise.” And we all need to remember this promise is for all of us. He does remember us. And he does stand with us. And he takes us home, too. All of us. Each of us. Thanks be to God.

photo by Rosa Helena / flickr

(This sermon was preached at the First Presbyterian Church, Pendleton, SC , 

                                     February 25, 2018)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Billy Graham: A Memory

 Photo by Brent Moore / flickr

Yesterday when I heard Billy Graham had died--I went back to another time and another place. The year was 1950. We lived in a little cotton-mill village a hundred miles from Atlanta. My Daddy and Mother worked in the mill across from our house most of their adult lives. Somewhere word came that Billy Graham was coming to Atlanta. Even then everybody knew about the Evangelist Graham. We had read his books, listened to his Hour of Decision on the radio. Every time we heard "Just As I Am" it would remind us of Billy Graham and the Invitations he always gave.

I wanted to hear the great Evangelist--but Atlanta was far away. In fact I don't think I had ever been there. I don't remember many of the details but I do remember my Daddy telling me we

photo by Ralph W. Hayworth / flickr

were going to ride the train to Atlanta and we were going to hear the great Billy Graham. I invited a high school buddy to come along with us. We had no car so I suppose we rode the bus down to the train station. I have no memory of that first train ride on the Man o' War. I don't even remember getting off the train, seeing much of Atlanta or where we must have eaten. What I do remember is sitting high up in a baseball stadium crowded with, I guess thousands of other people. I don't remember a thing the preacher said that night--but I do remember being touched when from all over the house people came forward at the end of there service hoping to have their lives changed. My friend told me later that night was the beginning of his faith journey which took him to college then Seminary then church after church until his retirement.

I have little memory of that evangelistic crusade. But what I do remember, looking back is what a sacrifice it must have been for my Daddy with his seven-grade education to plan that trip--and make sure it happened. He wanted his boy to do something he really wanted to do. Taking a trip a hundred miles away was like going to the moon. I never thought it would happen.

My father and I had little in common. He was near-deaf which meant communication was almost non-existent between the two of us. And an adolescent boy, selfish and impatient--I did not realize how hard it must have been for him to understand much that happened around him. But he wanted to please this son whom he hardly knew.

Looking back--there is a lump in my throat. I don't remember much about Billy Graham that night--but I do remember my father who did what he could with what he had. I wish I had told him how much that trip meant. How hard it must have been for him to pull it off. And as I look back on the churches I served, the places I've lived and the sermons I have preached--maybe, just maybe that Daddy and that trip has meant far more in shaping my destiny than anything I ever dreamed.

My father: John Lovett

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

The First Word from the Cross: "Forgive Them" -- A Lenten Sermon

Photo by Jes / flickr

Today is the first Sunday of Lent. And Lent is supposed to be that 40 days that lead to Easter. The church gives us 40 days to get ready for the wonder of the Open Tomb. And the church has historically used these days as a time of pushing back a little and thinking, thinking about Jesus and what he asks of us. And what it really means to be a Christian.

And what I want to do is to use these days to turn again to that hill far away. To Golgotha—skull-shaped. A place where we find a cross. Remember the old song; “At the cross, at the cross where’d I first saw the light and the burden of my life fell away—It was there by faith that I received my sight, And now I am happy all the day!” That’s what we are going to concentrate on until Good Friday. And maybe, just maybe standing so near the place where Jesus died—we might just find something to keep us going.

The church collected the words that Jesus spoke from the cross. They called them: The Seven Last Words. And we are going to stop beside all seven of these words in the next few weeks. And listen. Really listen. The Rule of Benedict says we are to listen with the ears of the heart. It isn’t easy this listening. We are bombarded telemarketers, by TV and newspapers and web sites and I-phones and sermons. And we’ve heard so many words that we just tune them out, don’t we. Even sermons—especially sermons.

But the seven last words say: Listen—listen—listen. I don’t know anybody who does not need this first word: forgiveness. As they nailed nails into his hands and feet, they lifted up that splintered crossbeam to put it into place. The body was suspended on a stave between his legs. The hurt must have been excruciating. On either side of Jesus were two thieves—common criminals—he was surrounded by soldiers who must have smoked and told dirty jokes and gambled for his garments. In the shadows the rulers stood by and smirked. The ugly crowds pointed to Jesus, as crowds always do—and they laughed. The disciples? Where were they? Scared out of their wits. The book said “they all forsook him and fled.” Judas had already hanged himself. Peter had gone away in shame and derision. And only three women—his mother and two others and John, one lone disciple stood at the foot of the cross.

