Head and Heart

Remembering Father

2024-06-15T07:14:00.000-07:00

This week-end many Fathers across the country will be besieged by cards and all sorts of gifts. But most fathers don’t need power tools, new golf cubs, tickets to the Braves ball game (s). Neither do they need books or videos though all these gifts would be received graciously.

But what Fathers need more than anything is presence, time with you, finding out more about your own father’s background and what makes him tick.

As you get older many of us sons and daughters look back on the man we call father. Growing up we didn’t ask many questions about who he was, what dreams he had, what lurked behind that word, father. My own father has been gone a long time. But growing up like so many others I was so busy with my own needs that I hardly knew him. Only through some genealogical work have I pieced together who this man really was.

He had a serious hearing problem. And 70 years ago good hearing aids were almost non-existent. His near-deafness cut him off from so much of the great big world. He never talked about it much but I know he longed to hear. Down the street was where we lived was an Assembly of God Church. Word spread that a Healing evangelist was coming to town and those who wanted to be healed should sign up. My father did.

The night of the service my brother, my mother and I were there on the sidelines of that crowded church hoping God would work a miracle that night. The line was long for those on crutches, in wheelchairs or walking down that aisle just waiting. The Evangelist would ask, “Why did you come down here?” And after he heard of their pain or suffering the Preacher would touch their foreheads and say: “Be healed in the name of Jesus.” Person after person fell out after he or she was touched.

When my Father’s time came he stood there hoping he would finally be able to hear. He told the Healer about his ears and pointed to them. The Preacher touched his forehead and shouted: “Be healed.” and my Father fell out. After a little while he came to and the Evangelist wanted to know if he could hear. My Father nodded yes. We were so thrilled that night. He seemed so happy. We kept asking, “Daddy can you hear, can you really hear?” And laughingly he said, “Yes.” The next day or two it seemed like he could not hear. He was the same man he had always been. He never talked about that night and what it must have done for him. No wonder he never went to church.

Only after his death did I learn that he was one of eight children. Most of them I had not even heard their names. When he was a little boy he saw his own father shot and killed by someone nearby. He never mentioned this but what if I had known this and asked him about this part of his journey. I don’t know he and his family survived without the primary breadwinner. Did his mother marry again? Did he have a Step-father who was kind or cruel. I still have no idea.

But growing up in the country where they were on the very to the edge of poverty I always wanted to know about those days. But he is gone and there are so many things about him I did not know.

I do know he left the farm in the depression and he and his new wife moved to a community where they could find work and a place to live. Both worked for over fifty years in a textile mill for a pittance. But there was enough to keep us going. And I knew he was faithful at work and home. This mystery man kept us afloat. He made so little money but as Shift Foreman. I learned the people who worked for him, black and white respected him.

After he died we sorted through his things. And nestled in his top dresser drawer was a pin congratulating him for his work for 50 years. This was the appreciation he received for all those years of hard work. No bonus or thanks just a tiny pen with his name inscribed.

And so on this Father’s Day I remember John Lovett. And though there is so much I still do not know about him. But after all these years I remember my Daddy and I am glad.

But what Fathers need more than anything is presence, time with you, finding out more about your own father’s background and what makes him tick.

But growing up in the country where they were on the very to the edge of poverty I always wanted to know about those days. But he is gone and there are so many things about him I did not know.

And so on this Father’s Day I remember John Lovett. And though there is so much I still do not know about him. But after all these years I remember my Daddy and I am glad.

Easter! Easter! Easter!

2024-03-30T12:57:00.000-07:00

Most everyone has a favorite story. Mine goes back to that time when my wife and I visited the Passion Play in Oberammergau And I can stlll remember what I surprise I found there. The Passion play opened with Jesus riding into Jerusalem and a whole stage of people shouting the king has come. They yelled hallelujahs until they were hoarse. And then the story told of the last week Jesus spent marching, stumbling the way of the cross. We saw it all as Jesus slowly made his way up that terrible hill. The crucifixion was gruesome as he was nailed to the central cross with two criminals on each side. And his mother and her friends stayed there until the end. And we saw those who loved him take him down from the cross and buried him.

The lights on the stage darkened and almost went out. We sat mostly in darkness. But the thing I remembered most was happened next. Weeping women came on the stage and stood by the tomb hoping to get in. But the stone was too heavy. And suddenly an angel came and without saying a word, unrolled a long white aisle cloth from the stone doors down the steps to the where the audience sat. And as the grieving women beat on the great stone doors they began to slowly open. And light came from inside those doors. The light grew stronger and dazzling light slowly filled the stage and the whole theatre. The stone doors opened wide. And Jesus came through the streaming light. As he walked across the stage from everywhere a multitude of children came running forward, laughing and grabbing his legs. He had come back.

We didn’t say much as we left. Most of the crowd were quiet.But I could not get the scene of Jesus coming through the darkness into that blinding light. Or even more the laughter of all those children.

Dark Saturday--When You Have Nothing to Say

2024-03-30T07:25:00.000-07:00

It was over. Jesus’ death. And tenderly they took down his broken blood-stained body. Joseph, a rich man asked for the body. Nicodemus was there numb but there. And there was a terrible silence. No one really knew what to do. Like us, they shuffled through that awful day. Grief paralyzed the best of them. No angels came that day. Silence. Just silence.

If we have lived very long we have been there. And it was too soon. Trying to fathom our loss. Like those on that first Saturday we have little if anything to say.

Once when my friend lost his little girl after a long battle with cancer. I hugged my friend and the next day I wrote him a note. And a note came back from him. It read: “Thank you for what you did not say.” Looking back I remember had little I had to say to this friend on the hardest of days. And we grievers have stood in some line as friends came by. Hugging, whispering. Some with tears in their eyes. And some, God bless them, just wanting to say something that might help. “Aren’t you glad she does not have to suffer.” “He’s with his Mama and Papa and the child they lost years ago and they are all so happy.” Some just said: “God took him…this was God’s will.” Or maybe the worst said when a child dies, “God took her to his flower garden.” Well-meaning people hurt by their comments. In our desperation we have all talked, talked when we should have been quiet.

When they shuffled by to say something when I lost Mother or Father or brother or great friend words could not possibly help in this time. Afterwards I do remember the notes and cards they sent. Telling me they stood with me at this awful time. Many came at great risk unpacking their own grief they thought was behind them. Picking again some old scab that began to leak out what you thought was over.

All the accounts in the Gospels of that dark day are mostly silent. The writers had little to say. So this is why the Pieta has touched so many of us. The wounded mother holds the body of her dead son. This says it all.

So like Ecclesiastes says there comes a time for silence. Prayers yes. Maybe some food sent to the grievers. Maybe a Memorial gift to honor this loved one.

But first we don’t need words. “Don’t tell—show…” So we pause from our work and projects and the business of every day to do what those early disciples did. “We had hoped he was the one to redeem Israel.” No sadder words.

We have all been there or will. The comfort of God will come. Jesus promised, “ I will not leave you as orphans.” “I send my Spirit.” And “In time I will heal your broken hearts.” But not yet. But maybe those words we find at the end of Revelation are true: ”I heard a great voice from the throne saying, ‘See the home of God is among us. He will dwell with us as our God’ we will be his peoples, and God himself will be with us; he will wipe away every tear from our eyes, Death will be no more; mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.’”

But not on this day. But somewhere some time when we need it most and do not expect it at all.

Good Friday--On a Hill Faraway

2024-03-28T08:20:00.000-07:00

On A Hill Far Away - Good Friday

This Good Friday I remember a story I heard somewhere. A preacher chose slides for her Good Friday’s evening service. One of the slides of the crucifixion the minister was painted by Grunewald. It was painted for the Hermitage of DSt. Anthony in the fifteenth century during an outbreak of the black plague. The hermits had taken upon themselves the mission of nursing the sick and burying the dead from the plague.

Many of the victims suffered from the symptom called “St. Anthony’s Fire,” where the circulation stops and the lower limbs become gangrenous and putrefying even while the person lived. This was in the days before scientific medicine and the hermits could do very little for the victim but to cool their fevers and be with them in their agonizing deaths.

Over the altar Grunewald painted the figure of Christ on the cross—dead, twisted and repulsive, gray and green with corruption...His legs swollen with St. Anthony’s fire. He painted the Lord against a black sky and a dead sea.

