Transfiguration Sunday, in the eyes of many, is a one-off miracle testifying as to just how great Jesus was.  That understanding sells Transfiguration Sunday short.  Far, far short. Christ bathed in the radiance of the Torah tradition of Love of God and of neighbor.  Allowing this Christ to transform us is a life-time adventure.  With a bit of rain amidst the sunshine.

Luminosity is in what happens afterward.  Same as in the transfiguration of Moses as he bears the radiance of his encounter with God on Mount Sinai.  What does he find upon returning?  Apostasy and idolatry.  Yet his leadership shines forth for the tribes of Israel.

From our ancestor on my mother’s side of the family, Julia Ward Howe, we get the significance of this transfiguration.  “…with a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me.”

Transfiguration in Christ is an ongoing event.  Echoing down through the halls of human history, working itself out generation after generation.  Down to you and me; and all others who claim the sweet embrace of Our Lord.

It works itself out in the lives expended for others, those who engaged in bitter strife that half my family might be free. 

As St. Irenaeus proclaimed, “The Glory of God is a man, a woman fully alive.  “As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free.”  That was the price exacted to free one half of those living in abject misery in the South. 

One who has never been in combat can grasp the enormity and tragedy of that struggle through Shelby Foote’s novelistic presentation of what was maybe the determining battle of our Civil War, Shiloh.[1]  It presents the fruits of historical scholarship and the narrative pace of lively writing.

To those escaping to join the ranks of the approaching Union armies, it was a taste of being fully alive like none other.  In appreciation, former enslaved persons would regularly gather in cemeteries where Union soldiers were buried to lay flowers – a simple but moving show of gratitude for freedom won.  Transfiguration changing an entire society.

Transfiguration brilliance outshining Jim Crow, outshining this racist and bigoted administration.   That same Transfiguration strengthening the souls of today’s Holy Resistance.

If you prefer a more irenic interpretation to the phrase, “…let us die to make men free,” one might understand it as an admonition to fully expend your life as a transfigured person up to the day of death, however that comes.  As Oscar Wilde remarked, so I also strive, “When I die, I want to be all used up.”   Leaving nothing on life’s field.

As one reflecting the insecurities of having grown up in a rather dysfunctional family, I’ve also experienced the same Transfiguration. Through the course of years and under the influence of the living Christ in my life as presented by the Church, pastors, and just ordinary folks of the Jesus Movement, I, too, have been changed.  Certainly more fully alive.

Part of that change was evident on our recent trip to San Francisco to celebrate our 60^th wedding anniversary with a good part of my family. 

First, I’ve become much more appreciative of those people on this trip who went out of their way to show a little kindness.  It was a number of Uber drivers who took care to handle my walker and dialysis bag on those trips at 5:00 in the morning.

It was the kind woman at the United check-in counter at the San Franscisco Airport who saw that Jai and I needed assistance with all our luggage and figuring out the computerized check-in procedure.   She arranged extra help with our luggage and ticketing.  She was a delight as was her supervisor who assisted Jai with 6 pieces of luggage.  (Yes, we don’t travel light with all I need for dialysis and sleep apnea.)

What should have been airport hell was transfigured into a very human and rewarding experience.  A little bit of sunshine on a rather daunting ordeal.  A Transfiguration of my attitude.

Having Alexis, Christopher, Luther and Denise with us made the trip a delight.  Part of my little smidgen of Transfiguration is the increasing value I put on family.  This group certainly made this return after 60 years a fantastic San Francisco experience.

Watching little Luther marvel at the delights of Muir Woods, his infectious smile, playing la-la-la-la-la with him at the snack shop.  Seeing him with his parents and their loving care and encouragement of his entire being.  All a delight – the Glory of God manifest in this natural spender of delight.  My heart softened and a bit more aware to the joys of life over the years, under a Divine Guiding Hand.  Transfiguration of you, me and the entirety of creation, ever renewing.

Transfiguration through a growing sensitivity to the misery and deprivation witness.  No longer wrapped up in my own woes and insecurities but alive to the need around me.  And being able to realize my part in it all.

When I see the destruction of Gaza and Lebanon in the daily paper, I now know my culpability.  The horrid temperatures in France and Spain and here in America.  All part of our climate denialism.  Thank God, I notice.

Transfiguration of my self-absorption.  Transfiguration through working to be the change I can be.  And courage to change the things I can. 

Knowing that through my actions I can set a good example for others to follow.  Knowing the delight in my soul in being a part of the solution with others.   Even if it’s a ten spot and a little conversation with that shopping- cart lady on the corner; or writing a sermon that encourages and gives hope; or in composing a letter to the editor encouraging us all to get out and vote for change.  And be the change.

Finally, allow a little humor.  While at the checkout counter of one bookstore I spied a little tease, Lessons from Cats for Surviving Fascism.[2]  Fascists hate unpredictability, cats are never predictable.

“Cats never let anyone know where they’ll be next, and neither should you.  Cats are masters of unpredictability. 

“Fascism thrives on predictability; confuse it by unexpectedly launching on to the back side of a chair, then rappelling down the curtains.

“One minute they’re curled up on the couch, radiating serenity, and the next they’ve perched on top of your fridge, judging you for your life choices.  You’ve made terrible choices and cats know it.”[3]

Transfiguration delights in the unexpected as well as in duty.  So, go ahead and start a ukulele jam session at three o’clock in the morning.  And tell me what cat isn’t fully alive.  Humor opens the door.

If you are a part of the Jesus Movement, or even have a tangential relationship to it, you’ve experienced a taste of Christ’s Transfiguration.  And in the process become just a little bit more alive.

For those of us Followers of the Way, now and then we know we’ve been touched by the same light, a smidgen of brilliance of that original Transfiguration.  And that shall suffice.  Transfiguration one day at a time.  Transfiguration together.  Amen.

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[1] Shelby Foote, Shiloh (New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 1992).

[2] Stewart “Brittlestar” Reynolds, Lessons from Cats for Surviving Fascism (New York: Grand Central Publishing, 2024).

[3] Op. cit., 3.

August 2, 2026 – Transfiguration Sunday

  “A Glory that Transfigures You and Me”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99;

2 Peter 1:13-21; Gospel:  Luke 9:28-36

In the 2008 election one candidate seemed to come out of nowhere.  A little-known senator from Illinois.  And within months after he announced his candidacy for the presidency, he had assembled an entire army of enthusiastic volunteers.  A most formidable army.

As background to his political career, he had written several hugely popular books.  Unlike most political autobiographies, he had actually written them himself – no ghostwriter.  Part of the acclaim for these works was their high literary achievement.

One of his most wildly successful was The Audacity of Hope, an enlargement of his stirring speech to the 2004 Democratic Convention that catapulted Barack Obama to instant fame. 

Faced with that unstoppable groundswell of people hungering for change, Obama’s opponent, John McCain and his campaign became more and more desperate.  This young star was sucking all the oxygen out of the room.  In desperate search for a game changer, he reached out to an unknown governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin.

While at times witty and quick on the rebuttal, her preparation for the national stage was pathetic.  When asked what papers she read, she quipped, “I read them all.  Whatever they put in front of me.”  She couldn’t even think to remember the hometown paper of Anchorage, the Anchorage Daily News.

So, she was left to resort to derision and misrepresentation of Obama’s platform. 

On the stump, in terrible economic times when most everyone was suffering, she would often prod her audience, “How’s that hopey-changey thing working out for you.”  Her weak attempt to mock a politician who she thought promised too much.

The most delightful and insightful film of that political campaign year was, “Game Change.” An HBO 2012 political drama made for television, later released as a film for a wider audience.  It was based on a book by the same name by John Heilmann and Mark Halperin.  It was the portrait of a campaign in crisis.  Day after day.

Like Obama, I try to stay above the political cynicism of our days.  And that’s a tall order, given the audacious conspiracy theories spawned daily by the current administration.  I guess I’m sort of a “hopey-changey” kinda guy.

That is the overall arc of the Jesus Movement.  To keep hope always at the forefront.  To allow it to pull us forward through the knothole of these excruciating times.  As it did for Jesus followers.

The lessons for this Sunday urge us, in the words of Jesse Jackson, to “Keep Hope Alive.”

“Through your works you have taught your people that the righteous must be kind, and you have filled your children with good hope, because you give repentance for sins.”[1]  Yes!  Second and third chances.  Even seventy times seventy.

St. Paul in Romans also urges his readers to keep hope alive for all creation awaits with “eager longing” the fulfillment of the promises of God.

“We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies.  For in hope we were saved…if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.”

It has been that same hope for things not seen that has driven people of faith forward.  Sometimes pushing; sometimes pulling.  Often an alure to a more bountiful future.  Though God is going to trouble the waters, yet we will wade in, eyes set on that other shore.

Matthew’s multiple attempts to explicate the Parable of the Sower ends in directing his readers to that future.  “Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father.  Let anyone with ears listen!”

The Jesus Movement at its best has always pointed its followers to the politics of hope, not cynicism.  Though there is much even in the most hopey-changey campaigns that give us reasons for despair.

After several years of the Obama administration progressives began to reflect on promises not kept, moments of political naivety, even moments of cowardice.  Natural, of course.  He was not divine but a mere human prone to the same foibles that bedevil the rest of us.

On health care, union support, his choice of economic advisors, much was lacking.  Much of his administration was larded up with CEOs and CFOs from the corporate world.  Few if any from Labor.[2]  Hodge, in this work on the shortcomings and broken promises of the Obama administration details the corrupt compromises with their corporate backers.

Noam Chomsky on the back cover notes that Hodge exposes the reality of the programs “to ensure that no major stakeholder in his coalition of corporate backers will suffer significant losses, and will enjoy spectacular gains…”  Not great but far better than the grift of the current den of thieves residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.  We voters always hope for better despite the overwhelming evidence of our mediocre politics.

That is why, though I love the public arena of politics, I put no ultimate trust in the politics of our nation or of my own party.  At best, we will muddle through with compromise and missed opportunities.

I put my trust in the One who gave workers the audacity to strive for decent wages and human dignity in work.  The One who gave those miners in West Virginia the courage to stand up to the guns and brutality of Big Coal in the years of the 1890s to the 1920s until the prevailed.  I put my faith in the One who in the darkness of slavery led many to follow the “Drinking Gourd”[3] to a better life in the North.  Despite the dogs, the lash and the possibility of an excruciating death if caught.  I put my trust in the One who led the faithful out of the Dust Bowl desolation to seek a future here in California.

