Lent--the Journey Begins

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All of us have favorite places and special spots. In the not-so-sleepy town where I live--they keep coming back year after year. Not just to football games or Alumni week-ends--but I see them walking down the street, pointing out some college building to one of their children. Spending time in the Sports shops to take aback home a little pierce of something that really matters. 

I think they keep coming back because something special happened to them here. Friendship. A love affair. Meeting the one you hope to live with for the rest of your life. Maybe it was some kind of hinge-turning moment when you sat in a class and suddenly lightning struck and you have not been the same sense. 

I took the picture you see at the beginning of this piece. In fact I took photographs over and over from different angles. More than that--year after year I would stand and look at this aluminum statue and marvel at its power. It stands behind the Trinity Church on Mercer Street in Princeton, New Jersey. Jesus bears the cross. His hand is outstretched bidding whomever would to follow him. 

I spent over thirty years in the summer attending an Institute down the street from this statue. And as the years rolled by and I changed in so many ways--I always walked up Mercer Street and stood and pondered the power of this statue.

I can't tell you the pull of that sculptured artistic rending--I only know that for me it is holy ground.  I have wept there. I have asked forgiveness there. I have just sat looking. I have prayed there. And I have come away so many times a little different. How? I do not know.

But this I know whatever happens and whatever life brings or fails to bring--I remember an aluminum statue and an outstretched hand and when I remember I can go on.  

Lent is the season of turning inward. Of looking past all the debris of everyday. Not evading all that is out there--and that is an understatement. But today I can still see the aluminum Jesus--and I grow quiet and hopeful and moved as if for the first time.

I hope somewhere you have such a place. It doesn't have to be religious in the regular sense. But a place where you breathe deep and touch wonder maybe for a just a moment and then move on. 

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Ash Wednesday Thoughts

Well, it’s Ash Wednesday and Christians the world over will move down to some church, slip inside and sit in the quiet. They will come to little churches and big. And after the Hymns and Prayers and silence—they will be invited to come forward and receive the Ashes. Strange custom. Yet year after year like so many others I stand in that line. 

Why do we do this? Many reasons. But after another year—mostly this year of ups and some downs—but moving much too fast, I come back. Nobody knows us better than we know ourselves. “Rend your hearts,” the old Priest says, “and not your garments.”It would be much better to rend our garments. To tear the hell out of our clothing or throw some favorite vase against the wall. Or do a hundred push-ups or write a check. Maybe promise to attend church every week. Read my Bible during this season. Quit smoking. Watch your anger. Whistle while you work. Be kind to strangers. Do something extra around the house. That would be easy or, shall we say, easier.

But rending our hearts that’s an entirely different matter. My old College Dictionary says that Rending means to pull or tear apart. To disturb. Distress the heart with painful feelings. To cleave. To chop. To fracture. Maybe it means to do some looking on the inside. The places where nobody else can go. Maybe it means to stir up all those things in there we would just as well ignore. 

We look at Donald Trump and say: He’s disturbed. He’s a narcissist. A bully. Not a nice person. I take none of these labels back. But all these are distractions on Ash Wednesday. I don’t stand in the line and wait my turn because of the President—any President. Neither do I stand in line because my stomach turns when I think of all those dispossessed and frightened here and around the world. No. I stand in this line with my own rendings. No distractions here—or there shouldn't be. I am not here too look at that gorgeous woman in front of me or the old man shuffling on a cane. Or that handful of young people that are back there. I am not here to wince when some Lay Liturgist mispronounces some word. God knows it is hard to brush away all the distractions. 

photo by John Ragai / flickr

But this is the meaning of our own personal deep down rendings. To know that these ashes mean that I am really dust and to dust I shall one day return.  That tears at the tissue of my heart. My own finitude. My own vulnerabilities. All those outside things that invade my very being that I cannot change. The dust. As the old AA prayer says: To accept what I cannot change. Germs. A lousy President. A country in disarray. ISIS and all the rest. A back or feet that hurt. Getting up on the wrong side of the bed in a funk. The old black dog of depression that comes when I least expect him. 

