Looking for the Loopholes--a 2018 Game

Photo courtesy of SustainUS / flickr

This is a strange time we are living in. The Bible talks about the people who do what is right in their own eyes. Which interpreted means—my truth may not be your truth. There is no objective reality. Appearance is everything. There are no hard and fast rules—everything is fluid. You can’t  trust…And I’ll let you fill in the blanks: 


Democrats...
Republicans...
The Media....
TV noise... 
Liberals...
Conservatives...
church...
Muslims...
Illegals.  The list of our suspicions is endless today.

Yet it would be a dangerous world without guard rails, speed limits, standards for medicines, and warnings on our food labels. Even in this trust-less age there are some things that we do trust. Those who trust no one and are suspicious of all have serious pathological problems. 

One day a friend saw W.C. Fields reading the Bible. He asked, “W.C. what are you doing?” “I’m reading the Bible.” “Why?” the man asked. “Because I am looking for loopholes.” From time to time we all keep searching for the loopholes which can set us free from whatever it is we feel ties us down and goes against our prejudices.  And if we can find some minor verse in the Bible that can punctuate these feelings—we feel like we have won something. But through the years we have discovered loophole after loophole. The list is endless. We once felt the world was flat. We once believed the sun revolved around the earth. We once believed in stoning adulterers—especially women. We once believed black folk were inferior, that gays were depraved, that women  should be submissive to their husbands, that poor people were lazy and all foreigners were suspicious, atheists or church folk were naive and stupid and that America could do no wrong. All our politicians were corrupt and the future was a dead-end street. 

Jim Wallis of Sojourners Magazine sat down one day, took a pen knife and cut out all the passages the Bible that dealt with the poor. And when he was finished he would hold the book up and say: “This is an American Bible.” The loopholes made the book smaller indeed.

We all are looking for loopholes. Yet a faith or a philosophy of life that only deals with what suits us is a small and paltry thing. Once someone asked little boy about his house. He said it wasn’t too large and then added: “There are ten kids in our family and one bathroom—you gotta have rules.”

We may not like the rules but without laws, statutes and regulations we would be in an enormous mess. Maybe one of our problems is that we are trying with our loopholes too suspend rules that make life fairer for everyone.

Lloyd Douglas was a popular writer in the last century. He told of visiting a violin teacher one day and asked him what was the good news for that day. The old music teacher went over to a tuning fork that was suspended by a cord from the ceiling. He struck the tuning fork with a mallet. The violinist turned to his friend and said, “That is the good news for today.”  He hit the tuning fork again, telling his friend, “That sound is an ‘A’. It was an ‘A ‘ all day yesterday. It will be an ‘A’ all day tomorrow, next week and for a thousand years. The soprano upstairs may sing off-key, the tenor next door may flat his high notes, the piano across the hall may be out of tune, Noise is all around us. But, my friend, that is an ‘A’.”

There is noise everywhere today. But the loopholes are not the answer to our dilemma. To pare down the truth will only make a leaky vessel. And none of us want this great boat to sink.

photo by mofesta  / flickr


--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Truth in Trumpville

photo by adriannecooper / flickr

Some years ago I picked up this book with an intriguing title, Lies My School Told Me. I don’t remember many of these falsehoods but all of us have had to un-learn some things in order just to get through the world. A couple of years later I thought about writing my own book: Lies My Church Told Me. 

I am greatly indebted to that church in Columbus, Georgia with the tall white columns. It was there that my heart was first strangely warmed. It was there that I was baptized. And it was there that I first saw the light. So—I can’t be snobbish about that place—it was far from perfect—but remember the treasure always comes in earthen vessels. Always. Sometimes more earthen than we would like to admit.

So if I were writing a book about Lies My Church Told Me  these are some of the things I’d probably say.

The Bible is literally true.

God looks like me.

Faith is something believed. 

Homosexuality is a sin.

God is an American.

Big is better. 

Love the sinner…hate the sin.

Faith is something believed. 

If you don’t work you don’t eat.

God is a He.

The list is seemingly endless. And like school, in church there are a multitude of things I have had to un-learn along the way. Even after all these years—I’m still un-learning…and learning. You might want to sit down and list the Church things in your life that have to be revised.

This brings me to the President. Who would have believed that a President’s lawyer would not want him to testify (these are his words) “because he might just not tell the truth.” But we have come to a dark time when truth has been brushed aside.

