Teen suicide rates are an epidemic scourge devastating this nation.  Those people in your Facebook page are not sustaining you.  Your phone, for the most part, is alienating you from all that is worthwhile.  And it is also highly addictive.

I see people even in the mist of congregational prayers stuck in their phones.  Not attending at all to the present moment.  Not present for the community that is holy nourishment.  Certainly not attending to the God present in that gathering.

The Rabbi Martin Buber posits that relationship is so central to existence that in fact, God is Relationship.  To respond to that holy moment is to will one thing.  It is to will your complete presence to the other.  The other who is a “Thou.”  Not an “it.” 

All who commit to such singular gift of themselves to the other, to their community, to the natural world – those I call the Saints of God in Holy Connection Abiding.

This can happen anywhere.  You can really meet them on trains or in shops or at tea.  Even at Best Buy.

I was there to see why my upgrade order for a new iPhone had not gone through.  Something was very mixed up at Verizon.  They had handled the initial attempt to purchase and now it was completely screwed up.

Their rep on the phone spent some 45 minutes of my time going around in circles with this order.

I was not in the best of moods when I hung up and decided I needed to talk to a real, live person.  So, I headed off to Best Buy.

There I found a young African-American salesperson about thirtyish.  A fellow named TJ.  His broad smile and welcoming attitude immediately softened my distress.

He got on the phone with the Verizon people.  Patiently he waited as he was handed off several times to the next higher up person who might be able to resolve the issue.  All the time he was the picture of Holy Patience.  Just listening to his end of the conversation, my spirit was nourished.  Here was a Holy Connection.  Divine Relationship.

It seemed like the 40 or so minutes I waited, while TJ resolved everything and handed me a new blue iPhone, had gone by in a flash.  During the moments he was on hold we talked about our families.  He showed me pictures of his children, all named with biblical names.  He told me about his church and the difficulties they had during COVID.

Of course, I had some pictures of Luther and my family.

By the time we had finalized the sale, I was a most happy camper.  My soul had been nourished by this brief connection.  TJ is one of the glorious Saints of Holy Connection Abiding.  God sent!  He made my day.

Those who respond to community need are also Saints in Holy Connection.

These days I often find my thoughts circling back to those who gave their lives for others during the tragedy of 9/11.  I recall the one fireman responding to a woman coming down the stairs of one of the towers, who told him, “Don’t go up there.”  He replied, “It’s my job.”

One of the most beloved who died that day was the chaplain Father Mychal Judge, much beloved by all firefighters.  He could often be seen at a fire praying for those rushing towards the flames and into smoke-filled buildings.  Or offering consolation to those pulled from the fire who had lost everything.

On the day before those tragic events of 9/11, he offered this prayer at the commissioning of a renovated firehouse:

“Good days.  And bad days.  Up days.  Down days.  Sad days.  Happy days.  But never a boring day on this job.  You do what God has called you to do.  You show up.  You put one foot in front of another.  You get on the rig and you go out and do the job.  Which is a mystery.  And a surprise.  You have no idea when you get on that rig.  No matter how big the call.  No matter how small.  You have no idea what God is calling you to.  But he needs you.  He needs me.  He needs all of us.”[1]

Father Mychal, a Saint of Holy Connection who would give his life at that fire on 9/11, like so many others of the FDNY.

The Beatitudes embody that very same spirituality – life lived in connection.  Connection with oneself.  Connection with one’s neighbor.  Connection with one’s world and all of nature.  Fr. Mychal embodied that connection with those firefighters and his community.

“How blessed…” begin the various petitions of that reading.   Not “How happy.”  Baruch (בָּרוּךְ) signifies something far deeper than the ephemeral pleasure that happiness connotes.  

Fr. Mychal may or may not have been happy on many days.  He most assuredly was blessed and was a blessing to all he encountered.  As the many who would attest at his memorial service days later. 

Blessed souls.  These are the saints of God.  You and I as we attend to the Spirit within, around and out and about.  Blessed, indeed in Holy Connection.

We recently lost another blessed soul, Delores Huerta.  Truly a Saint of Holy Connection.  At 96 her life was well spent for others.  She worked in the shadow of Cesar Chavez in the fields in and around Bakersfield, California.

She was a gifted organizer, bringing hope to thousands of migrant laborers who toiled in the sun-soaked fields picking our lettuce and grapes.  She was responsible for the laws which protected these workers and enabled them to strive for a living wage, protected them from pesticides sprayed in the fields, and hope for a future for their children.

Now we have ICE hunting these workers down like dogs.  Deporting them to God-knows-where.  I remember being out in those fields with my picket sign in support.  When those jobs were offered to citified white workers, not one of the 6 or 7 who took them up on that offer lasted more than a couple of hours.  I say, give all these workers instant citizenship.  NOW!  They’ve earned it.

Her efforts enabled Jai and me when living in Los Angeles, to host 5 or 6 of these workers in our home during the Safeway Grape Boycott.  When I didn’t have classes, I would be out there on the picket line with them at our local Safeway store.

That experience was my immersion into Spanish as none of them spoke any English.  I can still vividly remember when one of the women showed up in our kitchen with a plastic bag while I was preparing dinner.  She said something in Spanish which I didn’t understand.  Jai, who is fluent in Spanish, told me to say to her, “Que ponga la busura aqui,” pointing to a trash can in the corner.  “You may put the trash here.”  My life was immediately enriched in that moment.  The beginning of a Holy Connection through that lyrical language.  And through the companionship of those grape workers during the month or so they lived with us.

Delores was arrested 22 times.  She was ruffed up by strike-breakers and so badly beaten by a police officer that she suffered broken ribs and a ruptured spleen that disabled her for months.

“The mother of 14 children, she often was seen changing diapers between organizing meetings.  Nursing her babies during breaks in negotiations.  Her children often lived with friends, eating donated food.  Most of them grew up to be dedicated activists and professionals, including a lawyer and a physician.  Some became performing artists and one a therapist, another a business administrator and one a chef.”[2]

Later in life, Delores had the courage to share a dark side to her life.  Cesar Chavez had raped her, resulting in the births of two children which she gave up for adoption.  Her courage opened the way for other women who had been abused by Chavez to come forward.

Why did she wait so long to reveal these ugly truths?  “I saw him, again, as my boss, as my hero, as, you know, somebody that would do the impossible…I never talked about it to anybody and the reason I didn’t is because I just didn’t want to hurt the movement.”[3]

For the sake of those she championed in California’s fields, she suffered in silence.  She bore that cross for others.

This week I received by copy of The Veteran, the publication of my veteran’s organization, Vietnam Veterans Against the War.  There I read of the fifth school library we have funded in Vietnam.  These gifts have also spurred other investment in children by their government and others.  Taiwan, through a private foundation has also donated books and other resources.

A Holy Connection between our two peoples, overcoming the estrangement of that tragic conflict.  Vietnam still abounds in people with stunted or missing limbs due to the United States Air Force having dumped tons of Agent Orange on that nation.  And even our own government, for years, wouldn’t acknowledge the damage it did to our own soldiers and their offspring.  A gift of evil passed down generation to generation.

My veteran’s organization, a salesman, a chaplain, a pedestrian on a corner — Saints of God Abiding in Holy Connection.  Yes, God is Love and those who abide in Love abide in God and God in them.  Glorious saints all.

At our Pilgrim Place noon meal, there is a “sharing” offered up by one of our folks.  Mary Ann Brussat offered this up the other day.  It’s a reading from the artist that created the sculpture of St. Francis that’s behind her house, Frederick Franck.  It’s from his book, Fingers Pointing Toward the Sacred.[4]

It reveals the generosity of this Holy Connection leading to sainthood.  What this generosity is all about for us ordinary mortals.

“I was five and lying in high grass.  A bee hummed close to my eye and frightened me. Then the bee started to suck honey and at that very moment I became sun, a bee, flower and grass.  ‘Me’ had evaporated with my fear.”

“Then, when I was eleven, on a country road, I saw a snow flurry approach from afar.  The first few snowflakes fell around my feet from the dark wintry sky.  I saw how some of the flakes melted immediately on impact, others stayed.  Again, ‘Me’ disappeared, melted with snowflakes, became one with road and sky and snowstorm.  It has happened often, always when least expected.”

“A few hours before leaving on this journey driving somewhere in New Jersey, I lost my way back to the parkway.  At last, at a traffic light stood a pedestrian, a very fat man in a battered homburg hat.  A greasy cigar stuck out straight from what looked more like a snout than a face.

“‘How do I get to Route 4?’ I called out.”

“‘Route 4,’ he repeated, chewing on his cigar.  ‘Nothing to it!’  His little eyes twinkled with kindness.  ‘Take a left at the second light, can’t miss it!’  He had put his fat hand on my sleeve and given a friendly squeeze.”

“I looked at him and saw.  I tried to thank him, but no sound came.  I made a kind of bow.  The jelly had become Man.”

“What is spiritual experience?  A snowflake melting, a bee sucking honey, a fat man at a traffic light.  Trivia.”

