A Not-So-Holy Week

                                                          --Photo courtesy of Storm Crypt / flikr

A whole lot of we Baptists came late to Holy Week. For years we were taught this was some kind of Catholic thing. Romanists. Worshipping ceremony more than Jesus. Why celebrate this whole week when we could be getting out the Easter egg colors, buying our new spiffy clothes, getting the kids one of those cute bunnies—and waiting for Easter Day. We would always sing, of course, “He lives on High” to the Hawaiian tune. But somewhere along the way we began to realize that we all needed some preparation to make the Easter event more powerful than even the Crucifixion. Even then we were suspicious of crosses in church and especially not on the tall spire on top of the steeple. Thankfully we got over it.

From the fourth century on pilgrims celebrated Holy Week at least Good Friday and Holy Saturday. Later, following the Scriptures we would recall event after event that led up to Calvary and the Resurrection.

I’ve been thinking of late why did we call this particular week holy? The story is filled not only with the Triumphal Entry, but cleansing the temple, Maundy Thursday when Judas would betray our lord and Peter would deny him. The washing  the disciples’ feet. The agony of the Garden of Gethsemane and the capture of Jesus, the scourging, the stripping him naked, the crown of thorns and finally Calvary with all its gore and heartbreak.

I know…i know that Easter was coming and it would somehow erase all the pain of that long terrible week. What if it really was just a not-so-holy week. God knows history could state the case. Terrible things have happened in the name of Jesus and his Cross has been used as a weapon time after time. “In this sign I conquer.” 

There is so much in the story that seems anything but holy. The rigged trials, the degradation, the spittle and the hatred. They all took place on Holy Week. 

I look out at where we are today—this cursed pandemic and all its aftermath. More than 553,726 have died just in our country. Many of our loved ones have walked their own personal way of sorrows. Dying alone and cut off from all family members. Their loved ones touching that finger-smeared glass so their loved one would know they were not alone. This Holy Week brings the loss of too many jobs, too many suicides and so many enraged and acting out their frustrations. How in God’s name can we call it good?

The Church has been guilty of cosmetizing the truth, often denying all that went on that terrible week. Just Good Friday.

But let’s be fair. Most Holy Weeks have come in the middle of wars and plagues and hunger and injustice and utter heartbreak. In the Middle Ages as one town was immersed in leprosy and death the Priest took a painting of Jesus crucified with a body covered in sores. And the Priest would invite those who were themselves were in great pain and many who had lost children, friends, husbands and wives to gather around that painting of the diseased, dying Jesus.  Legend has it that the Priest would take a large candle from the altar and moved to the crucified. He would show those gathered the crown of thorns, then the diseased face and hands and feet and the terrible body racked in pain. And that was the sermon. The Priest snuffed out the candle and the people would begin to shuffle away in the darkness. 

Maybe this is why they called that week holy. For they found in His way of sorrows something that kept them going despite whatever they faced. It would be something if we could all lay down our burdens—not down by the riverside--but at the feet Jesus.

“At the feet o’ Jesus,

Sorrow like a sea. 

Lordy, let yo’ mercy

Come driftin’ down on me.

At †he feet o’ Jesus

At yo’ feet I stand.

O, ma little Jesus,

Please reach out yo’ hand.”

—Langston Hughes

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

We can't forget the Donkey on Palm Sunday

                                                                  photo by Vicki DeLoach / flikr

It’s Palm Sunday. Our second Anniversary of trying to be jubilant with all that stuff out there that keeps intruding…intruding. So churches everywhere will haul out the Palms and give one to everyone. One of my members back there once said: “What am I supposed to do with this branch thing?” Good question really. The Organ will pull out all the stops. Children will come in waving their Palm Branches and we all might stand and sing:” “All glory laud and honor, To thee Redeemer King.” And on and on it will go as the cute kids wave their branches and we hope nobody gets an eye put out.

I don’t want to sound too heretical, well maybe I do. But this Palm Sunday thing has always struck me as being a little odd. Dr. Fosdick preached  a sermon once  called: “The sin of Palm Sunday.” And in that sermon he asked how the crowd could possibly sing alleluia on Palm Sunday and just a few days later nail that same Jesus to the cross. Let’s face it folks. Those palm branches wither much to soon.

