It's Christmas!

"To an open house in the evening

Home shall all come

To an older town than Eden

And a taller town than Rome;

To the end of the way of the wandering star,

To the things that cannot be and that are,

To the place where God was homeless

And all of us are at home."

--G.K. Chesterton (revised)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

At Christmas There Should Be No Cancellations

"As we do it unto the least of these we do it unto him."

One of my favorite Christmas stories was about Gary’s kindergarten Christmas play. Two years ago the school put on “Snow White” with “27” dwarfs so that none of the children would be left out. Then last year they presented “The Nativity.” Joseph came to the inn and knocked on the door. The little boy playing the inn keeper decided to be inventive. When Joseph asked if there was room in the inn, the boy answered: “You are so lucky. We have just had a cancellation!”

Wouldn’t it be something is after someone will sing: “Sweet little Jesus boy, we don’t know who you is…” those of us sitting out there amid the splendor of Christmon trees and lighted candles—would remember the old story. There really was no room in the inn. For outside the church doors are thousands who know there really is no room for them in the inn. No cancellations. Homeless folk. Immigrants in Texas in cages, folks Christmas in cages. Little families scattered all over our country who face the new year either without food stamps, or school lunches for their kids. Desperate people on the other side of the wall longing for safety and freedom. Families who hope no one in their family will get sick—they have little or no insurance. There is no cancellation for these folk.

In 2020 I pray Christians and all other citizens will become so incensed at our official government policies in Washington. That we will begin do something besides sing pious hymns, wondering who the next President will be and hoping we can get a good deal the mall. 

Like the little boy in the play we will work and pray until all those dispossessed in our land will find an open door and hope and healing for them and theirs. This is the Christmas promise not only for the few but for us all. All, folks. All.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Christmas--Where's the Star?

Christmas--Where's the Star?

High up on our Christmas tree, near the top, if you look closely you may see it. If you don’t squint your eyes and look carefully you’ll probably miss it entirely. I’m talking about the star. 

It may be the tiniest ornament on the tree. The little star is probably an inch and a half in diameter. The star was made in the church kitchen by a little girl and her Sunday school teacher over forty years ago in Southside Virginia. 

Every year, without fail she breezes into the house with her own two daughters. After lugging in suitcases, pillows and presents she always moves toward the Christmas tree in the corner. She asks the same question year after year. “Where’s the star?” Christmas would not be Christmas without that star. I used to think it was a foolish request hanging on to that old homemade star. But I have changed my mind.

We all need some ties to back there. We need some stack pole of remembering that sends us back, back toward yesterday and the past and our roots. What’s your star? Probably not a paste ornament. What is it that calls you back to what used to be with a tug and a pull that is almost magic? I have a buddy who keeps high on a shelf an old threadbare teddy bear. Some of the stuffing is missing and one eye has been lost. His Daddy bought it for him at the fair one time. They stood there looking at the wonderful stuffed animals and he pointed and his Daddy shook his head. The little boy burst into tears and snubbed and snubbed. Finally the Father sighed took out his billfold and handed the clerk the money. His Daddy has been dead for more than thirty years, yet that teddy bare are one of his most precious possessions.

 I have another friend, long gone now, that kept an old pouch of chewing tobacco pinned to the bookcase behind his desk.  He told me he grew up in this little tiny cotton mill village and smoke breaks were few and far between. Almost everybody then chewed tobacco in the mill.  The man has written a score of books. He taught hundreds of students. And he always kept a pouch of chewing tobacco as a reminder of how far he had come and how grateful he was. 

Several years ago I stopped by to see the old black lady that we would now call a Nanny. She kept my brother and me for years and loved us fiercely. As I started to leave she told me she wanted to show me something. She opened a dresser drawer and pulled out something wrapped in tissue paper. She unfolded the yellowing paper and held up a slip. “Miz Ruth give me this slip. She always give me the nicest presents.” She had never worn the slip but she kept it and remembered. 

