Lessons for Memorial Day - 2019

Looking out the window on this Memorial Day week-end we are a pretty divided people. We all know there are a multitude of reasons for this. And as much as I would like to blame our President—this issue has been with us for a long time. But I would add that I don’t think our President has done much to help us with this burning problem of division.

Which brings me to a Memorial Day story that dates back to April of 1866. The war wounds of the Civil War were still fresh. But in Columbus, Mississippi a group of women came together to decorate the graves of Confederate soldiers. But they also noticed the barren graves of Union soldiers and they placed flowers on those graves as well. We need to honor all our citizens living or dead. And this, I believe is the real meaning of this holiday. 

What if we suddenly realized that there really is more that unites than divides us. I’ve told this story often. The old farmer trained his roosters for the county cock fights. And one morning he took his two prized roosters and put them in a cage and headed down to the cockfight. He stopped his truck, got out opened the back and pulled out the cage. It was a mess. Two dead roosters. He moaned “I can’t believe it…I just can’t believe it—they killed each other off—there’s nothing left but blood and feathers. They didn’t realize that they were on the same side.”

I’ve been reading a fine book for where we are Memorial Day 2019. Jon Meacham has written, The Soul of America. The subtitle of his book is: “The battle of our better angels.” The book takes a backward look at many of the ups and downs of our country. He reminds us that our current climate of partisan fury is not new. Some days I don’t think it has never been like this. But how I wrong I am.

There have been a great many occasions in our history when the darkness seems to have eclipsed the night. He writes about the Civil War which brought us 618,000 dead which led to the stormy days of Reconstruction . Meacham reminds us that the list goes on.The backlash against immigrants in the First World War. The resurgence of the Ku Klux Klan. He talks of the struggle for women’s rights, the demagoguery of Huey Long and our isolationist policies of our country even before World War II. Remember how we incarcerated between 19,00-50,000 Japanese Americans in that war. He asks us to remember the witch-hunts of Senator Joseph McCarthy that tore so many people’s lives apart. And of course he mentions Lyndon Johnson and the struggle for Civil Rights. Meacham says, “The goodness is that we have come through such darkness berfore. Time and time again we came back to the better angels of our nature.”

Mr. Meacham gives us some markers as we all deal with the struggles of our time.

1. Enter the arena. We cannot disengage ourselves from the difficulties of our time. We have to be informed. We have to speak up. We need to remember our better days and give ourselves to these principles. America started as a revolution—and that revolution continues to this very day. The battle goes on.

2.  Resist tribalism. Engaging in this fight for our better selves takes work and patience and energy. Sometimes we all grow weary in well-doing. Those devoted to extremism on whatever side there may be does not help us. We must reaffirm the heart of who we are: “We the people.” Despite the bruhah of today—we really are on the same side. United we stand…divided we really do fall. We must listen, listen, listen to one another. We must be fair. We are not to shape our lives by the headlines and the twitter feeds. Instantism is simply instantism.

3.  We respect facts and deploy reason. There is such a thing, Meacham says as discernible reality.  We are certainly entitled to our own opinions but not to our own facts. Meacham reminds us the the dictators of the world have said that if you tell a lie long enough the people will believe it. President Truman added: “Well, if you tell the truth often enough, they’ll believe it and go along with you.” A free press is essential to democracy. The New York Times motto is: “Democracy dies in darkness.” Of course the press and the media pundits are not always right. They get it wrong sometimes—but we must champion the truth as we understand it. 

4. Keep History in Mind. This is the power of Meacham’s book. Looking back we can see that Democracy is often a messy thing. But we must hammer out who we are—not give away the heritage of our better days. We remember the question that a woman asked Benjamin Franklin was asked after the first Congress had done its work. “What kind of a government are you going to give us, Mr. Franklin?” He replied, “A republic, Madam, if we can keep it.”  

A friend of mine sent me this true story. A little eleven year old black boy, Antoine Mack lived in the inner city of Boston. Antoine was one of a number of youth sent to Camp St. Augustine, a program sponsored by the Brothers of the Society of St. John the Evangelist. Despite his hard life, Antoine wrote a poem that is really a beacon of light for all of us. 