The world is filled with such glorious saints of God.  Saints in Holy Connection Abiding.  Amen.

---

[1]Garrett M. Graff, The Only Plane in the Sky: An Oral History of 9/11 (New York: Avid Reader Press, 2019), 3.

[2] Robert D McFadden, “Labor Leader of Farm Workers Who Earned Folk-Hero Status,” The New York Times, October 29, 2026.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Frederick Franck, Fingers Pointing Toward the Sacred: A Twentieth Century Pilgrimage on the Eastern and Western Way (Junction City, OR: Beacon Point Press, 1994).

Delores Huerta
1930-2026

November 1, 2026
All Saints Sunday, Proper for All Saints

  “Saints in Holy Connection Abiding”
”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Revelation 9:9-17; Psalm 34:1-10

1 John 1:1-3; Matthew 5:1-12

I remember asking a dutiful, reasonably intelligent citizen once, what she owed the government.  What obligations she had just by being a member of this collective enterprise called the United States of America.

I was surprised by her answer: “Nothing.”

“Nothing,” I asked in astonishment?  “Nothing,” came back the retort.

Now such an attitude I associate with people who dump their McShake container out their car window as they drive along.  This is the attitude of folks who jump the line at the post office or the DMV.  This is the lack of shared responsibility passed along to their children who disrupt the class, talking incessantly over the others trying to hear what another student is saying.  “Nothing” owed to much of anyone except that person’s sense of their own importance.  Me first and if anyone else survives, it’s mere coincidence.

In Jesus’ time, the government in Rome was a far-off irritant.  It only held meaning when it’s dictates were served by its locally corrupt administrators, the tax collectors and money changers at the temple who got wealthy at the people’s expense through grift and thievery.

My dad certainly had no love for the taxman.  He would resort to any dodge to shave off what he owed the IRS each year.  Some deductions were, let’s say, shady.  At least questionable.  Fortunately, his tax preparer Paul was straight arrow and kept him out of trouble.

I do remember one issue he had with the California State Franchise Tax Board.  It was over a miscalculation on his part of his employees’ withholding tax payments for one year.

I had been helping out at the office and had taken over the bookkeeping after my mom had died.  The issue at hand was several years old and apparently, the tax folks had finally gotten around to catching it.  It was an underpayment of 600 or 700 dollars.

In the scheme of things, considering the size of his business, this was chump change.  So, when we got the letter dunning him for the amount plus penalties and interest, I was prepared to send in a check when I paid the bills.

Dad would not hear of it.  “These people are going to rob me blind.  We’re certainly not paying this extortion.”  End of discussion.

Next month we got another dunning letter with more interest due and higher penalties.  Again, it went in the round, circular file on the floor.

Finally, we got a really stern letter threatening to take the company’s business license and promising firing squads and other odious action to collect this, now some $1,200 obligation.  To no avail I argued that we just weren’t going to win this one.

While Dad would not relent, he did agree for us to go down to the Franchise Tax office in downtown Long Beach.  Just finding a parking place took forever.  When we made it up to the second or third floor office, there was a big waiting line.  We took a number and sat down with the other disgruntled souls.  My big mistake was a failure to bring a book.

We were finally called to the window.  Dad, in usual form was irate.  Waving this letter around, he demanded that they cancel this bill and all the extra charges.  The lady at the window must have been a saint.  Patiently she went through her file, explaining where the misunderstanding must have occurred.  Dad would hear none of it.  She continued in a low, soft voice attempting to clarify the matter in his mind and mollify his anger.

We finally left with the matter unresolved, but had in hand a page containing the further enforcement actions the state would be obliged to take.  The threat was dire.  So dire that the next day Dad caved in.  Mumbling, he agreed for me to write the check.  “And be sure and send it registered mail so these ‘blankety-blank’ crooks get it.”

In our God-given wisdom we are given the ability to order our common life.  “Governments are instituted among men to secure these rights: life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.”  Opposed to the Roman Empire, the authority for the political order of this republic is not Caesar but the people.  Though the current incumbent at the White House believes he has both Caesar’s power and authority.  November 3^rd we’ll see.  But I digress.

The question poised by those trying to entrap Jesus and turn the populace against him concerned taxes and Caesar.  “Is it lawful to pay taxes to the empower, or not.  Unctuous, ringing their hands these obsequious authorities in great concern – oh so very great concern –pressed their question.

Now, if Jesus answered, it was lawful and proper to pay the dreaded taxes he would have alienated the tax-hating crowd that pressed in ever closer to hear his answer.  If he answered, “No,” he would have been hauled off for trial in Rome or worse.

“Show me the coin used for the tax.  Whose face is on it?”  You know the rest.  “Give to the emperor what is the emperor’s, and to God the things that are God’s.”

So, send in that check to the Franchise Tax Board.

In a democracy, as it reflets our desire to support the common good, that all might flourish and exercise their freedoms and God-given talents – to that degree, the ability to order our common life is a gift of God.  Exercised hopefully through the concern we have for one another.

Unfortunately, this ideal has been far from reality in practice.  Honored in the breech.  But from time to time, it has kept us from the law of the jungle where the meanest, sociopathic SOBs with the most guns prey on the rest of us.  Sometimes the center has held. 

But we have experienced periods of ruthless failure.  Ask our First Nations people.  Ask the Black citizens at the lynching trees of this land.  Ask the poor working stiff as the tax code is jiggered to keep him or her impoverished while enabling astronomical wealth for the one per cent at the very top.  Ask the Chinese who built our railroads in the 1860s, or the Japanese stripped of their dignity and possessions solely over lies spread by a bigoted general in California at the inception of WW II.  Lies acquiesced to by none other than FDR.  Ask these folks.

Yet, it has been through our government, fueled by citizen power that from time to time we have addressed these gross injustices.  Yes, in many cases, through halfhearted amends.  But still a long way to go.  Yet the effort bends towards justice, bends towards the fashioning of the Beloved Community of Dr. King.  In that it does, I believe it has the blessings of heaven.

So, though I often vehemently disagree with the use of my tax dollars – endless wars, the persecution of the president’s imagined enemies, the denial of impending climate catastrophe, the jiggering of the tax code to give birth to more millionaires and billionaires – yes, this year again, I figured my tax obligation.

As George Orwell is reputed to have said, “The rich will rob you blind but first they will arrange the laws so what they do is not illegal.”  And when the tool of theft is the government, hold on to your wallet!”  Robert Reich is right, what counts is who makes the rules.

One example.  Just one.

After the runaway speculation that gave us the Great Depression, Congress created rules that separated investment banking from commercial banking.  This prohibited banks from using your deposits to speculate in wild, unsecured investments.  With that and FDR’s Banking Act of 1933, the government reopened the banks and created the Federal Deposit Insurance program guaranteeing banking customers that their deposits were safe.  Safer than “under the mattress,” as FDR put it.  Your bank will no longer be a casino.

To buttress these protections, Congress under the leadership of Senator Elizabeth Warren set up the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau.  All over the howls of the uber rich and their political puppets.  Over all the scare-mongering she made it work and headed it up.  Trump and his oligarchs have by now virtually gutted it.  Let the good times roll.  For the top one percent that is.

The Dodd-Frank legislation was enacted to address the 2008 mini–Great Depression.  The banks hired armies of lobbyists and arm-twisters to prevent this legislation form being enacted.  Having failed that, JPMorgan “spent more money lobbying against Dodd-Frank than any other Wall Street firm — creating exceptions, exemptions, and loopholes that effectively allowed it to do much of what it was doing before the crisis…more money than any other bank to water it down.”[1]

I remember my wife asking her mother, who had been a banker, and was raised in a family of bankers who had owned the main bank of San Jacinto, California, where she had grown up – asked her mother if banks could ever fail like they did in the Great Depression. 

Her mother’s answer was an unequivocal, “No – there are now rules.”  No more.  Not so many.

Forcing our government to serve the needs of all the people is a never-ending job.  Eternal vigilance is the price to preserve this democracy.  It’s like housekeeping — never done.

I close with the sentiments expressed in a letter by Thomas Jefferson to a friend, Richard Price in 1789.  (ME 7:7253).[2]

“”Whenever the people are well-informed, they can be trusted with their own government…whenever things get so far wrong as to attract their notice, they may be relied on to set them to rights.”

This November 3^rd, if things are so far wrong to have gotten our attention, it will our God-given duty to “set them to rights.”  Just paying one’s taxes and policing one’s litter is insufficient.  Not if all are to enjoy the benefits of our common life together.  Yes, go vote.  Then go the extra mile to the “Glory of God and the good of your neighbor.

Amen.

---

[1] Robert Reich, The System: Who Rigged it, How We Fix It) New York: Alfred A Knopf, 2020), 60.

[2] The citation “ME 7:253” refers to a specific volume and page number in the Lipscomb and Bergh edition of The Writings of Thomas Jefferson (Monticello Edition). [1]

The exact text found at Volume 7, Page 253

October 18, 2026
Pentecost 21, Proper 24

  “Which is Which – Caesar’s, God’s?”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Isaiah 45:1-7; Psalm 96:1-13

1 Thessalonians 1:1-10; Matthew 22:15-22

A comfort at memorial services for many is the 23^rd Psalm.  It speaks tenderly of God’s gracious intention for us all.  It speaks to our deepest yearning for an existence that has meaning and significance.