Christmas is a time for stirring memories.
"Silver Bells"
"Silent Night"
"Santa Claus is Coming to Town"
"I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas"
"O Come All Ye Faithful"

But this season is much, much more. The faces loom up before us. Names of those long dead get mixed up with fun-filled times from our crowded pasts. Christmas is a remembering time.

Some of us hang the symbols of our memories on a Christmas tree. Some pack them away in tissue paper. Some place these momentoes carefully in a jewelry box and open it up from time to time and just smile. Some of us just keep our treasures tucked away in our hearts. 

“Where’s the star?” Good question. Unpack it gently. Hang it high in your own special way. And remember. Remember Remember.

(This one of my favorite stories and Christmas articles. It was first printed in The Birmingham News (AL) but I have included it in my blog writings almost every Christmas.)

                                       --RogerLovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Christmas Dark

photo by Iain Buchanan / flickr 

That first Christmas came in the dark. We often forget that. It was a mean and cruel time for the subjects of Augustus Caesar. Rome could be especially cruel for those that broke their laws. And underneath the terrible cruelty the baby was born in a stable. Remember the fear of Joseph and Mary as they fled with their tiny child. We cosmetize the story wonderfully. Cute kids donning bathrobes and wandering down the aisle while the congregation sings: “We Three Kings…:

And out there in the darkness, looking at the lighted stage, many of those that gather have forgotten or ignored the basic truth of our faith. The dark is very real. And all the hoopla of Christmas—silver bells, lighted houses, Santa Claus and those endless trips to the store cannot really hold back the darkness.

We worry about many things. Our kids, our grandchildren. Health or aching joints. A country so divided we wonder if it can ever be not perfect but a United States, a Union—where liberty and justice really do fall down on us all.

And we turn back to the old book. The Bible is realistic. It never cosmetizes the darkness. Adam and Eve cast from the Garden. Cain slaying Abel. A flood that swept almost every thing away. Egypt and slavery and God’s people crying far into the night. David’s peccadillos. Solomon’s stupidity. And Israel wandering, wandering in a wilderness. A journey that should have lasted only months took years and years. Later Exile. And cruelty beyond belief. It’s all there—on almost every page sin, evil, wrongdoing—greed and injustice. Dark.

But that’s only part of the story. For from the beginning there was another word on those gloomy pages. Light. Not blinding light. Just tiny glimpses that let us know that despite whatever we face or do—there is this other word: light. John Henry Newman called it “a kindly light that would shine amid the flickering gloom.”

We all know about the flickering groom. Cardinal Newman knew it well yet he saw something that lifted his head and kept him going. That kindly light. This is no “whistle while you work.” This is no “everything will get better…” There is a tiny incredible hope. The three kings saw its beams as they marched from place to place bumping into furniture, not sure exactly where they would wind up. And yet they kept at it. And we know the rest of that story.

It is no different for us. John began his gospel reminding us that “the light still shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot put it out.”And even when they nailed the best and brightest that ever was to that terrible tree it was not the end. Though it seemed so. 

And so there at the end, another John wrote about hope across the terrible persecutions of his time. Amidst his own darkness he wrote: “And there will be no more night; they need no light of lamp or sun, for the Lord God will be their light, and they will reign forever and ever.”

Is it so much to believe that that light still shines in our darkness? Some days we wonder. No. It is still here.

William Inge wrote a play called: “The Dark at the Top of the Stairs.” Toward the end of the play Cora, the mother tells her little boy to go on up to bed. He just sits there. “Sonny”, she says “I thought I told you to go upstairs.’ She sees that he terrified. She says; “Sonny why are you afraid of the dark?”“Cause”, he says, “you can’t see what’s in front of you. And it might be something awful.” Tenderly she says: “You mustn’t be afraid. “Sonny says: “I’m not afraid if someone’s with me.” And Cora walks over to her son, takes his hand and says: “Come, boy. We’ll go up together.”

The tom-tom beat of the Scriptures is: “Do not be afraid.” Not because there is no dark. It is because amid it all there is this tiny light with will lead us all. 

I share Langston Hughes' poweful poem that keeps me going. You might find it helpful too. --RL) 

"Well, son, I'll tell you:

Life for me ain't been no crystal stair.