“The night will never stay,

The night will still flow by

Though a million stars in the milky way

pin it to the sky.

Though bound with the blowing wind,

and buckled by the moon,

The night will always slip away,

Like sorrow, or as tune.”

photo by Michael Seeley / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Abortion--Not Exactly a Settled Issue

photo by Hillel Steinberg / flickr

Looks like the Pro-sorta-Life people are on the march. Alabama just passed a law that would outlaw abortion except to save the life of the mother. No exceptions even for rape or incest. Several other states have recently passed the “heart beat bill”prohibiting abortion after six weeks. Of course mostly males have passed these bills—except maybe Alabama whose Governor happens to be a woman. Some of these same folks are intent on banning birth control. Which is flat out crazy when you think of it. Whatever happened to “lesser government” interfering with our lives.

Of course abortion is one of the hardest issues of our time. Abortion should should never simply be used as a birth control procedure. Life is precious. All life. But there a multitude of reasons why a woman personally struggles with abortion. I often think that the saddest day for many women is Mother’s Day. They had an abortion and many live with a sadness over what they felt they had to do. Hardly any woman is forced to have an abortion. So those women who feel like this is wrong should simply not have an abortion. And victims of rape and those incest victims—should not have to bear the children for a pregnancy that was not their fault. Imagine a ten year old girl having to be forced to have a baby. 

Strange these pro-sorta-life-folk do not raised their voices when aging grandmothers, raising three grandchild as best she can—should have their food stamps cut off because she does not have as job. Or those disabled who are told they must work or their food stamps would be no more. Or those pious folk who want to do away with the school breakfast and lunch programs for kids that are poor and hungry. Or take frightened citizens of illegals that they never raise their voices when children are ripped from parents’ arms and some never will see their children again. My God—what kind of a people are we?  

We’re not talking Republican or Democrat. We’re talking common sense and human decency. Wonder what Jesus would say about some of these laws states are passing today?

I have a email-friend. We’ve never met. But we both grew up as cotton-mill boys. We both lived in little houses owned by the mill. And we both spent some time working in cotton mills. This friend is a mighty fine writer. And he has a good head on his shoulders and a mighty big heart.  I want to share with you what he sent me the other day. For me it captures the dilemma of the abortion issue perfectly.

Here it is. Thanks J L Strickland.

"I’m beginning to think Alabama’s legislature is the political equivalent of the Special Olympics. 

This abortion law is nothing but cruel and inhumane to the nth degree.  Who- are- these- people- we- have- elected?

It’s the no allowance for rape or incest that bothers me. I wonder what they’d think if their wife were impregnated by a rapist, or their daughter by a perverted uncle?

Those clowns explaining their position on this embarrassment to the state are an embarrassment to themselves.

I agree with the notion that abortion is a tragedy. But, forcing a woman to have an unwanted baby is the real tragedy.  Sometimes,  it’s necessary, like it not.

And though it’s a big surprise to some folks, some things are simply none of their business.

Besides, with all the modern birth-control methods available, there’s no reason for anybody to get pregnant. 

The problem is, the hard-core anti-abortion folks are against birth-control, too.  I.E., their opposition to Planned Parenthood.

I have acquaintances who will drive 500 miles of a Saturday morning to picket or protest an abortion clinic or birth-control center.

Alabama is my home, too. My ancestors came over the border before Alabama was a state.  There’s no where else I had rather live and I’ve had chances to move.

However, the mass lunacy that has gripped Alabama, starting in the Wallace era, is beginning to bother me.

But, none of this is really surprising. I’ve long recognized the area below the Mason-Dixon is bat-shit crazy – a large open-air looney bin.   Starting the Civil War proved we were a bunch of mouth-breathing nitwits.

Of course, as in most things,  the rules are different for the rich and po’ folks.

A lady friend of mine was a R.N. scrub nurse at the local hospital, Lanier Memorial.   Meaning she assisted the surgeons in operations.  But, you knew that.  She was a mill-village girl who got a scholarship to that four-year nursing school in B’ham.  She made the most of it. 