My wife says, looking around says: ”Why is there so much dust in this house?” But in this line I ask, maybe just for a moment, why is there is so much dust in my own life. I need that 51st Psalm. “Have mercy upon me O lord, according to your steadfast love, according to your abundant mercy blot out all my transgressions.”  I need what I find here surrounded by this little cluster of folk like myself. I need to be reminded of my own transgressions. Dust. All those things that I work so hard to ignore. All the dust that just keeps coming. Here at least today—and maybe this whole Lenten season I will attend to some of my own personal rendings. My own personal dust which I really would liked to wipe away once and for all.

But it keeps coming, this dust. And I keep transgressing. I come back year after year because like the old Priest said to the farmer, “We fall down and we get up.” “”We fall down and we get up.” All of us. So I’m here to be reminded of all the fallings—so many, Lord so many. And some of the fallings hurt like hell. And some are downright embarrassing. The Prodigal knelt down and whispered, “Father I have sinned against heaven and against you and I am no longer worthy to be your son.” Dust. Not only dusty feet. But that Prodigal like me covered with dust and from head too toe. 

I remember the story. The boy was kissed by the old Father. The boy felt those arms holding him close. The boy surprisedly found his nakedness covered with something mighty fine. The boy found home for the first time in a long, long time. 

This Ash Wednesday line is the great leveler. No pecking order here. Just folk. Some young. But mostly old. Liver spotted. Propped up with a cane. A man in a wheel chair. A ten-year old child. A woman with a tremor. And in the middle here am I. 

Every year I keep coming back and standing in this line. The Priest marks my forehead with the smudge of a cross. I go back and sit down. It’s quiet. Maybe that’s one of the reasons I come. But maybe I come to be reminded of the rending. My dust. My transgressions. The burden of just living. The hatred of being 81 for God’s sake. The terrible truth that one day I shall return to dust.

But in this Ash Wednesday place I hear those other words. Mercy. Steadfast love. Forgiveness. Grace. Unconditional love. Like the boy kneeling before the Father. I remember the old story. The kiss. The ring. The robe. The laughter of the old man. Maybe, just maybe, this too is why I come.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Aliens and Immigrants--the Human Challenge

photo by alborzshawn

The Bible is pretty clear about our responsibility to the outsider.

"You shall not oppress a resident alien; you know the heart of an alien, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt." (Exodus 23.9)

"When an alien resides with you in your land, you shall not oppress the alien. The alien who resides with you shall be to you as the citizen among you; you shall love the alien as yourself, for you were aliens in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God." (Leviticus 19. 33-34)

"Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some are entertaining angels without knowing it." (Hebrews 13.2)

"Truly I tell you, just as you did it to one of the least of these who are members of my family, you did it to me." (Matthew 25. 40)


When we deal with the immigration problem we need too remember not only the Biblical demand but also the human dimension of this enormous problem. If you listen to the stories of those affected it takes on a whole new light. The New York Times' correspondent, Monica Davey has written a moving piece about a man in West Frankfort, Illinois. In this coal-mining town that voted heavily for Mr. Trump, Juan Carlo Hernandez Pacheco has won most of the hearts in that town. He opened a restaurant years ago. And the townspeople love him. He has been held for deportation despite the letters and phone calls from many of the citizens. He will have to leave behind not only a community that loves him but a wife and three children. Read the story and weep. This story could be repeated many times across this country.

photo by David Woo / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

My Granddaughter's Battle With Anorexia

(I want to share this story about my Granddaughter with her permission. She struggled mightily with Anorexia and she tells her story on her blog. Brave girl to open up her heart and let us in. Hey--we need to give her a standing ovation. She is a Junior studying Nursing at Carolina Upstate in Spartanburg, SC.)

I want to share my story with you, although it is not easy. I was a Junior in high school. I was obsessed with track, and loved the idea of getting faster to receive a college scholarship. I was seeing a therapist for family reasons, and we often got on the topic of track. He once told me that if I ate better I would become even faster than I already was. Keep in mind, I was never even the slightest overweight my entire life. In fact, I had chicken legs. I would get told to "eat a burger" at least once a day. So, I did not go on this diet to become thinner, I simply went on it to become "faster." I began to keep a journal of everything I ate. For example, I had written down "Goldfish" as my afternoon snack. I got told that that needed to stop, and I would not become faster that way. I was a 16-17 year old girl, so I thought eating Goldfish as a snack was okay? Well apparently not. I instantly changed my diet.