It is the same hope grounded in the One who led Moses and his band through the troubled waters of the Red Sea – the same hope that daily sustains those of us working for an addiction rehabilitation center in West Virginia and also here in San Bernardino.  Every day hope propels us forward, little by little.  Even on those weeks when it seems that there is no forward movement and no one answers our calls.

There’s a wonderful book, All that She Carried[4], that chronicles a Black family’s discovery of a sack of items a mother, Rose, had packed for her daughter Ashley about to be sold off to another owner.

Rose took a few precious items as a token of her love for the girl and packed them in a cotton bag.  Tokens of her love for this nine-year-old daughter.  Tokens that would fortify memory of her mother when she was taken away to parts unknown, never to see that mother again.

What motivated her to prepare this enduring tie between a mother and a daughter to be sold off to who-knows-where?  Was it the groups of the enslaved plodding the dirt roads, the “coffle” gangs, on their way to the auction block?  A coffle, sometimes called a platoon or drove, consisted of enslaved people chained together and moved from one location to another by owners or slave traders.

This book tells the story of that frail sack of mementos, passed down through the generations, one family to the next.  the vivid testimony to the same hope passed down from one generation to the next. 

That cherished sack would keep hope alive for Ashley whatever her future circumstances.  The hope in the One who indelibly marked her a person of worth and beloved.  Precious in the Lord’s sight.

“Rose would have known this state of instability as the only constant in her life.  Yet she found the inner strength to meet a measureless threat with thoughtful action.  In this determination to act, Rose represents a population that ‘exercised a degree of courage and will to survive that startles the imagination even now,‘ in the words of the Black feminist theorist Hortense Spillers.  Out of the shadows Rose would emerge, bearing the sack as a lifeline and staking a claim for her family’s continuance amid and despite unrelenting change.”[5]

Black mothers lived in a shadowland of constant fear for themselves and their children.  And yet, in hope, Rose prepared this visible token of the priceless relationship between a mother and daughter.

This sack is the treasure now passed to the current generation, our generation.  Not just to a Black family, but to all of us.  It is an American keepsake reminding us of the courage of previous generations, but urging us to be steadfast in keeping the same fire of hope burning.  Despite all evidence to the contrary.  Will we measure up to the challenge as did Rose?  When I consider the fortitude of Rose, I have absolutely no right to give up.

And so we close singing, “There’ll Be Sunshine in the Morning,” God’s Son Shine drenching all our twisted history in Glory.  Always propelling us forward towards as the Beloved Community, the hope of the saints down through the corridors of time.  Knowing that one day, there’ll be the sunshine of freedom and opportunity, of joy and delight for all God’s children. 

That’s my hopey-changey story and I’m sticking to it — for it’s the Gospel Story.  Amen.

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[1] Wisdom of Solmon 12:19, NRSV.

[2] Roger D. Hodge, The Mendacity of Hope: Barack Obama and the Betrayal of American Liberalism (New York: Harper, 2010).

[3] The Big Dipper, the bowl of which points to the North Star.

[4] Tiya Miles, All That She Carried: The Journey of Ashley’s Sack, a Black Family Keepsake (New York: Ransom House, 2021).

6 Op. cit., 94-95.

July 19, 2026 – Pentecost 8, Proper 11

  “Hopey, Changey People”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Wisdom 12:13, 16-19; Psalm 86:11-17;

Romans 8:12-25; Gospel:  Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43

There are just some folks you can count on.  Their word is as good as gold.  And others?  In the building business we have a saying: “Money talks and cow manure (or something like that) walks.

Some subcontractors will be Johnny-on-the-spot on the agreed date and time.  Others, you might as well take off your speed-dial.

As we conclude the celebrations of our 250^th birthday this Fourth, too many are left holding a bad check, marked “insufficient funds” when they attempted to redeem the promises of our Declaration of Independence.

God’s Word does not return marked “insufficient funds.”  Hear the promise from Isaiah:

“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth, it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I propose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.”

And to the best of the ability of the good people of this nation, the promises grounded in that ethic shall not be null and void, but over the generations accomplish the purposes our founders intended. 

Yes, they did not comprehend the full ramifications of that promise – for those without property, for the enslaved, for women, for our LGBTQ community.  They had absolutely no idea what they were setting forth.  What they opened to future generations was a nation of expansive opportunity.

Now, we haven’t gotten there.  We’re still on the journey.  But as the clouds break and brilliant sun shines through, the dreams of unlimited possibility become reality.  Plenitude.

Ignatius reminds us that the Glory of God is a man fully alive, a woman fully alive.  We’re talking here about a theology of abundance – plenitude.  Too many, even in our churches, have a theology of scarcity. 

In my church budgets I would always insist on an income category labeled “faith.”  Faith because I believed we were always capable of stretching beyond what we thought possible.  In Anchorage I had a hard-nosed, green-eyeshade treasurer who worked to keep us within the budget.  Chuck would always insist on knowing the specifics of each and every budget item. 

So, he was quite skeptical when I showed up and stuck this new category into the income side of the church budget.  “Just how much is this going to bring in to pay the bills, Pastor Forney?”  I’d ballpark it with a figure that while not completely beyond reality, would cause us to stretch.  Faith, if you will.

And every year I was there we exceeded the budget total.  Yes, with “faith” thrown into the match.  That is because God’s Word does not return empty.

Like the story of the seeds cast in faith, I always believed that enough seeds would fall on good soil.  There might be rocks, gophers, brambles and roly-poly bugs.  But enough seeds would fall on good soil without pests.

I’m learning that this seed business is very tricky.  When my family took me to the California Botanic Garden, I saw a plant that was about six feet high covered with white blossoms that the bees absolutely loved.  Looking around, I saw a sign that said California White Sage.

When I went to their store, they had many seeds of California natives for sale, including California White Sage.  So, I bought one packet of them.  It said it contained over 100 seeds and told me how to plant them.  It also warned that the seeds of this plant had a low germination rate.  I figured that with 100 or so seeds, I couldn’t miss.  Wrong.

I planted several in each little planter space of this large group of spaces all connected together.  It said to wait 4 or 5 weeks.  I did.  Nothing.

Then I got serious and ordered a heat mat for starting plants from seed.  Replanted all the sections again.  Our garage is perfect for what the seed packet said was required – warmth, my grow-lights and heat-mat.  So far in only one tiny section two small seedlings have sprouted.  Out of some 40 or 50 seeds sown, only two tiny sprouts?  And I discovered Saturday morning that they had died. Not over an eighth of an inch tall.  That’s why Miguel runs the Garden of Hope and not I.

Yes, this seed business is very tricky.

Jesus knew that when he told the Parable of the Sower.  But in hope, he had faith that enough of the seeds would land on good soil with the right amount on sun and rain.

My favorite science fiction writer Octavia Butler, in her wildly popular work, Parable of the Sower, nails it.[1]  In this dystopian tale we are the seeds.

A recent book I am reading in dialysis, Mattering.  It speaks to one of our deepest needs, to feel that we matter.[2]  We matter to ourselves.  We matter to others.  That the contribution we offer to the public good matters.  We sow mattering in how we treat people.

To sow the seeds of Grace, is to nurture this need in others.  And as we do, we also nurture it in ourselves.  Where others feel they matter, God’s Word has found fertile ground.  Good soil.

Let me tell you a couple stories of how this transpires.

The author, Jennifer Breheny Wallace, opens her book, “It all began with a clementine.” I didn’t know what that was so Googled it.  A clementine is a hybrid of mandarin and sweet oranges.

Jennifer arrived at the Harlem train station early one morning.  The hustle of the crowds filled the senses as did the odors drifting from the various shops selling bread, breakfast items, coffee.  The screech of arriving trains on the platform above and the fumes were almost overpowering.

She noticed a small bodega, brightly lit, on a corner of the station.  She stopped in to browse and overheard the following conversation.

“A man with gray hair called to me from behind the counter.  ‘Ah, welcome,’ he said.  “It’s wonderful to see you.’  He spoke with the warmth of someone greeting a regular, though I wasn’t.  As I browsed, I overheard his conversation with another customer, someone who clearly was a regular, about the clementines he had picked up at the market that morning.  ‘I remembered how much you liked them last time,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘When I saw them, I knew I had to bring them in again for you.’  The customer thanked him for always being so kind and thoughtful.”[3]

The author also noticed those clementines, how the bright orange contrasted with the drab gray of the station.  But what stayed with her as her train pulled out of the station was the care in the exchange.  The way the shopkeeper’s thoughtfulness did more than provide fruit, but paid attention and remembered – a small matter but it contained a large portion of Grace – you matter. 

This shopkeeper was a seed of Grace bringing forth connection.  Enhancing worth.  God’s Word had deeply taken root in the soil of that man’s soul.  And there was flourishing.

In looking through the current issue of Newsweek magazine, one first notices the section, “250 Great American Heroes.”  Spread in those opening pages are an array of many who might be accounted heroes.  Unfortunately, it is limited to people connected to our military struggles.  I’m thinking, what about teachers, what about doctors and inventors?  What about those who resisted many of the fruitless, tragic conflicts of our history?   My friends who served as conscientious objectors in hospitals and in forestry work?  What about those whose witness against senseless wars was their flight to Canada and beyond?

As I was arguing in my mind with this narrowness of this piece, I came across a woman whom I would in fact regard as a true hero, Mary Edwards Walker, April 10, 1854.  Yes, the Civil War.

The piece was entitled, “She Crossed to Heal.”  It recounted how she had crossed enemy lines numerous times because the Confederate soldiers on the other side were not her enemy – suffering was.

Dr. Walker had a contract with the Union Army of the Cumberland and frequent traversed the front line to treat wounded civilians in northern Georgia who had no access to healthcare.  The military refused to grant her a commission.  Of course not – she was a woman.  She served anyway.

With a cobbled together outfit of trousers and a modified coat, she went about her mission, no matter the politics or allegiances.  She was eventually captured deep in enemy territory after assisting a Confederate surgeon in preforming an amputation.  She was finally exchanged for a captured Confederate surgeon.  Though never given the respect of rank, she was the only woman of that war to receive the Medal of Honor, which she wore every day until she died in 1919.  In Dr. Walker, God’s Word did not return empty.  Good soil she was.

Her message to those she healed and attended to was, you matter.  Dr. Walker was God’s good seed planted in one of our most excruciating conflicts.

