Hope in a Dark Time

photo by Thomas Cizanskas / flikr

In this strange time when nobody knows about the future— i looked up the number of people affected in England during the Second World War. We know that bombs fell on England by the Germans for over 70 consecutive days. What most of us forget is that:

2 million homes were destroyed during that war.

2 1/4 million people were made homeless.

45,000 civilians lost their lives, including 8000 children.

These days I keep remembering a story that Frederick Buechner told toward the end of those war days. He said that in many of those craters gashed out by bombs, the bombs unearthed seeds of flowers that had been buried some for over a century. Flowers of all kinds began to sprout up and bloom over those bombed-out places. Botanists discovered there were over 150 different variety of flower seeds unearthed by those bombs. 

We now know the people of England not only survived but rebuilt their country. Visiting today we can scarcely see scars of those terrible days.We do not know how long our pandemic will last but I remember during these day of death and suffering and hospitalizations in England the flowers that covered many off those bombed-out places.

The history of the world tells the story of plagues, epidemics, black death and so many other horrors. So we must not lose heart. Let us remember the flowers that bloomed in those gashes made by bombs of the enemy. If the scarred landscape has recovered from the war’s violence, can a country, or a person, heal in the same way?

 Christian Prayer for the Nation

God of ages,

in your sight nations rise and fall, 

and pass through times of peril.

Now when our land is troubled,

be near to judge and save.

 May leaders be led by your wisdom; 

may they search your will and see it clearly. 

If we have turned from your way,

help us to reverse our ways and repent.

Give us your light and your truth to guide us;

through Jesus Christ, 

who is Lord of this world, and our Savior. Amen

—Presbyterian Church, USA

photo by Bill Barber / flikr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Jesus: A Prayer for our Time

As I walked into the Basilica Familia in Barcelona I stopped at the entrance and saw etched in stone name after name. But in the center was a name I knew. I touched the word that said: Jesus. It was carved into that stone over and over. Unlike the other names this one particular word had been touched so many times by those who passed into the church. As I gently touched the name I remembered not only my name and my needs. But in touching I lifted up my wife and children and so many, many out there that need what Jesus promised to us all.

The temple was designed by the great architect Antoni Gaudi.  The Church was named: Sagrada Familia and the cornerstone was laid in 1853. Even after all these years the church is not completed. How many thousands of people have touched that sacred name and lifted up their own prayer needs these 167 years.

In this hard time we are encouraged to practice mindfulness. One of the oldest prayers of the Church was simply one word: Jesus. Over and over believers would whisper this single name. They would lift up the longings of their hearts and world in this one-word prayer: Jesus. We don't have to spell out all our needs, Jesus can sort them out one by one. 

"Since we do not have a high priest who is unable to sympathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who in every respect has been tested as we are, yet without sin. Let us therefore approach the throne of grace with boldness, so that we may rerceive mercy and find grace to help in time of need."
                                                       --Hebrews 4. 15-16

photo by Via Tsuji / flickr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Do We Care about Schools and Teachers in 2020?

photo by You Belong in Longmont / flikr

What a strange thing when we politize it looks like everything. Science. Truth telling. Crowd size. Masks. CDC. On and on we could go. But I keep scratching my head about the opening and closing of schools. We've been here before during the temptuous Civil rights days. Finally we got through that--sorta. But now as the Coronavirus rages across the country we have been told that we must open the schools or the children will be scarred irreparably. Really? What about all those brown-skin children ripped from their parents and caged like animals. Any scars there? Maybe they don't count. Who knows?

We are told that most children will be immune to this cursed virus. I hope so. But what about the teachers? They have always been on the back of the bus but NOW? We put all of our teachers at great risk when we open the classroom doors this fall.  Not to speak of the children.

Having a daughter who has been a lifetime teacher--and a good one--I am concerned about her safety and everybody's teachers. Are we going to ignore all these heroes who get up early day after day and come to school, open the doors and smile as the kids come rushing in? What about them? There are a whole lot of subjects that do not need politicizing. Tim Willis, my partner in theological crimes--and more--raises some uncomfortable questions about schools, teachers and students.  Read this article brimming with questions that need desperately to be addressed. --RL

Tim S. Willis

23 hrs  · 

Critical and important questions that need to be asked:

Betsy DeVos, we have a few questions for you:

• If a teacher tests positive for COVID-19 are they required to quarantine for 2-3 weeks? Is their sick leave covered, paid?

