It's Easter--Seriously?

Well the forty days are over. It's like the Mueller report only 300,000 times more. We kept wondering what would happen during these forty days. Would he break under the load of the temptations in the desert? Would he call twelve not-so-perfect disciples and wonder later if maybe he could have done better? Would he wish he could have stayed on that sunny Mount of Transfiguration far away from all the noise and pain? And later at Lazarus' tomb as he wept idid he ask what we ask: Father: Lord, why? why? And as he staggered up that hill for the last time--knowing what was ahead--did he wonder if they were worth it? And when he whispered: tetelestai--it is finished in that last breath--did he fear death like the rest of us? The disciples thought sure this was the end of the story--wrong. For on Easter Sunday of all things that streamed from the empty tomb--one thing filled up all their cups and ran over. I was the best word of them all: hope.

We can drag out the trumpets and cover the altar in Easter lilies so much it is hard to find the poor preacher. We can even sing from the depths:" Jesus Christ is risen today..." But none of it can really touch the wonder of it all. How do we get our arms and our hearts around that word we don't use very often these days? Hope.

Years ago we had a chance to go to Oberammergau to the Passion Play. When we got there we were told it lasted about four and a half hours. My wife almost fainted: "Four and a half hours?" "Yes, someone nodded. "The delay really is in two parts you see half the play,  take a break for lunch and then come back and see the rest of the story." My wife said: "Oh!"

The theatre was different from the usual stage. The audience of four thousand or more sat under a roof. The play took place in front of us in the open air. The wind blew through the trees in the distance behind the set. Birds flew in and out during the play. The drama began as Jesus comes on stage riding on a donkey. And from all over crowds streamed onto the stage singing and waving palm branches. It was something.

But what I remember most of all was that last scene of the play. Calvary and black Saturday had come and gone. And quietly in the mostly-dark three women came forward knocking on the door of what looked like a tomb. They knocked and knocked. And suddenly the door cracked just a little. And it opened more and more--and light began to stream through that opening. And the door kept opening and the light kept coming until the door was wide open and the whole place was flooded with light. And through the open door and the blinding light came Jesus. And from stage left and right it looked like a hundred children began to stream forward laughing and singing calling his name and hugging his legs.

And so when I look out on those Sundays when I see him sitting there alone knowing his wife is a mile away is in a nursing home, not even knowing his name--I thought of the play in Germany  And when I wrote a note to my neighbor whose just lost his wife with cancer--married over  60 years I remembered again. And when I looked out and saw her sitting there--she had lost a husband and then not much later a young son--I remembered. And I thought of my cousin dear Ray who couldn't stand it any longer and took his life. Memories swirled.That member who suffered still birth after still birth. Memories swirled and surrounded by all that pain and heartache I thought of Easter.

Folks--the word is still hope for us all. Politicians jockeying for power. Churches trying to say a good news in a world gone bad. People in nursing homes and hospitals and in every house up and down your street and mine. Somehow, somehow we will make it. Not because of our fortitude and our strength but that strange little word called hope that I saw once upon a time through an open door and streaming light and laughing children.  

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

On A Hill Not So Far Away -Good Friday Thoughts

We have almost come to an end these long tedious forty days. They started in a wilderness where God’s son fought and wrestled and hungered and came out as tired as one could be. And in our forty days with cathedrals burning and children in McAllen and El Paso crying far into the night and rage after rage in Washington we come to this hill they sang was far away. But so far away I think. For that ragged timbered cross was set down in a hole of red mud and clay and dirt and sand—maybe rocks too—making sure it would hold. But set down in our world—this world—this God-so-loved-world still towering over wrecks of time. His and ours.

I keep these crosses you see ion this picture above close at hand.They hang on tiny nails above my computer and my books and my chair and my house and my world. If you look closely at the photograph to the left of the crosses you will see part of a poem that dear Jerry wrote when I turned sixty. He died two weeks ago in Hong Kong—but like that poem on my wall—whatever he dreamed and thought and preached and wrote—Jerry, it lives on in our hearts. And somehow those crucifixes and that poem are linked just was everything in my life and yours and there world over is linked. 