It's had tacks in it,

And splinters, 

And boards torn up,

And places with no carpet on the floor--

Bare.

But all the time 

I'se been a-climbin' on,

And reachin' landin's,

And turnin' corners,

And sometimes goin' in the dark 

Where there ain't been no light.

So, boy, don't you turn back. 

Don't you set down on the steps

'Cause you find it 's kinder hard.

Don't you fall down now--

For I'se still goin', honey,

I'se still climbin'

And life for me ain't been no crystal stair."

--from "Mother to Son"

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Advent: The Familiar

Advent: The Familiar

Why do we keep coming here?

Year after year.

It's kind of crazy--really.

Staggering down the steps with the heavy boxes.

Dragging out the old tattered Christmas tree. 

Wondering if lights work 

and where are those special ornaments

we seem to have lost.

Standing on ladders, reaching high

to hang the green-colored wreaths.

Sending cards--with stamps as high as they are.

Thinking of menus 

and table settings 

and who will be here.

Moving all the stuff off the mantle--

to stretch lights, of all things 

and garland 

and greenery.

Why do we keep coming here?

Thinking again of mangers

and stars 

and shepherds

and over-filled rooms.

We've been here so often

we know it all by heart.

We move past bills 

and TV terrors

and political disappointments

and sad obituary notices

and aching backs

To see what folk have always seen--

Not much, really. 

Just hay 

and starlight

and common names 

like Mary and Joseph

and of all things

a baby. 

Just a baby.

  --Roger Lovette

(I wrote this piece in December 2016. Some of you may not have seen it and so I send it out again.)

-Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Thanksgiving During Impeachment Hearings

photo by Victoria Pickering / flickr

These Impeachment hearings give me hope. Hope, yes. Not that we will nail President Trump for many things. Not that Democrats show how smart they are. Not even that some Republican Congressmen show how ugly they might be. Not even that all the commentators are having a field day.

No—the thing that gives me hope during this strange confusing time is that we have learned this week a message we should not forget. There paraded before us a whole cadre of people. Most of us had never heard their names or seen their faces. Yet—these witnesses walked into that room in Washington, sat down and faced a scary line of dignitaries and sat close to a microphone. I do believe they told the truth as they understood it.

My proudness was not in the question: Did Mr. Trump do all these things he is accused of. No. Not at all. I found myself grateful that behind the curtain of our government, in places in Washington and all over the world we have Secretaries and Ambassadors and professional government operatives and even custodians who are real people who go to work every day and try their best to keep this country strong.

They lighten my despair about the country I dearly love. They tell me that even though this time in our history may be dark—there are hundred and thousands I guess whose names we will never know. Yet—they keep working, some under dangerous conditions for us all. 

Let us this Thanksgiving lift up a praise not only for the things or people around our table—but all those others that have made sure through the years that the ship of state can weather even these stormy days. 

We have heard the old adage many times lately about Ben Franklin. When she emerged from Constitution Hall he was recognized by a woman who asked of him, “What kind of government are you giving us?” And he said, “A republic, Madam, if you can keep it.”

Our history, like our flag, has seen some hard days through the years. But the people who have stood and spoken in these hearings in Washington have reminded me all over again that behind the scenes in places all over our land are people still determined too keep this place a republic after all. And so as I bow my head this Thanksgiving I remember America and I am proud.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Where Would Thanksgiving be Without a Plate?

Plate. The word reminds me of a child’s plate. My plate. It is sterling silver. In the center of the plate Mickey Mouse rides a horse. On one side of the dish these words are inscribed: My Mickey Mouse Spoon Goes Here. Opposite that side are the words: My Mickey Fork Goes Here. This plate is 84 years old. My mother and father received this plate as a present when I was born. There may have been other presents but this plate holds a bundle of memories. Maybe for her then. Certainly for me now.