To instill mattering was one of the most important items in Dr. Walker’s little black doctor’s bag.  Mattering is “so deeply ingrained in us that after basic survival needs like food and shelter are met, it is the need to matter that drives human behavior.”[4]

That was the divine touch of Jesus.  “You matter” — to the leper, to the dunderhead disciples to whom he showed infinite patience.  To the woman of ill repute at a well in Samaria.

To you and me when down and out of sorts. 

It is the message to those who receive our fresh produce every week at the food banks that St. Francis Garden of Hope serves.  It may even be the small act of kindness to the driver in front of us attempting to change lanes.  You matter.  Go on ahead of me, and have a nice day.  In all such acts, large and small, there is the plenitude of Mercy.  An overflowing fountain.  God’s “faith” budget item.

Such a life of generosity is the indwelling of eternity.  God’s sign that we matter.  As my fictional hero Detective Harry Bosch notes, “Unless everyone counts, no one counts.”  That’s our mission in the Jesus Movement, to instill and foster mattering.  In God’s big picture I count.  You count.  We all count.  And can I get an Amen for that? 

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[1] Octavia Butler, Parable of the Sower (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2016).  This edition includes a marvelous introduction by Gloria Steinem.

[2] Jennifer Breheny Wallace, Mattering (New York: Portfolio/Penguin, 2026), 1 ff.

[3] Op. Cit., 1-2.

[4] Op. cit., 5.

July 12, 2026 – Pentecost 7, Proper 10

“Plenitude”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Isaiah 55:10-13; Psalm 65:1-14;

Romans 8:1-11; Gospel:  Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23

As we pass another landmark milestone for this republic, many are sincerely wondering, where are we heading?  What is left of worth?  What is our duty as citizens in the present moment?

No, the Forneys are not going to Canada, though having ancestors from that wonderful maple leaf land, we are now eligible for citizenship.  No, we’re staying put.  The work to be done is here.

So, what might we celebrate this Fourth?  My mind goes to the natural beauty of the land.

When in college two friends and I would head to Yosemite as soon as summer began.  One of us, Bill, would usually have a job lined up at the lodge washing dishes.  The deal with his supervisor, if the other two of us pitched in, Bill could get released early by midmorning.

John Muir in his nature writings has a marvelous piece on how to spend one day in Yosemite, if all you have is only one day.  Yes, head for the Vernal Falls.[1]  Give yourself an hour there to take it all in.

We’d soon be hitting the trail to Vernal Falls and beyond.  One summer we went rock climbing up the Thumb of Mount Hoffman.  Bill was the expert and had all the equipment – ropes, carabiners, pitons – the whole kit.

Earlier the day before, we newcomers to the sport, Ron and I practiced rappelling down some steep cliff faces.  We learned the correct way to tighten our harnesses, hook in the rope so we could gently lower ourselves down a 150-foot cliff.  I soon got the hang of it, or thought I had until we got to the real thing the next day.

The Thumb is the highest rock spire on the peak of that mountain.  It offers spectacular views in all 360 directions.   And it is only accessible by circling around from the path leading to it to the 1500-foot cliff on the other side.  Yes, it was a long, long, very long way straight down.  Vertigo was a real possibility. 

We pounded pitons into the cracks of that sheer face, hooked in our carabiners and our ropes with loops tied in for our feet to begin the climb straight up.  No, don’t look down.  Definitely, don’t look down.

Well, I finally made it to the top with Bill giving me some extra pull at the end of the ordeal – he was the belay man.  And, yes, the view was spectacular.  To celebrate, we had taken a flask of Wild Turkey whiskey.  Just a few sips – we wanted to be stone-cold sober for the climb down.  I made it down okay, which was quite a bit easier, made it safely down.  I’m still here, am I not? 

That venture was definitely to “higher ground.”  And spiritually, it was.  The majesty filled the soul.

That is the grandeur I celebrate this Fourth, as other memories come flooding back – Grand Canyon at sunrise, the Aurora Borealis at night in the wilds of Alaska, that immense golden eagle soaring only a couple feet over my head when on a float trip down one of Alaska’s wild rivers.

I will celebrate the grandeur of our heritage through the words and legacy of those who are part of the warp and woof of the fabric of this republic.  I am brought to those like Frederick Douglass and Sandra Cisneros[2] who through adversity and persistent witness kept the hope of America alive.  I celebrate those who speak to our generous spirit.  Those abolitionists and suffragists like my great ancestor Julia Ward Howe.  Yes, she made it onto the cover of this July issue of the Atlantic magazine – “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”

The Spirit moving through countless witness to our common humanity is derivative from the one same Spirit flowing through our lessons for this morning.

Hear the Spirit speaking in Matthew’s Gospel:

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father who is in heaven.  For he makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and unjust.  For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have?  Do not even the tax collectors do the same?”

From time to time this generosity has erupted forth from us, even for our former enemies.  Having learned the disastrous lesson of the punitive Treaty of Versailles, (signed on June 28, 1919), we rebuilt West Germany, Italy and Japan.  The Marshal Plan even went further to rebuild much of Europe.

After the Cold War, in many ways we bent over backward to assist Russia in recovering from the economic disaster left by the downfall of Communism.

Through USAID and the Peace Corps we have sent emissaries of good will through the world, sometimes in the most dangerous and neglected places with food aid, economic assistance, medicines for HIV and common childhood diseases.  That is until the current administration had totally destroyed this signature humanitarian work leaving already over 500,000 children to die.  The American spirit enshrined in those past years of benevolent aid.  Yes, not always completely altruistic, but then what of our human motives are completely pure?  Search your conscience on this.

The nonprofits in America have also reflected the same Spirit.  Rotary, begun in America in February 23, 1905 by the businessman Paul Harris, has through its world-wide campaign against polio, virtually wiped out that dreaded disease.  Their workers are often the only outsiders accepted in places often unaccepting of westerners – Afghanistan, Pakistan, Myanmar.  This campaign of Rotary International has led to a historic, global campaign to eradicate polio since 1985.

As a founding core partner of the Global Polio Eradication Initiative (GPEI), Rotary’s PolioPlus program has helped immunize over 3 billion children and contributed more than $2.9 billion toward global eradication.  It has led through international partners to a 99.9% reduction of cases for this dread disease.

This is the America I celebrate this Fourth.  An expansive version of Rotary’s motto: “Service beyond self.”  This is the volunteerism that Alexis de Tocqueville celebrated in his book, Democracy in America, in 1835.  Higher ground indeed!  For such I will toss back a cold one this Fourth.

This Fourth I celebrate those liberties and rights enshrined in the Bill of Rights, the first amendments to our Constitution – the right to peaceable assemble in protest especially.

With this current mendacious and corrupt administration, we have not only the right but the duty to be the Gospel Resistance to the evil they do.  Yes, we do ask our blessing every Sunday on “those we must resist,” but resist we must with all the soul force at our command.

Resistance is Higher Ground.  In the streets, in the editorial pages of our papers, in our daily prayers and charitable and political contributions.

Just as we will join in the effort to assist in Venezuela after this horrendous earthquake.  Much of Caracas looks like Gaza after the Israeli genocidal war there.  We at St. Francis will play our part.  Check out Episcopal Relief and Development or the denominational agencies of your own church.  Most denominational agencies get well over 90% of your money to the targeted need.  Higher Ground!

For us Episcopalians, the site is www.episcoaplrelief.org.   Once you’re there, an immediate popup will direct you to: Earthquake Relief for Venezuela.[3]  BTW, I tried it out and found that it works easily.  Your receipt will say, directed to International Disaster Fund, the international agency through which we are working for earthquake relief there.

The very same Spirit manifested in your gift is to be found in Torah Righteousness – pure Grace.  Hear this witness from our Torah heritage:

“For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality and accepts no bribes.  He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the foreigner residing among you, giving them food and clothing.  And you are to love those who are foreigners, for you yourselves were foreigners in Egypt.”  Higher Ground.

The plan of those who would rule over us, Project 2025, continues to roll over our laws, the Constitution and common human decency.  Rolling on, reducing voting rights, cutting off food stamps to 700,000 children as of last week.  Throwing folks off their health care.  Their toadies on the Supreme Court in rejecting the protection given to Hattians and Syrian migrants opens the door for some 400,000 to be immediately deported to the worst hell-hole places on the planet.  Deportations to war-torn places, gang-infested countries.  Certain death for many.  Resist we must.  America is better than this.

We have much Higher ground to celebrate this Fourth.  The fact that we can be out in the streets that day, loud and proud, proclaiming with our bodies that America means ALL – gay and straight, black, brown, white and all the other colors of our mélange of this big disparate assemblage we label “e pluribus unum.”  A street party welcoming the “huddled masses” still yearning to be free. 

That’s a beauty the greedy grifters can’t deny.  It will be “Youuuuugggge” as Senator Bernie Sanders would bellow.  My prayer that day is for over ten millin in the streets all across this great nation.  Yes, our marching feet are our prayers.   And those marching feet are the greatness of America we celebrate that day.

I close with the admonition from one whose feet were often weary, that tireless suffragist, Susan B. Anthony

“It was we, the people; not we, the white male citizens; nor yet we, the male citizens; but we, the whole people, who formed the Union.  And we formed it not to give the blessings of liberty, but to secure them; not to the half of ourselves and the half of our posterity, but to the whole people – women as well as men.”[4]

Yes, All means All on this Higher Ground.  And we’re still struggling to make it a reality for the whole of this republic.  Onward to Higher Ground.  Can I get an Amen here?

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[1] John Muir, Selected Writings (New York: Everyman’s Library, 2017) 461 ff.

[2] Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street (New York: Knopf, 1984).

[3] ERD mailing address is: P.O. Box 5121, Boone, IA, 50950-0121.  Make checks out to Episcopal Relief and Development and in the memo line put Venezuela Earthquake Relief.

[4] Susan B. Anthony, from a speech at New York 1873.  From The Patriot’s Bible: A Bicentennial Anthology of Love and Justice, John Eagleson and Philip Scharper, eds. (Maryknoll, New York: Orbis Books, 1975), 76-77.

July 5, 2026 – Pentecost 5
Independence Day Propers
“Higher Ground”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Deuteronomy 10:17-21; Psalm 145:1-9;

A Reading from Baldwin; Gospel:  Matthew 5:43-48

As our 250^th birthday approaches we are seduced into an orgy of nostalgia and kitsch.  The banality of the recent cage fight on the White House lawn being the least of what’s to come.