My diet was fine at first. I did not restrict myself of much. I just ate different things. Not knowing that I had an addictive personality, this got out of control pretty quickly. I never cared about my weight, or my body image; but once I started to lose some weight, and look more "lean" and "athletic", I became addicted to it. My senior year of high school was coming up and my only goal was to get a track scholarship. I would drive an hour away 3 days a week to train with a very special coach I had. On the days I was not with her, I was in the gym, and running on my own. There was no such thing as a day off for me. My food habits remained the same as my senior year started. Every Friday, there would be a football game that I would ALWAYS attend because my boyfriend was on the team. When I think about that football season, I think about how much I would make myself run before each game. I would leave from school and go run for at least an hour. I would go home, get ready for the game, and on my way out the door I would heat up a frozen dinner that had 0% fat in it, otherwise I wouldn't eat it. I would be starving, but I loved it. I would stand all night long at those games thinking about how many calories I have burned.

I woke up one morning for a track meet. I put on my uniform for the first time in a year. It was very baggy on me, and I was shocked. I had no idea how much weight I was losing. I stepped on the scale and it read "102." I am about 5'7'', so 102 pounds is considered underweight, but it was not to the scary part yet. I ran great that day, and my coach told me to keep on doing whatever it is I had been doing, so I did. I had lost my period, my appetite, clothes that fit, my great personality, the ability to sleep, and the ability to be truly happy with life; but I continued to do this to myself because I just could not help it. I got down to about 95 pounds. I did not learn that until recently.

I would make my boyfriend cupcakes a lot, and I will never forget this one time when I took a bite of one. I took one itty bitty bite, and ED** just thought it was the end of the world. I made myself run three and a half miles in the pitch black dark after I took that bite. My mom and step-dad went driving around in the car looking for me, because they were worried. I refused to get in the car, because I knew I had to run this bite of a cupcake off.

I enrolled myself in weight-training with a bunch of football players. I had this second period during my day. One day we were lifting pretty heavily in there, and something happened. I never told anyone this happened, and I was even in-denial it happened to myself in all. I was doing hang cleans at a weight that was probably heavier than I was. I picked up the bar and began my clean. As I lifted it, everything went black. I could not see anything, and I could hear my heart beat VERY loud in my brain. I freaked out. I dropped the bar and just slowly went to the ground. I did not pass out; I was fully awake. I played it off like I was fine and my vision re-appeared eventually. But I knew I wasn't fine, at all. It scared me, but I never thought about it or talked about it to anyone, not even myself. I had ED telling me that was okay and I should be lifting more.

I would work out at the least three times a day, every single day. I had to. I woke up, went to school, I had second period weight-training to burn my breakfast off. Then I would eat my 11 almonds for a snack, and shortly after I would go into the bathroom and do jumping jacks, and ab workouts to burn off the 11 almonds. Then, I would eat my same lunch as I did everyday. I would burn that off at track practice. Sometimes after practice I would go to the gym and workout more. I was starving, I could barely stand up I was so tired, but yes, I would go to the gym. I could not go to sleep until I did 200 jumping jacks and an ab workout. I could not get into the shower until I did 100 jumping jacks.


The day I shouted "I need help", was the day I am thankful the most for. I came home from track practice, very hungry. I saw my mom cooking with butter...and woah. I started to panic. "Why are you cooking with butter? Butter is bad for you. I am not eating that." I threw a temper tantrum, except I was 18 years old, not 3. I kicked, screamed, and hyperventilated with tears rolling down my face. My mom and sister were watching, and I'm sure they did not know what to do. I hit the counter and yelled "I need help!!!" A few days later, I started therapy and I got told I was "Anorexic."

t was exhausting fighting with ED at all hours of the day. It was exhausting going to endless doctor appointments and therapy sessions. It all felt endless, and none of it was helping. It was just a cycle. I went in, they covered my eyes while they weighed me, I went back into the room, and they told me "well, you have gotten worse." They told me this every single time. I felt like I was getting better, except I was getting worse. I did not understand and I was very sick and very tired of being sick and tired. You wake up every morning with the same ED demanding you to constantly run yourself down.