Courtesy of Artezoe / flickr

So this was the setting of Jesus’ first word. What—what did he say? Listen. Listen. “Father, forgive them for they knew not what they do.” Back at the edge of the circle an old man nudged his neighbor and said, “What did he say? What was it.” And the neighbor said: “He said: “Father forgive them for they know not what they do.” And the old near-deaf man said: “Oh..”

Those words are a prayer. They are spoken by Jesus to his heavenly Father. He did not pray for himself. He prayed for them—all those that stood there—and the two thieves, too. “Forgive them.”

Them?  Who are the them’s for whom he prayed? They were the soldiers who cast lots and had no idea what was really going on. Just carrying out orders. Who were the them’s? That nasty crowd that sneered and gawked and called him names. Who were the “them’s”? The rulers in purple robes standing before the microphones and reading off their teleprompters. Who were the them’s? The two sad criminals on each side. But the them’s were also his Mama who wept and those two who came too hold her up and John who was there until the end. He prayed for Judas, who was dead by his own hand and Simon who had betrayed the best thing he had ever known. And I think he also prayed for all the cowards and the weak ones and the broken out there somewhere.

This first word is a word of inclusion. Not only for them. It is a word for us, too. I think he prayed for all of us. You and me and the drunks and homeless and kids riding school buses and the parents in Florida planning today funerals for their fifteen-sixteen years olds. He prayed for us all. We are all included in that first word. 

Remember how Jesus started there at the beginning of his ministry. He came preaching—preaching what? A gospel, a good news of repentance. A forgiveness of sins. Disturbing the status quo. Turning everything inside out. Saying, over and over, you can be different. Whores? Yes. Tax-collectors? Yes. The addicted? Yes. The scared and frightened? Yes. Who are the them? Not only Pilate and Judas and Simon but you and me, too. We are in that company. The Greek original puts it this way: “While they were crucifying him, he prayed: ‘Father forgive them…’

Can you hear what he said? Forgive them. Listen  Forgive all of them. We are all taken in. None of us are left out. And you know there are some that I wish he would leave out. I have this list—do you have one too?

We spent a month in Oxford, England. And I told my wife I wanted to go to Coventry to visit

the cathedral the Germans bombed in the Second World War. We took the train and found ourselves in the little village of Coventry. The Cathedral there was over a thousand years old. It was a beautiful place. And on the night of November 14, 1940 the Germans bombed the city and the Cathedral was destroyed.  More than 550 citizens lost their lives that night. Nothing was left but crumbling walls where this magnificent building had been. The next morning and the demolition crews came in the town decided they would rebuild their church. And finally the foundation of the new Cathedral was laid by the Queen in March of1956. 

When we visited there—we saw they had kept the ruins. They did not tear them down. But they stood as a grim reminder of what had been. And what evil could do when let loose. To the left of those remains was an archway that leads to the new Cathedral. And in that archway—we stopped. There is a cross—a cross made from the nails and chased beams that fell that terrible night. Natives found some of them still burning. And so they took those nails and the burned-out timbers and constructed a cross. Underneath that cross are two words: “Father Forgive.” And then next door is this beautiful new structure. I try to keep remembering those old bombed-out ruins and those words and the new building. Evil does not have the last word. And the bridge between the old and the new are always the words: “Father Forgive.”

For the charred remains of your dream or lost virtue or failure or hope is where forgiveness begins. He prayed for whatever it is that we just can’t let go of. All the things that cripple and diminish us. Money. Sex. Status. Shame . Heartbreak. Doubt. Fear. Grudges. Hatred of self. Hatred of self. Hatred of self. He prayed for whatever it is we need to let go of.

Those words: “they know not what they do” are troublesome. Does it mean that if we do not know what we do it does not matter. Not at all. I like the way Karl Rahner translates this phrase. “They know not what they do.” He says there is only one thing we do not know. It’s not our sins. Oh, we know them well. Only one thing, he says we do not know. It is God’s love for us. Most of us have never to really heard how much God really loves us. We are like the old man who asked, “What did he say?What did he say?”

I really don’t know how it happens. But forgiveness can touch us all. I was on a plane

leaving Birmingham for somewhere up north. And my seat mate was a distinguished black lady. Her name was Mrs. Robertson. We began to talk. “Do you live in Birmingham?” I asked. “Yes, I have lived here all my life.” 