In preparation for the events around the 4^th of July, the racists at 1200 Pennsylvania Ave. in D.C. have released an 85-page document rewriting black history.  How “white” of them.[1]

In this sanitized version, “slavery” and “slave” each only appear once.  “Racism” not at all.  These folks have long failed to reckon with America’s divided history.  The journey down nostalgia lane ignores the sordid legacy of slavery and Jim Crow – only one of America’s original sins.

As we celebrate Juneteenth, the date the proclamation of freedom belatedly reached those held in bondage in Galveston, Texas, June 19, 1865. 

The Juneteenth celebration marks the delayed arrival of the proclamation of freedom from slavery for those held on bondage when Federal agents arrived in Galveston, Texas, June 19, 1865, after local officials failed to share word of the national end of slavery.

Despite Emancipation, America yet remains mired in this tragic history that blighted the lives of millions – and continues to do so. 

Point!  Secretary of Defense (War?) Hegseth has twice summarily stripped promotion rolls of black and women senior officers simply because of race and sex.  Twice — with no explanation to Congress or the American public.

Point!  With the efforts to eliminate programs promoting diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI), this racist administration has corrupted our civil service, our military, our universities. They blatantly don’t want to include half my family in the dream.  Not back to the separate water fountains of the old Jim Crow era, but back to a not-so-subtle newer version of exclusion.  Just as covert and pernicious as it was under President Wilson when the KKK virtually ran the Democratic Party.

Point!  Growing up in a privileged white family, I remained oblivious to much of this history through my teen years and into young adulthood.  Oh, there were a few instances when the curtain was pulled back on this ugly underbelly of our history.

I remember the Mexican American boy in my third-grade class in Compton, California.  The only person of color in our class.  My parents gave me explicit instructions not to play with him.  He was dirty.  He would give us a disease.  He was not nice.  End of story.  I don’t think he had many friends in our class because I suspect other white parents gave their children the same message.

What puzzled me was the disparity of what I was learning in my Sunday school class taught by my mom and what my family was teaching.  This attitude did not comport with the song we sang about Jesus loving all the little children.

Jesus loves the little children
All the children of the world
Red, brown, yellow
Black and white
They are precious in His sight
Jesus loves the little children
Of the world

This double mindedness of our history on race is a grotesque distortion of the promises of the Declaration of Independence and the guarantees enshrined in the Constitution (as revised by the 14^th, 15^th, 16^th and 19^th amendments).  The oppression of people of color came into full view when I was in junior high.

A Black dentist and his family had moved into our neighborhood.  While they were on vacation our “nice” white Christian neighbors ran a hose into the second story of their house and turned on the water.  When they returned a couple weeks later, the house was virtually destroyed, and most of everything in it.  What the water didn’t ruin, the mold did.

And my church uttered not a peep.  That began my estrangement from my faith, my class, my family.  Finally reaching a peak during the Vietnam War when my father and I did not speak to each other for almost 8 years.

Jeremiah, in the face of national corruption and faithlessness, is assaulted by the Word of Justice implanted in his heart.  He cannot resist it.  Fire in his bones.

“O Lord, you have enticed me, and I was enticed, you have overpowered me, and you have prevailed.”

Given this unpopular prophecy to deliver, he has become a pariah.

“I have become a laughingstock all day long; everyone mocks me.  For whenever I speak, I must cry out, I must shout, “Violence and destruction.”

And in these fraught times of societal breakdown and chaos we must cry out.  While we mint new trillionaires and scads of new billionaires leaving us common folk in the dust – we must cry out!  Only the apostate will remain silent.

You might say we’re sometimes impolite.  We violate the norms of decorum.  I say, there is no longer any decorum when voting rights of the poor and minorities are fed wholesale into the woodchipper.  Politeness does a disservice to the Word of God, to the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  What we presently are doing to “the least of these” is most impolite.

Now the disaster that daily befalls our nation is not just a matter of corrupt politics.  With the inclusion of a wonderful, new addition of an African-American daughter-in-law and a brand-new biracial grandson Luther it’s existential.  No longer an abstract concept of fairness and equity, but a matter of survival, belonging and thriving.

And as it’s said in West Virginia, you mess with one of us and you’re messing with all of us.  “All of us,” with the enlargement of my family, has taken on a whole new meaning.  Yeah, Trump, you and your GOP apologists — you’re messing with all of us now.

Like I felt upon hearing of what had happened to our Black neighbors down the street in my early teens, a smoldering fire had begun burning in my bones.

We need clergy enticed and assaulted by this burning Word in their bones.  Lay folks also virulently infected with this living Word – for in it is our salvation.  In it is the open door to any sort of life worth living – our only alternative to being just a dumb, senseless part on the Darwinian food chain.

And sometimes such impolite outbursts are pure Grace.  They open the door to God’s Justice and Peace.  Even open the door to repentance.

I remember my friend Charlie Clark, the pastor of a Lutheran church in Temple City when I ran my ecumenical fair-housing project.

When it came to Tough Grace, Charlie was extraordinary.

Pastor Clark used to fulminate against those in his church who had no vision.  “Do not quench the Spirit,” he would demand, voice raised.  That church had had five pastors in six years before he had arrived. 

There was a reason he was well into his seventh year when I knew him.  He had no tolerance for cynical nay-sayers, the faithless who had no vision.  “Do not quench the Spirit.”  He gave as good as he got for Gospel Righteousness’s sake.

I’m still not sure how he kept from being fired, but under his leadership that congregation was a part of our fair housing effort, Project Understanding – though many there absolutely refused to understand that “Good Neighbors Come in All Colors.”  God’s demand for Justice was shut up in Charlie’s bones, and he would not be quiet.

I still remember his secretary telling me of one Sunday, when Pastor Clark was putting out our Project Understanding newsletter in the literature rack.  One of the nay-sayers of stunted charity passed through the narthex and noticed this: “Pastor, how long do we have to have this crap in our church?” he whined.

Charlie wheeled about on him, bellowing, “Don’t ever let me hear you call the Gospel of Jesus Christ CRAP!”  And his contract was renewed for another year.  Truly, like Jeremiah, he had committed his cause to the Lord.

Such indomitable strength of character lies as a possibility within each one of us.  This Torah decency and sense of justice is shut up in all of us, but that we only excavate our souls to discover it.  We each hold the possibility of having the decency and courage to follow its lead.

It’s not just about my immediate family anymore.  This malignant administration is messing with all of America.  All of us!

Yet, through persistence.  Gentle and otherwise, the Word of God finds a way where there was no way.  That’s our doing.

The other day at our “beer summit” at Back Abbey my friend told me this story of his family and the growth to Gospel Inclusion.

Dick’s father was a rock-ribbed conservative Presbyterian in Palo Alto.  When it came to his church, he was a stalwart participating member.  But his understanding of the Gospel of Jesus Christ was somewhat limited when it came to what he saw as his personal prerogatives.

Case in point.  A California ballot proposition to repeal our fair housing laws, the Rumsfield Fair Housing Act, was on the ballot one year.  Dick and his father were on opposite sides of the issue.  Vociferously so.  They argued back and forth.  “I don’t want the government telling me what to do with MY property,” was the father’s objection.  Even on the way to the voting location the disagreement raged.

After each had cast his ballot and they were back in the car, there was absolute silence as they began the drive back home.  Finally, Dick’s father spoke.  “I just couldn’t do it.  I couldn’t vote for repeal.”

No, the government hadn’t told him what to do with his property.  The guidance of the Gospel of Jesus Christ did.  Through the persistence and witness of his son.  Now that’s pure, unadulterated Grace in action.  Such Grace is our only hope.  Only such Tough and Gentle Grace can overcome our divisive history of race, class and partisan politics as we approach our 250^th birthday.  It is our final and only hope.

Time to scrap the impulse to mesmerizing nostalgia for the “good ol’ days” because, in reality, they weren’t so good for many of us.  Time for a reality check.

It’s the witness of courageous Republicans who are true conservatives upholding our Constitution and the ethic of the Declaration.  Time for Republicans that value their soul more than their ephemeral jobs.  Time for upholding the notion that in America we all have of right to be self-determining and enjoy the benefits of the nation we have created.  Republicans who are willing to fight for “All means All.”

It’s the witness of Democrats who refuse to continue their acquiescence to the unconstitutional illegality of this administration.  Who will stand up to the worst of the worst of their self-serving policies.  Democrats who will welcome into the discussion and join with those on the other side of the aisle of good will.

It’s the witness of average citizens who will be out in the streets all across this republic for the largest “No Kings” demonstration in history.  It’s those willing to risk malicious prosecution as conspirators for demonstrating against ICE raids and their cesspool detention centers.

It’s about us of the Jesus Movement boldly proclaiming in word and deed the Gospel Goodness we hold dear – ALL MEANS ALL!  This Grace will indeed lead us home.

We must cry out.

Time for Tough Grace, Costly Grace.  Time for telling it like it is.  Only in such boldness is our hope, is the wide-open door to eternity to be entered.   As I’m wont to say, “that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.”  Because it’s grounded in the much larger story of God’s love for all of us.  Full of Grace and full of Glory.  Amen.

---

[1] Nathalie Baptiste, “Trump is Completely Rewriting Black History – With Devastating Consequences,” Huffpost, June 18, 2026.

June 21, 2026 – Pentecost 4, Proper 7

“We Must Cry Out”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Jeremiah 20:7-13; Psalm 69:8-11, 18-20;

Romans 6:1b-11; Matthew 10:24-39

This past week Jai and I celebrated our 60^th wedding anniversary.  I racked my brain for an appropriate gift to celebrate this auspicious occasion.  Finally, in a flash of inspiration I thought of helping her celebrate our Dear Leader’s birthday by getting her a ticket to the cage match on the White House Lawn.

Sure, isn’t this spectacle something all our wives would want?  Two guys beat each other bloody in a no-holds-barred gladiatorial contest.  And like the leader’s buddies, maybe make millions on advertising and wagering the outcome of the event.  Step right up, folks, place your bets.  Who will first get the bloody nose?  Who will be first to lose an eye?  Broken bones?  All bets must be placed one hour to the bell-ring.  Advertising space will be sold.

Refs?  No need.  It’s like a knife fight – there are no rules.  At the sound of the bell, go at it, fellows.  May the most ruthless win.

Such kitsch!  Beyond the pale.

Can you imagine our fore-mothers and fore-fathers observing from the Great Beyond?  Madison would be saying, “This is exactly why I didn’t trust the unwashed mob of the hoi polloi with this republic.”