I finally got that track scholarship I had been dreaming of. I got offers from a few schools, but I picked Limestone College, in Gaffney, South Carolina. Right before I got sent off to school, I was having some family issues, and I became worse than ever. My therapist/nutritionist told me to stop exercising and running. She cut me off from it, although I hardly listened. She told me that if I did not get better, then I could not run in college. I could not even go to college because it would not be safe. I instantly freaked out because I wanted to keep running more than anything. I was scared. I felt like without running and without ED, then I was nothing. I will never forget what my mom wished for on mothers day. I got home from work nagging about when I am going to work out, and she said to me "Libby, all I want for Mother's day is for you to not run today." And I tried it, I really did. We went to dinner somewhere, I did not eat anything there of course. When we got home I remember a rush of anxiety building up in me and ED screaming at me in my head. I had to go running, so I did. I am sure I let my mom down many many times, but she understood I couldn't control this.

Celebrating with friends at an
Eating Disorder walk in Clemson, SC

I went off to college more scared than ever. I did not want to go, but I forced myself. And I believe that if I did not go, then I don't know if I would be alive today. Getting sent off to college while struggling with ED at all hours of the day was HARD. No, hard is an understatement. It was nearly impossible. I knew nobody there, and I felt like I had no one to talk to that really understood what was wrong with me. My coach knew, and offered me people to talk to, but I shut that down. My boyfriend went to school about 30 minuets away, so I constantly would run to him (not literally, lol). If it wasn't for him, I don't know what I would've done. I am extremely thankful for that.

Things were slowly getting better. I started to make more friends that will last a lifetime. You would never find me in that cafeteria, but when you did, I would be eye balling what all my runner friends would eat. They would eat like crap! And I couldn't believe it, but they were still super fast, so I was confused. I thought that maybe I should try that too. I read many books, and wrote a lot during this time. It helped me. I saw a facility in Greenville, and they examined me. They took my heart rate, and it was in the 30s. If you know anything about anything, you know that's scary low. They took it twice to make sure it was accurate, and it was. They called my mom in a panic, making her panic. They told her to make me stop running, and that I needed to go into their facility and stay there for treatment. I immediately went against that. I'm sure I did need that, but I felt as if I did that, I would've gotten worse. My mom listened to me, and trusted me with what I said.

Things were getting better. I started eating things I would have never eaten. I did go through another obstacle when I began getting better. I would eat right before bed. Things like Pop-tarts, or animal crackers. If I ate those before bed, I would starve myself the next day, and it just became a cycle. I was seeing a therapist in Spartanburg and she helped me through this part.

I have never felt more thankful for my support group, still to this day. My mom, dad, step-dad, sister, friends, boyfriend, coaches, doctors, etc. I could go on and on. I really had a big team rooting for me and it makes me happy to make them proud.

It eventually felt "gone." And it pretty much was. I had many distractions, although some of them were not "good" distractions. I blocked out ED for a long time with these distractions, and I lost myself during that process. I am now back on track, I love my life, and I am running well at a healthy weight. I attend USC Upstate now, and my major is Nursing, which I am very passionate about. I will be honest with you though; I still hear ED every single day. His evil demanding voice is not gone, and a part of me thinks he will never be gone. I do still have a hard time looking in the mirror and saying something positive about myself. Part of the reason I am making this blog is to help myself and remind myself how far I have come, and to not go back to the life that almost killed me; oh, and this blog will really piss off my buddy ED, so that is a plus too. 

**eating disorder

(Want to communicate with Libby? Her email address is: Jennettelibby3@gmail.com)

Libby, her Mama Leslie, her sister Natalie
her Grandmother Gayle

Want to know more about this problem you might want to visit the web site: 

info@nationaleatingdisorders.org

Jennie Schaefer tells her story about her own journey with Anorexia in her books, Life Without End and goodbye ed, hello me.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Installing Jennifer as Pastor in a Baptist Church

This occasion reminds me a funny story. A little boy sat with his mother during the ordination of his Father to the gospel ministry. He kept watching. Watching.  He had never seen so many people in that church march to the front and laid hands on his Daddy's head. He didn’t know what was going on. He asked his Mama, “What are they doing to Daddy?” And Mama said, “Why child, they’re taking his spine out.”