The hermits did what they could for the victims, and one thing they did was to leave each arriving patient alone on his pallet before that picture, many of them almost too sick to see it. But now and again one of them almost too ill to see it. But now and again one of them would look at it and say to himself, “In a few hours I must go t my death through foul and terrible pain. But so did He, and God turned that experience to the salvation of the whole world. If that is so, what, then, can He not do for me?”

And so this day let us grow quiet and remember that hill far away. And bring with us names and loved ones and people we do not know—and lift up this whole tattered world to the One with the nail-scarred hands.

“See from His head, His hands, His feet

Sorrow and love flow mingled down

Did e’re such love and sorrow meet,

Or thorns compose so rich crown.”

Holy Week in a Not-so-Holy World

2024-03-27T08:43:00.000-07:00

Palm Sunday is behind us. The crowds then and now have gone back to their business. Along the road are remnants of that day. Trampled grass. Withered palms. Crowded road with all their alleluias silent now. It is almost as if yesterday—or was it the day before—as if nothing special had happened. Before the week ends there will be a terrible hill and blood and gore and smugness and tears, too. Rome with all their soldiers were there. Always in charge. And scattered and fearful little knots of heart broken half-believers. There was gambling and laughter and cursing thieves and a middle cross where stretched there was a naked dying man and impalpable sorrow.

This would be the setting that the church later would call Holy. Was this a bad joke? Holy? The whole long terrible week holy? And in that not-so-holy place the lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world hung. And since that time people have clung to their own rugged crosses and hoped they would make it through their own sloughs of despond.

Amazingly amid everything wrong and unjust there was a kindly light that led them through their own flicking sputtering gloom. At first those closest to him were so bereft they hid in caves. Even after Easter they shuffled down roads muttering :”We had hoped he would be the one to redeem Israel.” How wrong they were in their not-so-holy world.

And us just beginning our own way of the cross are we any different? Some of us still hunker down in churches and synagogues too—singing what we hope will be true, taking tiny remnants of bread and wine and whispering over and over: let it be. God, let it be.

But outside those stained glass windows the doors open to anything but holy. Fear stalks most of us. Look at any direction from cancers and mental illness to Alzheimers to kids on drugs to freshly dug graves. Not to mention Gaza and Israel and Ukraine and Russia and a red and white and blue tattered flag or all the ugliness and hatred that runs rampant. Remember back when he railed out in pain and delirium: “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” Sound familiar.

And from that first Via Dolorosa—the Arabs call it the way of pain—we dare to walk this road station after station. Pilate…and Simon coming forward to help. Soldiers spitting and cursing. And a weeping mother.

His falling not once but again and again. And then the nails and the terrible crown and the tearing of flesh as his splintered cross was put in place.

So we come this week, like Bunyan’s Pilgrim with a burden on our backs. And we follow this week called holy like all those others along their way. We may even have our own crosses and sin and unfinishedness

But we know the headlines and twisted power and whatever dark there may be at the top of all our stairs—we keep coming back. Hoping, hoping this lamb that they say takes away the sins of the world would stop on our street and stand by our door. They made it, not without scars and tears but moving through it all a centerpiece they believed was sound and sure. Taking in his arms all those who were weary and heavy laden.

And despite the odds they would, like their Lord, give mercy and love and care and even peace in the midst of their raging wars. And we climb the hill with all those others and we find something that keeps us going.

And wonder of wonders it may be the truest thing that ever was.

Holy…Holy…Holy even here—especially here.

Ash Wednesday, Etc.

2024-02-13T13:28:00.000-08:00

ASH WEDNESDAY, ETC.

“…you neglect and belittle the desert

The desert is not remote in the southern tropics,

The desert is not only around the corner,

The desert is squeezed in the tube-train next to you,

The desert is in the heart of your brother.”

—T.S. Eliot, Choruses from the Rock

Ash Wednesday. Didn’t we do that? Oh yes, again and again and again.

Why do we keep doing this year after year, decade after decade—centuries too.

We stand in the line with all others. And when our time comes some preacher or priest will mark our foreheads with the smudge of the cross. He or she will whisper: “You are dust and to dust you shall return.” And we move away and find our pew again as the line goes on waiting for their sign. Waiting for the strange words. Maybe just waiting.

This is why most of us have come through the years. It is a somber time. It is a holy time. It is a painful time.

If you are like me you remember the promises you made year after year on this day. And you also remember how you washed that smudge off your face as if that settles it all. But you broke those promises you made this day and this season.

And old T.S. Eliot is right. This day and those that follow are the desert times.

Even those set free slaves in Egypt. They crossed the water and found what? Desert. And the whole book came out of that cursed place where water was scarce and hunger was real and fear seemed, like the desert to cover everything.

And marked sometimes I remember that we all berth mark not of the beast whatever that means. But another mark like all our brothers and sisters the world over where one day sooner or later we really will be dust.

But the desert brings dust and it can choke us. And does. It can be a lonesome place where we remember that, as Mark Connelly reminds us “even bein’ God ain’t no bed of roses.” So we walk the winding trail that he walked. Where the ups and downs and the ups and downs seem to go on forever.

So we bring our burdens to lay them down. The old song :”take your burden to the Lord and leave it there.” But we don’t. Like the Pilgrim in Pilgrim’s Progress we stagger with our own burden. All of us.

You name it. Old age. Cancer. Heart. Pain.That baby grave you left behind. Grief of a zillion sorts. Fear. The anger that just comes seemingly out of nowhere. Or the pettiness that cripples and diminishes us. Or the black dog that follows us one and all.

We wash off the mark—we think. But it is there. But lurking around us, too are those stained glass windows that tell us of faith and hope and love too. And Jesus hanging on the cross. And somehow those windows tell everybody’s story.

Gloomy yes. Darkness yes. But we leave the shadowy church and walk out into the sunshine. It’s so bright we find it hard to see. But life is there—despite the ashes. Kids throwing frisbees or footballs. Wearing the bright orange hoping every game will be won. An old woman leaves behind you. On a walker. Knowing somehow she will get in her car and go home maybe to an empty house. But surrounded by her pictures and memories and a pictured cross she got at the Dollar Store. She goes on with her faith, with her hope and most of all her love.

Maybe that’s why we keep coming on this day. To be marked. And to know this matters terribly. Even in the desert.

Saying Goodbye to the House

2023-10-22T13:34:00.002-07:00

“How hard it is to escape from places. However carefully one goes they hold you—you leave little bits of your self fluttering on the fences—like rags and shreds of your very life.”

--Katherine Mansfield

The house is almost empty except two garbage bags and a few items to give away. Moving from four bedrooms to 4 rooms takes some adjusting. Understatement.

We looked at an empty house about twelve years ago. As we walked in the living room filled with light. I told Gayle: “This just might be the house.” And she agreed. We moved in December 15th that year. “It’s too late for a Christmas tree.” But my kids said, “You gotta have a Christmas tree.” And so we hauled down from our new attic our seven-foot Christmas tree. And when it was decorated we just stood back, saying little, just “Ah.”

And that was the beginning of a slow but sure love affair with this house.

And so this morning walking trough quiet empty, empty rooms memories swirled. Moving Gayle’s seven-foot grand. Adding shutters to the windows we could afford covering. Putting carpet down those 15 streps so we wouldn’t kill ourselves. Buying a few things but not much. We moved in our stuff. But hopelessly sentimental so many things we brought had a history. And we hung the paintings. Matthew’s art work. Some huge and some small. And Cecile Martin’s work and Carol Tinsley’s and LIz Smith’s and Susan Wooten’s too. We tacked up prints and paintings from trip after trip. And we loved them all.

I took a room upstairs for my office, dragged up heavy book cases and began to fill them up. I had filing cabinets to house my too-many sermons.and there was my computer and big old walnut desk that someone gave me.

We filled the place with furniture from garage sales and consignment and antique stores. And there were two or three TV’s and a great CD player. And a dining room table that could tell a hundred stories.

Outside I tackled the tiny yard around our patio. Ferns and hostas and ajuga and inpatients and begonias. Out back I hauled in good dirt and compost and began to plant. Many things. Roses. Shastas and phlox and so many yellow daisies that my wife kept saying: “Don’t you think you are overdoing it?”