 I asked her, “You wouldn’t be a member of the 16th Street  Church, would you?” (Remember the 16th Street Church was where four little black girls were killed one Sunday morning.) And she said, “I used to be a member of that church.” “Were you there during the bombing?” I asked. She said, “My daughter was killed that day. Her name was Carole with an ‘e.” She said, “ I was getting ready for church that morning when my husband came by with the terrible news.” She grew quiet and then she said: “Life was different--always different after that.”

We struck up a friendship that day and from time to time we would talk on the telephone. Years later they finally caught a couple of KKK members responsible for that bombing. They asked Mrs. Robertson to testify at one of the trials. Doug Jones that just became a Senator in Alabama was the lawyer. Mrs. Robertson was in a wheel-chair and they wheeled her in that morning and she testified. “This would have been my daughter Carole’s thirtieth birthday.” And she told that courtroom the story of her loss and sadness.

Later Spike Lee interviewed her for the movie, “Four Little Girls.” which tells the story of that awful morning. At the end of the movie Mrs. Robertson speaks. She was asked, “Can you forgive the men that did this?” 

In her gravelley voice she said, “I forgave them a long time ago.It was hard but I have learned that if you don’t forgive that stuff will choke you to death. Life is just too short to hang on to that. “

That first word that Jesus spoke from the cross is for us all. “Forgive them…” Whatever it is we have done or not done. We can be forgiven. And the message he left was that whatever is broken or wounded or killed or burned out—like our Lord we must all work hard to forgive. For you see Mrs. Robertson was right. Life is just too hard to hold on to that stuff. It will choke us to death.This is the first word that came down from the cross. We are forgiven! We are forgiven! Wed are forgiven! No wonder Mark called it good news.

(This sermon was preached at the First Presbyterian Church, Pendleton, SC, 2-18-18

--Roger Lovette / roger lovette.blogspot.com

Ash Wednesday in Trump-ville

Today begins the journey once more. That is, unless we are preoccupied with everything from battered women, staff denials, and wondering what will happen to the dreamers. Or maybe just thinking of that loved one you lost or trying to undo some credit card scam or waiting quietly but scared of that lab report and what the Doctor just might say.

Alongside cold February comes Ash Wednesday--the beginning of the Lenten journey. So for seven weeks, if we can squeeze it into our busy schedules we might just lift our eyes above the too-muchness of our lives to something higher and deeper.

Lent lasts for Forty days. The church looked back to those 40 years God's people wandered around, from pillar to post, in some desert. And then the church remembered those 40 days that Jesus spent in his own wilderness where he would meet temptation after temptation.

Some of us know well the desert. T.S. Eliot, the poet captured this desert:

                                "The desert is not remote in southern tropics,
                                  The desert is not only around the corner,
                                  The desert is squeezed in the tube-train next to you,
                                  The desert is in the heart of your brother."

But that's not all, Mr. Eliot. Most all of us know about the desert. That place where we live hand to mouth. Wondering, wondering if there will be enough--maybe food or water or investments or just enough strength to get us there. Knowing full well we can get lost in  the desert. Knowing we have to watch out for all sorts of dangers: scorpions and warring tribes that would slit our throats, to those inner demands that come when we least expect them and wreak havoc in our bodies and often in our souls.

Without sounding too preacherie--those wondering Israelites found God in their forty year journey. Something happened to them out there where the wind blew and it was cold. They became a people with ties that last even to this day. Out there not knowing which way to go they hammered out the Ten Commandments--which it looks like we are trying to pigeon-hole today.

But there in that wilderness they learned something about themselves--good and bad. They were weak as water and they could be mean as hell. Yet  underneath their bragadossio they were all looking for a place maybe where the men were strong and the women were good-looking and the children were above-average. Not only that but a place where, as the old book said: "...they shall all sit under their own vine and under their own fig tree and none of them will be made afraid." (Micah 4.4) They learned that in the desert and maybe we, in these desert days, still find a hope to keep us going.

In Jesus' wilderness he almost lost it. Tempted over and over by the Devil--temptations more alluring than any Stormy Daniels--he fought and wrestled with who he was and what he was to do. Those 40 days toughened him and he left there to begin his own journey and now we know the rest of that shining story.