She told me years ago, when abortion was still greatly illegal, that the rich folks across the river and the daughters of mill brass could get an abortion on demand.   Since she was on call for emergency operations, she knew whereof she spoke. 

How it worked was,  a knocked-up big shot’s teen-age daughter or wife who didn’t want any more children, would be admitted to the hospital for an emergency DNC, female trouble.

This always happened on a Sunday afternoon, which tells me it was a worked-out, planned remedy to their situation.    They got a safe abortion, performed by skilled, trained medical personnel, under the guise of something else.

It was an abortion, pure and simple.  The hospital told her to keep her mouth shut.  And since they had paid for her scholarship, and room and board in B’ham, she did.

Rich girls got specialized treatment while females from the working-class had to carry their unwanted baby to term, or deal with a butcher with a coat-hanger.

And risk dying from loss of blood or an infection.

Which, I guess, is what the Montgomery dimwits want to bring back again.  In their foolish eyes, folks who don’t agree with their warped religious beliefs are beneath contempt.

And contempt is what they are showing for Alabama females.  Too bad they aren’t as concerned with deprived children already born and living in poverty, neglect and want.

T’was ever thus.  We are sailing on a ship of fools…

I don’t deny being a Methodist back-slider, but the quotes “Judge ye not” and “Love ye one another”  come to mind.

Though the state legislature would no doubt deny my right to quote them.  Being as I’m not anointed like they are.

God doesn’t love me like he does the Montgomery vagina vigilantes." 

—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blgospot.com

Refugees Really Are our Challenge

Memphis Street Art by Sean Davis / flickr

Every age is given a challenge.  What are we going to do with the aching problems of our time? Once it was the cursed Amalekites or Jebusites.  Or the Babylonians. Or the Romans. Or the Jews. Or the Indians. Or the slaves. Or the North or the South. Or those strange people so different from us. 

I keep remembering what Thomas Mann said of great literature, “It is, it always is, however much we try to say it was.” And so I put down the Bible beside those words. Every generation has tried to whittle down its message, cosmetize its meaning, explain away what God really said. Remember what the Devil whispered in Adam’s ear there at the beginning: “Did God really say…?” That whispering is still with us. 

 Every age must face whatever challenge that God brings down the pike. Seemingly it never ends. When I was a young Pastor it was race—what are we going to do with the Ne-groes? In my little rural Kentucky church it was closer to home: What are we going to do with the poor that live down our roads in shacks? Or can the divorced serve on…(and you can fill in the blanks.) Monthly at the meetings of the local Reverends it was always: liberal or conservative. Don’t you believe every word of the Bible literally? 

But the race thing stayed with me even after I put my belongings in a moving van and moved to greener pastures. Later it was the Vietnam War and what are we going to say about those 58,000 that were killed in a foolish war. Running through so much of it all was: What will the Bible say about: Gays, poor folks, atheists, those who don’t believe the way we do. Often then—as even now—it’s the women. And then drugs came in with a vengeance and it has torn apart lives and families and whole communities. And then 9-11 happened and we had to add Muslims to our list. But, as of late, we struggle with the refugee problem. It is an international dilemma. For people all over are fleeing destruction, murder, hunger, rape and their bombed-out homes. They risked their lives to get on tiny boats or travel thousands of miles with children in their arms looking for freedom or a job or just a place not so un-safe. 

And so the American church, as others must face, these brown-skinned people desperate and looking at us for help. Walls won’t solve this problem. Neither will Homeland Security or pathetic fearful edicts coming from Washington. The last parable Jesus ever gave was: “Lord, when do we see you hungry, naked, afraid…?” We cannot explain his words away any more than we can explain away children ripped from their parents’ arms and taken to God-knows-where.  Folks—these folks are to be one of our primary challenges. Silence won’t solve it. And hatred damn sure won’t make them go away. They just keep coming hoping…hoping.