The leaders of our First Peoples would, scratching their heads, be in deep mourning.  “We lost our tribal lands for this?  These folks really are the ‘white devils’ our elders warned us of.”

Along with Eddie Glaude, looking at this travesty, I too can say, “I do not love America.”  There are bits and pieces of it I deeply cherish, places gone and places remembered.  There are traditions and rituals I revere.  It used to be going in person to cast my vote when I was better able to get around.

We have an artistic heritage second to none.  To celebrate our 250^th anniversary I have been dipping into some of the readings from the Library of America.  Compared to this incompetent and immoral administration, these are people of substance.

In our bathroom reading room I have next to me the writings of Abigal Adams.  The tender solicitude she holds for her husband John, the longing in his absence, the concern for his labors to bring about a new nation birthed in liberty. – It often brings tears to my eyes when I think of the mediocracy and mendacity of today’s rule by greed and lies.   And our supine political class.

This heritage do I love and treasure.  I draw hope from its substance.

But love America?  Considering how most of white Americans are dismissive of half my family?  Of my new grandson?  Love?  No.  I can only join with those who presently engage to resist such racist lies.  I can only take up the struggle against those who would senselessly seek to diminish the opportunities of my little grandson Luther.  On this I will go to the mat.

It’s time for telling it like it is.  As we said in the 60s, “Let it all hang out.”

Moses comes down off the Mount of Revelation with a similar warning and an austere promise.  Wisdom from on high.  And also dredging up wisdom from our depths of memory.

Moses has received from The Almighty on those heights a message of solicitude and deliverance.  “You have seen what I did to the Egyptians, and how I bore you up on eagles’ wings and brought you to myself.”

In your journey I will be with you if you obey my voice and keep my covenant, you shall be my treasured possession of all the peoples.  Indeed, the whole earth is mine.”

Hundreds of years later, the prophet Jesus would expand upon this covenantal understanding.  All means all.  We are all God’s treasured possession.  Let’s honor it with being in Solidarity with one another, creation and God.  He sends us out two by two to broadcast that Good News – a renewed Kin-dom of Love is being birthed among you.

Wisdom from on high.  Peak moments of revelation wherein we find purpose, meaning and our connection with our brothers and sisters – with all creation.  And the One who left us here and gave us the brains, insight and Grace to figure it out.

But this revelation is also wisdom from deep within.  Moses pulls out of his people the cherished memories of God’s saving actions.  Our deliverance from slavery to liberation from oppression.

Would that these saving memories instruct the descendants of those ancient desert pilgrims that they behave accordingly to the wisdom Moses delivers — in Gaza, Lebanon, and with their Palestinian neighbors.  Would their hearts be broken by the genocide they presently inflict.  A racist, ethnic cage match.  No holds bared.  No rules.

That we still have courageous journalists who will shed the Light of Truth on what we do to one another, gives me hope.  That courage of our free press I do love in this nation.  At least the part that hasn’t been bought out by gazillionaires.

That our society should produce a new Moses in the leadership of Pope Leo XIV is testimony to the democratic heritage we have received and still maintain.  The Gospel tradition we have received.  Wisdom from the heights of compassion to the depths of malignant power.  On war, the Pope has given the warmongers no quarter.

Like many others, I was the victim on an internet spoof.  A fabricated confrontation between Pope Leo XIV and Franklin Graham, a spokesperson for White Christian Nationalism, was concocted out of whole cloth.

This never happened, yet how we might wish.  I’ll adjust the sermon to indicate a hypothetical, and hoped for exchange of our dreams.  This is what needs to happen. 

Here is the hypothetical exchange that needs to happen.  As the Native American storyteller would say, “This never happened but if it did, this is how it happened.

The fantasy begins as Pope Leo XIV engaged Franklin Graham, self-appointed spokesman for the racist Christian Nationalist movement. The headlines of that encounter reverberated around the globe.  Electricity rippled through the internet.  “SIT DOWN — YOU DON’T SPEAK FOR THE WORLD.”

What began as a routine televised discussion turned into one of the most talked-about moments of the year — a rare, unscripted clash between Pope Leo XIV and Franklin Graham that instantly ignited debate across religious and political circles.

It started with a pointed remark.

Graham, speaking with confidence, leaned into a familiar argument — that spiritual leaders should remain within the boundaries of faith and avoid entangling themselves in political discourse. He framed it as a matter of clarity, of purpose… even of responsibility.

For a brief second, it seemed like just another televised exchange.

Then everything changed.
Pope Leo XIV didn’t interrupt.
He didn’t react emotionally.
He simply waited.
Calm. Still. Unshaken.

Then, with a measured breath, he lifted his gaze — not just toward Graham, but directly into the camera, as if addressing something far beyond the room.

And when he spoke, every word landed with precision.

“You assume your voice carries for all,” he said quietly.  “It does not.”

Silence.

Not the kind of silence that fills time — but the kind that stops it.

Graham shifted slightly in his seat, his posture tightening. The audience, sensing the shift, held their breath. No one moved. No one spoke.

But the moment wasn’t over.

The Pope leaned forward — not aggressively, but with unmistakable intent. His tone remained low, controlled… yet impossible to ignore.

“You speak from proximity to power,” he continued, his voice steady. “From alignment. From influence shaped alongside figures like Donald Trump. But influence is not the same as representation.”

The words didn’t come fast.

They didn’t need to.

Each sentence carried weight — not as an attack, but as a correction.

“A leader,” the Pope added, “is not defined by who they stand beside… but by who they are willing to stand for — especially when it is difficult.”

At that point, Graham opened his mouth slightly, preparing to respond.

He never got the chance.

Because that’s when Pope Leo XIV delivered the line that would ripple across the internet within minutes:

“Sit down. Listen carefully. The future cannot afford loyalty without understanding.”

The reaction was immediate.

A wave of murmurs swept through the studio — some stunned, some impressed, some visibly uncomfortable. A few scattered claps broke through the tension, quickly spreading as the weight of the moment settled in.

On live television… no raised voices.

No chaos.  No theatrics.  Just control.  Clarity.  And consequence.

Within minutes, in this story, clips of the exchange flooded social media.  Millions watched. Then rewatched. Then shared. (And of course, they did share this conjured conversation).

The post included Imagined commentators from every side weighing in.

Some might call it bold.  Others, necessary.  For most, simply unforgettable.

But what would stand out wasn’t just what was said.  It was how it was said.

In this fantasy, Pope Leo XIV never raised his voice.  He never resorted to insults.  He didn’t attempt to overpower — only to reframe.  And in doing so, he shifted the entire conversation.

One viral post would sum it up perfectly:

“He didn’t silence Franklin Graham. He forced everyone to think beyond him.”

That distinction mattered.  Because this wasn’t just a clash between two figures.

In this telling, it was a deeper confrontation — between influence and responsibility… between alignment and accountability… between speaking for people, and actually understanding them.

And perhaps that’s why the moment resonated so widely.

Not because it was loud.  But because it was clear.

In a world driven by reactions, this was something different.  A pause.

A challenge.  A line drawn — not in anger, but in conviction.

And whether people would agree or disagree, one thing would become undeniable:

That night, on live television, Pope Leo XIV didn’t just respond.  He redefined the conversation.  We need to redefine this critical conversation.

That America could raise up such a Prophet of Light, that I do cherish and love.  Even if this telling is only wishful thinking.  The fact is, America has produced a stalwart and courageous champion for Gospel Truth.  A sign that the promise of America yet continues forth.  This would be the necessary rebuttal to the insane racist nonsense emanating from 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue, D.C.

That’s the task before each of us.  “We are the leaders we’ve been waiting for.”

By the way, Jai and I are not going to a cage match to celebrate our anniversary.  Christopher and Alexis took us to Pasadena on the 11^th for three wonderful surprises:  our favorite bookstore, Vroman’s; a most delicious Italian dinner; and to top it off, the play “Brigadoon” at the Pasadena Playhouse.  It was a great show.  And for the occasion, a touching romance.  And in July, we’ll be in San Francisco to celebrate some more.  We lived there the first year of our marriage.  Yeah, left my heart (and also my wallet).  For such national delights, I treasure and give thanks.

For all this, even this imaginative fantasy, as we approach our 250^th national birthday, I do love and give thanks.  And will continue to work my butt off to ensure that everyone else can partake in its opportunity and freedom.  And to that I say – a Big Amen!

June 14, 2026
Pentecost 3, Proper 6

“Power from On High and Deep Within”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Exodus 19:2-8a; Psalm 100
Romans’ 5:1-8; Matthew 9:35-10:8

One of my favorite film series are the Indiana Jones movies.  I especially like “The Last Crusade,” filmed in the Petra National Archeological Park of Jordan.  Why?  Because our family got to visit that site.[1]

You buy your tickets at a kiosk which would entitle you to admission but also to a camel ride.

I remember trekking along that narrow pathway between towering basalt cliffs, a path not wider than four or five feet in some places.  Talk about camels and the eye of a needle.

Finally, one arrives upon an open scene of what looks like various buildings carved in to basalt cliffs about one or two thousand feet distant facing you.  Of course, there is the fabled Treasury Building, the site where the sought after Holy Grail, the Chalace of Christ, was to be found – at least in the film.

Indiana Jones has to solve a number of riddles to secure entrance to the room where this precious cup is located in order to bring back healing wine to his dying father.  If the cup is given to another, it grants healing, not immortality.

As he makes entrance a pushy woman who has been trailing him rushes in, holding Jones hostage with her pistol.  She seeks immortality. 

There on a stone platform is an assemblage of chalices guarded by a spectral knight who supposedly has been guarding the room for some two thousand years.

Whoever chooses the correct chalice among the several dozen cups will live forever. This specter urges a wise choice.  A wrong choice will lead to disaster.

This arrogant, self-absorbed woman, assuming that Christ’s standards for choosing such a cup would be hers, grabs the gaudy, ornate jewel-encrusted gold cup and swallows the liquid in one gulp.  Immediately she begins to dissolve in shrieks of horror as her face slowly slides off her skull.

The guardian knight drolly remarks, “She chose poorly.”

For the rest, rent the movie.  It’s a delight.

We walked around, looking at the many amazing edifices carved into the stone cliffs.  And we actually got to go into the one used in the film.  But the mystery of the place was ruined by the many stalls selling food and folks with carts selling souvenir trinkets.