Lord knows we need some Alleluias. That’s why Leonard Cohen’s “Alleluia” struck a chord. And the book says the crowds did line the streets as he came toward Jerusalem on a donkey. Oh, I know what Zechariah prophesied about palms and donkeys. But most of the crowd that day must have wondered. “A donkey. The king is riding in a donkey?” It really was a clue to the kind of King he was. Never mind. They still stood there shouting. Nevermind the donkey--he was coming and he would bring in the Kingdom.

He came into Jerusalem people still shouting and all hell broke loose. He entered the Temple and it was a mess. People selling all kinds of trinkets. Maybe animals too. And the drove them out and this was a mistake as far as the Reverends and the Priests were concerned. With that single act he touched their pocketbooks and that was the beginning of his long sad week. They plotted his demise but they kept it to themselves because they remembered that crowd and those palm branches. 

“They all were looking for a king 

to slay their foes and lift them high,

There cams't a tiny baby thing 

that made a woman cry.”

So he never was the King they wanted but more. A King they needed. Read the story that follows that jubilant morning. He healed the blind and the lame. He cursed a fig tree. He told them parable after parable which most of the officials did not quite get but wondered if he was speaking about them. Not knowing that he was speaking about us, too. The Lord took on the established Temple. And this infuriated them even more. He stood on the brow of his beloved Jerusalem and wept and wept because, like us too, they did not know he wanted to take them like a hen that gathers her little ones—he wanted to take them all in his arms. For they did not know the things that make for real peace. And Jesus told them, as us too. That donkey should have been a clue. He said their task and ours was to feed the hungry…to give the thirsty something to drink…to welcome the stranger—even the illegals—to clothe the naked…to care for the sick..and touch even the prisoners. And he then said the strangest thing: “Inasmuch as you do it to the least of these…you do it to me.”

This was not the end of the story. But that donkey should have been a clue. He called the strangest and the weird. The Judases and the Simons with big mouths and clay feet…and all the dear Johns…and Jameses…and later the woman with all those husbands...and all those Marys and Mary Magdalenes…and the Marys and the Marthas…all those other women in the story. Strange King he washed his disciples' feet. And when people heard about what he did they kept shaking their heads and muttering: "Jesus washed their feet!"

The story was not over and never would be as long as there was hurt and need and hate. The manger maybe should have been a clue and his parents whom nobody knew and all those unlikely ones like tax collectors and the Zebedees and all the dispossessed.  Then and now. 

So at worship today even with my mask I will welcome the palm branches and maybe sing alleluia too. But i hope like you I do not forget the donkey because he may be the clue for us all.

                                                                      photo by Bill Smith / flikr

                                                      --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

 

Stumbling Through Lent

                                                   photo by Georgie Pauwels / flikr

 I've been pretty blog-absent for weeks.  Inundated by the too-muchness out there. I keep vowing to quit reading and listening to the news. I have failed miserably. I keep sneaking back in to hear where all hell is breaking loose these days. Healthy? Not. Yet as I slowly make my way toward Holy Week I find myself needing help. All I can get. How about you? 

So I read some things that keep my head above water...most of the time. Obama's autobiography which I finished and it is long--has been a help. The Lectionary which I have read on and off--especially Jesus' words and deeds in Matthew and the Psalms remind me of what is important all over again. I find myself whispering name after name of those in trouble. I've fallen back on remembering some of the hymns that I remember from the beginnings of my faith journey. I even ordered the old green Broadman Hymnal from 1940 that took me way, way back to those early pre-adolescent and adolescent days when some of those gospel songs were a tie that still binds me. "I have to follow Jesus." "Into my heart, into my heart Lord Jesus." "Have thine Own Way." "I have Decided to follow Jesus.' "Blessed assurance...Jesus is mine..." "Just As I Am." "At the Cross"  "Breathe on Me." My list seems endless. But as I remember these songs and others tears sometimes come to my eyes. 