My parents were married in 1922. Like so many other folks they found they could not make a living on the farm. So they became part of a migration from South Alabama to textile mills in Georgia and other places. They were promised life would be better. My mother and father brought their meagre possessions and lived in a tiny apartment with another couple in a one bed room duplex owned by the mill. They found most of the promises made were kept. They could both get jobs in the mill. They had lodging within walking distance of work. They had indoor plumbing. They had electric lights. All utilities were provided. And so they worked long twelve-hour shifts six days a week. During the war—seven days every week. One day they got their own mill house over looking the mill. Train tracks ran in front of our four room house.

Everyone was having babies—but not my folks. They kept trying but for thirteen years they were

childless. My mother especially wanted children. Finally after thirteen long years their first child came along. They named me Roger after Will Rogers who had died a month before. Why Roger? My mother said: “He makes me laugh.”

Someone probably an official in the mill gave my parents this sterling silver Mickey Mouse plate. My mother loved that plate. It represented so much. Laughter, a healthy child, joy and answered prayers. And for a poor hard-working couple with little of the world’s goods, especially in the depression years of 1935 laughter filled their little four-room house. Four years later my brother was born.

Like most of us my journey has been winding and circuitous. There have been dark days and wondering what I would ever do. But this plate—the only sterling silver in our home—still after all these years reminds me that I was a blessed child. Out of their poverty they gave me a richness that money cannot buy.In the rush of many things I forget that joy and that laughter many days. But when I Look at this plate—I remember how proud my folks were when I came into the world. 

My mother and father worked in that mill all their adult lives. They sacrificed  enormously to give me and my brother what they never had. They never finished high school. They never owned a car. But their two children always had everything they needed. 

I was the first one in my family to go to college. And the September morning I left for school my mother came home from work to make sure I had everything, My ride pulled up in front of our house. I hauled my footlocker out to his car. I was too young to know how hard that morning was for my mother. She stood on the porch and did not come down to the car. She didn’t want me to see her tears. She knew what I then did not know. Things would never be as they were. I was moving out slowly in to a larger world that my parents had ever seen. But that morning she let me go. She did not hold me back. 

And for the next four years of school every week I received a crumpled up fifteen dollars from her in my mail. And about once as month there would be a huge homemade cake in the mail. I’ve had a lot on my plate through the years. College and Seminary and a wife and kids and church after church until here I am at 84.

But maybe I have not had as much on the plate through the years as that little tiny Sterling silver Mickey Mouse plate. It is piled high with love and acceptance and forgivenesses and joy and sacrifice. 

It is good and healthy and healing, too to hold that plate in my hands after all these years. She loved that plate. But she loved me—what more could anyone ask from a plate?

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

All Saints...More than We Realize

photo by Leo Chimaera/ flickr

 The preacher asked his confirmation class, “Do you all know who a saint is?” And one little boy raised his hand. “The Preacher said, ”What is a saint.” And the little boy said, “A saint is someone who lets the light shine through them.” And I think the boy was right. A saint is somebody who helped take the blinders off your eyes, who helped you see even in the dark. And when things were tough—they made you believe despite all the crazy things around you. They let the light shine through.

Looking over my shoulder at my twisting journey--I don’t think I could have made it without those who took their little lights—sometimes more than tiny and let them shine. For a long time I don’t think I would have considered my parents as saints —most of us don’t. Yet looking back if they had not been there and diapered me and hugged me and whispered that it was gonna be all right and keeping me safe I don’t know what I would have done. Or where I might be.

My, my at every juncture there has been somebody or a whole lot of somebodies that lighted my way simply by being there. Most of them had no idea what indelible influence they had on me and many others. 