But what I want to say today is that you know Jennifer. She’s worked with you for a number of years. And I think that one of the reasons that you called her was because nobody has been able to take her spine out. A secret: some have tried. Some always try. But Jennifer—your new Reverend-Pastor has her spine intact. 

She has integrity. Beuchner says the task of the preacher first is to tell the truth. The spineless don’t do that. I worked with her for eight months—and not only is she a good preacher—but she tells the truth. And unlike a lot of us male reverends she knows how to speak that truth in love. Maybe that’s one of the reasons that God calls women to the ministry.

She loves this church. There is a church in Atlanta. Inner city. Working with a lot of homeless and poor people. One Monday the Secretary went into the Sanctuary to collect the Sunday bulletins. And she saw a mark on one of the pews. Somebody had scratched something on the inside of one of the pews. She looked close and in a child’s scrawl a little boy or girl had scratched into the pew: “I love this church.” Some boy or girl had received something so precious that they had to leave their offering for all to see. “I love this church.” Jennifer McClung Rygg has been loving this church as long as she has been here. She has scratched her mark in this place already. Even as Associate Pastor she visited many of you in your homes. She has taken the Bread and the Cup out to shut-ins—I know because I have seen her in action. She has held your hands before surgery--and she has hugged some of you when you lost the best person in your life. She has preached often—and she has done a fine, fine job. Maybe one of the best things that Courtney ever did was to take a chance on this woman as Associate. And maybe one of the best things you have done was to ignore the Association and to take a chance on this woman-minister. And you have not been disappointed.

During the eight months I was here she was in charge. And I said: “Yes Ma’m” over and over to this woman preacher. She worked tirelessly when you did not have a Senior Pastor. And she assumed a heavy load of doing all sorts of things here job description did not call for. But she did what had to be done—and she did it with dignity and grace and much hard work. No wonder you called her. You knew here was someone who not only had a spine—but knew how to use it.

But she is more than a Pastor. She is also a sister and a daughter and a friend and a wife and a Mama as well as Counselor and answerer of the telephone in the middle of the night. So remember, folks—you didn’t call Jesus or his Mother. You called Jennifer recognizing that when God spoke years ago that God did a wonderful thing in calling dear Jennifer to the ministry. God did not call her because God wanted to make a statement or some other with-it reason. God called her because he saw in her a chance to let the light shine through her all-human-life until here and there somebody would be changed and somebody would have the scales fall off their eyes and some little six-year old girl sitting out there would see that in this big, big kingdom that God makes no differentiation between males and females. 

So  Pendleton—fertilize her gifts. Give her room to stretch. Help her be a good Mama to Thomas and Caleb. Encourage her to be a good wife to Travis because if the marriage is good—the ministry will not suffer. Hear me. I did not say perfect marriage…I said a good marriage. And you can help that along. 

Jennifer, I have been in this business since 1961. Which means I am about as old as Methusalah. And in my own circuitous pilgrimage there have been days of doubt and heartbreak but not many. Sometimes the human race that called themselves Christians would disappoint me. But you know I cannot remember those angry faces or most of their names. But looking back—all that is minimal. For the names and faces inscribed on my heart are those—and there were many—who graced me. They cheered me along. They forgave my stupidities. They loved me most days. They stretched me sometimes when I thought I could not be stretched. And so as I look back over my shoulder at ministry—even after al these years--Jennifer I am proud, very proud to be a member of this club called Pastor. And one day—years from now—I hope you will look back and count it all joy for what God has allowed you to do here and wherever else you might go.

Langston Hughes was a great poet. And a black man. And he wrote this poem that I want to leave as a challenge to The Reverend Jennifer McClung Rygg and to the First Baptist Church of Pendleton, South Carolina.

“Gather up

In the arms of your pity

The sick, the depraved, 

The desperate, the tired,

 All the scum

Of our weary city

Gather up

In the arms of your love—

Those who expect 

No love from above.” AMEN

(These remarks were made at the Installation of Jennifer McClung Rygg as Senior Pastor of the First Baptist Church, Pendleton, South Carolina , February 26, 2-17.)

Jennifer holding little Caleb and Travis holding Thomas.

