If I could tell you all she means to me it would take up way more than this page.
I love you...I love you...I love you!
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com
One of the great metaphors for Christmas is home. Weeks from now millions will be coming from distances far and near. Just to touch some base, feel some emotional tug, find some place real or imagined where we feel safe and secure. And those at home will be preparing all sorts of ways to say welcome to all us loved ones that come.
One of my favorite home stories comes from Robert Penn Warren. In his book, A Place to Come To. He tells a story about a young man raised in a dreary place. I think it was a coal mining town where life was hard and hope seemed far away. The Mother and Father lived there with their little boy. As he grew older his mother was determined that he would not be trapped in that town as so many others. Over and over she would say,”Son, one day you are going to have to leave.” And after the boy had graduated from High School his Mother kissed him, held him tight and told him he could not stay. She wanted him to live in a better world and know a better life. Saying goodbye was the hardest thing she ever did. So he left and found a larger place and a bigger world. She wrote him often just reminding him: “ You can’t come back,—you might get trapped.” And so he missed them so much but stayed away.
Years later his father died and the mother married again. The boy had never met his stepfather. And when his mother died he came back for her funeral. His stepfather told him, “Did you know that your Mother changed the sheets on your bed every week just in case you decided to come home.” No wonder Warren, the author entitled his book A Place to Come To.
For me this is a Christmas story. There really is a place we can come home to. No wonder most of us make that trip back year after year. We know when we get there a candle will be in the window and our family members will hug and kiss us and welcome us home.
Christmas comes in just a few weeks. But whoever we are and what we have done or not done the sheets on the bed have been changed and we will find love and care and warmth.
“Unto to us a child is born…unto us a son is given …and his name will be called ‘Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.’”
Advent means arrival. It is coming. It is coming. Whether we are prepared or not the baby will arrive and everything for the moment will be turned upside down. Bringing trees into the house. Trees! Finding in dusty boxes stored away our peculiar treasures. A tiny star made out of dough placed on our tree for how many years? One of our daughter’s first gifts. And now in her fifties she still remembers. We unearthed the poor Nativity Mary with a hole in her back—our son could not resist playing Superman with her and saying over and over: “Shazam!!” We found the crocheted little wreaths my mother made long ago. And ornaments from my wife’s mother—she used year after year. We could go on.
We decorate the tree and string lights on the mantle. Like the birth of that other baby our house is turned upside down. Why? The kids are coming. The grand children are coming and we will break loose from the ravages of this virus and terrible conditions in our world and stand just inside this cracked door and once again feel a touch of wonder we thought was lost.
Yes—the kids and grands will arrive but there is another arrival. “Watch!” the old book says because we never really know when a guest we did not expect and did expect will come in and bring good tidings of great joy to all people. All. Not just Democrats or Republicans or those strange nones or immigrants without a place to sleep. So we keep bumping into this word: All. We are all included. Prisoners. These slipping away into the mystery. Children with starlight in their eyes. And those that come to the food pantry. Not to forget all those on drugs or alcohol or some other addiction. The grievers and the joyous.
We all come hopefully watching and waiting. Not missing those stories of angels’ wings and a sixteen year old girl scared and pregnant. And hopefully sitting down at a table covered in food lovingly prepared for your homecoming.
And that is what I am thinking about this beginning of Advent. And going way back and remembering those first Christmases and some memories over eighty years old. Around that table there will be vacant spots and we will remember those not here anymore.
So we crack the door and peer in. And hopefully watch and wait which may be the hardest thing for we Americans.
Inside we find home: “the place that when you come there they have to let you in”. I hope you will walk with me through this four week journey. Searching almost one and all for that place called home.
And I remember those wonderful words of G.K. Chesterton:
“To an open house in the evening
Home shall all (sic) come,
To an older place than Eden
And a taller town than Rome.
To the end of the way of the wandering star,
To the things that cannot be and that are,
To the place where God was homeless
And all…are at home.”
Won’t you join me as we stand on the porch and walk inside and find Peace and great joy which can come to us all.
See you next week. As we crack the door just a little more.