• If that teacher has 5 classes a day with 30 students each, do all 150 of those students need to then stay home and quarantine for 14 days?

• Do all 150 of those students now have to get tested? Who pays for those tests? Are they happening at school? How are the parents being notified? Does everyone in each of those kids' families need to get tested? Who pays for that?

• What if someone who lives in the same house as a teacher tests positive? Does that teacher now need to take 14 days off of work to quarantine? Is that time off covered? Paid?

• Where is the district going to find a substitute teacher who will work in a classroom full of exposed, possibly infected students for substitute pay?

• Substitutes teach in multiple schools. What if they are diagnosed with COVID-19? Do all the kids in each school now have to quarantine and get tested? Who is going to pay for that?

• What if a student in your kid's class tests positive? What if your kid tests positive? Does every other student and teacher they have been around quarantine? Do we all get notified who is infected and when? Or because of HIPAA regulations are parents and teachers just going to get mysterious “may have been in contact” emails all year long?

• What is this stress going to do to our teachers? How does it affect their health and well-being? How does it affect their ability to teach? How does it affect the quality of education they are able to provide? What is it going to do to our kids? What are the long-term effects of consistently being stressed out?

• How will it affect students and faculty when the first teacher in their school dies from this? The first parent of a student who brought it home? The first kid?

• How many more people are going to die, that otherwise would not have if we had stayed home longer?

30% of the teachers in the US are over 50. About 16% of the total deaths in the US are people between the ages of 45-65.

We are choosing to put our teachers in danger.

We're not paying them more.

We aren't spending anywhere near the right amount to protect them. And in turn, we are putting ourselves and our kids in danger.

Please copy, paste and share.

photo by Brecht Bug / flikr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

July 4th - 2020: A Time to Ponder

We've all seen this picture. It may have been in some grade school classsroom along with the picture of George Washington. Archibald Neal Willard painted this famous Revolutionary War painting. Fittingly it was called "The Spirit of 76."

In a July 4th parade reenactment of this scene a little boy held his father's hand as the three patriots marched by. The boy said, "Who's the man with a terrible headache carrying the flag?" A great many of us ask that question this July 4th. It isn't only that we are supposed to stay home month after month. Our hospitals are full and running over. The dreaded virus has struck down over 127,475 of us. Every day brings more and more gloomy news about this pandemic. And most of us live in fear. For ourselves and our family members. For our friends. For that long list of faces and names in the obituary pages of the paper. Millions are still out of work and many of the places they worked for will not be coming back. We are divided about just about everything--race, monuments, masks, opening businesses, that too-long list of funerals where black people--many of them young--shot and killed by some  of those who are pledged to protect us all. You probably read the other day about the little black boy who saw a policeman and asked his father, "Is that man gonna kill me?" We have a Presidential election coming up soon and things are getting uglier out there. Medical folks are sadly predicting that this virus might get worse in the future.

I have no answers for this. I do know that out there around this country are those warriors in every field--nurses, doctors, aides--and churches that reach out. And those individuals that make sure those kids that count on their meals at school will not go hungry. Maybe you heard about the retired furloughed retail worker who took his stimulus check and made 1200 pans of lasagna for his whole town.1200 lagsagnas! His kind actions has opened the door to many others who have stepped forward to do what they can. Kindness do not forget is infectious.

There is a great divide out there and I wonder how we can ever build a bridge across our enormous differences. But I still count on all those that do not give up on the principles that made us great. They really are letting their little lights shine and those lights are healing and they are hopeful despite the darkness.

photo by DJDANDYW.com AKA NO / flikrdifferences. 

On this July 4th weekend we need to ponder how far we have come as a country. That does not mean that we do not have miles and miles to go before we sleep. Yes. But we must remember that we have been governed since our beginnings by flawed creatures. Most if not all were far from perfect. And that beat still goes on. We are governed by human beings much like ourselvers. We are children of our time and all those that came before were children of their times.