—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

When America is Not So Great

photo by Thomas Cizauskas / flickr

I heard an NPR program the other day interviewing Japanese adults that were little children when they were incarcerated in World War II. They told about how scared they were. They told about how it felt to leave their homes, their schools--many of their friends. It was one of several dark pages in our history. Looks to me like we have opened yet another dark chapter in 2017. History will not speak well of us nor will those deported and uprooted. Years from now their children will remember that for them the Statue of Liberty is a hoax--at best.

So--with Mr. Trump's new orders to deport illegal immigrants--we are a long way from the dreams of what America looks like for the deported and much of the world. President Obama shares part of this shame when he deported thousands. Mr. Trump simply continues and extends this practice. 

Under the banner of Homeland Security it is said that we must protect ourselves from the outsiders. Funny--we have had more violent attacks from citizens of our own country than we have any others. Of course--that does not include September 11th. To President Bush's credit he reminded us that we could not paint the people of the Muslim faith as our enemies. That seems like a long time ago. The Southern Poverty Law Center continually tells us that hate crimes directed to all sorts of outsiders has jumped astronomically just in the last few years. The new President has fanned of fear continually. Fear does not make for a good faith or for a good country. We see things through a glass darkly.

So--as we load up supposedly the criminal element--the rapists and murderers and send them back from where they came from--we are tearing up the lives of thousands of innocent people. They simply came here to be safe, to find a place where their dreams might come true, and the possibilities for the future would stretch out endlessly. 

What many of these decent people have found has been a nightmare. I keep saying it but nobody who has committed no crime should not feel safe in this country. And every night many Hispanics and Muslim brothers and sisters are scared as they live under our stars and stripes.

I have been thinking about those that we deport. One day they are working on a job--and the next day on a bus heading back to the places they fled. 

What do they leave behind? 

Old cars they were so proud of. 

A TV they bought at the Goodwill. 

Toys for the children. 

A refrigerator that held food for the family. 

Closets with shirts and pants and underwear and shoes and socks. 

A four room apartment bigger than anything they had ever lived in. 

They leave behind a safety they thought they had found to return to many places of violence and poverty. 

Many of them have little money in their pockets. 

They did not even get their last playcheck.

We--the American people--have dropped them off on the other side of the border. Many of them carry nothing beyond the clothes they are wearing. They have no laces on their shoes and no belts on their pants, because of fears those can be used to commit suicide.

Deplortees must figure out how to reunite with relatives--some many hundreds of miles away. Many are simply dropped off in Mexico which is not even the country of their origins. 

I remember Carlyle Marney once saying that he had not asked God to fix the race problem  in this country for twenty years. He said why would you ask God to fix a problem when God had an absolute majority of churches dotted almost on every corner. Should we ask God to fix this unjust problem of human cruelty and misery?Across this land the Almighty has an absolute majority of Christians. We will be judged by our silence and our ineptitude.

And the message we seek to proclaim will be watered down and ignored as the hypocrisy that it truly will be.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Trust? Today--How?

photo by purple javatroll / flickr

A Mother told me this funny story that really happened. She had a little box of Scripture verses shaped like a loaf of bread on the kitchen table. And as she sat with her little boy they would take out a Scripture verse and read it and talk about it. One particular morning the little boy took out a tiny card that read: “I will trust and not be afraid.” That afternoon she took her son to see the movie “Oliver Twist.” In the film there is a very scary scene when everything on the screen is very dark and someone is being hanged—and is twisting in the wind. Little Davie stood up in the darkened theatre and said out loud: “I will trust and not be afraid.” And he sat down and wet his pants. 

This has a familiar ring to me. How about you? We come here on Sunday and it is easy to believe. We say together: “I will trust and

photo by Fred Dawson  LRPS/ flickr

not be afraid.” And then reality intrudes. You get in your car and go home. And you turn on the TV. Looks like all hell is breaking loose. You hear about ISIS and terrorism. Too many 21 year olds coming home in boxes. Some scandal in Washington. Or your back hurts and you have to go to the Doctor. Or maybe you have a fight with somebody you love. Or you get up one morning and the blahs hit you in the face. You read the Obituary column in the back of the paper and you notice underneath too many of those pictures—they are the same age as you—ooh. A child breaks our heart. 