So for twelve years we loved the place. But in my late eighties it seemed a good time to move. From four bed rooms to four rooms. And the sorting out and trying what to decide what to take and not take was overwhelming. But somewhere I learned a lesson as we packed up books and called the Goodwill and filled a zillion black garbage bags. And struggled with what to do with all this dishes my wife loved and so much more. But what I learned was that we semi-hoarders began to realize we did not really didn’t need all those treasurers.

And so the tears ran and there were huge lumps in our throats and we wondered if this was the craziest thing we had ever done. But maybe the weariness of packing and moving helped us know so much of what we thought was important was not really was precious as we remembered.

And so everything is out of the house. We close on the house in two weeks. Thank God it sold. And there are days as we remember grief comes trickling back. But it doesn’t stay.

We’ve done this many times. And every time the leaving behind is hard. But we began time after time to open a new chapter. Every one proved to be different. And we found ourselves doing things differently than before. Looking around at all the emptiness we wonder.

Buechner once told of a wonderful trip his family spent in the mountains. And after several weeks they had to pack and move on. And somebody said, “Why do we ever have to leave this place? Why can’t we just stay.” And Buechner said he learned that they left it all behind to become human beings and discover there would be fine things out there they had yet to know.

And this is where we are. Closing a chapter and opening up with new pages fresh and yet to be filled. In leaving I remember something Dag Hammarskjold once wrote: "For all that has been thanks. For all that is to be yes.” May it be so not just for us but for the people out there whose names and faces we do not know.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Bill French--He Left a Mark

2023-10-19T08:29:00.000-07:00

In a world that seems to have gone mad we all need some sustaining grace. Many of you have never heard of Bill French. Unless you live in Upstate South Carolina around Clemson.

But this man in his quiet ways left a mark on so many lives. He and his parents moved South from New York in the 1960’s. His parents both developed progressive Alzheimer’s disease and Bill found the resources to keep them at home. What a Caregiver. As a devoted son he made sure his parents had physical and mental stimulation and because of his hands-on care his father and mother found meaningful quality of life.

Only those who have experienced the hard work of caregiving know how difficult this task must have been for both his parents with dementia.But he took them on car rides, local outings, brought good friends into his home and at local facilities. He learned to cook nutritional meals for them.

So he cared for both parents until the end of their lives. His father died in 1980 and his mother died in 1997.But this was not the end of his story. He began to work as volunteer at the local Retirement Center called Clemson Downs.

I remember reading that when the nurse, Florence Nightingale moved through the hospital the sick loved her and many would kiss her shadow as she passed by. She changed the lives of the sick and the dying.

Bill French learned the names and faces at the Downs and their families during this most vulnerable time in their lives. You could see him leave his car in the parking lot bringing in homemade cookies, entire meals, soup and ice cream, cakes for special occasions and flowers. He led monthly care giving support groups at this Nursing facility. I saw him attending funeral after funeral for those he had loved and cared for.

I could go on and on talking abut this man who never married but spent his whole life giving, encouraging, loving. He will be missed by so many of us. For once upon a time a man named Bill left his mark and made an incredible difference.

In our day when so much seems so wrong—whether you knew him or not remember this guy named Bill and all those cadre of angels in many places we have never heard of. Turn off the TV, push aside the newspapers and thank God that in this world there are still angels of mercy who leave the mark of love on whose in need.

And so Bill we do not say farewell for we will remember that light you brought into the darkness and how it shone and how much it helped.

I leave Bill with this Benediction that comes from the Roman Catholic Prayer for the Dead:

“Into paradise may the angels lead our brother Bill,

at his coming may the martyrs take him up

into eternal rest

and may the chorus of angels lead him to that holy city,

and the place of perpetual light.”

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Attack on Books, Teachers, Librarians?

2023-10-04T04:25:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a cotton mill village in the 40’s in Columbus, GA. Neither of my parents finished high school. They had to drop out and helped with the farming in the middle of the depression. But both were readers. The Bible, 0f course but also books, books, books about everything. My mother even subscribed to the Book of the Month Club then. Monthly all kinds of books found their way to our mail box. Salespeople knocked on our door and talked them into buying the one-volume Lincoln Library. Another person told my parents that the World Book Encyclopedias would make their children smart.

AsI grew older maybe twelve or thirteen I would board the bus on Saturdays and head for the Carnegie Library three miles away. I discovered a treasure in that Georgia library. I would pilfer through the stacks and brought home Tom Swift and the Hardy Boys series. But these beginnings expanded to all kinds of books. And my mind was stretched and my imagination was deeply stirred.

My parents never checked the books I read. And in some of those volumes I learned about our country. These who believed and sacrificed for the rest of us. But I also read the way Indians were treated. Those awful days of slavery and the terrible Civil War. Curious I read books about sexuality, other religions besides Baptist and all those who lived beyond our borders. The door opened wide to a larger and wonderful world.

And so when I read that this is Banned Books Week I said yes. The theme for this year’s week is “Let Freedom Read.” I have studied the multitude of banned books from schools and libraries and been appalled. Over 3,362 books have been banned in the last year. And the list continues to grow. I have read many of those books they now call dangerous.

I find myself furious that school administrators and teachers have been charged with ugly names like groomers and pedophiles. Some have even lost their jobs. Others have even faced death threats. School Board meetings have become a nightmare. All because of books? I have known librarians in many places where I lived. They are mostly kind and helpful even when many still make only a pittance.

When both my children left home for college it was scary. We dropped one at a dorm in Louisville and another in Chicago. And this was a grief. Night after night we wondered if they were safe. But we had to let them go discovering that freedom is scary but so important for maturity.

This country was founded on a dream of freedom. Since our beginnings we have struggled to make that dream a reality. But I do not want some group out there badgering teachers and administrators and monitoring how children must think. But not only children.

So I applaud this year’s Banned Books theme. “Let freedom ring.” Let it be so for your land and mine. And for us all.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Who's Blessed?

2023-10-03T14:08:00.000-07:00

I want to talk to you today about a word we all know. Bless. And we Southerners say:"Bless yo' heart" whether we mean it or not. Or simply: "Bless you!" Some time people come up to me and say: "Ive been so blessed!" And I stand there thinking: "Hmm. What about me? Don't you think I've been blessed?" Leaving a restaurant the other day I looked at the tag on the back of a huge Mercedes. "I've Been so Blessed!" Well, I thought, I guess so. Folks, blessing is not just for the well-heeled or the pious--but for everybody.

The Power to Bless

One of the books that has meant a great deal to me is a little book called, The Power to Bless. It was written by a Pastoral counselor, Myron Madden. He said that the great power of primitive religion was the power to curse. This was a most fearful thing—to be cursed. But beginning with Abraham a new dimension was added to religious history. It was the power to bless. And over and over we read through the Bible these wonderful words: “I will bless you and I will bless your descendants.”

Now the great news is that the power to bless is much stronger than the power to curse. This is the heart of Judea-Christian religion. Instead of giving us some curse for our cussedness, God graciously holds out a blessing instead.

The Curse

Now we all know something about the curse. It’s those crippling messages we have heard all our lives. That we don’t count. That we’ll never amount to anything. That we are dumb, lazy, sissies. Dead-beat. Maybe foreigner or illegal. It is the feeling that we are just not important. And this curse cripples us. It shrivels our self-image. Sometimes it makes us too dependent

and we spend all our lives just hoping for a blessing a father for mother could not give. Hoping, hoping somebody will bless us.

The Blessing

But we also know something about the blessing. To be blessed is to be accepted. To be blessed is to be brought into the circle. To be blessed is to belong—to be a part. When her parents gave their blessing to your marriage, your career, your dreams. It is to be accepted by another person—though they know us warts and all. Bless is really is amazing grace. Remember how the old father blessed that boy that came back home in rags and shame. What did the father say? “My son…my son.” And standing at the door was the prodigal’s brother. Seething. Furious. While he was out there doing God knows what I have been here. Working. Working. Working. I took care of the crops. I have kept this house from falling in. I paid all the bills. And the father turned and said tenderly to that other son: “My son…my son. Don’t you know you have been a blessing to me all these years.