What got me to thinking about our present challenge is a splendid article by Nicholas Kristof who writes not only from the head but also the heart. Teresa Todd was a arrested the other day. She is a lawyer for her city and county. Driving down the road she saw a couple of people waving desperately. She stopped. Three brown-skinned young people needed not only a ride but help. They were hungry, one was very ill. All were scared. They had left El Salvador then fled to Guatemala trying to escape murder and rape and nightmare lives. So Teresa  picked them up ands down the road a policeman stopped her, dragged the three young people out of the car arrested not only them but Theresa as well. The charge was “harboring illegals.” They searched her car, took her possessions and took them all to jail.

The writer, Kristof tells the woman's story interspersed with the parable Jesus told of the Good Samaritan who stopped to help somebody in need. Read his article. I don’t know exactly what we can do but we can know that the policy of this government is wrong, wrong, wrong. And the attitude of Christian folks is not exactly a Matthew 25 response. Of course we have to protect our citizens and protect our borders. (What about Canada?)

But we also have to put down the things of our lives beside the Bible and ask, tellingly, what does this have to do with us. And if we have no answer it is high time to board up the churches and just catch up with whatever we watch on the web. “It is, it alway is, however much we say it was.”

photo by Johnny Jet / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Remembering Mama

My Mama: Ruth Lovette

So this Mother’s Day I want to tell you a story or two from my own Mother’s life. Hoping, maybe that something in the words will trigger something in your own memory of your mother and how you still feel about her.

My Mother was a Baptist through and through. In fact, she found it hard to believe that anybody could be anything besides a Baptist. She was visiting us and she wandered downstairs to the Den where my son sat drinking something and watching TV. She looked down at him and asked: “What are you drinking?” And he said, “I’m drinking a beer.” Things got very quiet. Then she said: “Could I taste it?” She did. And there was another long pause. And then she said, “I believe I’ll get me some when I get home.” And that story captures my mother. She never went further than the eighth grade. She started working in the mill when  she was sixteen and worked there until she retired last age 65. During the war she worked six and sometimes seven days a week. I never remember hearing her complain about her job, her life. She read books. She kept up with what was going on. She loved her two boys fiercely. And she did everything she could to make our lives meaningful.

As I moved further away and had experiences she could even imagine—that did not stop her from trying to understand. Always. I never doubted her love for me for a single day. She loved flowers even though her tiny yard couldn’t hold many plants. She was a marvelous cook, and came home from work at 3:00 every afternoon and began to cook supper. Sunday dinners were something. Table cloth. Nice dishes. And ham and potato salad and maybe green beans and peas and biscuits and some kind of dessert which, of course, was homemade. 

Both my father and Mother grew up during the Depression and food was scarce many times. So—food became a big-time event in our lives. Christmas she decorated our little four-room mill house as best she could. We sprayed silver paint on fronds from green bushes with berries. And they donned the mantles. We had a Christmas tree almost always for blue lights. And the food at Christmas was a a mighty big deal. We had several different cakes. And at least two pies. We had two hams—cured and fresh. We had chicken and dressing. After all I was told that you couldn’t make good dressing with “one of them old turkeys.” Christmas demanded a great big fat hen. 

The morning I went off to college she stood on the porch and waved goodbye. She wouldn’t come down to my friend’s car. She didn’t want me to see her cry. But that must have been one of her hardest times—to see her oldest just pack a foot locker and leave. But she let me go. She did not hold me back. And every week as long as I was in college there would come three crumpled up five dollar bills for “my expenses.” It took me a long time to fathom the hard sacrifice those fifteen dollars took out of her life. Never once did she complain. But what also happened was that about every two or three weeks there would come a box of homemade cookies or a cake that she had made and wrapped up and sent me through the mail. 

Both my father and mother were there that day I graduated from college. We had no car and so met Mother talked a cousin into driving her and my father up to the big city where I graduated. 

My Mother at my college graduation.

So when I read a book or dig in the yard or plant flowers or put up a Christmas tree or just sit down some evening for a meal—I remember Mama.  