And so--as we stand in this long line waiting to kneel and be touched by the ashes--maybe something more than "you are ashes and to ashes you will return" will take place in that kneeling. God knows most of us in our own special wilderness struggling with so much and so many--we need what we find at the end of the long line. The terrible truth that we really are mortals and that our days really are numbered. But more--something in the kneeling, in that silence, and the stained glass windows--or looking around at people just like us--we know that long ago they made it through their own terrible wilderness and with the help of the Almighty we may too.

And so, even bearing this mark of our ashes and humanity we push up from our kneeling and walk out into the sunshine believing that somehow even here--our own wilderness we will find what we all need. Maybe somewhere in these forty days we will be lead up to a craggy hill and an open tomb. And the Easter we desperately need.

photo by Jay Mallin / flickr

 --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Don't Miss the Trip--A Transfiguration Sermon

Photo by Marko Nuraberger / flickr

Have you ever missed a trip? At one time or another we all have. But my question is more far-reaching than that. Will you miss the trip. Max Lucado* tells the story of a businessman  who was sitting in a plane waiting to take off. He was in 14D—a woman next to him was in  14E. She was obviously pretty country with her purple velour pants suit. He was from the city—Brooks Brothers suit and all.  From her talk he could tell she was pretty cornpone. He was sophisticated, sitting there with his aluminum briefcase, laptop and I-phone. The woman looked pretty old.

It was obvious that she had never been on a plane before. “I don’t do this much,” she grinned. “Do You?” He’d nodded. “Oh,” she said, “that must be a lot of fun.” He groaned. It was going to be a long flight. He was in the middle of a hectic week, his plane was late and overbooked. He had already stood in a long line and didn’t get enough sleep the night before. 

She looked out the window and squealed, “Ooooh—look at that big lake.” He just wished she would shut up. She volunteered that she was going to Dallas to see her boy., “I hope he’s OK. He had the flu last week And he’s got a new dog. A black Lab. I can’t wait to see the dog—his name is Skipper.”

People turned around in their seats to stare. The man next to her just wanted to crawl under the seat.  The flight attendant came by asking what they wanted to drink. He asked for a Diet coke. She asked a second time about the choices. When her drink came she said that she didn’t know that apple juice came in cans—it was delicious. And when the sandwich came she said out loud: “Why there’s even mayonnaise in here—and salt and pepper and a cookie!”

This went on the whole flight. She missed nothing. She opened the airline magazine and oozed and ahed. She tried to adjust the overhead light and pushed her seat way back. She loved the lunch. He thought it tasted like cardboard.

When the plane finally landed, she turned and said, “Now wasn’t that as fun trip?” As he watched her collect her sacks and belonging and shuffle down the aisle—it suddenly hit him. Why was it that she had that he didn’t have? What was it that she knew that he didn’t get? She had enjoyed the whole trip while he was just miserable. Like most of the others on that plane.

In Matthew 17 Jesus took three disciples up, up to the top of a mountain. It was midpoint in

photo by Lawrence OP / flickr

Jesus’ journey. The clouds were already hanging low over his ministry. The Pharisees and Sadducees were making it hard. His disciples kept bickering. Word came from his Mama: “Why don’t you just come home.” He began to talk to his followers about dark things like suffering and Jerusalem and a cross.  He talked to them about saving their lives by losing them. 

And so Jesus took Peter, James and John with him up the hill. They went to the top of Mount Hermon which was 9,100 feet high. And there on that mountaintop something happened. It as strange and hard to put into words. Later when they wrote the story down they called it transfiguration. Moses and Elijah appeared. Jesus’ face shone like they had never seen it. And God spoke. God. He said the same thing he had said at Jesus’ baptism: “This is my beloved son…Do not be afraid.” They were dumbfounded and it turned them inside out. Looking back later they would say that day on the mountain changed their lives. They were never quite the same. Simon Peter had wanted to stay there forever. What a feeling. Let’s just build three temples and stay here. But Jesus shook his head. The vision faded. Moses and Elijah left as quickly and they had come. And Jesus led his three friends down, down that winding mountain.

In verse nine Jesus called what had happened that day a vision. Scholars use the big word: theophany—a visitation for God. And the disciples would tell it over and over until it found its way into every gospel. That day, that special day when God came down and they beheld his glory. It took their breath away. 

Maybe you’re wondering what does this story of that little woman and man on the plane have to do with this Transfiguration story?  Everything.

There comes a time when we have to disengage. From time to time we activists jus need to stop, look and listen. Not to do anything—but just be there. That is a a pretty hard thing for most of us to do—just stand there. We think we’ve always got to be doing something. After I retired people would come up and say, “Now that you are retired what are you doing?” And I would think: doing? What do you think retirement is supposed to be. 