"Were there not ten cleansed? but where are the nine? There are not found that give glory to God, save this stranger." --Luke 17. 17,18
This Thanksgiving comes at just the right time. Maybe it is true about every Thanksgiving. I turned off the TV after watching 10 minutes this morning. Dear God it was just too much. A Christmas parade destroyed with someone plowing a vehicle in to the happy marching band killing five--children. Children? All who have lost so many--over 600,000 in our country alone to this cursed Pandemic. January 6th. January 6th. January 6th. Gun ands more gun blotting out the lives of so very many. Ugly threats to Doctors, nurses, aides who worked long, long hours trying to help the victims of our plague. Rage over vaccinations. Washington awash with hatred and division and finger-pointing. Getting even. Outbreaks there and wondering if this, too will spread. And Thanksgiving comes.
We are not the first nor the last to live in the middle of a hurricane. We think of just today--us, ours, here. But the Bible alone mentions giving thanks 140 times. The backdrop. War and pestilence. Hungers and starvation. Tears and more tears. In every age there have been terrible convolutions. And set in the middle of these strange words for a dark time: Thanks. Praise. Gratitude. Amazing Grace.
It is easy to give thanks when everything seems to be going well. Or easy to forget God. But maybe Jesus was right, where in the midst of a world gone wrong, he asks the strangest question:"Where are the nine?" Anne Lamott reminds us: "If you've been around for a while, you know the much of the time, if you are patient and paying attention, you will see that God will restore what the locusts have taken away."* Lord, I want to be in that number when the saints go marching in. Tail end of the line of course.
So we are to pay attention. To the wonders of this world and the wonders of the people we know. And those we do not know. Like the man I see often walking, just walking. All over town.
Or as dear Mother Teresa said one time, "Young man I do what I can, where I am, with what I have." That's praise. I do believe that's Doxology. We really are to pay attention. Down in the mouth, troubled by many things--I wandered out on my porch and looked up. And there it was--a beautiful maple tree in my yard. Don Robertson wrote a book one time, Praise the Human Season. And maybe just maybe this Thanksgiving if we just pay attention to those around our table, and the food we are about to eat, looking out the window at it all--we too might praise this very human season and it may just save our souls after all.
--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com
...We love you
...We are proud of your job and trying to be grown-up person...
...We got to the hospital in Louisville a little late for your birth...
...But we were there just after your birth...
...And there never was a happier circle around your Mama's bed and you blinking out wondering who all these strange smiling people were...
...Well after all these years we are still smiling...well, most of the time...
...We hope that your day is great...birthdays only come around just once a year...but today is your day...
...Wherever you go never, ever forget that there are weird people out there that still smile when they say your name...
Endurance Window - Princeton University Chapel
"For all the saints who from their labors rest, Who Thee by faith before the world confessed, Thy name, O Jesus, be forever blest. Alleluia! Alleluia!"
On this All Saints Day I remember a stained glass window. I saw it in the Princeton University Chapel. That magnificent gothic structure is surrounded by wonderful stained glass that tell the Biblical story.
I spent many summers at Princeton Theological Seminary. With time off I would wander into the University Chapel. But one particular day I came in and sat close to the Altar. No one was no one there but me. I looked to my left and saw what was called the Great North Window. Jesus dominated much of the center part of that window. But underneath that rendering of Jesus was another large figure: St. Michael with a sword in his hand. Ever ready to slay the dragons.
Around those two figures there were many who has stood strong despite impossible circumstances. They were called saints. The lower part of the window showed other historical names and faces with the word inscribed: Perseverance. Underneath it all were the words: “He that endureth to the end shall be saved.” Almost every summer after that I would go into that chapel and sit in that same pew and ponder the glittering colored glass that surrounded Jesus.
But I found myself not only seeing the figures of the saints. But I began to think of those along the way that helped keep me going. Many would laugh themselves silly if anybody called them a saint. But they were and they are. For living or dead they are still in my window. They always brought some word, some hug, some letter or some call from across the miles. None of them were particularly pious but they always brought with them a breath of fresh air.
As I look at those in my endurance window they all made me feel good just to be around them. Sometimes they stretched me in ways that surprised. They were all bonafide human beings with clay feet and hangups of their own. Many of them had carried heavy loads. But this did not stop them from making their worlds good and bad a better place because they were there.