One of the articles that has lifted me up is from Onward/Outward.org. It comes every day. And this wonderful piece on Lent and "Giving Up" spoke to me just this week. 

Giving Up It has now been over a year since the whole world, and my life along with it, changed in response to the pandemic. Perhaps the biggest change for me is simply the realization that it is truly impossible to know what the next year—or even the next day or minute—will bring. I still make plans, of course, but as I do so, I always have a heightened awareness that all plans are provisional, that anything can change at any moment, that I might have to give up everything in an instant.  In a recent spiritual report, I confessed that that I had given no thought at all about what intentional changes I wanted to make for Lent. Having given up so much for so long, the thought of giving up something else for Lent seemed ridiculous. Taking on some new spiritual discipline seemed equally absurd, if not impossible. Hadn’t this whole year been an extended spiritual discipline of looking for things to be grateful for while restraining my resentment at being unable to keep up with my comfortable routines? Hadn’t the whole winter, at least, been a long slog of staying indoors except for a chilly hour of outdoor exercise, of never sharing a meal with friends or hugging people I love, of fear that I might never see my distant children or grandson in person again? Now, as the weather begins to warm, tender green leaves are appearing on the tips of tree branches, the yellow heads of daffodils are nodding in every garden I pass on my morning walks, I’ve gotten fully vaccinated, and I’m starting to have hope of something resembling normality, Jesus asks me to hate my life in this world in exchange for eternal life in the realm of God.* What? Hate my life, just I’m looking forward to enjoying it again? Jesus, what can you possibly mean by this? But then, I remember the guy who has somehow made it alive through a long, cold winter of sleeping in the doorway of the church at the end of my block, and all the people like him who have no warm, comfortable homes in which to hide from the pandemic. I think of my friend whose spouse of many years succumbed to COVID last week, and all the people who, like her, have lost partners, children, siblings, and friends and now must carry on without them. I think of everyone who lives in the shadow of racism, of war, of abuse, or all the other terrors that humans inflict on one another, on top of everything else they have given up in what seems like an entire year of Lent. And when I contemplate all that others give up daily, I give up, too. I give up my right to my comfortable life. I give up my resistance to change. I give up my desire to have everything my way. I’ll probably take it all back again in another minute, but in this moment, in this eternal now, I want to give up everything, and follow Jesus. *John 12:20-33 -Deborah Sokolove, Seekers Church And I bumped into Ann Patchett's wonderful story-essay about this woman who has helped to shape her life. I recommend it to everybody. harpers.org/archive/202/01/these-precious-days. It's long and you will wish it would not end. Some days I still find it hard to follow Jesus but I'm still on the road. Easter is just week's away but we have not gotten there yet. And so as I still keep at it--surrounding by the grief out there and the pain and the losses of so, so  many. "Surely he has borne our griefs and carried our sorrows."                                                    photo by nikos viotis / flikr                                                  --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Ash Wednesday in the Middle of a Plague

                                                            photo by Lawrence OP / flikr

 It's Ash Wednesday--whatever that means. And it means a great deal for a whole lot of us. For years I found my way to the nearest Episcopal Church, parked my car and open the church doors took a bulletin  and slipped into a pew. Sitting not too far back--I wanted to hear. I come to church this day to sit in silence. To look at the gorgeous stained glass windows that, at noon, throw colors over most of us who gather. There are not many there usually. Mostly old  folk. More women than men and there will be a young couple and two or three college students. I come to hear the old Joel passage: "Rend your hearts and not your garments." 

 We are then invited to come forward  and have our foreheads marked with the sign of the cross, listening to those gloomy words:"Dust thou art...and to dust thou shall return." After all have come forward we are invited to come to the altar to kneel and receive the Bread and the Cup. Looking up at the Crucifix at the body that was broken and whose blood was poured out for us all.  I slip out the door and go to my car. Closing the car door I sit there for just a moment in the quiet.