Under the glass on my desk are some of those. My Mama her last Christmas. Dear Don’s friendship help carry me through. Liz—she helped so many of us. Faye who left her tiny little house on a side road—took the WMU’s money and finished college and was a missionary for I don’t know how many years. I have two pictures of my wife on my desk. One photo that summer we spent in England—beautiful with her wind-blown hair. Another is only a silhouette. We were in Scotland and she sat at this pub drinking coffee. Nobody loves coffee more than her. But it must be right. I cherish that picture. There’s Nancy, dear Nancy that became my second Mama at Clemson. A tiny picture of a drawing we used in a building fund campaign in Birmingham. Its reads F…A…I…T…H and underneath the words:  "Faith under construction.” They took me in, bruised and battered and tolerated my brokenness and cheered me on. Not just people but almost a whole church—they lifted me and my wife up and carried us along. There's smiling Judy. She opened up her house every Monday night and served those that came. Many were gay. I don't know how many gurys with AIDS that stayed at her house toward the end because they had no other place to go. A have a tiny picture of my two children—little and red-headed. There’s my daughter grinning wildly at a Clemson game with me…and my son and his partner. 

I wish I could call all their names—the ones along the way that made sure the darkness was not the last word. But there are too many, many candles that shine in my constellation. Funny all those sleepless nights I spent because of some irate member or some mean-spirited phone call. Yet—I don’t remember their names but oh, I do remember many faces whose genuine honesty, charity and fidelity through thick and thin helped me enormously. 

Come Sunday when people move to the front of our Sanctuary and call out names of some saint that has blessed their lives—I don’t think I will come to the mike. There are too many to name. But sitting there I will whisper a prayer of thanksgiving for all those whose little lights that really did shine…shine…shine.

“For All the Saints” is probably my favorite hymn. I’ve got a lot. But that fourth stanza gets me every time:

                                             “And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, 

                                              steals on the ear the distant triumph song, 

                                              and hearts are  brave again, and arms are strong,

                                              Alleluia! Alleluia!”

Yes…YES…YES!

photo by Georg / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Dealing with Death...Sorta

photo by christina ritz / flickr

Years ago I remember the day someone knocked on our door at home. My father opened it. A man stood on the other side. “I have come to see you because I thought you would like a funeral policy. I can come in right now and sign you up for a policy so that after you are gone your family won’t have to deal with all of this…” The door slammed. My father turned and stalked away. He did not want to talk about dying and funeral arrangements. He shoved it back into he corner and turned to something else.

I can understand now what I did not know then. Wayne Oates, Pastoral counselor used to call this finitude anxiety. This was a fancy title for people whose blood pressure goes up when they think of their own deaths. Most days, I think most of us would like to do what my father did that day years ago. We would like to slam the door on this death talk and forget it. 

Some of us who have lost someone say that they can’t wait to leave here and be united with their loved ones. Some, weary of suffering wish it would all end. Others in desperation end it all for many reasons. 

Yet none of us can really slam that hard door. It won’t go away because one of these days sooner or later we will have to walk through what the Psalmist called:  “the valley of the shadows.” Often it isn’t our death that we fear was much as the loss of a loved one. A mate, a child—a friend. It was unthinkable to think that one day they are here and the next their chair is empty and the loss is incalculable. When Mark Twain lost his little daughter he said it was like the burning down of your house. It would years and years to deal with reckon with all you lost. 

Last week my wife and I sat down at the funeral home and talked about funeral planning. It is much worse than any trip to the dentist. To sit around a table with someone you love deeply and begin to think about their death—your death really is a frightening thing. The director gently led us through the process. What kind of service?Where would it be? Casket—what kind. Visitation? What about the obituary? 

Outside the leaves were turning. The colors were spectacular. And the wind blew quietly. It was a beautiful day filled with life and beauty and wonder. I remember someone saying: “in the kingdom of God it is always October.” Who knows? I hope so—this is my favorite month.

But around that table we were forced to think of all the practicalities of what happens when we are not here. We listened to the man reeling out the possibilities. We finally took a deep breath, looked at each other and decided to choose cremation and as simple as the arrangements could be.

We left there mostly in silence. October was all around us. And life was everywhere we looked. College kids jogged down the road. The grocery store lot was full of cars. The radio played softly. And my flowers are still blooming. And there are hummingbirds and fat bumble bees and even some butterflies. And I know now what I did not know when my father slammed that door years ago. Who wants to stare death for ourselves and for those we love?