Someone asked a little boy at Sunday school what he thought a saint was. He said, A saint is someone who lets the light shine through. And I think he was right.
Look up at your own window. Who do you find? They were some who really did let the light shine on you. Maybe there was a time when you thought you couldn’t make it but they came again and again. Just enough light! Just enough light!
I will remember this day and some who were saints to me. Helping, loving, caring and never giving up on me and a whole lot of others. Isn’t that what a saint is supposed to be. And guess what? There was not a halo in the whole bunch.
You stumble out of bed—go outside and get the paper. Back in the house you move toward the coffee pot and fix your coffee. You open the paper and it all pours out: Washington. Stimulus package. Biden. Trump.The Virus the vaccinated and those not vaccinated. Murder in a prominent family downstate. Then the Obituaries. Sports. Who won and who lost. And so you put down the newspaper and turn on the television. Maybe this will be better. Not so. Chatter. Chatter everywhere. And it’s all pretty negative. So you press the off button and fix your breakfast. But somehow all that stuff that we have just heard this morning stays with us. What’s going to happen. Are we all just going the drain. Maybe the sky really is falling. Hope not.
This is where a lot of us are. Almost buried by headlines and Breaking News. And I remembered a story I read somewhere. Someone asked a social worker how she could stand to deal with the homeless, the poor and all those other things that broke her heart. And she said, “The only way I can make it is to rejoice in the smallest of victories.”
Victories
It got me to thinking. Hmm. The smallness of victories. What kind of pollyanna thinking is this? What about the big picture?
The disciples were having the same problem and the Pharisees with folded arms and pursed lips piously asked, “Is this Jesus not the carpenter’s son?” Not only that but a carpenter himself.
And so early in Mark’s gospel Jesus tries to set the record straight. What a strange thing he said. “The kingdom of heaven is like a mustard seed…” Remember the temptations of Jesus there at the very beginning.
The devil whispered, “Turn these stones into bread—and they’ll love you.” And since that didn’t work the Tempter whispered, “Throw yourself down four stories from this temple—you’ll wow them Jesus.” And that did not work and so the Devil then said, “Let me show you the kingdoms of the world—look…look. All these will be yours if you fall down and worship me. You’ll have them at your feet.”
This should have given us a clue of how his kingdom was not to be. The gospel turns most of our thinking on its head. It started with a little sixteen year old slip of a girl and her scared to death husband. God’s son born in a dirty barn because there was no room in the inn. The word became flesh—like our flesh. Like us? Lord—like us.
“They all were looking for a king
To slay their foes and lift them high:
Thou cam’st, a little baby thing
That made a woman cry,”
—G.K.Chesterton
No parades. No dancing girls. No riches exactly. No popularity as the world counts. Just doing the very opposite. Calling a rag-tag band to follow him. Touching a leper—nobody did that. Picking up a little child. Telling about the black sheep of the family leaving home—frittering away his inheritance—coming back in rags only to hear his Daddy say: “My son…my son.” The religious leaders couldn’t believe him. “A friend of publicans and sinners.” Women with a shabby past. Tax collectors. The common people whose names never made it into the newspaper—or the obituary notices—these common people heard him gladly. Then he was nailed to cross. Buried in somebody else’s tomb.
No wonder we didn’t know who he was. We are impressed with the big houses and cars. And going to the right schools. Wearing Rolex’s—winning all the ball games. Number One…Number one. I never will forget someone in Clemson telling me one day, “Well—They live in Central but they live in a nice house.”
Seeds
We forget what Jesus said, “The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed.” This tiny seed grows into of all things a tree—and birds of all kinds came and made nests in its branches.”
Back to our theme—“I rejoice in the smallest of victories.” Do you do this? Rejoice in the smallest of victories. I certainly miss the point many days. I just let so many of these small victories pass unnoticed as I look at the big churches and houses and big bank accounts and those other children that have done so well. C.E.O’s for this and that company. Doctors. Lawyers or bankers. Why didn’t my kids do that?
Maybe we find the mustard-seed story early in Mark’s gospel to remind us that his kingdom is not the way of the world.