The late Bill Coffin fought many battles for peace and justice. In a time of unrest and flag burnings he wrote:

"How do you love America? Don't say, "My country drunk or sober"; it doesn't get you anywhere. Don't just salute the flag, or burn it either. Wash it. Make it clean."

That's our job for these hard days and those days that will come when we will have the hard task of rebuilding. Reaching for the Tylenol will not do this. We all know by now there are no easy answers and no quick fixes. But a recommitment "to the patriot's dream that sees beyond the years, her alabaster cities gleam undimmed by human tears." Let it be Lord, let it be.

In Rockaway Township, New Jersey members of American Post #344 replaced all the

tattered flags at the foot the each of the Memorial trees of those lost service people 

 in their town.    Photo by Picatinny Arsenal / flikr

               --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

A Coronasvirus Sermon: When Nobody Knows About the Future

photo by Nik Anderson / flikr

We find ourselves in a strange time. Most churches locked their doors for weeks on end. We have been wearing masks. Or should. Not getting too close—or shouldn’t.  Why we can’t even have a funeral or a wedding and invite everybody. Folks in nursing homes can’t even see their relatives. Same for hospitals. School teachers trying to teach via computer. Many of us confined to our homes and running each other crazy. Over 20,000 without jobs. Over 120,000 of our brothers and sisters dead. 

We are told that this virus may come back with a vengeance by October. But nobody knows. That’s the point—nobody really knows. It seems like our settled world has changed overnight. We can’t go anywhere without wondering if we will catch it. 

And the murder of a black man by a policeman before our very eyes and then another and another and another. And the eruption of protesters around the world. Millions it seems. Not to speak of the looters gone crazy.

photo by Russ Allison Loar / flikr

Now I don’t want to add to the TV newscasters who drone on and on and on. That’s not why you came here. But the point is: Nobody knows. Will school open? Will the Tigers play? Will we have to close the churches or the schools again? Will we or our families be touched by this pandemic. But nobody knows.

And so I sat in my office this week trying to figure out what to say today. Something all of us might take home with us and put on our tables and give us enough nourishment to keep us going. Is there any word from the Lord in this strange time?

History helps me some. 75 million died of the pandemic in Europe and Asia in the 14th century. And this was not the end. Over six million Jews killed in Germany And many of their survivors would tell us this was not the end. Bombs fell on England in World War II for 57 consecutive days and nights. Over 2 million children were sent far away into the country by their parents to keep them safe. The children were separated from their parents for a whole year. And that, terrible though it was, was not the end.

And guess what? Despite the hell of those days—they survived. They were different as were all of our folk that lived during the Depression and other hard times. And this has been true of all the terrible things that have happened since God placed a man and a woman in a Garden and said it was good and safe. And then the story adds: there was also a snake.

And so one of the things I fall back on is that there have been other times—-many times in our history —when we thought the lights had gone out forever. One of the things I have hung onto is that hopeful song that came out of England in the Second World War. Listen.  

  

“There’ll be birds over 

The white cliffs of Dover 

Tomorrow, just to wait and see

There’ll be love and laughter 

And peace ever after.

Tomorrow, when the world is free.

The shepherd will tend his sheep

The valley will bloom again.

And Jimmy will go to sleep

In his own little room again.

There’ll be bluebirds over

The white cliffs of Dover

Tomorrow, just to wait and see. “

So folks like you I am trying to find a bucketful of hope in our time. Or maybe just a thimbleful.

One preacher said that he always turned to the Psalms when things in his life were bad. And so I opened the Book to the Psalms. Sprinkled on almost every page is that wonderful promise: “The steadfast love of God will be with us forever.” And it’s true for them and for us all.

I teach a Grief Group a couple of times a year in Clemson. And they come staggering in. They lost

photo by Larie Shaull / flikr

husbands and wives. They lost children in car wrecks and drugs and suicide. They said goodbye to brothers and sisters and friends. It was like an amputation—life will never be the same. But over and over I tell them—and remind myself: “The steadfast love of God will be with us forever.” And it’s true for them and and all of us too.