So the gospel holds out a great promise for all of us. We are blessed despite all sorts of obstacles that are thrown in our path. Or that we throw in our own paths. You are blessed even if you didn’t not get your share when the will was read. Or your brother has a shelf with all those trophies and you have no trophies. And continually at the dinner table you have to hear over and over again about when your sister was crowned Miss Anderson and in bitterness you say:”Huh, I never got crowned for nothing except up beside the head.”

Opening the Door

But you know the Gospel opens the door and says everybody is welcomed and everybody is important. The New Testament reminds us that little group of scared believers—always in the minority—always seeming a little strange by most folks. Always looking into the plate glass window but no money to go inside. Paul knew this feeling when he first came into the fold and everybody in church turned their backs except Ananias who reached out and called him brother. And so later, much later this same man would write over and over:”We do not lose heart.”And some of those sitting there listening thought well, he has never been in my shoes. But that did not stop Paul for he told them: “we regard no one from a human point of view…” No one…no one. We are all blessed whether we know it or not.

Everybody

The common people kept following Jesus because he made them feel good about themselves. You know how it is when you are around somebody who accepts you helps you feel good about yourself They make you laugh and you find all your defensiveness just melts away. You are accepted and you know it. This is to be blessed.

But after all these years some of us still feel the sting of: “You’ll never amount to anything.” “You are just a woman.” Or a Democrat or a Republican. Or just a C student to never made the first team. Or queer. Or never had one of two or three of those little strings around you neck the night of your graduation.

Never mind. This gospel really is good news. For us all and nobody is left out. That’s what we call it the blessing.

A Pastor named Dean Snyder told a story. He said that Norah came to stay for a few days at the emergency shelter on the first floor of his church. Her hair was colored like a rainbow. She wore tight plastic slacks, and a see-through blouse. She must have been no older than 16. Her parents had tried everything with her and finally threw their hands up and locked her out.

She chained-smoked, flirtatious, troublemaking—smart and stupid at the same time. Norah made sure she was the center of attention. Always.

One Saturday afternoon the preacher said he was alone in the kitchen when Norah came in and sat down across from him. She was quiet for a long time and finally she asked him a question: “I heard a priest say once that Jesus loved everybody even prostitutes Is that really true?”

Yes

He said he almost went into sermonette drive about how God loves the sinner but not the sin. But he didn’t say that. And to her question about Jesus loving everybody he said the only thing he told her was ,”Yes.” And Noah wept and wept.

It’s our story too. Jesus loves us all. And we are blessed whether we know it or not. We prodigals. We Elder Brothers. We Elder Sisters. Pass it on friends. Pass it on.

(This sermon was preached September 24, 2023 at the Mount Zion Presbyterian Church, SandySprings, SC.)

--RogerLovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Moving Yet Again...

2023-09-17T13:17:00.000-07:00

Somebody out there is going to say:“I thought you were gong to write about moving and this may be the weirdest piece of your writing I have ever read. What’s all this talk about crabs?” “Well, bear with me and see how I hope this comes out.”

Crabs, Huh?

I have discovered that sand crabs move from shell to shell. But first they do what is called molting and then they grow a shell which acts as a protective cover. As the crab continues to grow the molting process begins again, and slowly it will leave the old shell.This is a vulnerable time because w fish could attack and destroy a naked crab. Eventually the molting process begins again, and the crab forms a larger shell. Then when it is too large for the new shell, the process of shedding begins again and the crab finds a new home.

For us surrounded by boxes, trying to keep and give away, dealing with the lump in your throat, hoping you have made the right decision to move on knowing you have to stop and deal with your kids, saying goodbye to some of the closest friends . You put all your peculiar treasures in a moving van, look back at an empty, empty house—and the memories swirl. So many fine things happened in this house you are leaving.

And so you move to what will be a vulnerable time. Will your family say goodbye to the old and welcome the new? And what about you and your wife or husband or partner. Truth be told you have outgrown that house and that place. Like the crab you have moved beyond where you were. And it is time to leave.

Saying Goodbye

Saying goodbye is a hard thing, And there is a grief that we take with us to this new place that we cannot deny. Hopefully our molting will begin again and in time a larger shell or place or position. And home will take on a new look and a new growing.

But it isn’t just putting your belongings on a van and moving to another place. It’s outgrowing where you are forced to deal with with life’s changes.

Moving to a new place is only one of a myriad of changes that happen. You lose a loved one, you say goodbye to your child who leaves for college., you might lose a job and with it you lose status. Retirement is a dread for many. Watching slowly your body change or losing something vital. It could be the death of a friend. Or watching too much news and thinking My God, what is happening to this country? Why all this anger and rage? And violence?

It looks like our whole nation has lost something valuable. The old hardened comfortable place is no more. You go back to where you started. The old house looks so small. Downright homely maybe. Or that huge brick building where you went to grade school is not as large as it used to be. And that school auditorium filled with kids, hundreds it seemed. Well, the place looks downright restrictive and maybe seats less than a hundred. You go to your 50th Reunion and look around and ask yourself, “Lord, what happened to them?” Maybe never asking ,”What happened to me?”

Hope

The danger is that you can get stuck in some old shell. It has long since quit making you stretch. It’s safe But you don’t move on. You stay close to the shore where you will never encounter the wonder of blue-green water or the waves and the swimming and fishing.

But the moving van unloads all your stuff. The place is smaller. Strange. No neighbors yet. And you find you don’t need half the stuff you surrounded yourself with. This is the vulnerable time for you. Without the shell of yesterday it is scary. But you put your things in place and begin again. Different. But a good difference. One day you will grow another shell and it will be maybe the most comfortable place you have known. Isn’t that the hope we all have?

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

What a night to get engaged!

2023-07-29T13:57:00.000-07:00

(My granddaughter and her boyfriend have talked about marriage for quite some time but they had never firmed up their promise. So Devon decided to surprise her with an engagement ring while they were in Savannah on a weekend trip. Libby had no idea about the ring. After Devon's surprise they traveled back to their hotel. Opening the door they found a room full of friends and relatives. Gayle and I could not go but Leslie, Libby's mother asked me if I would write a letter to be read that evening. Libby's sister, Natalie read my words that night.)

* * * *

Dear Libby and Devon--Gayle and I are sorry we couldn't be with you to share with joy on this special night. But we are with you in spirit counting on all the days after day that holds so much promise.

There is an old book called Crossing to Safety in which the author reminds us that there is no way that any of us can cross the choppy waters to safety alone. We have to have somebody with us. And this is really why you are here to remember how much we all need each other and how powerful for us to hold on to somebody else as they hold on to us too.

And you all have been together long enough to know of all the people out there you two have decided this is the person that you want to help you get through all the choppy waters. And they will be there swirling a lot of times in your lives.

Any relationship of two people is having a hard time today. But to one day you will stand there, holding hands and looking into each other’s eyes. And you will pledge and you will both promise.

This will be a holy ground and there are days when your cups will be filled and running over. And there will be dark days when the waters will be so choppy that you will wonder if your little boat will make it through the stormy weather which comes when you least expect it.

So your marriage will be like a trip and a journey. There will be ups and downs. There will be pot holes and sometimes you all might just run out of gas. But so many days you will look out and hear birds that sing, and so sky so beautiful you can’t say anything. And you will move along. Why? Because of hope. That this partner that holds your hand will help you both through whatever comes.

I saw a cartoon one time in which this old couple sit at their kitchen table and look at each other. And she says: “Do you know what 30 years of marriage adds up to? 22,000 scrambled eggs, 4,680 loads of laundry, 10,950 beds made, 30,000 cups of coffee, 60 trips to the dentist…”

Yep—she is right but also those years hold so, so much more. For love is really is a many splendored thing that keeps us going. And that means there is so much more to this “I do” that any of us realize.

One of my favorite love stories goes like this:

“It is something…it can be everything—too have found a fellow bird with whom you can sit among the rafters while the drinking and the boasting and reciting and fighting go on below; a fellow bird whom you can look after and find 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.”

My, my what a night of hopes and dreams galore! —from Grandpa July 20, 2023

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

July Fourth 2023 is a Strange Anniversary

2023-07-04T12:57:00.000-07:00

On this July 4th I look out my window where flags wave up and down the street. It’s quiet. But fireworks tonight will lighten the whole place. But outside our peaceful bubble chaos seems to reign. Whatever our persuasion most of us know the dreams of all those who fought, prayed, loved and worked through the years are not so clear this Anniversary day.