A little boy was told by his mother that it was God who makes people good. And he said, “Yes, I know it is God, but Mothers help a lot.” And the little boy was right.  

So if we want to honor our mothers let’s pay women the same as we do men for the same work. Let’s be hard on all those—including the President—who treat women as second class citizens. Let’s raise our voices when the government separates children at the border from their parents, particularly their mothers. My God, what kind a people are we? Let us hound politicians—mostly male of course who are writing laws continually about abortion and lately not even considering those who were victims of rape or incest. Let us remind everyone that without Planned Parenthood many poor women would not have birth control for physical check-ups. Let us make sure that those little ones—and sometimes big ones—who go to school hungry still have breakfasts and lunches. And let us raise up all women until they know that to be female is not a curse but a blessing. 

Funny story. In the first church I served on Mother’s Day we always honored the woman who has just had the latest baby. Oh, we would clap and give her flowers and make that her day. But we cut that out after a while. There was a family in the church with a whole row of children. And almost every year we would pin a flower and applaud some young mother in that family who was not even married.  Even the Deacons quietly murmured about promoting promiscuity by honoring all these unwed mothers. 

On this Day I must bow my head and thank God for the woman who birthed me and loved me and opened doors to rooms she would never enter. The little boy was right—God makes people good but I wonder where we would be without the woman called Mother.

 Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.net

Rachel Held Evans--We Won't Forget You

Rachel Held Evans died Saturday at age 37. She was a progressive Christian author that challenged traditional evangelical views of politics and the role of women and LGBTQ members of the church.

In a time when many evangelicals have forgotten their heritage and lean on Trumpian politics she called us back to a healthy faith that takes in all God's children. She wrote: "I thought I was called to challenge the atheists, but the atheists ended up challenging me." She also wrote: "I thought God wanted to use me to show gay people how to be straight. Instead God used gay people to show me how to be Christian." She leaves her husband and two children, the youngest only one year old. Her fans and friends can be counted on in the multitudes. 

We shall miss her and her voice for a healthy faith. I leave her with the Benediction which comes from the Roman Catholic Prayer for the Dead:

"Into paradise may the angels lead her; at her coming may the martyrs take her up into eternal rest, and may the chorus of angels leads her to that holy city, and the place of perpetual light. Amen."

photo by Twitter Trends 2019

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Letter to my Graduating Granddaughter

Libby, our younger grandchild graduates from South Carolina Upstate next Monday. And on Tuesday she gets her Nursing cap. Do you have any idea how very proud we are? We’ll all be there your Mama and Papa and sister and just about all the family--and of course sitting there smiling, your grandparents (us.)

We were there when you were born. And we’ve watched you slowly like a mighty fine plant make your way up, up. It hasn’t been easy. It never is. But despite “through many dangers toils and snares” you will put on your graduation robe and stole. Growing up is never easy for anybody. Just getting through Grade school is sometimes a challenge. But high school and adolescence all at the same time—well, whew—you got through it. And college with all its new challenges and fears came your way. And guess what? You did it. You were a runner in school. And you were good—we saw some of your races and grandparents are a very fine judge of races. 

You have put the same intensity in school as you put on those long hard runs and we are all

proud, very proud of all you have done. And so we will all be there as many of us were sitting in those stands as you ran and ran. 

I could say all kinds of things—-but you know…you know how much we love you and how proud we are of you. One of my favorite stories which comes out of the South tells that the finest high school athlete was noticed by scouts all over. They would make their way down that country road and then that dirt path that led to that little four-room house in the wrong part of town. Finally the young man decided on what school he wanted to go to. And the Coach came and the reporters from the local paper and even the state paper were there that morning. He signed and his Mama standing there was so proud. 

He worked that summer until it was a time to go off to his first college practice. The last morning his Mama got up early and put on the grits and the country ham and bacon. She rolled out the big biscuits he loved so much. She piled his plate full of eggs. After he ate a Van rolled up outside to take him to the school. He went back into the bedroom got his one suitcase and was ready to leave. And his Mama a little ninety pound woman reached up to hug her great big son. And before he turned to leave she whispered in his ear, “Son, remember who you is. Always remember who you is.” He turned, picked up his suitcase and walked out the door. 