I spend as lot of time in this room. I spend many hours at my computer. Busy, busy about many things. Paying bills. Writing a note to the man who lost of wife of 67 years last week. Hammering out sermons as I wonder who will be there and if this really helps. Writing sometimes for the local paper. And scratching my head and wondering what I want to pull out of my heart and send it out into web land. 

But I must confess that most days I don’t look at those crosses on my desk. Or the poem written twenty years ago. I worry about the world and this country. I worry about evangelicals who seem to have stalled poison hook line and sinker. After 1946 the churches in Germany were not filled. Empty, empty pews everywhere. And I wonder if our churches in this world of lies and deceptions and power gone wrong—I wonder who will be in our pews when it all settles down. I find myself depressed at friends I lose and age that whittles away my body and my fledgling faith and a tattered world.

And this day I put all that aside for just a while. And I look up and remember. Those outstretched arms on that splintered cross are for me and you and our time—as in every other time. Some things do not change—not many. But on that hill not so far away I come back and am humbled—at least for the moment—knowing that deep in that clay and red mud and dirt and sand it goes all the way down the centuries until it stops right here. My street and yours. Those outstretched hands really do hold the whole wide world. And me, too and mine and yours as well. How could I ever forget this. But I do.

So I thank God for Good Friday. For despite the blood and gore and the pain of it all—it matters more than anything I know.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Notre Dame and Easter Sunday

flickr

"The rain to the wind said,
'You push and I'll pelt.
They so smote the garden bed
That the flowers actually knelt,
And lay lodged--though not dead.
I know how the flowers felt.
--Robert Frost

Working out the other day I glanced up at the television. I stopped. My hand went over my mouth. "I can't believe this,"  I said, "Notre Dame is burning!" People all over the world had the same reaction. Parisians and people from many places were kneeling, some praying, many crying. A whole lot of us know how the flowers felt. 

We stood in that wonderful place on Easter Sunday 2013. Easter Sunday at Notre Dame! It was the day that many of the great bells had been recast. Many of them had not rung since the middle ages. They were all in place and to stand there on that Sunday of Sundays, well it really did take our breath away. 

photo by Fraser Mummery / flickr

We've visited once since but that visit did not hold the power of that Easter Sunday morning when the bells began to toll. Somebody wrote as book some time ago entitled, "Things We Lost in the Fire." I thought about that as I watched that great cathedral burning and burning. We lost a lot. But not all was lost. Thanks to firemen and other brave people the two towers still stood. Many of the treasures that go back, seemingly forever were carefully taken from the charred embers and will one day be back in place.

There is nothing to say really except that we really do know how the flowers felt. Grief comes down our road in strange ways and even stranger times. Thank God on Easter we will look up as did those first disciples on Easter morning and after the charred embers of Friday and the tears that just kept flowing--we look up and know that the bells just might ring again.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Fritz Hollings--What a Great Leader Looks Like

 courtesy of flickr

Today, April 16, we laid to rest one of the great leaders of our time. Senator Fritz Hollings was not just a politician. He was one of those rare leaders who helped make his state and country better for everyone.  He served as South Carolina Governor from 1959 to 1963. He was a South Carolina Senator from 1996 to 2005. He was 36 year old when he began serving as Governor and was the youngest Governor in the twentieth century.

He was from Charleston and anyone who heard him knew where he was from. That slow Southern downstate drawl. His fingerprints remain all over this country.

*  He served in World War II as an officer in North Africa and European campaigns.
*  He worked hard to lure business to our state.
*  He improved education in South Carolina.
*  As a Senator he pushed for assistance for those in poverty and hunger.
*  He advocated environmental policies and economic growth.
*  He received the Bronx Star and seven campaign ribbons.
*  He is the father of the state's technical college system.
*  He entered politics as a segregationist but changed during the Civil Rights era.
*  As Governor he oversaw the integration of Clemson University in 1963.
*  He opposed attempts to weaken the Voting Rights Act.
*  He co-authored the bill that created the Special Supplement for Women, infants and children.