You’ve probably heard this quote. When he emerged from Constitution Hall, Benjamin Franklin was recognized by a woman who asked of him “What kind of government are you giving us?” “A republic, Madam, if you can keep it.” And it looks right now that many of us are worried about keeping this wonderful land and all its promise.

What are we going to do? Just watch the terrible news that will not stop. Or just be depressed. Tune out and just think of personal stuff or anything, anything like videos, sports, reading and shopping. Anything to escape from all this chaos. Maybe we can just stay angry and be furious with all these on the other side of the divide.

I have been reading John Meacham’s wonderful book about Lincoln. And There Was Light. He tells the Lincoln story in a powerful way. How could a man called Abe with almost no resources became the marvelous leader of our country in the terrible days of the civii war.

I think maybe Mr. Meacham was thinking about us and our time as well as Lincoln. The country was so divided. The issue was slavery and the lines were so drawn. And war they lived through reminds me of where we are. I know people are talking about shredding the Constitution, longing for someone that can fix all of this.

As Lincoln began to talk about the wrongness of slavery he had an uphill struggle to get to the Presidency. And there were assassination whisperings everywhere. And there was a large group that decided even though Mr. Lincoln was elected, many would make sure the Electoral College went their way. They put every roadblock in his path that even though he was chosen by the people—this group was determined that Lincoln would never serve a day as President. And even when he did the hatred he endured would finally take his life.

Sound familiar? We have been here before. Again and again. And these folk that want to hide behind that silly word, woke would erase our history and ignore our dark side. But this is where we are with our fears and rage and hope and dreams.

I have a lot of dark days as I think of this July 4th. But Meacham’s book reminds me we have been here many times. Terrible things did happen. But somehow we endured. Not pollyanna style but with the stubborn hope that that light that goes all the way back to 1776 would not be extinguished.

So here all are. In the same boat. Like it or not. And I do believe like the blacks and immigrants and so many others we might just overcome again some day.

Dear God, help us to keep our Republic.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

On Father's Day this I Remember

2023-06-18T06:21:00.000-07:00

On this Father’s Day I remember my Father, John Lovett. He was born in 1898. He grew up in a hard a poor farm. When he was a little boy his ears ruptured and his family lived way out in the country and had no way to get to a Doctor. So their home remedies did not work. So my Daddy grew up with probably 90% hearing loss. I can only imagine how difficult were not only his growing up years but his whole life. Cut off. Not understanding those around him. He kept to himself most days because he could not hear. There were few if any hearing aids back then and when finally ordered hearing aids they hardly worked. They whistled all the time.

So he had a hard time communicating not only with his family but just about everybody. One heartbreaking scene I will never forget. The local Assembly of God Church (always suspect by us Baptists) advertised that a healing evangelist was coming to that church. So the night of the meeting my father told us about the service and that he hoped he would be healed that night. So he dressed in his suit and my brother, Mother and me went with him to the service. I don’t recall much of that evening but there came a time when people who needed healing would form a line some with crutches, some in wheelchairs, mothers with babies. They waited until their time came to meet the Evangelist. They came to be touched by the Evangelist. He would ask them their problem. And then he would touch their forehead and yell: “Be healed!” And almost every person in the line just collapsed as if in a trance. Ushers came forward to help those supposedly “slain in the spirit.”

When his time came he told the Evangelist he couldn’t hear and wanted to be healed. And the Evangelist touched his ears and screamed: ”Be healed." As he touched my Father’s forehead my Daddy collapsed and we were scared. This is all I remember about that service except that long winding line of sufferers wanting desperately to be healed.

After the service we asked Daddy if he could hear. “Yes,”I can hear.” Tears rolled down his cheeks. But the next day he said he could not hear quite as well and the next day he was back where he had always been. I don’t remember what happened after that. I have wondered how he felt when his hopes were dashed and his dream was shattered.

There is a religion that promises false hopes. That proclaims that God heals everybody if you stand in the line, trust the great Healer and repeat the right slogans. One of the worst things about holding out false hopes is what it does to the person who believes all things are possible. The false prophets have not gone way.

And so on this Father’s Day that sad night comes rushing back. Remarkably my Father went on. He was still Daddy. After a long hard week in the mill he would take me and my brother up the street to where the houses ended. We would walk through the woods next to the river. He would point out wild flowers and birds and wild animals and scary snakes. We didn’t say much but I didn’t think much about that dark night until years later. But here was a Father, despite whatever disappointments he may have had, he took his two boys and together they walked though the woods. Isn’t it strange the things you remember?

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

On Memorial Day we stop and remember. At least most of us.

2023-05-27T09:24:00.001-07:00

Everywhere I go I bump into them.

They almost all look alike.

Members of the same club.

Old.

Faces weatherbeaten lined.

Tired.

In the grocery store pushing a cart.

Sitting on a bench smoking a cigarette.

Here and there at a ball game.

Shuffling in to see some doctor.

They’ve lost a lot.

They don’t say much.

Usually they ignore the questions we ask about the war.

Yes, they’ve lost a lot.

Buddies over there.

Limbs and sometimes minds.

Health.

All the years that could have been.

Sometimes wives and children.

Not like it used to be.

They ache.

They don’t cry much.

But they feel—oh, how they feel.

So now let us raise a salute.

Let us praise all the unknown guys

with the crumpled hats.

That say veteran.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Let's Talk About Trans

2023-05-27T08:29:00.000-07:00

I aways liked the slogan: “It’s a great day in South Carolina.” But I am beginning to have second thoughts. Not all people in our state can say: “It’s a great day in South Carolina. Why? So many people seem to be left out. Dreamers, poor folk, gays, blacks, immigrants or just non-whites.

Yet a last week a headline on Transgender folk in the local newspaper has given me pause. The State Legislators are trying to pass bills that would deny Trans people full rights and privileges in SC. The headline read: “Upstate Families Face Anxiety, Exit Plans.” This fear seems to be spreading to almost every state.

Transgender means “a person whose gender identity does not correspond with the sex registered at birth.” Which means that people are confused about their sexual identity. Some males feel more like female than male. The same can be said of females. All over the country young people and their families are struggling with this term transgender.

Couples have told me very early on they knew sons or daughters were different. Their child’s sexual identity gravitated to the opposite sex. They see themselves as not the male or female they find on their birth certificate. Many are involved in transition, meaning they are receiving treatments to change their sex.

Like so many others I do not understand this problem. Yet over 1.6 million identify themselves as transgender. This is a threat to legislators and ordinary citizens. 14 states prohibit transgender people from employment. 13 states protest the protection of transgenders and refuse them housing.

There are 3,500 transgender youths (13-17) in our state. 18 bills in SC have been introduced attacking transgenders. Their stated purpose is to stamp out health care for those in transition, changes in birth certification, adoption rights, use of bathrooms and sports teams.

These bills would ban any instruction of expressions of gender diversity in the classroom. This is followed with the banning of books that even mention the term, trans. One Florida provision allows Social Services to scoop children from their homes if their parents give their under-age children access to gender-affirming care. Some parents are seriously considering moving out of the state to protect their children from hatred and harsh and unfair treatment. Others not understanding weep for their children.

The American Academy of Pediatrics revealed alarming rates of attempted suicide among transgender youth. 1.8 million L GBTQ youths (13-24) consider suicide every year.

The climate the parents and their trans children encounter enormous resistance. Just think your child comes home and tells you they are not the sex you thought they were. Imagine the struggle these parents feel in unlearning values they have always held. Shifting these gears is far from easy. And then there is the difficulty in dealing with their relatives and friends.

Many people charge these parents with indoctrinating their children to transgender. Teachers are warned to not mention this subject. Many churches teach these children are an abomination and live in sin. They say that God’s laws have been broken.

What we need:

1) Bills to protect all our children. Every child needs a safe place.

2) Parents need encouragement and support as they struggle with all their issues.

3) We need Legislators that are willing to sit down and listen to parents and their

children as they tell their stories.

4) Every person and family dealing with these issues should seek counseling in this serious matter.

5) Churches and other faith groups should welcome all people. No Qualification.