Indeed, we have been granted a cornucopia of plenty.  We have a planet that is just right for human habitation – in what scientists call the “Goldilocks Zone.”  It abounds with fields of grain and lush forests of game.  The seas team with a multitude of fish and clams, lobsters and squid.

Isaiah celebrates God’s gracious munificence. 

“For you have been a refuge to the poor, a refuge to the needy in their distress a shelter from the rainstorm and a shade from the heat.  When the blast of the ruthless was like a winter rainstorm, the noise of aliens like heat in a dry place, you subdued the heart with the shade of clouds; the song of the ruthless was stilled.  On this mountain the lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.”

Now that I have lost quite a bit of my taste – old age or COVID, I can’t say which – food does not have that much appeal, though somethings I can taste quite well, like coffee, spinach and beer.

One of my favorites has been lima bean soup and ham hocks.  I learned to make this from my roommate’s mom who came from Texas.  It was a favorite with Dan and myself.

So, back in the day when I was in medic training in the Army, we were out on bivouac for several days.  What was served up at the end of a long, very hot slog through woods were K-rations.  They came in a small olive-drab can and you heated up your selection over a small camp stove.

There were a number of choices and as I pawed through the box of them, I was delighted to find one that said lima beans and ham.  Wow!  I had hit the jackpot.

I heated up my can, and opened it to great disappointment.  There, floating in a sea of grease was one, ONE lima bean.

The vendor of that product should have been hauled up before a firing squad, was my thought in that moment.  Or at least sent to jail for fraud.

I delight in this lavish picture of the end-time feast.  But we are the despoilers of this paradise.  We have fouled our nest.  We have turned that fabled feast into one lima floating in a sea of grease.

I worry most about what we are leaving my little grandson Luther.  But the calamity will likely strike during the lifespan of my children.

I have previously mentioned the Atlantic Meridional Overturning Current (AMOC).  Yeah, I didn’t expect anyone to remember.

Well, catastrophe is now upon us[1].  Perhaps in my lifetime.  Certainly, in the lifespan of my children.  Definitely while Luther is still alive.

Okay, what is it.  Here’s the refresher.  It is that circulating current that brings the warm Gulf Stream up along America’s east coast.  Onward along Labrador and Newfoundland splitting off to the east coast of Greenland.  In bringing warm water to Europe, it keeps things seasonably warm, even in winter.

It then dives down to the ocean floor and cycles back to the Gulf of Mexico in an entire journey of some 1,000 years – yes, Mexico, not Gulf of America!

We are now discovering that this crucial ocean current is approaching a tipping point where it will slow substantially, or perhaps even shut down completely.

What happens next?  Europe and northern Asia, Canada and Alaska will enter another ice age.  Just as much of the northern climes of planet earth were covered by a mile or so in solid ice.

Not much commerce takes place under such conditions.  And we will have a refugee crisis like none in historical memory.  Such a disaster would undermine global food supplies, millions starving.  In the breakdown of civil societies, only the meanest SOBs with the most guns would reign.  Yes, millions of refugees – all coming to America.  What will we do?  Shoot them all at the border?  If so, don’t get powder burns on your pinafore. 

Like most natural phenomena, scientists cannot predict with any certainty.  Scientists have been sounding the alarm for some 40 years, yet, since it seemed so far off, the political class has not listened.

The near-term effects, coming soon, will be drier summers, fueling more devastating wildfires.  Diminishing food production and bringing more sudden winter storms with torrential rains and flooding.  Yes, fouled our nest have we.

One lima bean floating in a sea of grease is a fitting metaphor for where we’re heading.  This is not God’s intention.

But it’s not too late to avoid the worst.  The Truth will be our salvation.  It will set us free.  But as my friend Ed Bacon is wont to say, “But first it will hurt like Hell.”

In our Advent study book for this year, we will be reading Dancing in the Darkness by Otis Moss III.[2]  Otis is an African-American heading one of the most vibrant, mostly Black UCC congregations in Chicago.  In his book Otis shares a letter he wrote to his young son.  In part it reads:

“Dear Elijah,
“What shall I tell you?
         “Shall I tell you that your rights are protected, and racism is a scourge now banished from society?

         “Shall I tell you that in this country, you are entitled to act and live as any other teenage boy, to dance playfully with minor mischief, and to speak with a quick, immature tongue?

“Shall I tell you that your body is safe, your mind valued, your future free?

“If I tell you these things, my words will be perjury before God and an assault upon the memory of our ancestors.  So today I must share a hard truth with you.”

Yes, hard truths.  The same truths I must leave for my grandson Luther, for he, too, will not be valued as that other white child in his classroom, on his job application, in his college admission prospects, in his profession.  Or on most any job.

Yet, that is not God’s intention for any child.

Some will say, well, what can we do?  It’s all in God’s hands.  And in some measure that is true.  True because God’s hands are OUR hands.

We are blessed with reason and skill.  We have agency, beginning with spiritual resilience.  Most important, we have been granted a vision of what might be.  A spiritual vision wherein all thrive.  Where our planet has a chance of remaining habitable.

America may be traveling through a time of deep darkness.  Climate denial.  Racism and political violence.  Thousands upon thousands living in the street, food insecure. 

During such a time Otis Moss recounts in the darkness of the evening in his house he thought he heard a suspicious noise.  Obama was running for president and a fear of racial violence was not unrealistic for a Black family.

He grabbed a baseball bat to confront an intruder.  When he opened the door to his daughter’s room he found the source of the noise.  His little girl was simply practicing for a ballet recital the next day.   There, dancing in the darkness.

But the darkness had been in Otis.  “The intruder was within himself.  Caught in a cycle of worry and anger.”[3]  He had allowed the darkness of that night to penetrate his soul.

Inspired by that moment, came a sermon based on Psalm 30.  “You have turned my mourning into dancing.”  That sermon became our Advent study book.  Advent is a proclamation of Light coming into the darkness.  Into our darkness that we might go dancing through the dark night of the soul.  Moving imperceptibly, inexorably toward the Joy at a manger.

We are a part of that holy procession.  We have agency as God’s hands and feet.  God’s mind and heart.  Agency!  God-given spiritual power in Christ to make a difference.

I close with a thought from the great playwright August Wilson.

“Confront the dark parts of yourself, and work to banish them with illumination and forgiveness.  Your willingness to wrestle with your demons will cause your angels to sing.”[4] May we have the willingness to wrestle with the demons of this nation.  The rife ignorance of our leadership, the racism, the denial of the destructiveness of our own history.  May we have the willingness.  Then, the better angels of America will sing a Hallelujah Chorus.  And so will we.  Maybe November 3^rd?  Dancing all the way to the polls. Amen.

---

[1] Alec Luhn, “Trouble at Sea: A crucial ocean current is at risk of shutting down.  How close is this disaster and what happens next asks Alec Luhn” New Scientist, September 2, 2026.

[2] Otis Moss III, Dancing in the Darkness: Spiritual Lessons for Thriving in Turbulent Times (New York: Simon & Schuster, 2023).

[3] Op. Cit., the front cover flyleaf, as is the entirety of that story.

[4]Op. Cit., August Wilson, quoted in the introduction, p.1.

Where’s the ham?

October 11, 2026
Pentecost 20, Proper 23

  “All Good Things”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Isaiah 25:1-9; Psalm 23

Philippians 4:1-9; Matthew 22:1-14

This Sunday our church celebrates its patronal feast day, St. Francis Day.  We will indeed bless the animals.  Each in their own heart carries images of St. Francis.  And there is some historical evidence, though scant as it is. 

Like all holy personages of distant past, the life of St. Francis is shrouded in myth and legend.  In his novel, Saint Francis,[1] Nikos Kazantzakis brings forth a most vivid picture of the beloved saint.

Kazantzakis tells the story of St. Francis through the fictional character Brother Leo, a God-obsessed follower of the beloved saint.  It is he who commits to writing down everything he remembers of what Francis said and did.

In the mists of memory and urged on through inner compulsion Brother Leo explains how he came to produce the story.

“Every evening beneath the light of the lamp I took aim at each of your words, each of your acts, and pinned them down securely one by one so that they would not perish.  A single word from your lips, I said to myself may save a soul.  If I fail to record it, fail to reveal it to mankind, that soul will not be saved, and I will be to blame.[2]

“I had taken up my quill to begin writing many times before now, but I always abandoned it quickly, each time I was overcome with fear.  Yes, may God forgive me, but the letters of the alphabet frighten me terribly.  They are sly, shameless demons—and dangerous!  You open the inkwell, release them:  they run off—and how will you ever get control of them again! They come to life, join, separate, ignore your commands, arrange themselves as they like on the paper—black, with tails and horns.  You scream at them and implore them in vain: they do as they please.  Prancing, pairing up shamelessly before you, they deceitfully expose what you did not wish to reveal, and they refuse to give voice to what is struggling, deep with your bowels, to come forth and speak to mankind.[3]

One Sunday, Brother Leo, arriving home from church is finally God-compelled to take up the story.