And our response? You know. You know. We’re like little Davie—we say we trust and will be not afraid—and when all these scary things hit us in the face we begin to think: Where is God? Reckon this stuff is really true. Doesn’t seem like it most days. We all wonder don’t we. Will we make it through all this stuff. Where is God?

It happened to the Israelites. They had been dragged hundreds of miles into exile. And they hated that strange place. Strange food. Weird customs. And their kids were beginning to date some of the Babylonians. They wanted to go home. And one day after years of exile their prayers were finally answered. So they made the journey back across the desert until they got home.  And what did they find? A mess. Before the Babylonians had left years before they had destroyed just about everything. It looked like Alleppo must look. People, those that had been left--were living in these bombed-out places. The fields where they had grown luscious crops—were just covered in stones and weeds. Why even the Synagogue was mostly destroyed. And they began to mutter: Where is God? Why did this happen? Or worse—where do we go from here? Like little David—they too trusted and thought they believed—but hmm. Not so sure. 

So this is the setting of our Scripture today. Found in Psalm 56. It was written either during those terrible exile days or in the post-exile days when they went back home to nothing but enormous disappointments. And in this gloomy time this is the word God sent. Will you listen?

Read Psalm 56. It’s a prayer. A prayer to Almighty God. 

-I-

In 1-4 it is a cry for help. You may have heard the story about this guy who fell off a cliff. And he grabbed hold of a vine and just dangling and he'd looked down and it was a long way down there. And so he prayed: “Oh God help me! Help me!” And a booming voice spoke and said: “I will help you. Just let go of the vine and I’ll take care of you.” He looked back down. No way. And he looked up and said: “Is there anybody else up there?” 

“Be gracious …O God…for people trample on me…all day long foes oppress me…and then again: my enemies trample on me all day long. And in the middle of this he wrote: “O Most High, when I am afraid, I put my trust in you…In  God I trust…I am not afraid.”

So from then until now we have this trust-faith problem. We’ve got all this stuff going on—but God, we are going to trust you. But guess what? That is not the end of the story. It never is. 

-II-

For in verses 5-7 all trust we find in 1-4 disappears. And uncertainty takes over. 

Translated he wrote: Is there anybody else up there? Scary time. “All day long they seek to injure my cause…even my thoughts are against me…Lord, they stir up strife…they lurk…they watch my steps. They hope to have my life. The writer ended this section by praying: “O God!” We’ve prayed it too, haven’t we? We don’t know what to say about all this stuff that looks like we’re going to drown in. Like them we say: “Oh God!” Or maybe: “Is there anybody else up there?”

I think what the Psalmist was trying to say that if you are a person of faith—doing all the right things—trying your best to color inside

photo by Amber Case / flickr

the lines—you bump into all these problems. There is something we call: prosperity gospel. And people are following this message in droves. Some of these churches on TV are so big that it looks like Clemson playing football. Except it’s Sunday. The music is up-beat. Everybody on the stage is pretty. The Pastor is handsome and has a lot of hair. Beside him with long blonde hair—usually—is his beautiful wife. And he stands up smiling from ear to ear. He says: God wants you to be rich. God wants you to drive a big car and live in a house like I do. (Which by the way has 6 bed-rooms and a swimming pool and a Jacuzzi.) Just follow the steps I give you, he says…and you will be swimming in success. Just give your money—as the plates are passed—God is going to take care of you.

And out there under the balcony is a little girl who just got divorced. Her ex doesn’t pay regularly for her and the two kids. She doesn’t know what she is going to do. Maybe the Preacher, she thinks,  is right if I just give and pray God is going to take away all my problems. On the second row down front a man just heard two days ago that he has cancer. And he is scared out of his wits. He hasn’t even told his wife—because if he tells her it is going to seem even more real. And the Preacher with his Brooks Brothers suit on—saying God is going to make you successful. And then there is Mary. Mid-way back she is worried to death about her son. She told her neighbor: “You know I thought when he grew up it would be simple and not so complicated.”  “Ha” she says.

There is a whole lot of religion that’s like this.  Follow me, they say Jesus said, and everything will be fine. Just fine. And if you are having trouble—well, there must be something wrong with you and your faith. You just have to believe. Where do they get such a message? That Preacher never preaches on Psalm 56 and if he does—it just zeroes in on “I will trust and not be afraid.” 