We figured that there would be food when we got back to the entrance so we passed on the food stalls there in the middle of the park.  Wrong.  When we got to the entrance there was absolutely no food or water to be had.  We were famished.  My stomach was a deep rumbling pit.

Then came along a young fellow selling bags of cashews and bottles of water.  We bought a huge bag of those nuts and never had anything tasted so good. 

The empty, aching pit in my stomach, like the empty void in that woman’s soul who grabbed up the wrong chalice in the Indiana Jones film can be understood as that empty God-shaped hole St. Augustine talks about.  He says that all humans are born with a God-shaped hole that nothing will satisfactorily fill but God alone.  We try to fill it with many other things – things far less than God.

The Psalmist talks about this hunger.  And God’s hunger.

“If I were hungry, I would not tell you, for the whole world is mine and all that is in it.  Do you think I eat the flesh of bulls or drink the blood of goats?  Offer to God a sacrifice of thanksgiving and make good your vows to the Most High.”[2]

God seeks in us Righteousness.  That is God’s hunger for humanity.  It is all about “An Attitude of Gratitude,” as the saying goes in the 12-step movements.

Back in the day when Jesus became a rock star with the musical, “Jesus Christ Superstar,” there appeared bumper stickers proclaiming, “Honk if you love Jesus.”  A group of progressives put out an alternative, “Tithe If you love Jesus.  Any fool can honk.”

Acts of Righteousness.  Now about that old fashioned word, righteousness.  My Old Testament professor Dr. Rolf Knierim, said the best modern equivalent would be Solidarity.

Solidarity with God, with one another and with all creation.  Exactly as the God force is in solidarity with us and the rest of creation.

And to make good our vows to the Most High, what is required is faithfulness on our part.  As God might say, “How about giving me a little help here.”

The Letter of James urges, “What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works?  Can faith save you? If a brother or sister is naked and lacks daily food, and one of you says to them, ‘Go in peace; keep warm and eat your fill,’ and yet you do not supply their bodily needs, what is the good of that?  So faith by itself, if it has no works, is dead.”[3]

Right now, next to the White House there lies a huge, ugly gaping hole.  As empty as that pit was in my stomach.  The current occupant, seeking to satisfy an endless hunger in his soul has planned on building a gaudy, ornate monstrous ballroom.  An edifice to what he presumes to be the grandeur of his personality and importance.  Kitsch to the max.

That cavernous hole is a testament to the God-shaped hole in a soul that seeks to fill with adulation, gold trinkets and ersatz accomplishments – endless wars, cruelty to deportees and a grift beyond all imagining.  All artificial, desperate gestures.

My prayer for him.  That he might fill his soul with true deeds of Righteousness, deeds of Solidarity.  As might we all.  Yes, don’t just honk.

It begins with moments of prayer.  What I call Holy Daydreaming.  Allowing myself to be open through the Spirit to need.  Listening.  Listening to my true needs within, the needs of others.  Personally, I don’t need my name in big gold letters on any of my accomplishments.  And in reality, neither does Trump.

This spiritual awakening follows with choosing what nourishes the soul.  Read a good novel.  Moral fiction awakens the reader to what builds and binds us together in fellowship, in sisterhood.  Tony Morrison, Alice Walker, James Baldwin, Colson Whitehead, Sandra Cisneros, Claude Brown, Ralph Ellison, Louise Erdrich.  Erdrich’s novel, The Last Report on the Miracles of Little No Horse,[4] is a heartwarming delight.  Wendel Berry’s Jayber Crow[5] is the one of the few post-apocalyptic novels with a most satisfying ending.  It reeks of humanity.

Dip into the Book of Common Prayer for one of the various daily prayers.  Try the poetry of Emily Dickenson, Walt Whitman, e.e. cummings, or Langston Hughes.

Read some good autobiographies or collections of writers:  Frederick Douglass, Abraham Lincoln’s collection by the American Library.  The American Library has a great collection of several hundred titles of our most noted American authors, essayists, novelists, naturalists and historians

Read a science book to get the real low-down on what we’re doing to the planet.  Spiritual growth means STAYING AWAKE.  Read of the Thwaites Glacier disintegration, now threatening a sea-rise of some three meters.  That’s right, folks.  Nine feet.  Trump’s new anthem at Mar-a-Lago won’t be “America the Beautiful.”  No, it will be “We All Live in a Yellow Submarine.”  Yeah, we did this.  Spiritual growth is grounded in reality.

Spiritual growth can be measured by our willingness to confront the worst within us, the evil of which we are capable.  Would that that Orange Felon at 1600 Pennsylvania might dare to look at the devastation he and his buddy Netanyahu have wrought in Gaza and Lebanon – would that they might be willing to let that carnage of mangled bodies sear their hearts like hot coals – would that the pictures of this destruction force them to their knees, force us to our kneels – there might be a smidgen of hope for their souls, for our souls.  Perhaps then some of that the vacuity of this God-shaped hole might be filled with something truer than fluff and self-delusion.

Finally, get out in nature.  If it’s only sitting in a chair in one’s backyard and taking in the delight of a warm spring day.  Delight in the refreshment of a local city park or a hike in a nature preserve.

Oh, one more thing essential to fill any spiritual void – SHOW UP.  Show up with friends and neighbors.  Show up with folks in civic organizations.  And might I suggest, show up at your place of worship.  We all need the support, correction and infectious joy of a congregation.  We need others who will share our woes and disappointments, our struggles.  And we, through our support and empathy need to offer our true selves to the others.  A gift to others, a gift to ourselves.

Yes, don’t just honk.  Let your works of Solidarity refresh your soul and the souls of others.  This is the door to Paradise, that bountiful reality that would even now fill the hearts of all seekers.

One of my friends, after hearing me recite a maxim on follow-through, responded that I was just full of all sorts of sayings.  I replied that is because they have served me well.  I close with this, again from the Letter of James:

“But be ye doers of the word, and not hearers only, deluding your own selves.”[6]  It will serve you well and just might pry open the door to Eternity.  Good in season and out of season.

Amen.

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[1] “The Last Crusade,” 1989.  Released by Paramount Pictures, directed by Steven Spielberg.

[2] Psalm 50:12-14, NRSV.

[3] James 2:14-17.  NRSV.

[4] Louise Erdrich, The Last Report on the Miracles of Little No Horse (New York: Harper Collins, 2001).

[5] Wendell Berry, Jayber Crow (New York: Counterpoint Press, 2000).  Both these are available through Good Reads.

[6] James 1:22-25.  New King James Version.

June 7, 2026

“An Empty Pit God Alone Fills”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Hosea 5:15-6:6; Psalm 50:7-15
Romans’ 4:13-25; Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26

We are living in a fearful time.  Not the fear of one but of many.  We are closer to Great Power conflict than at any other time since WW I.  The current level of mistrust and perceived threat resembles the world that existed prior to that conflict which consumed 40 million casualties, military and civilian.  Just from July to November 1916 the Battle of the Somme resulted in one million casualties.  The cemeteries of the Somme Valley hold over 72,000 British soldiers whose bodies were never identified.  The first day of that battle alone resulted in nearly 70,000 casualties.[1]

Global conflicts rage, like those leading to 1916, conflicts that could spiral out of control:  Ukraine, Gaza and Lebanon, Iran, Sudan, the tension between North and South Korea, the tension between the U.S. and China over Tawain and trade policies, conflict between India and China over Himalayan water resources as its glaciers continue to melt under global warming.  A fear that in the not-too-distant future our planet could be consumed by the chaos of armed conflict among the many Great Powers – chaos resulting in one of the greatest migrations of desperate refugees that the world has yet seen.

Europe is experiencing the highest temperatures ever recorded, wildfires rage.

Kenya and Uganda are consumed by Ebola and Marburg diseases, highly severe and often fatal viral hemorrhagic fever ailments.  Let the “America First” crowd remember that what happens in Africa no longer stays in Africa.  Time to renew our membership in the World Health Organization, ya think?

Our youth, no matter how well prepared for the future, are struggling with futile job searches.  In part brought on by this insane Iran conflict and by A.I.

Just one young man, Soban Ali, was hoping to begin his life away from the Washington where he had been raised.  Now living in New York City, he, after being released from his federal job as a government contractor, was into a seven-month job search.[2] 

After applying to over 450 openings, he had landed only 10 interviews and still has no full-time work.

He feels guilty, not being able to join his friends at dinner or a beer out.  He would like to start a family but sighs, “I can’t even afford myself, so how am I going to afford someone else?”  He ponders his prospects for the future.  In five years will he have a good, livable income?  “Or am I going to be flipping burgers?”   He now makes $18 per hour as an aide in an after-school program – a dollar an hour over minimum wage.   Yes, he wonders, will he be consigned to flipping burgers for the rest of his productive life?  Or will an A.I. robot take over that job too.

Mirko Mormile, 27, a graduate of Brooklyn College, is still living with his grandfather.  He studied business, not his first choice, in the hopes of landing something.  After applying to over 1000 jobs, he now is a digital content creator, but still does not bring in enough to live on his own.

The current financial chaos is a blight on an entire generation seeking to enter the job market.  The worst since the coronavirus pandemic.

We presently live in a chaotic world.  The existential fear not of one but of many is palpable.

In the Book of Genesis, the supreme Act of Grace is the subduing of chaos.  Order is brought into creation, beginning with, “Let there be Light.”  Night and day are ordered.  The boundaries of the sea are set.  The living world of plants and animals unfolds in order.

Would that some act of creative energy subdue the chaos we inflict upon nature and upon one another?

God brings order into creation as Ruah, the Spirit, blows over it all   The Book of Proverbs defines this power of creation as Wisdom.  She was there in the beginning delighting God as she worked to bring all into being as a master worker with God.[3]

Today we celebrate the Doctrine of the Trinity.  However, this doctrine is nowhere explicitly to be found in scripture.  It was an accretion of experience over the years, that was finally formulated as an article of faith for Christians in the 300s.

Today hapless preachers will stumble from one heresy to another in an attempt to define and make sense of the Trinity.  Just as numerous early church councils in conclave after conclave failed to come to a satisfactory formulation.

So, I say, let’s ride loose in the saddle, remembering that all theological language is figurative, metaphorical.  Paul Tillich warns that our minds are idol factories.  The moment we think we have a literal description of the Divine, we have created something less in our minds, far, far less.  Literalism only begets an idol.  That’s why Jesus spoke in parables and similes.  The Kingdom is like…such and such — not far off but within.