“Had God not squeezed those demons into place whether they liked it or not, with the result that they wrote the Gospels?  Well then, I said to myself, Courage, my soul!  Have no fear of them!  Take up your quill and write![4]

What a marvelous narration of how the imagination reconstructs a story from the scant bits and fragments of personal and corporate memory, from legend and myth, where little actual historical fact is to be had.

And so, Spirit-inspired, this is how Kazantzakis offers up the reality of this sainted personage as it has become imbedded in his soul.

And this the best that any of us can do.  The reality of St. Francis is what the Spirit has implanted in our souls.  Yea, a smattering of facts, but they hold no existential meaning.  Meaning comes from the living images of St. Francis that mentor behavior and understanding.

So, here’s what the spiritual gift of that saint that guides my understanding and actions, the gift that uplifts my soul.

First, St. Francis for me is the seer of the immensity and wonder of creation.  There is an incident in Kazantzakis’ novel where one monk abhors the redness of the geraniums at the gate of his parents’ house.  Monk Peter asserts, that flower is evil for it is a distraction from God.  Francis to the contrary, tells his mother that it is a blessing, for in the deep redness of that flower God is revealed.

I agree with Francis.  The natural world at its deepest levels – from the tiniest amoeba to the swirling billions of galaxies revealed in the James Webb and Nancy Grace Roman space telescopes.  The lizard in my yard that I delight in as I spend most of an hour observing as it seeks its next meal and basks in the warming sun.

Francis is the saint celebrating the delights of the oneness of creation.

As our reading from Job exclaims, these mysteries are beyond our ken.  God inquires of Job’s presumptiveness:

“Do you know when the mountain goats give birth?  Do you observe the calving of the deer?  Can you number the months that they fulfil, and do you know the time when they give birth, when they crouch to give birth to their offspring, and they are delivered of their young?  Their young ones become strong; they grow up in the open; they go forth and do not return…Who has let the wild ass go free?”

Of course, Job in his hubris knows absolutely nothing of these natural delights.  Nothing.

He knows nothing more than we know of many of the mysteries of the cosmos.  We still have not a clue as to that dark matter is or what that dark energy is that continues to propel the galaxies further apart from one another. 

He knows nothing more than this administration knows or will acknowledge of global warming that already is killing hundreds of thousands of us in increasingly uninhabitable lands.  Nothing.  And our Mother Earth continues to heat up.

This world and beyond is a treasure revealing the depths of God every much as my friendly lizard friend or Francis’ brilliant, red geranium at the gate.

Might it be time that we, along with the Psalmist, delight in the immensity and began to care for it?  Before it’s too late?  Just saying.

Secondly, Francis appreciated the gifts of women.

He valued the gifts of all.  He worked with Saint Clare as an equal in her work to draw women closer to God.  The Poor Clares, the Order of Saint Clare was an order of the Franciscans. 

Recently, we have lost a beloved sister with the passing of Gloria Steinem.  I believe St. Francis would have delighted in her gifts and mission. She worked for decades to elevate women to their full potential.  It was her work in encouraging women to build flesh-and-blood networks that opened the door to the awareness of their full ability to claim their rightful place in society.  To exercise all their gifts of mind and spirit.

In a 2016 speech she said, “Something happens when we are together in a room like this with all five senses, that cannot happen on the printed page—as much as I love books – that cannot happen on a screen.”[5]  Such gatherings were the key to consciousness-raising.  No, you can’t do this on your cell phone!

In the tradition of St. Francis, I totally agree with Ms. Steinem and celebrate her legacy – a gift to all of us. 

In her memory we are called to stand opposed to the misogamy of this current administration that has demoted and disparaged women as “fat, stupid, and unqualified.”  We must send these women haters a loud and clear message this November.

I close with a story of three monks at evening prayer that gives us an insight to their three orders – Dominican, Franciscan, Jesuit.  At some point the lights go out.  The Dominican begins to philosophize on the nature of light.  The Franciscan began to pray in celebration of Brother Darkness.  The Jesuit goes outside and changes the fuse.

I believe I share a deep resonance with the Franciscan in his delight in the deep mystery of creation.  Yes, that deep red geranium flower and the prancing wild mountain goat of Job.  I also share a heritage with the Jesuit who gets stuff done.  

With Francis, I believe I too have received the same divine call, “Build my Church.”  Yes, maybe a bit God-obsessed as Brother Leo and Father Francis.  In a vibrant community of memory and faith, the door of eternity opens wide.   Wherein we celebrate and give thanks for the splendor of God’s handiwork in the cosmos.

So, to the memory and legacy of Francis, that beloved saint of Assisi, may God be praised.  Amen.

---

[1] Nikos Kazantzakis, Saint Francis (New York: Ballantine Books, 1966).

[2] Ibid, 20.

[3][3] Ibid, 20-21.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Michelle Goldberg, “Losing Steinem and the Freedoms She Fought For,”, September 6, 2026

October 4, 2026
St. Francis Feast Day

  “The Splendors of Creation”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Job 39:1-18 Psalm 121

Acts 4:32-35; Luke 12:13-21

We’ve always had someone who believed in us.  If we hadn’t, we wouldn’t have made it this far through all the trials and tribulations of this life.  We wouldn’t have made anything of ourselves.

As a hymn puts it, “Blessed are the feet of those who bring glad tidings.”  Messengers of Grace.  On such wings we are buyoed up and develop our wings.  In scripture such are angelos, angels in English.  Messengers.

Though my father thought I’d never amount to anything, I had an English teacher in the eleventh grade, Mrs. Reiner, who had high hopes for me.

I remember one day in her class.  As usual I hadn’t done the reading.  When called upon, I had nothing to say.  And, as usual, I felt like a complete dolt.  As the class was leaving after the bell had rung, Mrs. Reiner pulled me aside.  She gently said, “John, I know you are capable of much more than what you’re doing.”

That was it.  As simple and as sincerely as that.  I knew deep down, she actually meant it.  She was the first teacher who had  believed in me.  Knew that I was capable of so much more.  Delivered by a blessed messenger of God.

It was later in my senior year, based on my remembered encouragement of her words, that I signed up for a class in world literature.  And loved it.  I actually think I would have lived up to her expectations.

Mrs. Reiner was the messenger of good news, of possibility I needed at that point in my life.

Jonah is such a messenger to ancient city of Ninevah.  I suspect his admonishments were not quite so gentle as those of Mrs. Reiner.  I suspect that he breathed fire, smoke and thunder on the wickedness of that people. 

And they listened.  And amended their evil ways.  God did not destroy that city as Jonah had said God would.  God did not bring calamity down on those wayward people.

Now, Jonah being very human, felt he had been dissed by God.  He feels himself to be in such disgrace that he would rather die. 

Jonah retreats to a barren hill to sulk.  Still waiting to see if God would destroy that city.  While he stews, a bush grows up to shade him from the scorching sun.  Grows up almost overnight and was a great comfor to Jonah as he sat under its shade.

But in a short while God appointed a worm to attack the bush.  It died and God took command of the elements.

“God prepared a sultry east wind,and the sun beat down on the head of Jonah so that he was faint and asked that he might die.  He said, ‘It is better for me to die than to live.’” 

“But God said to Jonah, ‘Is it right for you to be angry about the bush, for which you did not labor and which you did not grow; it came into being in a night and perished in a night.  And should I not be concerned about Ninevah, that great city, in which there are more than anhundred and twenty thousand persons who do not know their right from their left, and also many animals?”

Some of God’s messengers cannot abide such freely given Grace.  All so human.  In their petulence they actually hope God will smite the wrong-doers with the threatened sword.  Smite them dead to the very last one.

Again and again God sends messengers on the wings of Grace.  And sometimes we actually heed their warmings.  Live up to their encouragement.  God’s word to the Ninevites?  “You can do better than this.  Now, shape up!”

The Results?  There’s a “Wideness in God’s Mercy” which Jonah can’t comprehend or accept.

In the Parable of the Workers in the Vineyard, hired at different hours of the day yet all paid the same generous wage, the first hired complained about the master’s extravagance.  Grace freely abounding.  Same Wideness.  In parable after parable, Jesus is the messenger with Wings of such Mercy and Grace.

Leymah Gbowee has been such a messenge of Grace to the nation of Liberia which had roiled in violence and turmoil since Samuel Doe overthrew the government of William Tolbert, the last Americo-Liberian president – a long line of Americo-Liberians dating from the arrival of the first American slaves on Liberia’s shores.

President Tolbert and most of his family and administration were publically executed on a beach, “murdered in front of screaming crowds” by machine gun fire.

Unrest again seized the nation when the forces of Charles Taylor, an army sergeant in bloody fighting overthrew Samuel Doe and brutally murdered him after hours of torture.  The army of Taylor’s ragtag boy souldiers raped and pillaged Liberia for months on end.  The full contagion of hell was soon to be unleashed on that impoverished nation.