Once Arthur Godfrey, TV star of another day was in a plane one night as it passed over New York City. Down below the lights of the city were spectacular. It looked like Christmas. And Arthur Godfrey turned to a friend and said, “You know it makes me so damn mad. That one day all that will still be there and I won’t be around to enjoy it.”

I could end these words about life and how we ought to squeeze every last drop we have while we are here. And I will try to do that. And I hope you will too. Yet like Arthur Godfrey I understand how he felt that darkened night in that plane looking down on the glittering lights. 

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Birthday Musings

When you turn 84--what? 84. That's right. 8...4. Hmm. What do you say? You look back 
all the way.  To that Tuesday morning when I came into the world . Looking around I saw my Mama and Papa proud, after years of trying for a baby. And it was me. Lying there in that four-toom house across from the mill--with the train tracks in front of the house. I never did learn which side of the tracks we were on. Dirt poor. But not even knowing it--maybe that one one of the many gifts my parents gave to me. 

Out of their poverty they held and diapered me and did what they could. In my early years some days I wished I had other parents, another life. But one day I wisely woke up to know that other parents and another life was just some myth. I got all I needed and more. Later a brother whom we lost months ago. My parents also gave me a church.  And staring down from over the pulpit was the picture of the kneeling Jesus. He stayed with me all these years. Wherever I went and whatever I did--Jesus knelt in the garden and loved me and cared for me on good days and especially on the bad days--many self-inflicted. And all those Sunday school teachers and scout leaders and camp counselors and visiting preachers. They left their fingerprints all over my life. 

And there were friends. Like my parents, I think I just took my friends for granted. Not 

knowing that they would grace my life from then until now. Edward and Ronald--both dead. And teachers that opened the door to a bigger world that I did not even know was out there. Miss Beggs...first grade teacher I can see her to this very day. I thought she was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. She was the first of so many. 

And the tiny world in that tiny house things kept getting bigger. There was a President named Roosevelt. And soldiers from Fort Benning. And Hitler, too over there somewhere. I had no idea how much damage he would do to so many. And even today the hate he taught is still with us at the margins. But there was

black Nancy our maid that taught me that folks that didn't look like us were just as important as we were. I remember Doug the adult shoe-shine man who stood at the corner scary and taught me even then that maybe

he had a heart and feelings and needs. And there was Tempie up the street that started working in the mill when she must have been eleven. And so they poured into my life a concern for the underdog whoever they were. And even now I look back at all the injustice I have seen and all the unfairness in the lives of so many. And I haven't done much to help or change this picture but I have tried every step of the way. Everybody counts.

College stretched me. And the friends I made and the teachers I had kept shaping me. And back home there was a Mama that would send me fifteen crumpled up dollars every week so that I could stay

in school. I learned about books and ideas and what was happening in the fifties in Montgomery would change the world and me, too.


There was Seminary and more books. But most important a girl. Beautiful and talented that slowly began to love me and one day marry me. How long ago? 58 years. And I have been blessed in ways I cannot even begin to describe. But simply 
t

this: she loved me and stood by me and believed in me especially on those days when I did not believe in myself. When I am gone if they opened me up there would be one name written large across my heart and that name would be Gayle. God knows, I have-not deserved her and I have dragged her all over--and yet she has stood by always. And so there came to us two children--red heads. A girl first and then a boy. And there is no way I can even begin to say how much I love them and how proud I am of them. How different life would have been without them and my two granddaughters.

Add to these all these the six churches I served. They were as different as any churches could be. And after my retirement I served eight other churches as preacher and interim pastor. And like my family and friends they stretched me and taught me about faith and hope and love. They opened up their arms and took me and my family in. And even if they did not listen some Sundays they accepted me and cheered me on. 
.

When Raymond Carver, very sick with cancer, he wrote this poem about: "Gravy." He wrote: "No other word will do. For that's what it was. Gravy."

I think Mr. Carver was right. Despite all the ups and downs and the old black dog of depression that has dogged so many of my days--it really has been gravy. And so at 84 I may be not be able to blow out all my candles--well, maybe I can. But this I know I lift up my heart with thanks. I am a lucky man.    

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com