There are a multitude of references in the New Testament on the defense of children. “Whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes “ me. If any of you put a stumbling block before one of these little ones who believe in me, if would be better for you if a great millstone were fastened around your neck, and you were drowned in the depths of the sea.” (Matthew 18. 6.)

6) We also need to ponder the words of the 14th Amendment in our Constitution: “All persons or naturalized in the United States, and subject to the jurisdiction thereof, are citizens of the United States and the State wherein they reside. No State shall make or enforce any law which abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall the State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.”

I close these remarks with the eloquent words of Wendell Berry:

“Though you have done nothing shameful,

they will want you to be ashamed.

They will want you to kneel and weep

and say you should have been like them.

And once you say you are ashamed,

reading the page they hold out to you,

then such light as you have made

in your history will leave you.”

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Pentecost--Then and Now

2023-05-26T12:41:00.001-07:00

When I read Pentecost story of the birth of the church there were no stained glass disciples. There were no great throngs singing something like the Hallelujah Chorus. No. Maybe that Pentecost birth was much like ours. Like mine maybe. Coming into the world in a four-room house to parents who barely finished the eighth grade and lived from small paycheck to paycheck. Folks like us—weak-kneed disciples who on and off again tended that little fire that began that first day with the rushing wind.

Nobody knew where it would go or what would mean. And nobody would know back then that even though there would be whoredoms and Laodiceas and sermons and terrible actions that would smudge his name. Through the years pilgrims of all ages keep shuffling in to confess and cry and have lumps in their throats and whisper: "Help me! Help me!" They and we leave over and over with a hope strong and sometimes weak—but still hanging on that kindly light despite the ever flickering gloom. Nothing that the world could throw at them or us would stick.

And from that day only God knew that stubborn spirit would endure and sometimes be as wonderful as that fiery day when it all began. Crosses everywhere. Prayers even in funerals and weddings and dull-grey days. And rosaries and shame and fury. And it came to all. All flesh the book called it. And languages from all over the world. And the wind would blow and still blows and nothing could stop it' power.

Looking back we marvel at the courage and love and commitment that kept them going. So in these strange days Pentecost is still celebrated. Because even with all the unfairness and the hatred and injustice that Promised Spirit still comes. And it isn’t because of anything we do—but like rain on a parched-dry field it comes and all is touched. No wonder Jesus said: “I will not be here but I will send my Spirit." And we look back on that first day and look now on our difficult days and we will be glad because it is far from over. For that Spirit is hard to understand but it still comes. Even here…especially here.

Lift up your hearts

We lift them up to the Lord.

--Roger Lovette/ rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Rod Davis - A Memory and a Eulogy

2023-05-13T11:55:00.000-07:00

(I was asked to give the Eulogy at the Memorial Service for Rod Davis in Birmingham, May 14 but I could not go. There was no other place I would ever be. So I wrote out this Eulogy and it was to be read at the Service today at the Baptist Church of the Covenant, Birmingham.)

Rod Davis - A Memory

May 14, 2023

Marhy Oliver writes:

“Someone I loved once gave me

a box full of darkness

It took me years to understand

that this, too, was a gift.”

And here we are family, friends, colleagues, and more—much more.

And today crowded into this room are so, so many holders of our boxes full of darkness.

Rod was 86 when he died. And his last four years were hard, hard indeed. This brilliant friend left us much too soon. And today we come to remember not that sad leave taking—but the gift, the amazing gift that we all find in our own box full of darkness.

Not darkness, really. Even in our own hard grief. But more. Light. Incredible light that streamed through the days of Rod Davis. I met him first at Howard College in 1954. He was one year behind me. I have tried to remember how it all started. I do remember he invited me up to his house in Horton, Alabama. I remember sitting in his bedroom and he asked , “Do you know the poet, T.S. Eliot?” I didn’t. He said, “Let me read you something that comes his ‘Choruses from the Rock.’” These words were written in 1930.

“Remember the faith that took men from home

At the call of a wandering preacher.

Our ages an age of moderate virtue

And of moderate vice

When men will not lay down the Cross

because they will never assume it.

Yet nothing is impossible, nothing

To men of faith and conviction.

Let us therefore make perfect our will.

O God, help us.”

And so I was hooked. He opened so many doors. Which led to more doors, and more doors. Martin Luther King’s, Stride Toward Freedom. Bonhoeffer’s, The Cost of Discipleship, Frederick Buechner—whom I had never heard of. Thomas Wolfe’s, You Can’t Go Home Again. And so many more. Thank you Rod for opening that magical door that has never closed.

And what he did for me he has done for so many. His brothers, Phil and Gayron and his nieces and nephews. Eric, dear Eric and so very many others in this crowded room and beyond. We have all sloshed through the darkness of many things but Rod, Dr. Davis, Dean Davis helped us so many of us see the light which no darkness can ever put out.

I went to Seminary in Louisville but he went North. Yale and Ridgefield and Boston and New York and then back, years later to Birmingham. Dr. Hull called one day and asked: “What would you think of Roderick Davis as Dean here at Samford?" And I said, “Oh, that would be great if you could get him.” And so he came bringing with him a breath of fresh air and the students and faculty loved him. Yes, in time, he did become a legend. And on his retirement in 2001 his colleagues honored him with the J. Roderick Davis Lecture series which has brought scholars and public intellectuals from all over to the campus.

When I was considering coming to this church as Pastor, he called and said, “If you come I will join your church.” And he did and like so many other things, Rod made a difference here. And he was a strong supporter of every Pastor.

I could talk all day about this friend mine. And if you had the chance so, so many of you could stand and tell your own Rod Davis story for we all have them.

I want to tell you story which may seem like a diversion but bear with me. One of my mentors was Carlyle Marney, a great Baptist preacher. He served for years at the First Baptist of Austin Texas. And once a week he would meet with a group of minister-colleagues for breakfast. And one day he left that church to serve as Minister of the Myers Park Baptist Church in Charlotte. And one morning in Austin at breakfast one of the waitresses asked that group. “I have not seen Dr. Marney down here for a long time. Is he still down at the church?” Those gathered around the table looked at each other and one preacher spoke up and said, “Oh, yes Dr. Marney is still down at the church.”

And as I think of Rod I would say he’s still here. In the hearts of his family. In the hearts of all those from place to place where he worked and taught. And at this University and others. And he is still at this church. And person after person here could say: Yes, he is still here.”

Let us, we grievers, lift up not only our prayers of thanksgiving for Rod. But let us also lift up his family and what a gift he must have been to you and Lynn and to us all. In the first sermon Jesus ever gave he said, “I have come to heal the brokenhearted.” And he also said, “Blessed are those that mourn for they shall be comforted.”This box of darkness is only part of this story. But we remember Rod Davis and light…incredible light.

I want to close with a Benediction that comes from Dostoyevsky’s, The Brothers Karamazof:

“What keeps me going is that I believe like a child that suffering will be healed and made up for, that in the world’s finale something so great will come to pass that it is going to suffice for all our hearts, for the comforting of all our sorrows, for the atonement of all the crimes of humanity. And I want to be there when suddenly everyone understands what it is all been for.”

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Mother's Day--My Favorite Memory

2023-05-13T11:51:00.000-07:00

(This picture takes me back to my favorite Mama story. This piece has been published in several newspapers and has appeared on my blog. Every time I see this photograph I remember so many things

about my Mother. As you read I hope your own memories of your Mother come back again.)

One of he pictures in my study is a photograph of two red Gerbera daisies. One is in full bloom and the other is just beginning to open. The photograph looks like it must have been a sunshiny day. The flower’s foliage is lush and green. Occasionally someone will pick up the picture and ask, “Why do you have a picture of these two flowers on your desk?” And I answer with a story.

The memory goes back more than twenty five years. Coming home from a two-week trip I began to catch up on the news with my wife. She had traveled south while I studied up north. On her way home she had stopped by my Mother’s house in Georgia and learned she was in the hospital. In her eighties, Mother’s trips to the hospital were coming closer together.

“Oh, by the way,” my wife said, “your Mother sent you some flowers. Gerber daisies, she called them. Her favorite. Just before she got sick she said that she found two plants at a good price. She instructed me to go by her house when I left the hospital, get the daisies, be very careful with them and bring them home to you.” We were moving soon and she told my wife, “Don’t plant them now. Take the daisies with you to Memphis and plant them in your new yard.”