The slaughter continued for months on end as bands of teenage boys roved the streets with AK-47s shooting at anyone and anything they took a fancy to destroy.  As looting had emptied virtually all the markets, hunger was rife.  Many now faced starvation.

Leymah witnessed one atrocity after another as the violence consumed Monrovia.  When one armed boy at a checkpoint didn’t like the sight of a woman nursing her baby, he grabbed her and with a knife sliced off her breast. 

Mighty be our Powers is Leylah’s powerful and redeeming story[1]

When thousands, including Leymah Gbowees’s family had taken refuge in the main Lutheran church in Monrovia, Taylor’s boy-soldiers raped and hacked to death or shot the hundreds taking refuge in that church.  Fortunately, Leymah’s family had left only days earlier.  U.S. Marines just stood by and did nothing to prevent the slaughter.

Finding herself in an abusive relationship with Daniel, a man who didn’t respect her, Leymah lost all self confidence.  Beating and shouted insults went on endlessly.  “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”  He used it so often that even her children picked it up and called her that.

Attempting to keep her three children alive and pregnant with a fourth, the walls had closed in.  Depression overwhelmed her.  Virtually disowned by her own father as just a “baby machine,” and unable to provide food for herself or her children, Leymah shut down.

Leymah and Daniel were now living with her parents as looters had destroyed her former house, and pretty much everything else in the old neighborhood.

One evening her mother asked her the question she had been dreading.  Gently, she asked, “Leymah, what are you want to do with your life”[2]

“’Let me tell you something,’ she said.  ‘I’ve endured those nights of listening to your dad say terrible things about what you’ve become.  But I know that’s not who you are, and I know you can do better,  I want to make a vow to you.  If you decide you want to do something for yorself, if you decide to go back to school—I will tie my waist.”  By now I couldn’t see the beauty of that night, because my tears were flowing.

“If an African woman tells you she will tie her waist, it means she will do anything for you, give you everything she has.  ‘I will support you Leymah.  I wil take care of your kids.  Until you make something of your life.’”[3]

Previously she had been a social worker at the local office in Monrovia of Lutheran World Federation.  Her mother, speaking those precious words of Grace and faith in her daugher were the wings on which Lehmah’s

courage would rise.  Yes, as upon eagle’s wings.  That unbounded faith of her mother gave her the courage to approach the director she had previously known before the carnage that had pulled Liberia into the darkest of nights.

The director, Tunde, this gentle man, also expressed an unbounded faith in Leymah.  When she entered his office, he rejoiced.  “I’ve been asking people about you.”  When he saw her one day with a bruised arm and she let him know that Daniel had done that, he urged her to leave that abusive relationship.

Later, when she told Tunde that she had finally left Daniel, Tunde beamed,  “Good for you.  Don’t worry, you’ll find someone else one day.”  Right now, she didn’t want anyone else.

She found that Tunde was easy to talk with.  He was polite and respectful and valued her ideas and opinions.  And while he had grown up in an abusive house and bore the scars of whippings, he was the gentlest person she had ever met.  He offered encourage that chipped away at her feelings of inferiority, of being stupid and useless.

When she said she certainly couldn’t go back to school as he kept encouraging her to do, he lifted her confidence in herself insisting. “Yes, you can.”  “I’ve lost my old abilities,” Leymah countered.  Tunde again insisted, “No you haven’t…You have too much potential.  Don’t throw it away.  You know this isn’t the life you want for yourself.”  She was afraid, but deep down she knew Tunde was right.  Actually, before the war she had been a very good student.  Long, long ago.

When her fourth child was about to arrive, Leymah was scared and confided to Tunde how vulnerable she felt.  So trapped. He responded, “What if I told you thatI would be there for you and this child?  What would you say?”[4]

“I would say that you’re lying.  Men are not to be trusted.”

Yet on delivery day, there he was.  He had rushed to her part of the city, forgetting to take anything with him that he might need.  “I was so excited,” he exclaimed.

“’This gentle giant,’ I thought.  ‘This was someone I could love.’”  Wings of Grace.  Wings of Mercy.

Leymah did go back to school and earn her A.A. degree.  She would go on to found an army of women of faith that would stare down Taylor’s maurading boy souldiers.  God’s Grace working through Leymah, the people who encouraged and suppored her.  Such abounding Grace would eventualy bring peace to Liberia through the united effort of millions of Liberian women.  But more about that later.

But here’s the secret.  Each of us has the same promise of being messengers of Mercy and Grace.  It’s our baptismal vow.  Each of us daily is present with opportunities to bring hope and promise to be bearers of Mercy on Wings of Grace.  If your life has been annointed by the Spirit, you have been given the gift to bring comfor, to bring restoration, to bring redemption.  If not you, who else?

Grace abides at the food banks where we provide veggies and fruit.  Grace happens when you gave a fiver to the fellow by the freeway, and then  demanded to know why is he there.  And what will we do about it?  And vote for folks asking that very same question, folks who could do a lot about it.  Grace happens when you give encouragement to a grandchild, or just sit down and listen to them with an open heart.

Grace descends on healing wings in manifold ways.  Ways that the Spirit opens to our imaginations.  Call a friend.  Be a friend.  Visit a shut-in can do wonders for them and for your soul.  Work in the Garden of Hope or St. John’s Food Bank.  That will do wonders for your health. And on October 17^th, Grace will arrive on soaring outstretched wings all across the nation at No Kings Day demonstrations.  Millions will be out in the streets proclaimng to America, “We Can Be Better Than This.”  And on Sunday, November 1^st, it will be “Souls to the Polls.”  All of us claiming our right as citizens to make our voices heard.  Grace abounding.  Let’s be the Change we Seek.  Pure unadulterated Grace that will “Pray the Devil back to Hell,” as Leymah and her sisters put it.  Each one of us, Wings of Grace.   Amen. 

---

[1] Leylah Gbowee, Mighty be Our Powers: A Memoir, with Carol Mithers (New York: Beast Books, 2011).

[2] Op cit., 69-70.

[3] Op.cit., 72.

[4] Op. Cit., 79.

September 20, 2026
Pentecost 17, Proper 20

  “On Wings of Grace”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Jonah 3:10-4:11 Psalm 145:1-8

Philippians 1:21-30; Matthew 20:1-16

My next-door neighbor Tom – the one who taught me how to drive a big rig — told me one afternoon that his brother had gone to collect the rent at one of the houses he owned.  His brother knocked on the door, it opened and the occupant shot him point blank in the head.

The family was distraught for months on end.  The murderer got off with a relatively light sentence. The youthful shooter was “just a kid,” they said.  “Just a kid.” The family wanted blood.  How does forgiveness carry any weight in such circumstances?  How is it possible?

Yet in faith, by the Grace of God, it is possible.  Let me tell you the story of Azim Khamisa.  Azim Khamisa is a father awakened to the news that his only son Tariq had been shot by a 14-year-old gang member, Tony Hicks, over a slice of pizza.  In the bitter days that followed it would have been natural for Azim to have been consumed by anger.  That would have been the end of Khamisa’s life.  Bitterness ending only at the grave. 

But something happened to intervene.  After a number of weeks when bitterness subsided, Azim began to think, in reality, there were two sets of victims.  There was also the family of the gang member who had shot his son.  After a while Azim was prompted by all that is Holy and all that is Reconciliation –prompted to reach out to the killer’s family.  It was a grandfather.  This man had raised the other boy.

That two families not be devastated, the two men, Azim and Ples Felix, Tony’s grandfather and guardian, began meeting.  Azim finally went to visit Tony in jail, where he was serving a 25-to-life sentence.[1]

When Azim looked deeply into Tony’s eyes, he didn’t see a killer.  He saw a very wounded human being, pretty much like himself.  Wounded. 

“Since the beginning of this tragedy, Tony confessed to his crime and has continuously sought to better his life.  He has apologized to the Khamisa family, shares his remorse, and plans to join Mr. Khamisa and his grandfather, Mr. Felix, in their efforts to teach children accountability, compassion, forgiveness, and peacemaking.”[2]

“From prison, Tony has written numerous blogs responding to questions from youth participating in the TKF (Tariq Khamisa Foundation) programs.  He has also earned his GED and is working towards his AA degree in Social Work.  Tony participates in Gang members Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Toastmasters, and has done rigorous self-inventories to identify his character defects.”[3]

Through the efforts of Azim, Tony is now out of prison and has a job at the Tariq Khamisa Foundation. 

On the foundation’s web site are many stories of forgiveness.  From perusing them, it became clear to me that there’s no automatic formula.  Nothing’s more unrealistic than the teacher demanding of two boys who had been in a knockdown-dragout fight than to say, “All right, you boys shake hands now and be friends.”  The muttered response of one would surely be, “See you after school.”

Forgiveness is a spiritual gift as much as anything, born of calmness and a softening of the heart.  It is nothing to be demanded.  It is at best an endeavor by both parties.  It can’t be compelled in the heat of the matter.  Perhaps, later, much later, those harmed and traumatized by the tragedy of September 11th will be able to let it go, or at least get beyond disabling grief.  To “let go and let God.”  But probably not today.