Just come on down here and join this church and everything will be fine. I don’t think he  preaches on Job either. And there is not a Cross in the house. Because it is a negative symbol.And all the songs have to be upbeat.

Well, we can just go home now and be depressed. Except we haven’t finished reading the Psalm. 

-III-

Verses 8-13 give us the rest of the story. For here we find a reassertion of trust. 

Listen. Listen. I love the way The Message puts it. It’s Eugene Peterson’s translation. And this is the thing that kept the light burning for those in Exile and those that stumbled back home to all those ruins. Listen.

“”You’ve kept track of my every toss and turn through the sleepless nights., Each tear entered in your ledgers, each ache written in your book.” Now back to the NRSV: "My enemies retreat when I call on you…because deep in my heart I know that God is for me. In  God I trust; I am not afraid. What can a mere mortal do to me?" I love the ending verse: “For you have delivered my soul from death, and my feet from falling, so that I may walk before God in the light of life.”

Do you see what is happening here? He doesn’t brush aside all the hurts and troubles and bad lab reports and terrible headlines. No. They are always part of life and none of us will get out of this life without some scars. But God gives his people hope. 

Frederick Buechner once said that Paul wrote about Faith hope and love but the greatest of these is love. And Buechner says:  If Paul was writing today he would say: Faith, hope and love—these three—but the greatest of these is hope. I think he is right. 

This is what kept them going. Hope. A trust in God that no matter what happens—and it will be a lot. But even then we will not be afraid because God is with us. It isn’t because we read the Bible through in one year. It isn’t because we give and we should. It isn’t because we are smart and know how to work it out. No. It’s a grace that comes to us when we need it.

I heard Alex Haley tell this story one day. He said when he was a little black boy growing up in Henning, Tennessee that he would get so down. And one day with his head down sobbing at the kitchen table, his Grandmother put her hand on his shoulder and said: “Alex, we don’t know when Jesus will come—but he will always come on time.” And that’s what we need to take home with us when we leave. And we may go back go some hard things—but we do not go alone. Despite it all—Jesus will always come on time. God is here.

Several years ago my brother and I decided to take a cruise together. Just us. We’d never done anything like that. And so we went to the Caribbean with a whole lot of people. And every night we would go down to the auditorium where they were doing Karaoke. It was a hoot because all these people who couldn’t carry a tune got up and just slaughtered some song. But once in a while there would be someone who really could sing. 

In the middle of everything—people would yell out: “We want Bill. We want Bill to sing and we want him to sing: “I Believe I Can Fly.” And out of the darkened theatre there would come this fifty-something man. Fat and not too good looking. Hair thinning. His face looked like life had not been good to him. But he took the mike and he began to sing. And it was beautiful.

"I used to think that I could not go on

And life was nothing but an awful song

But now I know the meaning of true love

photo by Amarit Opassetthakl / flickr

I'm leaning on the everlasting arms

If I can see it, then I can do it

If I just believe it, there's nothing to it

I believe I can fly

I believe I can touch the sky

I think about it every night and day

Spread my wings and fly away

I believe I can soar

I see me running through that open door

I believe I can fly

I believe I can fly

I believe I can fly ."

And the crowd would go wild and give him a standing ovation.

Every night without fail—as the drinks would be served and some of the people there were more than tipsy—somebody would yell out:” We want Bill and we want him to sing: “I Believe I Could Fly.”

And Bill would waddle up on the stage and begin too sing. Maybe he was singing for himself. Maybe he was singing to that crowd—some half-drunk. I saw some people wiping away tears. Maybe he was singing to us all: “I Believe I Could fly…I believe I could fly.” 

Long ago people hanging on by a thread—found this stubborn hope. It kept them going through exile and wars and death and failing crops and a Holocaust when they lost 6 million of their loved ones. But on Sabbath—they would trickle in year after year—crisis after crisis—and sit down—believing maybe, maybe, despite it all, they could fly after all. And the thing that kept them going was that little verse that we all need to hang on to. “I will trust and not be afraid.”

photo by evil nick/ flickr

(This sermon was preached at the Mt. Zion Presbyterian Church, Sandy Springs, SC,

                                                  February 19, 2017)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com