And dear Libby after you walk across that stage always remember who you are. For if you do that you will run this other race—much harder than the track—and despite  all the ups and downs you will make it as you made it through all those years back there—and all the struggles and the hard times. 

We love you much. We always will. And we will be in those bleachers from here on out yelling and cheering as you run the race that is coming up.

I love Langston Hughes poem called “Mother to Son.”

“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 now—

For I’se still goin’ honey,

I’se still climbin’,

And life for me ain’t been no crystal stair.”

——Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

What Happened to Easter?

photo by RC isidro / flickr

Let me ask you a question. Whatever happened to Easter? Well, you’d probably say we had to take the lilies out—all the bloom had shriveled up or fell off. We have put those Resurrection hymns aside. You have consigned that cool dress you got at Target and wore Easter Sunday back in the closet. Too fancy for everyday. You wondered if you’d ever wear that pink tie with the bunnies all over it again. Hideous. Really—but after all it was Easter. And once in a while as you’re cutting the grass—you find a colored Easter egg somebody couldn’t find during the Easter egg hunt. Once upon a time when I was a little boy at the stores in cages would be the cutest little chicks you’ve ever seen. Colored pink and green and blue—probably terrible for the chickens. Anyway—we’d get one and bring it home and feed it and the colors would fade and guess what. That little chicken began to grow and grow and my Mother would say: “We’ve got to get rid of that chicken. Maybe even have him for Sunday dinner.” What happened to Easter? Well—it’s gone for another year and we all have to get back to abnormal.

That’s what happened to the disciples in every account after Easter. It was over and I guess they thought they had go go back to the way they were before.

Mark’s last chapter has nine verses. Some of the disciples went to the Tomb and it was empty. And an angel told them he  had risen and would meet them soon on the road. And what happened? Mark writes: “ …they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them and they said nothing to anyone because they were afraid.” What kind of an after-Easter story is that? Just leaves us hanging. The door to the tomb was open and empty and they were scared for their lives.

Luke isn’t any better. After the crucifixion and Easter morning and the angel that came with the good, good news two of the disciples  walked along the road to Emmaus. And Luke says two of the disciples just walked along the dusty road—depressed. And Luke wrote,“We had hoped that he was the one to come and redeem Israel.” Is there are sadder word anywhere in the Bible or in our lives? “We had hoped…” Who here has not said it. 

Matthew’s after Easter story has the same flavor. Standing at the Open Tomb that Easter morning the angel said to them: “Do not be afraid…” But the tomb was empty and guess what? They were scared to death.

In the last gospel, John said it was after Easter and even after what the angels had spoken and the women had told the disciples about the angels—they gathered in an upper room and locked the doors tight. They were scared out of their wits. And just a few paragraphs later Simon Peter tired of fiddling his thumbs said: “Well—I’m just going fishing.” And the others said: “Well, guess we’ll go too.” and those fisherman—professionals—fished all night and caught nothing. Nothing. What kind of an Easter story was that? No rushing out to tell the world. No Hallelujah Chorus. That’s the way I’d write it. That’s not what happened. Every gospel said it like Luke did: “We had hoped…he was the one…”Easter seemed to be over.

We've all been there, haven’t we. In June or August or even December—Easter seemed a long way off, didn’t it. Why we took our Easter lilies and planted them and guess what, they just shriveled and died. You got a bad lab report. Or you take your 16 year old daughter in for a check-up and the Doctor told you she had the same cancer gene as her grandmother who had died—and she would have to have a mastectomy. Or like my neighbor the other day I stopped and knocked on his door—his wife had just died two weeks ago. He opened the door and said: “We were married for 68 years…I just don’t know if I can make it.” You turn on the TV and chaos all over. It is a mess. This country and the world. “We had hoped.”  Whatever happened to Easter? Good question.

photo by Dimitris Kamaras / flickr

Every gospel says the same thing in their own way. But that's not the end of there story. In the footnotes in Mark 16 do you know what Mark wrote? Not only did Mary Magdalene and all the others not believe this Easter business was real. And then let your fingers move on down. And the 11 disciples were sat Table—eating and guess what? Jesus appeared to them. And Easter came.