Maybe we are to pay attention. Wendell Berry has a point in which says: “Look out your window—what do you see?” Stop. Look at what’s around you. What do you see? Maybe I have been so down in the mouth many times because I didn’t even see the mustard seeds around me. The teacher says: “Children pay attention. “ And when she gets in her car dog- tired she mostly thinks about the big things. Didn’t I tell them to hang up their pajamas this morning? Did they eat their spinach? Wonder if they fed the dog?
Looking Out Your Window
So often we don’t look out the window but we see the smudges. How this window needs a cleaning. Years ago when we first came to Clemson our little boy was so impressed at this big church. It had a balcony. And a big sound system. And one Sunday as I stood up to preach there was a note on my Bible on the pulpit. It read: “Daddy—talk in the microphone and tell everybody I love you.” Whew. For years I kept that note under the glass on my desk. I hadn’t thought about this in years until I started thinking about this sermon. The smallest of victories.
Remember old Noah and his family cooped up in that smelly boat with all those animals and weird family members. The flood came and stayed and stayed. But one day a dove came with an olive branch in her beak saying the water had gone down and they could open that door and walk once more on solid ground. An olive branch—the smallest of victories.
It is more than a seed folks. Think about your life what really counts. Look out your window. Stop and look. Something your child said. Some note you got when you lost your loved one. Just looking out one of these frosty mornings at the leaves—the turning leaves. The smallest of victories. Maybe it’s not winning the lottery after all.
Just week before last our daughter came down from Atlanta where she teaches a very hard class. She came for my birthday. And she said, "Let's go walk on the dike by the lake before it gets dark. And so as we walked the sun was going down and she turned and said, “This is why I wanted you to come to see this sunset.” What a gift. Maybe the little things may be a whole lot bigger than all those so-called important things.
Craddock's Seed Story
Fred Craddock was one of our great story-tellers and preachers. He said he and his wife visited one of their favorite spots The Great Smoky Mountains. He said they were having dinner in a restaurant one night. Looking out the window was a great view of the mountains. Early in the meal an elderly man came by and said, “Good evening. Are you on vacation?” he said. Craddock said “Yes” and wanted to say it is none of your business.
“Where you from?” Oklahoma. “What do you do there?” Craddock said his blood pressure was going up. He wanted to say: Leave us alone. We don’t even know you. He told the man he was a minister. “What denomination?” The Christian church. The man said, “I owe a great deal to a preacher in the Christian church. “ And he pulled out a chair and sat down. Who was this person?
The man said “I grew up in these mountains. My mother was not married and everybody knew it. I was illegitimate. In those days he said, this was a great shame. And I was ashamed. “When I went into town” he said, “ I could saw people whispering. “See him—he’s a bastard. No daddy.” Children called me ugly names at school. You don’t know your Daddy.
He said in his early teens he began to attend a Christian church way back in the mountains. He said the preacher there was attractive and frightening. Tall with a deep voice. He said he kept going back to hear the man preach. He said, “I was afraid I would not be welcomed if they knew I was a bastard. I would go just in time for the sermon and slip out fast.
But one Sunday the line was long trying to shake the preacher’s hand and he was struck. He said he made it through the line and he was stopped. There was a hand on his shoulder, a heavy hand. And it was the Preacher. The man told Craddock he was scared to death. The preacher turned the boy’s face around and said, “Boy, you are a child of God—I can see a striking resemblance.” Then he said the preacher swatted him on his back and said, “Now go on out and claim your inheritance.” Craddock said the man told them as a little boy he left the church a different person. In fact, he said, it was the beginning of his life.
Craddock said he was so moved by the story he asked the man sitting next to them,“What is your name?” “Ben Hooper, he said.”
After they left he said he remembered when he was little his Mama saying how the people of Tennessee had twice elected a governor who was a bastard. His name was Ben Hooper.*
We all hold in our hands the smallest of victories. Let’s go out remembering that.
“The kingdom of God is like a mustard seed. When sown on the ground it is the smallest of seeds yet when it grows up it becomes great tree and birds come to nest in its branches.”
*Told in Fred Craddock’s book, Craddock Stories (Chalice Press)
This sermon was preached at the Mount Presbyterian Church, Sandy Springs, SC, October 24, 2021
—Roger Lovette/ rogerlovette.blogspot.com