After Jimmy Carter left the White House he told of a funny thing that had happened when he was back in Plains. A woman reporter came to Georgia to interview the President’s mother. Mr. Carter said my mother doesn’t want to be interviewed but she is a gracious Southern lady and so she said yes. The reporter went to Mrs. Carter’s house and knocked on the door and Mrs. Carter invited her in. The reporter asked some hard questions and some of the queries were aggressive and downright rude. The reporter said, “” I want to ask you a question. Your son ran for President and he promised that he would always tell the truth. Has he ever lied?”Carter’s mother said, “I think he’s truthful; I think you can depend on his word.” The reporter persisted asking if he had ever lied in his entire life. His mother said, “Well, I guess maybe he’s told a little white lie.” “Ah, you see,” the reporter exclaimed, “He’s lied. If he told a white lie he has lied. What is a white lie?” And Lillian Carter said, “You know a moment ago when you knocked on the door and I went tot the door and said I was glad to see you?” And then the Mother smiled.

You and I are a long way from that tale about President chopping down the cherry tree and never telling a lie. Of course he lied. All President’s lie from time to time. Like the rest of us. But

truth seems to be lost in our time. What kind of an age is it when you can’t tell right from wrong? What’s fake and what’s real?

What little hair I have stuck up the other day when I read the Fact Checker for The Washington Post. They said that in President Trump’s 558 days as President he has told 4,229 lies. Which amounts to about 7.6 lies a day. Some of his fans tell me that you shouldn’t listen to his words—you ought to observe his actions. Well—what about say, Stormy Daniels. I have just about come to the point when Mr. Trump says Fake News it must be true. Somebody one of these days will probably write a book called Lies the President Told Me. It will be long and sad. I hope, I hope we can rediscover truth. God knows we all need it. Flannery O’Connor once said, “You shall know the truth and the truth shall make you odd.”  Wonder what she’d say today?

We really do have the treasure in an earthen vessel. But if it is too earthen it might just bury the treasure.

photo by Jason Parrish / flickr

--RogerLovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

School Daze - 2018

photo by Chris Sternal-Johnson / flickr

It’s just about that time of the year. School teachers are gritting their teeth—dragging themselves out of bed and turning off their alarm clocks. Students who have a  summer of freedom and fun wonder what the new teacher is going to be like. Parents are loading up their shopping carts on tax free days—and wondering how many fees they will have to pay this year. For some parents this is quite a stretch. And mothers, especially can breathe a sigh of relief that school starts and they will at least know where their kids are all day long.

In what used to be sleepy Clemson—the arteries coming into Tiger town and loaded with 

u-haul its and some even moving vans and a cluster with crammed-filled cars. School is cranking up for another year. I’ve been there and done that a multiple of times. In my own first grade. In riding the school bus that first day to high school and wondering…wondering. And then packing a footlocker, of all things, which would hold what treasures I had—and riding with my buddy to a new adventure. What would college look like? Fear and wonder got all mixed up.

But I’ve also had some other firsts. Sending off a daughter 400 miles away to college. Driving away from that daughter as she stood waving and getting tinier and tinier as the car moved toward home. My wife and I said little on that trip back. We both had enormous lumps in our throats. Both of us were wiping away a few tears. Back home her corner room was empty. I’d go by there and just look and grief would wash over me all over again.

Four years later we hauled our loaded-up van to Chicago where our son would spend four years. I remember the terror that filled my heart. What in the world were we thinking? What would this seventeen-year-old do in a monstrous place like the windy city? 

Back home now we had two empty rooms—side by side. Hers and his. And the old house that had rocked with their energy seemed totally empty. My wife and I rattled around the whole house from room to room. And it was hard.

But both our kids made it. Both flourished not under our wings—but from out from under our wings. Both stumbled toward adulthood. I remember their graduations and the old lumps that came creeping back. Both times there was a proudness and a gratitude that they had made it with minimal scars and were headed for their own adulthood. 

Back home we realized how much we enjoyed our freedom. The house might be empty but here was a wondrous quietude and peace when we opened our doors. Like our kids away at school—we could then do what we wanted. 

One of the hardest things we ever had to do was to let them go. I’ve watched other parents move in scads of stuff into dorm rooms or apartments. Mama would try to prettify things up. New bed spread. Maybe a new TV. New sheets and towels. Maybe curtains. Dad would just stand around trying to pigeon-hold his own grief.

But after the moving was over and maybe lunch was done—the kids time and time again would get restless. They wanted Mama and Papa to leave. To go back home. They didn’t want their new friends to think they were babies—even though on the inside many of them didn’t feel very grown up. felt that way. The parents often had a hard time with saying that sad goodbye. Need anything else? they asked over and over. The brand new college kids just nodded their heads. Nah.