The Almighty connects with humanity in many guises.  Traditionally, we have perceived the workings of the Creator through the beauty and order of our world.  Through the Love binding human relationships.  Yes, God is Love and those who abide in Love abide in God and God in them.[4]

We have known this force of Love through the person Jesus.  For Christians, that revelation is primary and determinative. 

We know that from time to time the Spirit touches our imaginations, bringing to remembrance acts of courageous love, of self-sacrifice.  Enlightening in the way of Truth and Life.  Wisdom being her hallmark.

As Episcopalians, we have a generous understanding of this Holy Trinity, working ever to bring us to the full mark of humanness.  Working ever to restore that original garden of harmonious subsistence.

By the way, given our egregious failures as Episcopalians, in our support of slavery, in our complicity with the genocide of our First Peoples — right from America’s founding, our support of Jim Crow laws in the South and silence about racial injustice in the North, with our murderous persecution of those of other faiths — we have fallen far, far short of the Original Vision that ordered creation out of chaos.  We have been agents of disorder.

As I oft say, “Why, given our sordid track record, would God be so stupid to put all the eggs in a basket called Episcopal?”  Yet, led by the Spirit, we have become open to that generous Spirit of Charity that works through those of other faiths, and sometimes through no declared faith.

Given our present world, we need the assurance of a strong faith to bind us to Life and Truth.  We need such a resilient faith to pass on to our children that they can bear the hatred the world throws at them.  Sometimes just because of the color of their skin or accent.  A faith to which they can bind their futures, their dreams and their hopes.

So let me tell stories of that Divine Love known through our ongoing creation, through the legacy of Christ emptied out in the humanistic values that guide our world, in the moments of Spirit-filled inspiration that open up new vistas for life to flourish, for the renewal of all Creation.

Creator God, Redeemer God, Sustaining God – who am I, a simple parish priest, to sort it all out.  But I will eternally give thanks for all who have carried forth this saving legacy of Eternity.  To that heritage do bind unto myself today.

Genisis begins the first act of unmerited Grace.  The simple fact that there is Something and not Nothing.  And when we behold creation in all its splendor, our breath is sucked right out of us.  From sunflower to humming bird.  From the majesty of Half Dome to the rugged Mojave Desert with its Joshua Trees.  Sucked right out of us it is.

So, I close with a story of this heritage in my life.  In our downtown church in Los Angeles, Temple United Methodist Church, there was a family notorious for both their gifts and their disruptive children, especially Billy and Bobby.

Barbara — the mother, an upper-class white had an incredible soprano voice and she would sing in the choir if someone would babysit her children during Wednesday night choir practice.  Jai volunteered.  And that’s whole other story.

The father, Bill, a Panamanian, was an incredible drummer on the bongos, great on the guitar and would sing scat through some of the hymns.

The two boys were known — behind the parents’ backs – as Los Monstros.  Both parents oft seemed clueless about raising their children. It was Bobby who turned off the moving sidewalk in the Haunted House at Disneyland.

After divorce, Barbara brought her children up to Inyokern where I was serving my first appointed church assignment for the Methodists.  They were to stay with us for a few days.

It was late in the evening when her van pulled up in front of our house.  As the doors popped open and sleepy children stumbled out, one of the boys looked up.  Upon seeing the dazzling display of the Milky Way, gasped, “Wow, you don’t have much air up here, do you.”

He had never seen the sky without Southern California smog and light pollution.  Soon the other children were heads back, marveling at the splendor of God’s Light Show.

I give thanks for the heritage of this Holy Trinity that has bound such a wildly diverse folk together in one fellowship of love and service as in our church.  Yes, even Los Monstros and their parents.  I give thanks for such a heritage that has brought me Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony and Langston Hughes’s poetic insight.  To this renewing heritage of unmerited Grace, I bind myself today.

I give thanks for one pastor’s wife, Nellie Hughes, who lived out before us often unruly junior highers the gracious acceptance of Christ.  Bringing a generous welcome and gentle admonishment of our bad behavior.  To her absolute goodness, I bind myself today.

I give thanks for the Spirit of the Divine that has opened my life to creative service and the ability to proclaim the Goodness of it All, goodness as just on that First Day.  The Spirit working in my imagination and through the love of others to continually open my life to new mind-bending experiences and fascinating adventures.  To this Glorious Revelation, I bind myself today.

To the goodly heritage of the apostles and martyrs, the Gospel writers, the early leaders – Stephen, Paul and Dorcas, the patriarchs and matriarchs who struggled to defend the faith, the Desert Fathers and Mothers, the medieval monastics and the entire company of the saints – to this trinitarian heritage, I bind myself today.

I bind myself to the entirety of this gracious heritage.  I don’t have to explain it.  Like Billy, I stumble out of my slumber, look up and behold the wonder of it all.  And gasp, “Thanks be to God.” 

As I oft say, that’s my story and for dear life, I’m sticking to it.  Amen.

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[1] Odd Arne Westad, The Coming Storm: Power, Conflict, and Warnings from History (New York: Henry Holt and Co., 2026), 1. 

[2] Troy Closson, “Cloudy Futures Loom Over Big-City Dreams,” The New York Times, May 17, 2026.  The other stories of job search are from that piece.

[3] Proverbs 8:22-30.  Though her role is unspecified, she as a “master worker” was instrumental in bringing about the ordering of creation.  One might note that Ruah, Spirit or Divine Wind, is also feminine.

[4] 1 John 4:16.

May 31, 2026
Trinity Sunday

“I Bind Unto Myself Today”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Genesis 1:1-2:4a; 5:1-6; Canticle 13
2 Corinthians 13:11-13; Matthew 28:16-20

We’ve all probably had a pet that we and our family got very attached to.  Almost a mystical connection, if your personality is open to such rich connections.

When we lived out in the California Desert a family in our Randsburg church had a small Dachshund given to them when the fellow’s brother who owned the dog took an assignment in the Middle East. 

The older couple was not prepared nor not all that excited in their later years to have a dog to care for and had asked our church members if any might be willing to take the dog off their hands.

Our family had always had dogs as I was growing up and missed having one.  Sure, well take the dog.  What’s his name?  “Nevada.”

Somewhere along the line Nevada must have been badly mistreated by a previous male owner because he was very afraid of all men.  Slowly, as Jai would sit on the floor with a dog treat, petting Nevada, he would tolerate me sitting beside her also petting him.

After a few weeks of this Nevada realized that I was a safe person to be around.  He’d let me pet him without Jai being besides us.  We’d go on walks together.  Soon Nevada was an integral part of our family.

When we took a church assignment in Anchorage, Alaska, of course, Nevada went with us.

During the winters Nevada lived in the attached garage, or downstairs in the furnished basement.  As there was no carpet, any messes or accidents were easily cleaned.  In the morning Jai would be up making breakfast before I had stirred myself from the bed.  She would open the basement door and I could hear her say, “Go get him, Nevada.  Go get him.” 

I would hear Nevada bounding through the hallway, his dog tags jingling as he came running.  With one mighty leap he was up on the bed licking me all over the face.  Now, who could sleep through that?  No one.  Time to get up, and in delight my blurry day would begin.

It was one of the saddest days in our family when the next door neighbor came over to tell us that Nevada must have gotten out and got hit by a car on the busy street in front of our house.  My heart was broken, as I broke down in tears.

For weeks afterward, early in the morning, the slightest noise from the kitchen for a moment seemed like Nevada’s dog tags jingling.  I’d swear, that’s what I had heard.  And as wakefulness returned, I realized that I had only imagined Nevada bounding down the hallway with his dog tags clanking together.

It was the remnants of the mystical connection I had had with that dear animal.  I suspect that many of us who had a dear pet like Nevada know the experience.

Or the mystical experience with a deceased spouse or child.  In a way beyond words, we carry their essence in our hearts – a bit of their soul resides within our days.  We never quite let them go.

The Gospel of John has from the earliest days been know as the “spiritual gospel.”  By the Middle Ages the iconography of the church had adopted the eagle as the symbol for this evangelist because his message soars close to the sun – God’s image in the material world.  Though the language put into the mouth of Jesus by the faith community that produced this gospel appears to be regular, descriptive dialogue, quite the contrary.  It is figurative, metaphorical.  All intended to lead the reader into a mystical, unitive and direct experience of Christ and God.

In Jesus’ prayer this unity is the point.

“I have made your name known to those whom you gave me from the world.  They were yours, and you gave them to me, and they have kept your word.  Now they know that everything you have given me is from you; for the words that you gave to me I have given to them, and they have received them and know in truth that I came from you; and they have believed that you sent me…All mine are yours, and yours are mine; and I have been glorified in them.”

The reader is not being given knowledge about God and the Son.  The reader is being invited to an unmediated, experienced knowledge.  Invited into the actuality of the divine.  The same sort that can develop between a married couple over the years. 

William Countryman in his book, The Mystical Way in the Fourth Gospel: Crossing over into God,”[1] insists the gospel must be read as a unitive whole.  When broken up for lectionary passages, the progression into the deep, mystical relationship is missed.

How does the modern man and woman approach such a profound and potentially life changing experience?  With our rush and hurry, the distractions of electronic media and disquieting daily news?  With our incessant busyness about little that matters?

First, slow down.  If you’re about my age you would remember that advice in a song by Simon and Garfunkel, “The 59th Street Bridge Song.”  Maybe better remembered by the tag line: “Feelin’ Groovy.”

Slow down, you move too fast
You got to make the morning last
Just kicking down the cobble stones
Looking for fun and feelin’ groovy

When you open John’s gospel – slow down.  Don’t rush through it as if you were cramming for a test or something. This gospel invites the reader into a relationship, an open-ended, direct personal relationship that moves ever deeper — Into a mystical journey with One who is Life and Truth.  By all means, get Dr. Countryman’s small introduction to John.  It is a most helpful and trustworthy guide.  I will be ordering several for our church library.  Used copies are still available on line.

In the community of faith, through its daily routine and work, that relationship will deepen, as it does in John’s gospel.

Kevin W. Hector notes this progressive journey in his book, Christianity as a Way of Life: A Systematic Theology.[2]  In the work of the Spirit, we grow into that mystical unity with one another and with God.

This last week Miguel, our farmer for St. Francis Garden of Hope presented me with a huge bag of fresh peas.  Peas in their pods just like my mother used to bring home from the store when I was a small boy.

In the afternoon, when I got home from school, she and I would sit around the kitchen table shelling all those peas.  As the hours passed in conversation and sometimes in silence, we experienced a bond unlike any other that I had known.  One in the Spirit over that work.  A mystical bond that was almost heaven.