But my text today comes from Psalm 33.18-22. “Truly the eye of the Lord is on those that fear him, on those who hope in his steadfast love, to deliver their soul from death, and to keep them alive in famine.”

And that’s my sermon. Maybe we can go home—but not yet. We can all be kept alive in this time of our famine. If you run your finger down to the 20th verse of that same Psalm we read:

“Our soul; waits for the Lord; he is our help and shield. Our heart is glad in him, because we trust in his holy name. Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.”

Four points here for us all. Don’t panic we won’t be here all day.

Our soul waits on the Lord. Wait. Who wants to wait? Most of us want everything instantly. Breaking News flashes continually on the TV. And so we have a crisis—and an hour from now we have another crisis and another hour another crisis. But it isn ’t over. The Psalmist says wait. That’s the real breaking news. W-A-I-T.

Alex Haley tells that when he was a little boy he would sit at the kitchen table and cry. Things were tough for black folks back then in Harriman, Tennessee, especially kids in school. But his grandmother who could scarcely read for write put her arms around him and said: “Alex, we don’t know when Jesus will come back—but he will always come on time.”

Mr. Haley went on to write Roots which was not only a best seller but a television series and a movie. He moved people everywhere. I guess he learned that his Grandmother was right: Jesus will always come on time. He still will. Wait.

The Psalmist is next: “Our heart was glad in him.” If there is an absence of patience today—we also have a deficit in joy. That’s our second word. Joy.

Sounds like a foolish word token mention today. This was not written by someone who buried his head in the sand. Read the newspapers, the TV drones on and on and on every day—complaints about everything. Every thing. That’s us folks. 

Towards the end of his life Paul wrote from prison to the church at Philippi.  He did not know if the Romans would kill him our not. He uses the word joy sixteen times. Over and over he wrote it: “Rejoice.” “Rejoice.” “Rejoice.” We don’t find much joy today.

In the middle of the depression when folks everywhere were having a hard time a Black church in  Chicago had a panel of speakers. The church was  packed. And when the old atheist-lawyer Clarence Darrow came to the platform he looked out on a sea of faces. Money and jobs were scarce. The plight of those black folks was terrible. And Darrow took advantage of the situation. He summed up his remarks by saying: “And yet you sing! No one can sing like you do! What do you have to sing about?” And an old black woman stood up and yelled out “We got Jesus to sing about!” And the crowd went wild. Darrow was stopped in his tracks. He was face to face with a faith that was real and right and true He just shook his head and sat down. Rejoice. Even in terrible times.

This next word is “Trust in his holy name.” The Bible spends a lot of time on this word: trust. The word means there is something you can count on. During the World War there was a play on Broadway. It was about a group of soldiers mostly young—going off to combat. They did not know what their future would hold. They didn’t know if they would come back or not. And someone began to play a piano. Most of them knew the tune. “Leaning on the everlasting arms.” And a soldiers began to sing and then another and another until they had all crowded around that piano singing their hearts out: “What have I to dread, what have I to fear, safe and secure from all alarms, leaning, leaning, leaning on the everlasting arms.” They were young and scared and just did not know. But they hung on, as best they could to trust: “Leaning on the everlasting arms.” Trust.

Just one more word. Listen: “Let your steadfast love, O Lord, be upon us, even as we hope in you.” Hope is this last word. Maybe it is the best word: “H-O-P-E.

photo by Michael Brace / flikr

Years ago we were in England and my wife and I decided to visit Coventry Cathedral in the English town of Coventry. Most of the church had been destroyed by German bombs that fell on the town and church one night in 1940. The cathedral had been built in the 1400’s. But the community and the church decided to rebuilt their church. But the members decided to leave the bombed out ruins as a reminder of what evil could do. So they consecrated the new church right next to the old ruins in May 1962. As a reminder of the power of faith and reconciliation. Life could go on despite the fact that 500 of their citizens died and 2,300 of their homes had been destroyed.