And on that Emmaus road in Luke when those two slouched along—and kept saying: “We had hoped…we had hoped…” And a stranger walked with them and when they got to their destination they asked the stranger to have supper with them. And as they broke bread their eyes were opened and the stranger was Jesus and it turned them inside out. Later they would write: “Did not our hearts burn within us as we walked and talked with him along the way.” And Easter came. 

In Matthew’s last chapter he writes those disciples were afraid. Scared Rome might nail them to some cross. And Jesus came, stretching out his nail-scarred hands and said: “I will be with you always.” And tears running down their faces their fears were gone and they knew Easter was not over after all.

Later when John wrote he ended his gospel saying that when they had fished all night..,.these good fisherman and caught nothing. Nothing. And somebody on the seashore yelled: Have you tried the other side of the boat?” And they did—and they could hardly drag in their nets. Fish everywhere! And they looked back at the seashore and saw it was Jesus who had yelled and he was cooking fish for all of them. And after breakfast Jesus whispered to Peter—do you love me. “Yes, Lord…” he muttered. And Jesus said: “Feed my sheep.” And Easter came and Peter would later criss-cross the world with one message: “He is alive…”

One history book has said that every single one of the disciples save one were crucified because they wouldn’t shut up about this Jesus. They kept kept saying over and over: “He’s alive.”

Now   what does all this mean for you here in Westminster and me was I drive back to Clemson? We’ve got Easter to hang on to. Before he died he told them something they only remembered later. “I will not be here in the flesh…but I will send my comforter to be with you forever.” And he ended that encounter stretching out his nail-scarred hands and whispering to one and all: “Peace…My peace I give you.”

The book says over and over that Easter isn’t over for any of us. I know like the disciples we get afraid from what the bad report said or rattling around an old house and he or she isn’t there anymore. Or your only child keeps you up at night. “I used think, “ somebody said, “when she was young…it would all pass…But she grew up and her life is such a mess now. If I had known what I know now—I would not have had any children.” And she loves that girl with all her heart. Maybe you worry about the chaos in Washington and Sri Lanka and California and everywhere…and it seems like it’s crazy time everywhere. 

photo by KOMUnews /flickr

And what? We are three weeks after Easter. And we come here to hear not just about fear and hard times and fishing all night somewhere some time and catching nothing. We’ve all been there. It just didn’t work out. But we can't stop there!  The stories every gospel gives us says he came back. And fear did not have the last word. No. They remembered something he told them before his death,. They said to each other: “Remember what he said. ˆI will be we with you always.” Not for just a day…and not for just a year, but always. And they remembered that he said he would send his spirit to be with them comforting…and helping…and giving them hope when hope seemed like a dream. And Thomas, the doubter told the others: “What I hope I never forget is that he showed the scars from the nails in his hands and feet and whispered: ‘Peace…,my Peace I give to you.’”

Frederick Buechner told about the bombing of England during the Second World War. Bombs rained down on England 57 days in 1940 and 1941. 43,000 English citizens lost their lives. One million people were left homeless. Finally it was over. And the next Spring the strangest thing happened. In many of those bombed-out craters flowers , zillions of flowers covered those ugly gashed holes. Botanists said bulbs and seeds that had been buried for hundreds of years came to the surface. The nitrates from the bombs provided fertilizer for those seeds and bulbs. Flowers…flower everywhere. All this happened after. After. Flowers after all that pain and suffering.

And folks this is the gospel. Easter isn’t over by a long shot. His spirit moves among us all. And we are promised peace despite what has happened or will happen and we can all hang on to that old tom-tom of a promise: “I will be with you…I will be with you always.” For you see like them I Hope we all see that Easter is not really over—ever.

Thanks be to God.

(This sermon was preached, May 5 at the Westminster Presbyterian Church, Westminster, SC.)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com