One more story from the Azim’s foundation from the “Forgiveness Project.”  This is the story of two fathers, one Israeli and the other Palestinian.  The conflict that has endured for generations.  I share the story of the Israeli father.

“I was on my way to the airport when my wife called and told me Smadar was missing. When something like this happens, a cold hand grabs your heart. You rush between friends’ houses and hospitals, then eventually you find yourself in the morgue and you see a sight you’ll never forget for the rest of your life. From that moment you are a new person. Everything is different.

“At first, I was tormented with anger and grief; I wanted revenge, to get even. But we are people – not animals! I asked myself, “Will killing someone else release my pain?” Of course not. It was clear to my wife and me that the blame rests with the occupation. The suicide bomber was a victim just like my daughter, grown crazy out of anger and shame.

“I don’t forgive and I don’t forget, but when this happened to my daughter, I had to ask myself whether I’d contributed in any way.

“The answer was that I had – my people had, for ruling, dominating and oppressing three-and-a-half million Palestinians for 35 years. It is a sin and you pay for sins.[4]

Getting back to my Facebook political posts, the other day two of us had sharp disagreement and some harsh words over how our president has handled his responsibilities.  Commenting on my rant about his calling our fallen, “losers” and “suckers,” he responded that I didn’t know who I was talking to.

In his next post, seconds later, he announced that he was a vet and had twenty years of service.  At that moment my heart softened a bit and I thanked him for his service, letting him know that I also had served.  Two years as an Army medic. 

Surprise, he also had been an Army medic in Afghanistan. And thanked me as well for my service. 

Then he let me know that the main reason he had voted for Trump was that he was fed up with elite politicians who just talked and had done nothing for people like him.  I said I understood.  Understood completely.  That’s why I had supported Bernie. 

We ended in agreement that the politics of this nation are pretty screwed up and agreed to a virtual toast, that no matter how things turned out on November 3rd, we would hoist a virtual beer “To the Constitution and to the Declaration of Independence.’  We bid each other, “Good night.”

When we consider the pain and suffering brought on by the 9/11 attacks twenty-five years ago, what does forgiveness mean?  We are now in the territory that time and God alone can enable us to cope.

Is there forgiveness for so much pain, so much loss?  There’s no alternative.  Eventually.  The early church knew our failings and the damage we do to one another. 

The Gospels tie God’s Grace in with forgiveness.  Forgiveness is front and center in the Parable of the Lost Son and Forgiving Father.  An essential part of the Lord’s Prayer.  Hear this admonishment from today’s gospel.

Upon hearing Jesus’ teaching on forgiveness, Peter approached him with a question.  This was an inquiry based upon the teachings of the Torah – “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive?  As many as seven times?”  This was the standard proscribed. Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but I tell you seventy-seven times.”

Forgive seven times seventy?  The natural man, the natural woman, says, “I don’t think so.”  Yet here is this implacable demand: “Seventy times seven times.”

To back it up, Jesus tells the parable of a man forgiven a great debt by a generous king who receives most distressing news.  The slave recently forgiven an enormous debt is shaking down his fellows for what they owed him.  Seizing one debtor by the throat, the slave demanded, “Pay what you owe.”  This is a debtor who was owed only a fraction of what had been forgiven him by the king.  Hearing this news, the king was enraged.  He had that slave tortured until he should pay his entire debt — hundreds of thousands of dollars owed the king.  As the slave was led away, the king raged, “Should you not have had mercy on your fellow slave, as I had mercy on you?”

I’m wondering how many Americans this past week hearing or watching those tapes on TV replay, listening to still grieving family members, replaying in our own memories like an endless loop – asked what can forgiveness mean?  What can reconciliation mean in the face of such horrendous evil?

The wrong done is beyond the pale.  So much pain.  So much pain.

As I wandered a few weeks ago through the 9/11 Museum at Ground Zero, heavy of heart, the enormity of the sacrifice of so many was overwhelming.  The firefighters rushing up those stairs of doom as fleeing office workers stampeded down.  Those workers who risked their lives on those stairs in aiding handicapped colleagues get down.  Sometimes physically carrying them.  It was overwhelming as I realized those stairs preserved in that exhibit were Holy Ground. Tears clouded my vision.

Looking at the crushed fire engine on display — seeing again the videos of those jumpers who would rather die in that manner than be burned to death.  Often holding hands with a colleague as they plummeted to their deaths.  The story of a women standing on the ledge attempting to preserve her modesty by straightening her skirt before jumping.

I began to understand that it will only be through the awesome Grace of God that I am able to move on.  That we as a nation will regain our humanity.  We must absolutely refuse to blame all Muslims for this act of perfidy.  I must claim all the more strongly this people of Abraham as my brothers and sisters, all of us sharing a common humanity.

As the day closes, I can only fall back on the spiritual wisdom of Reinhold Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer:

“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.”

And St. Francis:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.

Where there is hatred, let me sow love;

where there is injury, pardon…   Amen.

---

[1] https://www.virtuesforlife.com/father-forgives-sons-killer/

[2] https://tkf.org/tony-hicks/

[3] Ibid.

[4] Rami Elhanan, “The Forgiveness Project,” Stories of the Tariq Khamisa Foundation

September 13, 2026
Pentecost 16, Proper 19

  “To Forgive and Reconcile”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Genesis 50:15-21; Psalm 103:8-13

Romans 14:1-12; Matthew 18:21-35

When I ran an ecumenical fair housing project for the San Gabriel Valley, I could always count on four faith communities: the Quakers, the Universalist Unitarians, Disciples of Christ and Catholics who believed in the social teachings of the Catholic Church.

But day-in and day-out it was the Quakers who inspired me.  They never gave up.  Social justice ministries were their cup of tea.  If we needed someone to follow up on a complaint of housing discrimination, they would be at the ready. 

I first encountered them when I put together my application to be a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War.  I explained to my contact that I was not willing to kill anyone over this unjust, immoral war but I would be willing to help patch up some poor soul who had been shot or blown up.  With his guidance, the draft board accepted me under that condition and I served my two years in the Army as a conscientious objector medic.

At the church we attended in San Francisco, Jai and I were enlisted to help provide a Sunday dinner at the halfway house run by Quakers for those returning from incarceration.  This allowed a free day off for the couple who were caretakers and mentors for their housemates.

These Quakers were what the gospel looks like in action.  All around the globe their impact is felt.  Holy Persistence.

The persistence of this faith community mirrors the faithful persistence of God – the Hound of Heaven.  When the people of Israel have strayed, God sends prophet after prophet to bring them back.  To speak warning.  To speak justice.  To speak forgiveness.  All to woo them back to the life-giving path of Torah Righteousness.

Ezekiel speaks to that wayward people.  Yes, God will offer forgiveness but repair comes only after accountability.  Ezekiel’s words are a harsh warning.  If this community continues on the path of wickedness, surely it will come to ruin.  As sure as night follows day.  In the same harsh tones of a parent warning a child not to run out into the street without looking.  The parent is responsible for that warning every much as Ezekiel is responsible to speak truth to power.

What is also clear is the persistence, Holy Persistence, commanded by God.  Ezekiel is to repeat and repeat the message no matter its reception. Whether the wicked repent and turn to God, that is on them.  But Ezekiel is to be a faithful messenger no matter their decision.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  Wash, rinse, repeat.  That’s Ezekiel’s appointed mission.

“So you, mortal, I have made a sentinel for the house of Israel; whenever you hear a word from my mouth, you shall give them warning from me.  If I say to the wicked, ‘O wicked ones, you shall surely die,’ and you do not speak to warn the wicked to turn from their ways, the wicked shall die in their iniquity, but their blood I will require at your hand.”

Whether the wicked heed the warning or not, if Ezekiel lets the truth die in his throat before it is heard, Ezekiel will have failed God.

Holy Persistence is demanded of him.  As it is of us all who would live in the Kin-dom of Torah Righteous and Gospel Goodness.  Holy Persistence.

And down through the ages we have splendid, life-giving witnesses to that calling.  Yes, the Quakers do come to mind.

Also do those who serve to bind up the wounded in combat.  One such was Clara Barton, who served in the Union ranks as a nurse.  Nurse and a most I came across this from the Library of America readings from the Civil War – a letter that Clara Barton had written of her experiences amidst that bloody carnage. Holy Persistence for sure.

In the volume, The Civil War: The Second Year Told by Those Who Lived It[1] there is a wonderful letter of Clara Barton to a friend, John Shaver.  With the outbreak of hostilities, she left her job as a clerk in the Patent Office to begin nursing the wounded on the front lines.  She became know as the “Angel of the Battlefield.”  Her ministrations to the wounded were one of Holy Persistence.

In that letter of 1862, she writes (I have not changed any of the spelling or grammar in the original) of the evacuation of the wounded from the battlefield at Manassas. In it she describes the chaos and the inept attempts to get the injured onto trains for transport to safety:

“I can not tell you the scenes which awaited our eyes, –the wounded were constantly arriving—but no hospitals this time, only God’s great one under the blue canopy.  The men were brot down from the field and laid on the ground [that] was ‘littered’ like ‘bedding’ for the horses, — they came till dark and then it was dark indeed…

“…the men lay so thick we could not take one step in the dark, by midnight there must have been three thousand helpless men lying on that hay.