And when she would cook them up, just right, they were totally scrumptious. 

Yes, I enjoyed the peas, but more than that the real gift Miguel gave me was the memory of those precious moments.

In our work to bring our garden into reality, in the weeding, the sowing and harvesting.  In transporting it to the food banks it serves.  There is a godly mystical bond between the laborers.  All to the glory of God.

This is the relationship into which John’s gospel invites us.  First, just slow down.  Yeah, feeling groovy is a good start.  Then roll up your sleeves and get to work.

The delight of common effort will take your mind off all the dreadful news that you can do little about.  A rapidly warming planet out of control.  A corrupt and incompetent administration of grifters and conspiracy theorists.  Hunger and homelessness.  The depredations of ICE terrorizing our communities.

In the labor of our hands all that fades into the background, set aside for a brief, refreshing while.  In the work of that garden, slow down.  Make the morning last.  And being a little groovy in the Spirit will restore the soul.

Just like shelling peas over the kitchen table with your mom.

And in the work, the experience of our faith community we do grow deeper into that mystical relationship.  One with another and one with the divine.  Gracious to make the morning and all the mornings to come last.

Out of the depths of this inward journey we become yeast for the dough.  The Fruit of the Spirit flows.  Can’t help itself.

Here is some of the fruit of unity we and our United Methodist sisters and brothers are presently experiencing.  

I rejoice that the United Methodists have recently extended an invitation to us Episcopalians to heal the breach between us which opened over two hundred years ago when Bishop Samuel Seabury refused to recognize Francis Asbury’s consecration for work as bishop among the people called Methodists.  In the end we are all one in the unity of a mystical fellowship that feeds the soul.

I close with Fr. John Wesley’s admonition to his followers:

Do all the good you can,
By all the means you can,
In all the ways you can,
In all the places you can,
At all the times you can,
To all the people you can,
As long as ever you can. One in the Spirit over that work that takes us deeper.  That’s our charge.  We’ve got the vision.  We’ve got the power.  Let’s get to work.  Veggies await.  Glory awaits!  And so does Groovy.  Amen.

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[1] L. William Countryman, The Mystical Wat in the Fourth Gospel: Crossing over into God (Valley Forge, PA: Trinity Press International, 1994).

[2] Kevin W. Hector, Christianity as a Way of Life: A Systematic Theology (New Haven, CT: Yale University, 2023).

May 17, 2026
Ascension Sunday

“Living in the Spirit”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
1 Peter 4:1-12-14; 5:1-6; John 17:1-11

I later found out that my vocation of the ministry was a big disappointment to my father.  Why would I choose to do this when I could enter a field where I would make a lot more money?  I was just an idealistic failure.

After Dad had finally graduated from Bethany College with a degree in chemical engineering, he went to work in a steel mill near Pittsburgh.  Within months he was out of a job.  With the advent of the Great Depression, the mill closed and Dad headed West.  “Go west, young man, and grow up with the country,” was the advice of Horace Greely in 1865.  He loaded up his Ford Model A and headed out to San Francisco. 

There he met my mother.  Shortly after they had married a life-changing opportunity arose.

He woke up one morning with a terrible toothache.  He was astonished at how much the dentist charged to care for it.  Within three days he enrolled himself in the U.C. School of Dentistry.  And never looked back.  Made a ton of money.  He had thought that science and technology was the door to the money pot at the end of the rainbow.  If chemical engineering wouldn’t do it, with this depression people would still have toothaches. 

I was expected to follow him in those footsteps and take over his dental practice.  Sorry, Dad.  Not my cup of tea.

Money was the unknown god he worshipped.  If you didn’t have it, he had no time for you.  If it wasn’t your highest priority, there must be something wrong with you.  Lacking that drive, I was told that I would never amount to anything.  A big disappointment.

The lesson Dad learned from the Great Depression was that you can never have enough.  Wealth was the god he worshipped.  Unknown because it was never acknowledged.  He did not realize the hold it had on his soul.  It determined everything.  He also had other demons.

Paul, in the Book of Acts, reports encountering in Athens the many statues to various deities.  Their numerous visages cause him to remark, “Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way.”

Then he comes upon a statue “to an unknown god.” 

“What you therefore worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you.  The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, nor is he served by human hands as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things.”

He created humans with a God-shaped hole, a spiritual void, that they would “search for God and perhaps grope for him and find him – though he is not far from each one of us.”

St. Augustine warns that that void within, when we attempt to fill it with what is less than God, leaves us with an empty sense of self.  Whatever we substitute is never enough, never quite satisfies.  “Can’t Get No Satisfaction” is the name of that quest.  No golden idols.  Nothing conjured out of our worldly cravings — Only the Real McCoy will do.

Paul Tillich in his little book, Dynamics of Faith, puts it slightly differently.  He asserts that it is the nature of humans to have faith in something — some god, if you will, that becomes all-consuming.  Faith grounded in some ultimate concern.[1]  Power, money, fame, that trophy wife or trophy husband, the perfect children, a perfectly manicured lawn.  Something.

We all have various concerns just as the result of being a human animal – food, shelter.  But also, being spiritual beings, we also desire “cognitive, aesthetic, social and political” aspects to our existence.

When one of these becomes “ultimate,” it distorts all of life.  “It demands surrender of [the one] who accepts this claim…And the promise of total fulfillment…”

 I know a man whose unacknowledged god is power, fame money, public acceptance, control.  A god with as many faces as the Visvarupa, a representation of Vishnu, the Hindu god. 

Whether this deficit of soul was brought about by an undemonstrative, emotionally distant, punishing father, I have no certain idea.  But this man suffered a spiritual void, an empty sense of self, and so he has attempted to fill it with that which is less than God.  Far less.

He sought public acceptance in New York, building one edifice after another.  Worshipping the god mammon to the point of cheating his workers out of their wages.  He never found real entry into New York society.  That unacknowledged god left him as he was, an empty suit.

He owned many casinos in New Jersey but in his continual striving, he couldn’t attend to business and they all went bankrupt.  The glitz and glitter just didn’t get him satisfaction.  Vainly striving after another unacknowledged god.  “Vanity of vanities – all is vanity.

To assert his sense of self in the face of ridicule at a White House Correspondents dinner, the barbs of then President Obama cut like a chainsaw.  On a lark, he decided to run for president himself.

Meanwhile he plastered his name on various properties in huge gold letters. And when elected not once but twice, the fame and prestige of that office did not fill the God-shaped hole in his being.

He needed more monuments to himself.  Did you hear about the gold coin featuring his visage?  What about a billion-dollar ballroom where the east wing of the White House used to stand?  He wants us to give up our Medicare and Medicaid to pay for that.

Or a triumphal arch?  Probably with his name on it, also in big gold letters.

No excess would suffice.  No amount of gold could fill that spiritual hole.  The grip of these unacknowledged gods on his soul is leading to its destruction – and the destruction of the nation he claims to serve.  But as his ultimate allegiance was to this many-faced god, he had no thought for the people who voted him into office.  Just not that much into them.

There is an antidote to this existential emptiness.  It is the Spirit of Truth, the Power that dwells in the heartbeat of creation, the One who fills the soul brimful to overflowing with joy.  We have known this Reality in one Christ Jesus – the Man for Others. 

By inviting his presence into our hearts and minds we have found lives worth living.  Every day a freely-given delight as we take up the needs of others, investing our days in a cause greater than our limited desires.

Every now and then, to get an uplift from the mire of depressing daily news I dip into Chicken Soup for the Soul, one of a series of self-help books.

That unknown god which Paul makes known is the Power of Love that moves the cosmos, that dwells in the heart of even the lowly.  Yes, In their impoverished circumstances.  Or in their professional success.

This Love the community of John identifies as very God, Godself.  “God is Love and those who abide in Love abide in God and God in them.”

Here’s a true story from “Chicken Soup” that reeks with such divine Love.  Told by Eric Butterworth.

A college professor had his sociology class go into the Baltimore slums to get case histories of 200 young boys. They were asked to write an evaluation of each boy’s future. In every case the students wrote, “He hasn’t got a chance.”

Twenty-five years later another sociology professor came across the earlier study. He had his students follow up on the project to see what had happened to these boys. With the exception of 20 boys who had moved away or died, the students learned that 176 of the remaining 180 had achieved more than ordinary success as lawyers, doctors and businessmen.

The professor was astounded and decided to pursue the matter further. Fortunately, all the men were in the area and he was able to ask each one, “How do you account for your success?” In each case the reply came with feeling, ‘There was a teacher.”

The teacher was still alive, so he sought her out and asked the old but still alert lady what magic formula she had used to pull these boys out of the slums into successful achievement. The teacher’s eyes sparkled and her lips broke into a gentle smile. “It’s really very simple,” she said. “I loved those boys.”

Nothing out of the ordinary for teachers.  But most extraordinary in practice.  In that self-giving Love is the Lord of the Universe.  The One who has breathed life into all flesh, yet holds us tenderly in arms of Love and Delight.

Every Sunday in worship gathered, around this table, or harvesting nutritious veggies in St. Francis Garden of Hope, we make One who may be unknown known.   In the distribution of this nutritious goodness at St. John’s, people know of our faith.  They can smell and taste it.

When Ileen, my caregiver, and I left the church Tuesday with bags of vegetables, the entire car smelled of cilantro.  A total delight. The smell of the same Divine Reality surely lives in the spirit of the united work of our two San Bernardino congregations.  The One dwelling in the heart of all creation.  Master of the universe. Right here in my car!  Cilantro!  Thanks be to God.

Tillich is right.  We all have faith in something.  It’s the nature of us human beings. The world no longer sees the historical Jesus who lived out this Love – But in faith we know the Promise.  The Promise is that, “because I live, you also will live.”  Life beyond abundant.

That is a Promise you can take to the bank.  We’ve seen it in action right here — for the good of neighbor and to the Glory of God.  Amen.

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[1] Paul Tillich, Dynamics of Faith,  (New York: Harper and Brothers, 1957).

Build it and they will come.  A monarch butterfly visiting our milkweed — Hope for the butterflies and for the some-500 folks we nourish each and every week with healthy vegetables and fruit.  We’re now providing for three food banks and a preschool out of our garden.

May 10, 2026
6 Easter

  “Unknown Gods”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Acts 17:22-31; Psalm 66:7-18
1 Peter 3:13-22; John 14:15-21