The wise parents get in their cars and head home and begin to adjust to a whole different

photo by John Haslam / flickr

lifestyle. Surely it will take some doing. Yet if they let their boy or girl go—like the Mama bird must one day let the tiny birds leave the nest—they will have given their children an enormous gift. 

The funny thing is the parents also will give themselves a great gift. For many will have learned to loosen the reins—to acknowledge their kids are not little children anymore—are also growing up to changes they never envisioned.

The parents that hold on too tight, call too often—hover and maybe make too many trips back to see their children—cripple their off spring. Some of their kids might never really leave the nest. Some of them will stay little children their whole lives. It happens to even big strapping football players and beauty queens some time.

So parents—deal with your grief and letting go. Whisper a prayer that Johnny or Susie will be safe and do well one day. Most of them will surprise you. And when you stand as they march down some aisle in their graduation robes—you will be proud that one day years before you had stood by and let them fly away.

photo by Kasey-Samorel / flickr

—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Can We Get Back to "Us" ?

Photo from Oregon Dept. of Transportation - Diversity Conference 2016
courtesy of flickr

I have been intrigued by the YMCA advertisement: “How do we get back to us?” I don’t know a more pressing question for us that these words. This phrase implies that we’re not an “us” any more. The United States of America? Well, not exactly. 

In some ways this country has never been an us. The divisions and the differences that divide us are many and long-standing. Even from the beginning when our forebears wrote the Declaration of Independence the document was mostly for white gentrified men. Outside that document stood millions of slaves, Native Americans, women who could not vote or hold office and poor tenant farmers that could not vote if they did not own land. No us in those categories.

But through the years we have tried to make this word, United a whole lot larger than it was in 1776. Every attempt to enlarge our circle has been met with resistance. Yet—thanks to the courage of a great many—we finally abolished slavery and segregation. We have attempted to make Native Americans full citizens, opened all sorts of doors for women. We still are having a hard time trying to figure out what to do with the poor.

Who would think that in 2018 we would still be asking this burning question: How do we get back to us? The list of today’s divisions go on and on. Immigrants. The poor. The homeless. Gays. The Rich. The college educated. The Rednecks. Democrats. Republicans. Atheists. Evangelicals. Socialists. Mainline churches. Pro-Choice. Muslims. Pro-life. Red States-Blue States.  Have I left anyone out? Yep. The list goes on an on. 

We are living in a time when if you disagree with us you are the enemy. But if we are going to survive as a healthy society we have got to find ways to bridge the gap between our many differences. How do we do this? We lay down our weapons. All of us. We look across the divide at all those that don’t agree with us. Whole families, churches and communities  are ripped apart because of their varying views on politics. Kids in Parkland that hid under desks to save their lives have been called paid actors. Many of these boys and girls think that all conservatives spout these ugly untruths. Not so.

We have to remember that those who disagree with us are not the enemy. We have to listen to one another. We have to respect one another. And we have to move over and make room with those who do not see what we see. A friend had a gay sticker on his bumper. Someone came along and keyed his car from front to back. 

There is an old term that we don’t use often in our time. The common good. The phrase captured the dream where everyone could “all sit under their own vines and under their own fig trees, and no one shall make them afraId…”The words hark all the way back to the Old Testament book of Micah. 

But this cannot be accomplished unless we tone down the rhetoric today which we hear from all sides. Name calling, sneering at others, questioning the motives of the different solves nothing. We will never come closer to this good for all unless we treat everyone, including the poorest and most vulnerable with respect. 

We have almost a whole house of politicians in Washington scared to express their opinions and their beliefs. Deep in their hearts many of them know that if they expressed what they thought they would be hounded out of office. But they are really reflective of our society at large. We need to stand by all those who have the courage of their convictions. 

We need to enlarge our own particular circles until we listen and understand the viewpoints of those that disagree with us. Carlyle Marney, fine preacher once dedicated a book: “To Victor who agrees with me in nothing and is my friend in everything.” Friendship really should transcend all sorts of barriers. Some of my richest experiences have come from those very different than me.

I heard Andrew Young talking about this us-ness which he punctuated with a funny story. He told of an old farmer who was going to take his two prized roosters to enter a cock fight on the other side of the country. He carefully put his roosters in a cage in the back of his pick-up and headed for the fight. When he got there he opened up the cage and both roosters were dead. There was nothing left by blood and feathers. The farmer shook his head and moaned: “They didn’t realize they were on the same side!” 

Let’s all do our parts and if we do maybe, we can get back to us. After all we really are on the same side.

(This blog post was printed in The Greenville News (SC) and the Anderson Independent, Sunday, August 12, 2018)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com