“…My one stew pan which I remembered to take, and this made coffee for them, all night we made compresses and slings and bound up and wet wounds when we could get water, fed what we could, travelled miles in the dark over these poor helpless wretches, in terror lest some ones candle fell into the hay and consume them all, at length morning came, and we sent up the train with 1250, next 1000, next 1100, next 950, and so on.  Still the ambulances came down, and cars went out and we worked on, took the meat from our own sandwiches & gave it to them and broke the bread into wine and water to feed the poor sinking wretches as they lay in the ambulances.

“On Monday the enemies Cavalry appeared in the wood opposite & a raid was hourly expected…On Monday PM all the wounded then were sent off, and the danger became so eminent that Mrs Fales begged to be excused from accompanying her, as the ambulances were up to the field for more, and I knew I should never leave a wounded man there if knew it, though I were taken prisoner 40 times. 

“At 6 clock it commenced to thunder and lightning, and all at once the artillery began to play joined by the musketry about two miles distant, we sat down in our tent and waited to see them break in but Reno’s forces held them back.  The old trusted 21^st Mass. lay between us and the enemy and they couldn’t pass.  God only knows who is lost…the next day all fell back…Poor Kearney, Stephens & Webster were brought in…and in the PM Kearney’s and Heintzleman’s divisions fell back through our camp on their way to Alexandria.  We knew this was the last.  We put the thousand wounded we had then into the train.  I took one car load of them, Mrs M another.  The men took to horse, we steam off, and two hours after there was no Fairfax Station (the aid station at that railway juncture, soon abandoned to onrushing Confederate forces), reached Alexandria at 10 oclock at night.

“Our forces are all back again in the old places around the city.  McClellans army here again and he in command of it all…I have told you nothing of the old friends who met me among the wounded and dying on that bloody field.  I have no heart to tell it to day but will some time.

Clara Barton, over those dreadful days, exhibited heroic Holy Persistence like few others.  She and just a handful of other nurses to tend some 5,000 wounded.  And would again and again for the duration of that war.

Later she would go on to found the Red Cross and bring many reforms to the medical treatment of the wounded and those beset by natural disasters.  Often against the strident opposition of doctors who objected to a woman knowing anything about anything.

She and those who waged that bloody struggle were themselves that “terrible swift sword” bringing freedom to over half the population of our southern states.  Freedom that has brought liberty and a future to half my present family.  A most righteous cause.

Now we suffer not under a great wartime leader as Lincoln or Roosevelt, but under a petulant man-child who knows nothing of the havoc he reeks.  Again, we find ourselves in an interminable, senseless war.  The kind he promised to keep us out of.

Open the daily paper.  Atrocity upon atrocity.  In Iran a girl’s school is bombed with the result of hundreds of deaths, mostly young students and their teachers.

The other day it was a wedding at a private home. 

That day began like any traditional wedding day.  Woman had arrived early with their hands elaborately decorated with henna.  Children played in the courtyard.  A festive meal was cooking as enticing aromas wafted through the compound.

It ended when a bomb brought down the roof, turning the event into a jumble of sandals, dust-coated rubble and blood-soaked rugs.

Dozens of guests had already arrived.  A woman who had come a day early for the henna party reports on a blog post, “Tonight was supposed to be a night of love and laughter…But the wedding turned into mourning, and a sweet night will forever be bitter.”[2]

Five wedding guests killed including a six-year-old boy, some 67 others wounded.  Another American disaster in a war of choice by the most ignorant Commander in Chief that we have ever had.  Not knowing in this tragic, misguided carnage he will have earned the bitter enmity of Iranians for generations to come.  Not a clue.

A war without notice to Congress or any accounting to the American people.  A war with no end in sight. 

As the ballad of the 60s puts it, we citizens of this republic are called to “hammer out danger…hammer out warning.”  Like the message to Ezekiel, if we lose this democracy, it’s on us.  We will have only ourselves to blame.  If I do not share the Word I have also received, it’s on me.  I have no right to stand in this pulpit.

And the perpetrators of this autocracy will give no quarter.  They will not quietly fold up their tents and vanish into the desert sands of the coming American desertscape brought on by global warming.  Yeah, drill, baby, drill.

Fredrick Douglass cautioned us when dealing with such as this ilk:

“Power concedes nothing without a demand.  It never did and it never will.  Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have found out the exact measure of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them, and these will continue till they are resisted with either words or blows, or with both.  The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress.”[3]

And this wise counsel from one of our most intrepid legislators, Barbara Jordan:

“As a first step, we must restore our belief in ourselves…Let each person do his or her part.  If one citizen is unwilling to participate, all of us are going to suffer.  For the American idea, though it is shared by all of us, is realized in each one of us.”[4]

We wring our hands.  We toss about restlessly at night.  We tune out, drop out.  Yes, I know how you feel as we witness the slow-motion train wreck of this republic.  As we witness the destruction of cherished dreams of yore and dashed hopes for a livable tomorrow.  I know.  I feel it too.

But when I consider the sacrifices of those gone on before:  Clara Barton, those hundreds of thousands of dead of the Grand Army of the Republic – their Holy Persistence.  Their holy sacrifice.  What right do I have to get depressed and throw up my hands in surrender to the deadly imbecility of this current administration?  No, I will not go quietly into that dark night!  Nor should you.

Consider the valiant struggles of Gloria Steinem whom we recently lost.  Her Holy Persistence for the cause of her sisters of this nation.  And that, even in the face of recent rollbacks of victories previously won — she never tired.  Holy Persistence.  She never tired nor will I.  Nor should you.

If I do not honor in word and action the sacrifices, the toil of those gone on before, yes, and those who now assemble at the battlements of this present struggle to preserve the soul of this nation — what right to I have to stand at the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag?  It would only be an empty performative stunt.  Signifying nothing.

Each is now summoned by a Divine Word of Warning, implanted in hearts and minds. Each summoned to action.  We find ourselves, ordinary people now living in extraordinary times.

“We have to acknowledge that there is no cavalry coming to protect us.  No knight in shining armor to save us from the situation we are in.  It’s up to us.  We are the people who decide what happens next.  While daunting, it can also be empowering to know how essential we are in the fight for freedom and our democracy.”[5]

The Most Holy Spirit presently summons us, each and every one, to the greatness that God has created us to be.  To Holy Persistence in the struggle before us.  And our efforts, no matter how great or small, in and through the Grace of God, shall be sufficient.  We can retire to bed after this November 3^rd, knowing we have done our part for the future of this nation and our grandchildren to come.  Amen.

---

[1] Stephen W. Sears, The Civil War, The Second Year Told by Those Who Lived it (New York: The Library of America, 2012), 413-415.  Spelling and grammar are as in the original text.

[2] Christiaan Triebert, Malachy Browne, Farnaz Fassihi, Erika Solomon, “Bomb Turned Wedding in Iran into Tragedy: Evidence It was U.S., New York Times, September 4, 2026.

[3] Quoted from, Ordinary People, Extraordinary Times: A Guide for all of us, How to Reclaim Your Power, Fight for Freedom, Reimagine Democracy, Skye Perryman, Ten Speed Press, 2026. 7.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Op cit., 12.

September 6, 2026
Pentecost 15, Proper 18

  “Holy Persistence”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Ezekiel 33:7-11; Psalm 119:33-40

Romans 13:8-14; Matthew 18:15-20

Many of our presidents have been bigger than life.  I suppose that just putting oneself forth in such a contest requires a fairly strong ego.  It requires the conviction that you can win and it requires the conviction that you can do the job, that you have something to offer.  That you can meet the unknown challenges that will come during the four years of your presidency.   A task not for the timid, the indecisive or the uninformed.

Though every now and then a ringer slips through the electoral system.  Like now.  I dare say that a bland personality like Calvin Cooledge or Warren G. Harding would never make it in this overheated media environment, in this era of blogs and internet barrage of conspiracy and lies.  It is true that the Orange Voldemort at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. is certainly a puffed-up personality uniquely suited to this cutthroat reality show media age.

Looking back, one of the presidents that has always captured my interest is Theodore Roosevelt.  No saint he.  He was an imperialist from the word go.  Sorely misguided in his expansionist vision for America.  Yet he brought a moral sense of duty and fairness to his life in the political arena.  A sense sorely lacking today.

Here is that famous quote that has inspired resiliency and perseverance from his speech, “Citizenship in a Republic”, delivered at the Sorbonne, in Paris, France on 23 April, 1910.  Often referred to “Man in the Arena.” [1]

“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”

Roosevelt, for his many shortcomings on the international stage, was an intrepid leader of the Progressive movement.  He was notorious for his late-night prowling through the streets of the City of New York when he was police commissioner.  Often, late at night, a sleeping officer would be rudely awakened to find Commissioner Roosevelt in his face.