This year I did not find my way to that church. With this virus raging I am not even sure there was a service. Maybe there was. I still remember those other Ash Wednesdays when I came simply to be reminded of my sins and my finitude. To be reminded that I do not need to rend my garments particularly--but oh, I really do need to rend my heart. This Ash Wednesday when most of us are confined to our homes we still need the power of Ash Wednesday. I think of all that multitude who have left us because of this cursed virus. I think of the rending maybe not our garments but the the terrible divide between neighbors, family members and our whole country. The dust of the so-muchness weighs heavy on us all in 2021. So let us remember it isn't them not needing rending but us all. 

It is dark outside and in so many hearts. But I do believe, despite it all that though I am a marked man--literally--that maybe that Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world will take mine too and yours as well. I think about these things on this day when I did not go to church but remember that smudge and it's call to us all. 

                                                     photo courtesy of Church of the Redeemer / flikr

                                                          --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Listen to a Bird Sing

                                                           photo courtesy of fs999/ flikr

This morning I went out to get the paper and a bird was singing his heart out. Maybe her heart. I stood there for just a few minutes and listened to the rapturous music. This morning was rare for me. So many days I stagger out to get the paper and hear outside life out there.  Inside the TV blares on and on about the Impeachment trial, what Trump will do next. How many Republican senators will be punished simply by following their principles. I just want to cover my ears and turn off the telly. And forget my roof that still leaks and my back that hurts. But this morning was different—I heard a bird sing.

I think that bird put things back in perspective for me. I cannot do anything about Washington and the terrible direction this country still seems to make. I will write letters, make phone calls—but most of my actions will hardly matter. A wave of despondency washes over me. I thought the chaos of the last four years was behind us. Now I am not sure. But this morning it all seemed to fade away as I heard that bird sing.

Of course this does not mean I ignore what is happening all around us. To not face the present dilemmas would make me a poor citizen and a worse Christian. But that bird stopped me dead in the water.

There’s more to life than politics. Think about almost half a million who have lost their lives in the past year. Think of the grief that flows like a tsunami through all our streets. i think of so many of our people whose lives have been upended this long past year.  We cannot escape 

what is happening all around us. Yet, strangely the singing of that bird gives me hope.

Yes, hope. It seems crazy I know. And yet that bird is realer than Trump and all the other things out there that weigh us down. Wendell Berry has this wonderful poem called, "Look Out Your Window". There’s life out there. Yes, my bird--but so much more. That couple pushing their baby carriage. The man walking his dog. The two little girls running after each other down the street. The woman with her open Bible sitting on her porch facing yet another operation.The Amazon-UPS delivering package after package. There’s a whole lot out there as I look out my window.

An old preacher I worked with one time kept saying as he preached: “Are you listening…Are you listening?” Maybe we ought to add: Are you looking. Do not let yourself be distracted but all that dark and venomous stuff out there. And inside too. Remember. Look out your window. Listen. Look. If we do that long enough I am pretty sure our perspective will be healthier and we'll wake up as I did this morning—and who knows, you just may hear a bird sing.

(You might enjoy Dr. Bruce Yandle's splendid piece, "Worried About Your Country? Try tending your garden". 

                                   --Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Missing Church

 A friend of mine told me this story that sounds like my story. This minister-friend went to see Barbara Brown Taylor one day, She has written a multitude of good books but she has also been a Pastor. My friend asked her, “Could we go see your old church?” And she agreed. They walked up the steps to the church door. “Could I look inside?” She nodded her head. She told him the church was not locked. She turned the knob and nothing happened. “I forgot this door always gets stuck.” So she leaned her shoulder against the door and it opened into a small sanctuary. My friend asked her, “Do you miss it?”  “Oh, yes—I miss it.”  

As a Pastor for many years I can  identify with those words. Looking back on all the churches I served, I miss them. Some, knowing my story would think I was crazy. Some of those places nearly gobbled me up or broke my heart. And yet even in those churches I miss the faces. The memories. The weddings we had. The  funerals—some young folks in the prime of their lives. I     think of the struggles we had and the momentous things we did together. Maybe memories has faded most of the dark things  But, oh I miss church.