And so when we leave and maybe put on our masks or be confined to home or just wonder what will happen let us remember the Psalm. Wait. Be glad. Trust. Hope. We really can lean on the Everlasting arms. That’s a pretty good word on Father’s day and for use all. 

photo by SoulRider.222 / flikr

A Father's Day Memory

(That's my tree to the left of the house.)

This Father’s Day memory takes me back to a small village in Georgia. Cotton-mill town. Eighty one years ago—could it really have been that long? Yes, eighth-one years ago I came howling into the world one frosty October morning. Born at home in a tiny four-room house across from the mill. They had been married for years hoping maybe a baby might come. Never did. And then, surprise of surprises my Mother was pregnant. 

Finally the baby came. For them, it was almost a holy moment—because they had given up all hope. And yet there in the bed cradled in her arms was the baby. It was a time when proud Papas passed out cigars to friends and strangers. “Got a boy,” he said. “Got a boy.” Outside that little house he marked the occasion by planting a little tree. Just a tiny sprig—yet kneeling in his proudness he hoped the little branch would one day become a tree. 

He nursed that seedling as if it was his child. He would wander out in the morning before work, kneel down and look. On the hot parched Georgia days he would take a bucket filled with water and baptize the tiny green sprig. 

Miraculously the small thing grew and grew. It was an unlikely spot—beside our house, next to a store—across from the mill. Yet—somehow it flourished. I went back there last year and drove down the street where the mill houses are now crumbling. The mill had burned and only a shell remains. The little house is still there miraculously. Someone painted it green. And to the left side of the little porch stands a tree. It must be say, fifteen or twenty feet tall. It has survived hard winters, tornadoes and hot-hot summers. Mistletoe has attacked its branches—yet it still lives. It has endured the years when so much around the tree has disappeared. 

My Father and I had a love-hate relationship. Near-deaf he could not hear me—and I got tired of yelling. We never got along too much. And yet this man who never really had a vacation—never owned a car—only worked and worked and worked. He brought his pitiable pay-check home week after week. He paid our bills and kept the lights on. The little boat called our family had rocky days and yet he stayed. He did what he could. 

For a long time his anger and frustrations made me furious. I would pull away and turn my back. I don’t ever remember if I ever really celebrated his birthday or a Father’s Day. When he died I had a hard grief. It lasted for a long time. I kept thinking: I never really knew him. 

Several years ago a road-show came to South Carolina. It was a play about mill people. It talked about the tiny pleasures they found after long days in the mill. They laughed and danced and loved their hard lives. And as I sat there watching that story unfold—I saw my parents as I had never seen them before. Young, in love, full of promise and dreams. 

Through the years the marriage unraveled and yet they stayed and raised their boys and did what they could. And sitting in that darkened theatre watching the mill story being told—I saw a side of them I had never seen. And I remember wiping away the tears.

Father’s Day is a hard time for many of us. Kids are abandoned or abused or just ignored. There are too-many dead-beat Dads. But despite my own winding father-journey this day I tip my hat and offer a thanks. Once upon a time my Father, on the week of my birth, knelt down and planted a tree—and it stands to this day. 

Maybe there is a parable here for many of us. He did what he could. He loved in his own way. And every Father’s Day I remember a tree and a time when somebody celebrated my birth was laughter and great joy. Maybe there is no greater gift than that.

(I words this piece abut my Father in June, 2017. This day stitrs that memory all over again. Remember your own Father today and every day.)

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Pentecost is Far from Over

photo by Romanus_too / flikr

Pentecost Sunday is over. It’s time to put away the symbols of the coming of the spirit. Whether it be fire or a group of people representing various nations reading every other Acts 2 verse in some foreign language. Some of us wondered what to do with all those balloons we were to pump full of helium and have the congregation lift them toward the skies. Pentecost, the birthday of the church was strange yesterday. Nobody there—well, many places. Pews empty—mostly. Nobody to blow the candles out. Who ever heard of a birthday party via video.  And for those who decided to risk it the Ushers wore masks, like bandits, nobody joined hands and sang “There’s a sweet, sweet, spirit in this place…” Why we couldn’t even hug or pass the peace or sing triumphantly.  We were supposed to sit six feet apart and use those sanitizer bottles after the offering plates passed our way. What spirit…what place?

photo by Luke Jones / flikr

This Pentecost was set in a strange frame. Many of the old folks still confined to homes after two months. Not even able to visit our sick in hospitals or nursing homes. Immediate family only at grave-sites. And across the land our dead have reached over 100,000 and the end is not yet. What few places we ventured out to they take our temperatures with a strange-looking gizmo. 