Jean Toal, former Chief Justice of the SC Supreme Court said, "Fritz Hollings was the first state figure who literally dragged South Carolina kicking and screaming into the 20th century. He was one of those young men who went through the fires of World War II and emerged with the leadership and determination to change his own world."

I remember his defense for the importance of government I read somewhere: 

"A veteran returning from Korea went to college on the GI Bill; bought his house with an FHA loan; got electricity from the TVA, and later from an EPA project. His parents retired to a fam on social security, got electricity from the REA and soil testing from the USDA. When the father became ill, the family was saved from financial ruin by Medicare and a life was saved with a drug developed through NIH. His kids participated in the school lunch program, learned physics from teachers trained in an NSF program and went through college on guaranteed student loans. He drove to work on the Interstate and moored his boat in a channel dredged by Army engineers. When floods hit, he took Amtrack to Washington to apply for disaster relief, and spent some time in the Smithsonian Museums. 

Then one day he wrote his Congressman an angry letter asking the government to get off his back and complaining about taxes for all those programs created for ungrateful people."

Fritz Holdings understood the meaning of public servant. And this state, country and world is better because he passed our way.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Jesus Still Weeps as He Looks at our Southern Border

Monument at Oklahoma City National Memorial / Photo by Tabitha Kaylee Hawk / flickr

In this season of Lent we are slowly making our way toward Calvary. We are past the midpoint of the journey. Palm Sunday with its palms and alleluias lies just ahead. On the cusp of the Holy Week passages in Matthew we are given our Lord’s last parable. It might even be considered Jesus’ last will and testament. As his days were running out—what would he say to his friends? Why did Matthew place this parable just before the way of the cross begins?  And what is the church to say about this story as we put it down before our time?

Read this account for yourself. Matthew 25. 31-46. Verses 37f: “Lord, when was it we saw you hungry and gave you food, for thirsty and gave you something to drink? And when was it that we saw you a stranger and welcomed you, or naked and you gave med clothing, I was sick and you, I was sick or in prison and visited you? And the King will answer them: “Truly I say to you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me.”

When the history of our time is written up and the mandate of these words is placed down before the church and Christians—people will wonder why did we ignore these words of Jesus. On our southern border we do have a crisis. Thousands of poor, scared and hopeful people are finding that we really ignore this basic command of Jesus. Of course we cannot take in all that come. Of course we must be responsible in checking those that come. Of course we must continue to work on keeplng our borders safe. But we do not put children or adults in cages. We do not rip children from their parents’ arms. We do not treat these desperate people as subhuman. These folk are not to be treated as political pawns. We must raise our voices to this President who seems not to care of these people. We need to address the problems in  the countries they come from and find ways to make their homelands safer. 

This Lenten time how can we ignore this last parable that Jesus gave? Cruelty has nothing to do with being an American. Read Sindy Flores’s moving article published in The New York Times and weep for us all.

Dr. Ernie Campbell gave me this poem years ago. I don't know anything more appropriate for our time:

"What, finally, shall we say

In the last moment

When we will one confronted 

By the Unimaginable,

The One

Who could not be measured 

or contained

in space or time

Who was Love  

Unimited?

What shall we answer

When there question is asked

About our undeeds

Committed

in his name--

In the name of him

For whose sake we promised

To have courage

To abandon everything?

Shall we say 

That we didn't know--

That we couldn't hear the clatter 

Of hearts breaking--

Millions of them--

In lonely rooms, in alleys

  and in prisons

And in bars?

Shall we explain

That we thought it mattered

That buildings were constructed 

And maintained 

In his honor--

That we were occupied

With the arrangements

Of hymns and prayers

And the proper, responsible way

Of doing things?

Shall we tell him

That we had to take care 

Of the orderly definition 

  of dogmas

So that there was no time

To listen to the

  sobbing

Of the little ones

Huddled in corners

Or the silent despair

Of those already beyond

  sobbing?