And so I look around at this plague that has affected us all. We closed churches everywhere. Since last March or maybe April—a a year ago I haven’t been to church since. Oh, most of the churches tried to open. Six feet apart. Outside. Masks, of course required. Choirs too, six feet apart. And when the virus was worse most closed the door to in-person church. And then after a while we sorta opened them. And the churches have turned to technology. Zoom. Face time. Ytube. Streaming But I haven’t gone back to church and neither has my wife. When you are over eighty we are told not to get to close.

But Sunday after Sunday I miss church. Streaming helps—but it isn’t the same. Some of our members have had the virus. Some have died. And so we stayed away. But I miss it. The stained glass windows—like the burning bush and so many others. I miss the Cross which is the centerpiece of our Sanctuary. I miss the Resurrection window in the back. Like my wife I miss the music terribly. Mostly congregational singing. Those Sundays when my 97 years old buddy and me share a hymn book and sing. Yes, I miss it. Looking around at young parents and squirmy kids, old folk—some crippled or in wheel chairs. I miss the piano solos and our magnificent organ that always lifted me up. And the Choir—we miss those anthems that sometimes brought tears to our eyes. We miss the Bread and the Cup and just waiting our turn in the line—watching old and young and some people of different color. Seeing the servers leaving the Table and take these mementoes of our faith to those who cannot stand. I miss the silence. And those times when I bow my head and sometimes even pray. Sermons—of course I miss them. Our minister works hard and does a good job even in this strange time. But this is not why I come. Sometimes I get homesick and wish I was a standing up there behind that pulpit—but not often. I am like the old basketball player sitting on the bench remembering.

I miss so many of the faces, shaking hands and the hugs. This may be one of the most important part of my longing. Just people. Old and young and college students and families sitting together. I miss those who sit alone because the person they loved the most is now gone. And they come even with their heavy grief.

I miss the Scripture some Sundays. And more than anything  just thinking of my family and letting so many names run through my mind as I whisper: “God help" and often: “Forgive me.”I miss the hoping I find there. And seeing all those others with me just hanging on by their fingernails just praying this crazy virus will go away. And remembering all those everywhere with not enough to eat, those being evicted—and those who cannot touch their loved ones in the hospital. 

 And after Church is over—I look back over my shoulder at that wonderful Resurrection window reminding me that somewhere, somehow we will make it not because we are strong—but because the light that filters through that window falls on all of us. And we go on despite all the heartbreak out there and the craziness of the awful too-muchness and the burden of our own lives.

Do I miss it? Oh yes, I miss it.

*first photo by Ellyn B

                                                      photo by Jolynne Martinez / flikr

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

                                                                   
                               

Anniversary Rememberings

One of the great words in the Bible is remember. And even if you are not a believer remembering is an anchor for all of us. President Biden told us the other day : “To heal we  must remember.” And he is right.

And as we move closer to our sixtieth (sixtieth??) anniversary memories of so many things swirl around me. 

I remember our first date at Mario’s pizza place in Louisville. I thought she was the prettiest girl I had ever met.

I  remember three years later on that coid January night when there was 10 inches of snow on the ground and she walked down the aisle on her father’s arm. 

After the wedding we stopped at the first motel we saw. I remember how hard it was trying to navigate my old green Dodge through the snow to Indiana. It was pretty dangerous and we drove over the Ohio River bridge and stopped in the first motel we could find. Not exactly paradise—Gayle said: “There’s a hole in that bedspread.” (Class)

I remember we spent two glorious days after that in French Lick, Indiana a great getaway. Everything was included—even the lobster we had that night. I think our bill was less than a hundred dollars.

I remember when we got back to our Apartment in Louisville our first purchase was a used TV almost as big as a  refrigerator. The highlight of every Saturday or Sunday night was watching: “Perry Mason.”

I remember that summer I was called to a tiny clap-board church on Alternate #54. Neither one of us had ever lived in the country.

I remember they needed a choir director and Gayle  reluctantly volunteered. After a while she thought it would be good if the choir had robes (class) and we ordered these robes that had to be completed by some of the women in our church. The Sunday they were to process in, Gayle had warned the women not to wear dangling earrings and no necklaces. And so when the Choir marched in—one of the women Choir members followed the instructions but had on a huge red hat.