When I talked to my mother on the telephone she wanted to know about the daisies. “Give them plenty of water. Keep them out of full sun until you plant them and take them with you to Memphis. Now don’t put them in that moving van—you put them in your car.” That was our last conversation. She died less than a week later.

Weeks later we moved to Tennessee. One of the last things I did as we closed up our house was to put the daisies in my car. On a Sunday morning I planted the green daisy plants in the Tennessee soil in our new side yard. It was a painful planting. Grief came surging back. As I mulched the flowers I remember praying, “Dear God, let them live. Let them live.” It was late August.

My birthday fell on a Saturday in October that year. As I went to get the newspaper I was dumb founded by what I saw. One of the daisies had the prettiest red bloom and another bud was barely opening. I don’t know much about this flower except October is very late for a Gerbera daisy to bloom. I charged into the house and told my wife, “You won’t believe what’s outside. One of my mother’s daisies is blooming on my birthday!”

It was her final gift of so many others she had given me through the years. Even after her death, the long arm of her love touches me still. That photograph reminds me of that birthday morning.

Frost came early that year. The flowers wilted. I hoped the daisies would live through the winter—but Gerbera daisies don’t usually survive the winter cold. The next spring the flowers never came up. But this I know: that daisy bloomed on my birthday. The flowers did their work in a hard time. And even after all these years, on this Mother’s Day I look at that picture and smile. Grace, stubborn grace, comes in the strangest of ways. I told my friend this was why I keep this picture of that red daisy on my desk.

(My son drew this picture of his grandmother years ago. As I look at it--I remember Mama.)

--Roger Lovette / rogrlovette.blogspot.com

Remembering Rod--He Was a Friend of Mine

2023-04-18T15:01:00.002-07:00

Rod Davis and my wife, Gayle in Five Points

Bob Dylan sings plaintively: “

He was a friend of mine

Every time I think about him now

Lord I just can’t keep from crying

Cause he was a friend of mine.”

Rod Davis, who left us much too soon was a friend of a whole lot of us. And though there is enormous sadness in many of our hearts, even in our sorrow,

there wells up a gratitude because he touched us, he made us feel better about ourselves and loved so, so much.

My friendship with Rod dates all the way back to 1955. We were in college at what was Howard College in Birmingham. I remember sitting in his bedroom in Horton, Alabama while he told me about T.S. Eliot whom I did not know He read passages from “Choruses from the Rock.”

The desert is not remote in southern tropics,

The desert is not only around the corner,

The desert is in a tube-train next to you,

The desert is in the heart of your brother.”

So he opened a door to a world of books that I did not know. But there was so much more. Even from those early green days I found him kind, quiet, never making a splash—but there, making a difference in all sorts of ways.

He was quite a spiffy dresser back there. And he had this grey wool suit with time aqua stripes running through it. And with it he wore this aqua and grey tie. And I kept talking about that tie and he kept saying, “There is nothing wrong with this tie.” But I kept talking about that tie. Years later when I was about to get married, he sent me this same tie and said he thought it would dignity to the occasion.

Years later when he got married I sent the same tie back to him with some kind of a crazy message. I know you still would like to wear this tie at your wedding. No response.

But in the beginning of my first church—way down on Highway Alternate 54 in Kentucky—this are tie came in the mail. Saying he thought it might just add some class as I began my work. And he would send me books back then like Bonhoeffer’s The Cost of Discipleship with the inscription:”To Roger who knows the truth of this title.” He sent me a book by an author I did not know, The Magnificent Defeat by Frederick Buechner. Rod, at Yale Divinity School opened the door back then to this friend preaching in Philpot, Kentucky. I think I have read about everything Mr. Buechner wrote, shaping my life in many ways. This came from Rod Davis.

In the sixties, he and his wife spent a night with us in Virginia on their way to teach at a black college, Miles College in Birmingham. Later he went on to teach at John Jay College in New York and in his generosity invited me and some friends to stay in his apartment. Later he invited our family to spend a week there while he was gone. I am not sure he taught at John Jay College. He was a member of the Riverside Church and served on the Search Committee after Bill Coffin resigned from the church.

Much, much later Dr. Bill Hull, the Chancellor at Howard-Samford, my alma mater called me and said, “We’re considering Rod Davis for Dean of the College here—what do you think.” I told him if we could get Rod to come he would do wonderful things for the students and the college. So he came back home to Birmingham and students said that he was a legend in his own time. He brought such a rich legacy to the school, during his tenure.

I was considering taking a church in Birmingham and he told me, “If you come I will join your church.” And he did. And he helped us immensely.

While he was still at Samford he established the Davis Lectures And through the years he brought great people to the campus. Taylor Branch, Eugene Robinson, Walter Isaacson, Marilynne Robinson and so many others.

He retired from Samford and I was asked to speak at his retirement dinner. And I told the story about a knitted aqua and gray tie that we kept exchanging.

After we left the church Rod stayed in Birmingham surrounded by many friends and colleagues. He was great asset to the larger Birmingham community. For years he has raised his voice for social justice, and so many issues that touched Birmingham and Alabama and beyond.

About three years ago he started having some serious problems and slowly drifted away. Until a year or so we still talked on the telephone.

His Memorial Service will be held at the church he loved, The Baptist Church of the Covenant, Birmingham on Saturday, May 13th.

When you lose someone who has been a strong friend the grief is palpable and hard. Yet I remember so very much that friendship meant to me. I hope these words have helped to try to capture the life of a very great man. Many, many others could tell their own Rod stories.

Rod Davis, Roger Lovette, Lizette Van Gelder (our teacher), Edward Gibbons

Benediction

“Into paradise may the angels lead dear Rod; at his

coming may the martyrs take him up into eternal rest,

and may the chorus of angels lead him to that

holy city, and the place of perpetual light.”

—The Roman Catholic Mass for the Dead

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Easter--Something Happened Here

2023-04-08T12:05:00.002-07:00

I've had this picture in my office for years and years. I look at it when I need hope. Maybe it will help you too.

A little boy stood with his parents at the Grand Canyon. He looked out at the vistas, the colors, the vastness and whispered, “Something happened here.” And when it comes to Easter I feel the same way.

Years ago my friend, Temp Sparkman lost his little girl to leukemia. I first read his words in the Crescent Hill Baptist Church newsletter where he was on the staff. I have printed his poem as a handout for many grief groups. This is my gift to us all this Easter:

Was the Grass Ever Green

“Was the grass ever green

Were the sounds of birds really clearly heard

And did we picnic in the park only six months ago

Here in midwinter they seem so far away

The naked trees, the laden skies seem always to have been

And seem out ahead for all time

Were things really ever green

And will spring come back again?

Yes, the spring will return

The gray, dull days of cold will pass

The routine now imprisoning us will be broken up

A new excitement will be awakened by new possibilities

The despair which now engulfs us will subside

A word of hope will come to us

Our presumption that all is lost

will be replaced by a new expectancy

Future will become a possibility again

The crush of demands will not dominate us forever

Out of liberation we will learn to choose

And in our choices to be secure.

The sadness now weighing upon us will be lifted

Joy will speak her acknowledgment of grief

and will sound her call to us

The cause of sadness will not have vanished

But joy will come in spite of it

We will laugh again

We will sing and dance

We will celebrate the life now given to us.

The conflicts now engaging our energy

will be worked though

No wind will sweep them from us

And we will survive

Redemption will come of our transactions

Relationships will be rescued and restored

And where breaks are too deep to be one,

Healing will come in time, though apart

The tensions tearing at our being will be resolved

We will not be destroyed.

Were things really ever green

And will the spring come back again

Yes, yes as sure as e’re it were here

Yes, yes as sure as God is

The spring will return

And it will be green again.”

A Holy Saturday World

2023-04-08T10:00:00.000-07:00

If we live long enough we will find ourselves here. The morning after death. Quiet. Somber. Everything moves in slow motion. Some of the saddest words were those that said: “We had hoped he would be the one to redeem Israel.”

The rainy season was winding down. The streams were swollen and everything seemed damp. Better days were surely ahead—or at least we thought. But on dark Saturday we have little hope. We have known it—or will. Jesus had said “It is finished” just before he breathed his last. But this Saturday what is finished? The crucifixions? The grief? The utter unfairness of it all. Then and now. We had hoped.