The TV reports riots and protests are starting all over the country. Most of us could hardly bare to look at that terrible scene in Minneapolis as a policeman put his knee or foot on George Floyd’s neck for 8 minutes until he died with three other policemen were standing there just looking. By morning there were protests and riots in 48 of our states. We put our hand over our mouths, whispering: “My God, what a terrible time.”

And Pentecost came. Appears to be a very poor joke. Hungry children. Foreclosures everywhere. Many of those angry ones in the streets had little to lose. Their jobs were gone. Many had little or no health insurance and the future looked bleak indeed. Small wonder so much rage out there. This powder key was bound to have gone off.

Should we have post phoned Pentecost like we did so many graduations,  sporting events, school openings and weddings. Maybe pencil in the middle September or October as an alternate Pentecost.

Maybe the backdrop of yesterday’s Pentecost was no mistake. That first day when the believers were all together in one room. The Scriptures do not say why. Maybe they were scared out of their wits. Or trying to understand that strange word: Resurrection. Or just knocked off their feet. That day the wind blew and the fire fell and people heard in their own languages and they left there dizzy and hopeful. Jesus was right. He really did send his spirit—his comforter to be with them forever. And they left there to write down the story over and over. They met in little homes to talk about what had happened. Like a wild fire this gos-pel—this good news spread.

The world of course thought they were nuts. For on that Pentecost Sunday crosses lined the roads of those who did not obey Rome and its Emperor. Disciple after disciple were martyred. The Jews—God’s chosen people—were still subjugated to Rome. If they did not say: Caesar is Lord—well, they would find a noose around their necks or nails in their hands.  The official government policy tried to Hellenize all those Jews—give up their weird faith and stranger customs. Their taxes kept going up as their hungry children cried into the night and there was no safety net for anybody. They would be imprisoned if they were lucky to still be alive. They only had to give their loyalty to Rome and Caesar and Herod and Pilate. Was that so much to ask?

But Pentecost came and the backdrop of whatever hurt or injustice or pain or crushed hope there were—they told this story about that day when they least expected that promise of Jesus came true. And it kept them going. Despite it all. And that All covered wars and plagues and injustice after injustice and slavery and cruelty and poverty and governments not of the people or by the people or for the people. They stumbled away from those graves of their children and other loved ones. They suffered pain of all sorts. Yet they kept telling the Pentecost story.

photo by Anthony Quintano / flikr

The Comforter would come. He would heal their broken hearts. He would convict them of their wrongs. He would stand by them through whatever came. And he would be with therm forever. That Spirit would never cover them with security blankets because they believed in Jesus. Neither would it make everything right and fair and free. But this Spirit was their teacher reminding them that in this faith there is almost more than meets the eye. 

Outside our settled little communities safe and secure the nation and world still convulses. Fires burn too much away. There will be other deaths. My granddaughter said she looked out her window in Greenville to see a filling station-grocery store windows smashed, looted and everything taken away and left in embers. 

I remember someone writing about one of the Editors at The New Yorker Magazine years ago. Someone gave him this tribute: “He kept going like a bullet-torn battle flag and nobody captured his colors and nobody silenced his drums.” It really is the story of the Christian church—and maybe all faiths. That power, unseen—yet real that kept them going. And us too, I hope.

It’s dark out there today folks. I don’t know where all this is going. But the light will come. And another day it will be dark again. But nobody, but nobody need capture our colors and nobody need silence our drums. Not because we are tough or strong or smart or from good stock or was

just born into the right family. But something much more powerful.The spirit—the Holy Spirit that came and that comes. To be with us all forever. Forever. FOREVER.

photo by Nancy Gowler: "Laying out letters for Pentecost" /flikr

—Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com