A couple of years ago there was this T-shirt that said: “Jesus is coming back—look busy.” There’s more truth in those words than we let on. The man on the plane missed the joy of his journey because he was drowning in busy-ness. The woman next to him was able to focus on the moment. She was present. We can’t enjoy the trip if everything all runs together—we need some pauses.

Robert Fulghum tells about this woman so stressed out she went to see a psychiatrist.  After listening to her story, the doctor wrote out a prescription and handed it to her. She took it to the drug store and gave it to the pharmacist. He read it and gave it back to her. “I can’t fill this—but you can.” She read it: “Spend one hour some Sunday watching the sunrise while walking in a cemetery.” And she got in touch with her life. She saw the sun coming  up—really saw it. She heard the birds sing. She looked around at the green trees and grass—and it reset the lenses of her life. There comes a time when we all have to push back and disengage. Isn't this what the season of Lent is supposed to be about?

I think this story also says: We are to open our eyes. The woman on the plane saw. Everything. The man was blind,. Peter, James and John would tell the others later that on top of that mountain it was hard to put it into words but it was like their eyes were opened for the first time. Why, they said we saw things we never saw before.

People are always handing preachers books. And sometimes we just groan. But I looked at the title of this book somebody gave me. A Touch of Wonder. Dear God, I remember thinking, I need that. I need that bad: some wonder. It doesn’t happen every day—but we all need some transfiguring experiences when we step aside what we never saw before. 

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Look out your window. Look. The woman across the street carefully comes down the steps to get her paper. Her arthritis is killing her. She lives alone. She lost her husband four years ago and her sister died last week. I wonder how she’s doing? Look out the window. There are workmen next door finishing a house. They’re laughing. Laughing. Look out there window. A man walks down the street with two dachshunds—he’s smiling. Out that window the trees are just beginning to bud out. And the sky is a blue. II Peter 1.16 says: “We have been eyewitnesses to the majesty.” What a wonderful thing to say. Now I wish those telemarketers would quit calling. I wish my back didn’t hurt—or I don’t have to go to the grocery store. I better get up from here and pay these bills. No. Pay attention. The majesty is all around us. Isn't that what the season of Lent is supposed to be about?

One of the things that happens is that when our perspective changes—we see the big picture. What is this big picture? Well, when that dazzling experience was over what happened? The book says: they saw Jesus only. They remembered.  God said Jesus was his beloved. They remembered  later that God had said you don’t have to be afraid. They remembered that even if they suffered—and they would—God was in it. They remembered that even if things did not work out the way they wanted—and so often wouldn’t—still: God is in it. They began to see this whole thing was larger than they ever imagined. This Jesus. God’s voice. His calling them. God was in it.

After I moved away from Clemson I was invited back to the 100th Anniversary of the church and had a great time. As I started to leave a member of the centennial committee said they were putting together a video of different pastors and their experiences while they were at the church. Not wanting to miss being a video star I agreed to let them interview me. What did you learn from your time here.? They asked. I thought and said: You know one of the lessons I am still trying to learn is that we have to look at the big picture. The big picture. Not the little picture. That irate member. That stain on the carpet. That screaming baby back there. The sagging budget. Why has Mrs. so-and-so quit coming? I said in the video that I spent too much time on the little things that don’t matter. I can’t even remember all those little things that kept we awake at night. We all have to look at the big picture.  If we really do believe what we say we do—we have to remember faith says it is going to be all right. Whatever happens we don’t have to be afraid. It’s going to be all right. 

So they came down the mountain with Jesus. And they didn't think about what happened to them until later. But God was there--in it. And God would even be there when they put Jesus on trial and nailed him to the cross. And God will be with us despite the cancers and the divorces and the time spent in AA and the depression that sometimes takes over. Even crazy Washington. God is here. Here. 

l wonder when the church put the lectionary together they put the Transfiguration story right before the beginning of Lent. And what it says is that God really is here. So let us open our eyes. Who knows we, too might just be eyewitnesses to the majesty. And if that happens—we can take whatever comes. Isn't that what Lent is all about?

*Story found in Max Lucado's, the Eye of the Storm (Dallas: Word, 1991) pp.61-63

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(Sermon preached at the First Presbyterian Church, Pendleton, SC, February 11, 2018)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com