I remember our first child, a girl born there. After a long delivery this red-headed curly haired baby came. Gayle looked up at her said: “ Let me see her ears—I hope they don’t look like her Daddy.

I remember we moved away almost 4 years later and shipped our dog, Pooch, to Virginia in a crate. Our newly purchased Green Volkswagen  was cramped as it was.

I remember it was in Virginia that our son was born. A second redhead who almost didn’t get there. Gayle was having some trouble getting pregnant and had a procedure done at the Doctor’s office and came home to get pregnant. Well—I had the mumps.  Our son really was almost a miracle.We stayed there six years. Good folks. We brought our first color TV the day of Robert Kennedy’s funeral. 

I remember that move brought Faith Baptist Church In Georgetown, Kentucky where we stayed and loved those six years there. 

I can’t forget that all along Churchill’s black dog followed me. Depression. And my long-suffering wife said time after time: “You can make it. You’re not completely crazy.”

And from there we moved to Clemson, SC to the First Baptist Church and our son exclaimed: “They have nailed-down seats!” We left a church with folding chairs. Our daughter learned to play the Violin and our son attempted it at Montessori School.

I could write pages and pages about those thirteen years. Ups and downs there like our football team in Death Valley. Gayle taught piano to 40 students, cooked our meals, juggling our kid’s traumas and schedules while the Reverend (me) was supposedly doing the work of the Lord. Gayle worked in the music program at church and played the piano in church often.

We moved to a church in Memphis where we met some good, good friends. Gayle taught piano in the Preparatory Music Department at Rhodes College. We were there 3 years and Gayle still says we should have stayed. (She was right.)

I left after 3 years without a place to go. 55 years old and scared and the black dog trailing after me. Gayle, God bless her, did what she had done a zillion times. She believed in me, she loved me as she listened to my rantings and my ups and down.  I don’t think I could have made it with her standing there with arms out saying, again: “You’ll get something—you are good.”

I was called to the Baptist Church of the Covenant in Birmingham smack dab on the mean downtown streets. And we worked and prayed and after eight years they gave us a wonderful going away party. People came from every church I had served.  Gayle had played the piano at church, sang in the choir while still cooking meals every night and teaching a multitude of students piano.

After our retirement we went to Paris with some good friends. And one night looking out the window at the glittering lights there, I said to her, “Did you think we would ever get to Pais?” And she said: “Absolutely I knew we would do this.” 

I dragged her around to eight churches where I served as Interim. We lived in condos, old parsonages and apartments. Gayle said after eight years: “Ok. I am tired of all this traveling. I miss my house.” I said, “Yes ma’m.” And home to Birmingham we went.

After a while we moved  back to Clemson. It is a small town. I say you can get anywhere in five minutes. We love being around old friends and sitting in the pew of a church I used to serve. Sitting on the bench takes some doing—but I got used to it.

Our house here is filled with furniture we bought all over. There is so much history as I look at chairs, beds, mirrors, art work--rugs and books. I can tell you to this day where all these treasures came from.

I am winding down the memories. This is much too long but I could fill in the blanks and you would be so bored, as you probably are so I’ll leave it there.

Our two kids—one with the big ears—come often to check on their aging parents and give us instructions. They love us fiercely and we return the favor. The credit  mostly goes to my wife who did so much for them while I was supposedly preaching the gospel.

During this winter of everybody’s discontent we are pretty much at home. We miss the faces and people and talking to them and jokes and just being together. We are still scared of this virus and we have taken one vaccination shot and in a few week we will get the second shot. But we read the Obituary notices in the paper and grieve of those we have lost and all those we do not know.

But looking back on the terrain of these sixty years together we had no idea what would come next. Many times I have wondered but Gayle has said all along: “ It will be OK. You don’t have to worry.”

One of my favorite marriage stories comes from Wallace Stegner, a very fine writer:

“It is something—it can be everything—to have a fellow bird with whom you can sit among the rafters while the drinking and boasting and reciting and fighting go on below; a fellow bird whom you can look after and fine bugs and seeds for; one who will patch your bruises  and straighten your ruffled feathers and mourn over your hurts when you accidentally fly into something you can’t handle´.”

Gayle…I remember.