So with enormous sadness they took his broken body down. They pulled out the nails, wiped the blood away, put a linen cloth over his naked body. They hd no place to bury him until Joseph of Arimathea came and offered his tomb. Close to the Garden where he had prayed where the soldiers dragged him away. And they rolled a huge stone to seal his tomb.

All this took place on that Holy Saturday . Everything ran together. Mary holding her son close. Rain—the awful rain. And Judas dead. And the other disciples whispering hoarsely: “We had hoped.”

It’s still that way. Take any country or village or town then and now. It seems like the end of all the goodness and grace and mercy. Just death. And like those then we know it too. The TV blares, the newspapers cannot write enough of all the out there, social media gone crazy. We had hoped.

But this is where we are—even though this is not the end. The long night will finally be over and the morning light will come. And the birds will sing and the trees will once again be green and somehow, like Noah we will find a dove that will come with an olive branch in her beak and the land will be dry again.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Holy Friday

2023-04-07T14:38:00.002-07:00

"Even bein' God ain't no bed o' roses"

----The Green Pastures

Today we come to that place where we all must come. That day when darkness settles down on us in the middle of our lives. But not just once but more than the admit. William Inge was right when he wrote there really is a dark at the top of our stairs. But we can’t brush over this day and cosmetize that cross and then rush on to Easter.

In our time we don’t want to deal with that dark road which is really ours. We don’t want to upset our children with dismal things. Why they might have nightmares. So we look back on that hill faraway but most of us don’t linger there. So we have diamonds in our crosses and some of us put this decoration around our necks or tattoos on our bodies not having a clue to what that day—and this day truly means.

We really do not face the evil, the blood and the gore, and the spittle and the brittle laughter out there. Or the jeers even from the religious leaders that should know better. This was the cross and all four gospels tell this sad story in their own ways.They crammed it full of all the things the eye-witnesses had told them. The dark moments in the garden, the kiss of Judas. Simon of Cyrene forced to carry the cross for Jesus. They say he fell three times dragging his cross up the hill. And Herod is there and Pilate is there and there blood-thirsty crowd is there. And criminals who will be punished with him are there. And all the scourging and the jeers and the injustice it all does not even come close to capturing that crucifixion.

And so on our Good Friday we run headlong not into their story but ours too. Thomas Mann once said of great literature, “It is, it always is, however much we say it was.” We know pain. don’t we? And we know a world of unfairness. And we know too, too much about cancer and mental illness and the dreaded Alzheimer’s plus that long sad list of pain and tears. And we know about those little girls in Nashville or all those other places. No thoughts and prayers—not yet.

We must face our own horror. And our own Herod's and Pilate’s and pious religious leaders. And all those homeless and the poor on food stamps. We know about the waste of life that should not be taken away—slow or fast. The list of our sorrows is long. Clergy abuse of little children. Women abused and hidden behind those suffocating Scriptures that keep them in line. We know about money, money, money and power that is strangling us to death. What of those 20 states who’ve passed cruel laws that punish the transgenders and their parents. We don’t have enough time to write them all down. But that man of sorrows knew so much. Like us. And he was nailed to that tree—where even God seems to be silent.

It was not all dark. There were women that stood weeping and the thief who agonized but saw even there a goodness. Or that young man who lifted a spear of sour wine to Jesus’ parched and bleeding lips. We cannot forget that other Joseph who offered his own tomb. We cannot leave them out. Nor should we.

Somehow God was there that terrible afternoon. And like Jesus we forget that sometimes our own bitter cup cannot be taken away. This is not the time for happy-clappy tunes or jubilation or even preaching it’s Friday but Sunday’s comin’. Oh yes, its is—but not now. Not today. We have to stare at our own Via Doloroso—our way of sorrows.

We must not try to forget all the injustices out there today. Even in the dark at the top of stairs—a kindly light may just come.

Thanks be to God for Good Friday. Then and now.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Holy Maundy Thursday

2023-04-06T17:52:00.001-07:00

There hangs on the wall by my desk a wonderful picture of this wonderful sculpture of the Loving father and his prodigal son. The old man’s arms are around his broken boy. The son despite all he has done and not done—he feels love and acceptance and forgiveness.

Churches all over the world meet this Thursday night. And we have followed that terrible journey that led to a table and unleavened bread and wine to the washing of feet. His followers sitting there with a lump in their throats hearing Jesus say he would be leaving them. He knew what they did not know—soon, too soon there would be the place of the skull and the terrible cross.

Around that table he gave them a last will and testament. And so they called this night maundy, which meant mandate or command. Judas had slipped away. Simon proudly pledged that he would never, never do what he thought Judas must even be doing that very night. One gospel said they all forsook him and fled. Not only Judas or Simon but all for them around that table.

Jesus said the strangest thing to those all-too-human -disciples. “A new commandment I give to you, that you love one another even as I have loved you.” With all their flawedness he gave them their orders—they were to love one another.

And we know the rest of that story. Terrible things would be done over and over in the name of Jesus. And yet still after all these years the words are still our center piece: Love one another. Looking back on our tortured history one preacher said, “The church has dirty under-drawers.” And not only the church but all of us have fallen short of what we are to be.

The church today as in every age is having a hard time. People—especially the young—have drifted away. Some call them the nones. They wearily threw in the towel or just do not care. Many reasons but we think of clergy abuse of children and adults. The coverups. A whittling down of Jesus’ mandate. No wonder they feel like the whole Sunday thing is a sham. For they have not seen in us Christians—anything but love. How do the transgenders or their parents must feel today. Or the parents of those nine year old they buried this week. Or those immigrants think that find our doors shut. Or the poor living in old paper boxes. You won’t find many of these in church on this Maundy Night.

So that picture on my wall is not just a loving father and a prodigal. It’s us he has his arms around. All of us. I give you a new commandment, he said: love one another. No exceptions.

I don’t have any answer to all our troubles. The Democrats. The Republicans. The political nones. But I do know it wasn’t only Pilate or Judas or Herod or Simon—but we have all forsook him and fled.

We still have a mandate folks. Love one another. God knows how hard it is—but still after all these years our charge has not changed. No wonder they named this holy night Maundy Thursday.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com

Holy Wednesday--Passover Time

2023-04-05T21:29:00.001-07:00

One summer at Princeton Carlyle Marney leaned over the pulpit and told 200 preachers, "Boys, if they ever find out Jesus was a Jew we're going to be in bad trouble." And we Christians often forget that Jesus was trained in the Synagogue. He followed all the Jewish rituals. And on his road to the cross, so near--like his fellow Jews he observed Passover one of the greatest days of their faith. He remembered this was the time when they looked back, back to those suffering slaves in Egypt. And they prayed and prayed and the muddy waters of the Red Sea did not stop them. They learned there was a power greater than anything the world could throw at them.They walked to the other side of the water to a freedom they had only dreamed of. Though their wilderness journey would last years and years they kept going looking for that place of freedom they had been promised

And so every year on Passover they would light the candles and sit quietly around a table and usually the father would ask: "Why is this night different from other nights?" And once again as their forebears asked the same question someone would say: "It was the day when God's people moved from slavery to freedom." And though their year had been bad and suffering was seemingly everywhere they still would light the candles and remember their story. God was with them. God would always be with them. And even during those dark Nazi days when they were placed in concentration camps and millions of them were killed even there furtively they would keep Passover.

As Jesus' days grew darker and he knew where his rocky road would lead he took his disciples to an upper room to observe Passover. Surely his faith must have said God is with me--and God will lead all these all-too-human disciples too me through whatever was out there. And we know the Lord's Supper grew out of that remembering.

So we are really one with our Jewish brothers and sisters. We are all beset by many things--inside and out. Yet our challenge is to hang on to that slender thread of faith and go on. And the gift that the Negro slaves gave us were those spirituals we still sing:"Were You There," "Swing low sweet chariot," "Deep River,","The LonesomeValley," "Go Down Moses," "All God's Chillun' got Shoes."

So on this Holy Wednesday let us remember once again the troubled waters we have crossed and that old "I will be with you" keeps us coming back on the hardest of our days.

That stubborn kept Jesus going all the way to the finish line and that faith will lead us too.

--Roger Lovette / rogerlovette.blogspot.com