Or, shall we say this, too:

That we were afraid--

That we were keeping busy

  with all this

To avoid confrontation

With the reality of his

  meaning

Which would lead us to

  repentance--

That it was fear that 

  kept us

Hiding in church pews

And in important boards

  and committees 

When he went by?"

  --Ursula Solek

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette/blogspot.com

Mayor Pete Buttigieg Opens Up His Heart

"How many roads must a man walk down

 Before we can call him a man?

...The answer my friend is blowin' in the wind

The answer is blowin' in the wind.

--Bob Dylan

Mayor Pete Buttigieg stood before the cameras yesterday and shared his hard journey in accepting the fact that he is gay. Every American ought to hear his words which were genuine and spoken from the heart. He shares about the difficult path he has had in accepting who he is. He clearly states that to be gay is not a choice. He is serving as Mayor of South Bend for a second term. This Presidential candidate revealed that he is a Christian, a practicing Anglican with a husband. He served in the Naval Reserve from 2009 to 2017 attaining the rank of lieutenant. He also served in the war in Afghanistan. This Mayor speaks seven languages and is a Rhodes scholar. 

 This country is vast and diverse. Surely the day will come when who we are--not what we do--shows the character of our hearts. I recommend this video to all. And I wish Mayor Buttigieg well as he helps us ponder what makes America great. --Roger Lovette

Maybe Church Matters After All

 

photo by David Brock / flickr

Sometimes for preachers a nightmare becomes a reality. Every minister I know has the same dream or close to it. It’s Sunday. The church is singing. But you can’t find your pants or any of your clothes. Sometimes you can’t find your notes or your Bible. They are waiting out there for the preacher and you are not ready. And the dream ends. 

Last Sunday I had my pants on and everything else. Even my tie. My Bible was nearby and I was getting ready to preach in this new church. And at 9:40 they called. “Where are you?” “I’m at home.” “Didn’t you know that our church starts at 9:30?” “What! Nobody told me that. I thought it was eleven.” Silence from the other end of the phone. And then I said: “Hmm. I’ll leave right now. I’ll be there soon. Tell everybody to wait. Oh, I am so embarrassed.” I didn’t know exactly where the church was. I had never been there. I had directions but I wasn’t even sure they were right. So I drove—frantically—you can imagine. What if I don’t get there? What if I can’t find the church? What if a cop stops me? 

This was no nightmare. This was real time—as they say on the telly. I bypassed the church sign which pointed the way. I turned around and about two blocks later—there it was.  This little white church with a tiny steeple sitting on a hill. It was beautiful. Later I learned it went it all the way back to 1836. It was the Mother church of all the Presbyterians churches scattered in the area. 

I stopped my car, grabbed my Bible and walked through the doors. “We’ve done everything preacher but the sermon.” There were eleven sitting  there—all on the back pews of course. So—I opened my Bible and began to read that old story of the man who gave his servants five talents, two talents and one talent. I stood in the back with them and quoted Mary Oliver’s question: “What are you going to do with your one wild precious life?" 

I talked to them and myself. I reminded them that we all have some talents. All of us. None are left out. And we have to decide if we’ll bury that gift in the ground or use it as best we can. 

Most of them had grey hair. Maybe one young man was there. A couple of middle-agers. But I wondered: Is this appropriate for all these grey-hairs sitting out there? The story says: Yeah. We all have a gift even those of us who have far less to travel. Most of our years were behind us. 

We forget sometimes that dotted all over this country there are tiny congregations that meet Sunday after Sunday.  Why—I am not sure. But this I know. They wouldn’t keep coming that handful or that church-full. They come to hear a word they don’t hear any other place. They come with joy and angers and fears and wondering and often a little hope. We’re all the same. And those who never come or don't think about those little white churches on the hill don’t know that something real happens in those tiny places. People hug and compare notes and gossip and tell a multitude of things. They pray for one another. And they find, wonder of wonders, just enough manna to keep them going for another week.

I’m glad I tore out of my drive way and drove to a place I had never been—late though I was. They gave me something last Sunday morning. A reminder that somewhere between the Invocation and the the Benediction God really does walk down those little aisles and stop at every pew—and the pulpit too I think. 

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com