At the time Roosevelt cleaned up the force, which had been no better than a shake-down operation.  When he went after those taking kickbacks from the brothel operators and their patrons, he got a huge amount of blowback.  Yet he persisted.  He joyfully took his place in the arena of duty and action.

TR was raised in a Presbyterian/Reformed faith.  As a young man he taught Sunday school.  This faith tradition inculcated in him the sense of purpose and duty.  His was an active faith that joyfully engaged the world.  He relished his role in whatever political office he held.   He genially was “Deeeelighted!”  This exclamation was no mere affectation.  In his role as public servant, he was genuinely “Deeeelighted!”  Whomever he met, he was “Deeelighted!”

Jesus instructs his followers in a similar path of discipleship.  They are not to have warm, cozy spiritual feelings.  Not to sing kumbaya praise songs.  They are not to be an exclusive club.  No, their path is into Jerusalem.  In the arena.  To bear one’s cross, where need meets one’s calling.

“Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed…And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, ‘God forbid it, Lord!  This must never happen to you.’  But he turned and said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’  You are a stumbling block to me…’”  This is definitely a faith lived in the arena.  Jesus’ entire ministry was in the arena.

If you wear a shiny cross around your neck or on your lapel, it had better stand for something – an active, sacramental faith grounded in today’s figurative Jerusalem.  We should find you in the arena.

Martin Luther, the 16^th century church reformer, instructed his followers on the duty of the laity of the church.  Their duty was twofold: to their families and to their vocation.  Today, I would add, also to the political life of their nation.  In a republic, we are entrusted with its care that it provides for all its citizens.  We have the stewardship responsibility to correct and reform it when it neglects the will and needs of its citizens.  Especially when it gets wrapped up in its own self-aggrandizement.

Having subbed in some special ed classes, I understand the full commitment of those teachers who have chosen that specialty.  They are totally in the arena.

This past week my son Christopher has been subbing in a special ed class.  He tells this story of one of his first days on the job.  Definitely in the arena of our contemporary Jerusalem.  He shared this story.[2]

“It was my second day on the job, subbing for a Special Ed aide role. I

had my schedule printed out for the day, and the first class went by

without incident. That was the last normal thing that happened.

I walked into my second class to help a sweet third grader named Theo, but the moment I stepped into the room, the school psychologist, Ms. E, let out a sigh of relief and pulled me into a different problem: Brayden, a big kid, easily six inches and several dozen pounds bigger than his classmates, was refusing every instruction and rampaging around the room, kicking over chairs and flipping tables. Ms. E tried to physically restrain him, and he lost it completely, charging for the door, nearly bowling over several other kids on his way out. For his safety and theirs, we had to stop him. I dropped low into a power position (which I’d last used in high-school football and wrestling) braced for the impact, and wrapped Brayden up. That’s when he started bawling. Once he’d calmed down enough, Ms. E and a second teacher walked him out, one arm each, toward the office.

“I’d barely caught my breath when Roger, a first grader with a

full-time 1-to-1 aide, burst into the room mid-meltdown. His aide, Ms. B, quickly put him in a full-body hold and needed help. I grabbed his top half, she had his legs, and we carried him back to his classroom

together. Once there, the two of us tried to talk him down, and got

middle fingers and “F you” for our trouble, along with a smack across

the face that sent my glasses flying across the room.

“Before I could even find my glasses, the door flew open again. One of the office staff said they needed me back in the main office

immediately. Brayden was there, alternately crying, screaming, and

kicking Ms. E.  Another male teacher and I held him while she worked to calm him down. Somewhere in the middle of trying to settle in for what I figured would be a long wait; Roger was brought into the same office, sobbing, and begging not to be sent home. He’d kicked his aide, Ms. B, in the throat hard enough to knock her off a climbing structure and send her to the hospital. Before too long, the police showed up to have a talk with him.

“So, there I was, in the middle of that — Roger facing a police visit

crying in one corner, Brayden still simmering in another — and I just

sat with Brayden and talked. WWE (that’s World Wrestling Entertainment for those not into such pugilistic delights). Knott’s Berry Farm. Michael Jackson.

“Whatever he wanted to talk about, for about forty minutes, until his

grandmother arrived. By the time she picked him up, we’d established a little bit of a rapport.

“And this was all before lunch.” 

Definitely in the arena.

Down into Jerusalem with all its attendant problems and suffering we followers in the Jesus Movement are called to go.  In that arena of strife and chaos we will discover who Jesus is for us today.  Same with our political responsibilities.  Today just voting is not enough.  As our nation’s founders, Madison and Jefferson insisted, a democracy depends on an educated citizenry.  And in the struggle and the exhausting effort, we will discover the blessing of a peace that passes all our poor understanding.  A taste of eternity.

Those in the St. Francis Garden of Hope and serving at St. John’s food bank are definitely in the arena.  Especially given these scorching summer days of weeks past.

I close with the wise spiritual counsel of Mother Teresa, a woman definitely in the arena.  She writes on our call as Jesus followers when the arena is difficult and painful.  When we are assaulted by nagging self-doubts:

Mother Teresa’s Anyway Poem

People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered;
Forgive them anyway.

If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.

If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies;
Succeed anyway.

If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you;
Be honest and frank anyway.

What you spend years building; someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.

If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.

The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.

Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough;
Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.

You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God;
It was never between you and them anyway.

Mother Teresa gets the “Last Word.”  She was most definitely in the arena.  

Amen.

---

[1] Often better known as the “Man in the Arena” speech from the line, “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena.”

[2] Names of students changed to protect privacy.

August 30, 2026
Pentecost 14, Proper 17

  “In the Arena”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Jeremiah 15:15-21; Psalm 26:1-8

Romans 12:9-21; Matthew 16:21-28

I have returned from three marvelous adventures: San Francisco where Jai and I celebrated our 60^th wedding anniversary; West Virginia where we held our 9^th annual Wounded Warrior event; and the City of New York where Alexis’s aunt Charlene was married.  With a great family BBQ, the day afterwards hosted by her Aunt Sojo.

In New York, I also had given myself a number of days to take in the delights of that city.  The wedding was a grand family gathering.  I was joined by Christopher, Alexis and her mother Denise.  Oh yeah, and Luther who’s now walking.  Soon after the ceremony folks were on the dance floor.  If I had tried to bust a move like some of those young people, call 911.  And I would have been in traction for a number of weeks.

I was most impressed with how enterprising New Yorkers are.  On the sidewalk, move right along or you’ll end up causing a lot of consternation among the pedestrians.  Maybe not so much if you’re an old guy with a walker.

It is a most industrious city.  There were hardly any vacant storefronts.  Often there were 3 to 4 restaurants or quick food joints.  All small businesses – many opened by immigrants bringing their own unique cuisines.  A lot of hustle for sure.

The traffic is no less rushed.  It would seem that lane markings are only considered suggestions.  The traffic weaved in and out like spaghetti.  A couple of cab rides would have been rated an “E-coupon ride” in the old days at Disneyland. 

And then that poignant reminder of 9/11.  I went to the museum which told a most moving story of that day.  An ordinary day with a cloudless cobalt blue sky.  Folks just arriving at work at what looked to be a most ordinary of days.

Like virtually everyone reading this or hearing it delivered, if we are old enough we remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when we first heard the news.

At the time I was running my family’s construction company.  I was just about to head to the office next to the house when I got a call from my oldest son.  Jonathan’s urgent voice told me something was wrong.  “Dad, do you have the TV on?”  “Why, what’s happening?”  “Go, turn it on.  Someone’s bombed the World Trade Tower in New York.”

He closed with the warning, “Dad, I don’t think we can let this slide.”

My fear was later somewhat different.  Yes, we would respond.  And probably do something very stupid.  Which is what we soon did, the result being two endless wars in Afghanistan and Iraq.  And we still had not captured the mastermind, Osama Bin Laden.

What wisdom does scripture offer in these chaotic moments?  What are the choices?

As Jesus and his disciples were walking through the district of Caesarea called Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is?  They replied, “Some say John the Baptist, but other Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.”  But who do you say that I am?”  Many engage in idle speculation, but when it comes down to the wire, this Gospel inheritance, What’s it to You?

In the midst of the New York City hustle and bustle, I suspect Jesus’ question to Peter was furthest from folk’s minds.  For those of us watching that unfolding disaster on 9/11, it was probably not on our minds.  And for those trying to escape those burning towers, probably not on their minds.

Yet, in the midst of the carnage and flames, many heroes responded with an unspoken answer.  They answered with their aid.  These were the people rushing into those blazing infernos to aid their fellow human beings.  The Christ in them propelled them forward through the choking dust.  Responding to the distressed Christ in neighbors they never knew.  The Living Christ was in full display in the midst of a living hell.

One of the books I purchased at the museum store was Ordinary Heroes: A Memoir of 9/11 by Joseph Pfeifer, the first FDNY chief to arrive on the scene at the World Trade Tower.[1] 

Most of those firefighters Chief Pfeifer led had been deeply rooted in their Irish Catholic faith.  The Christ inculcated in them as none questioned the duty to run towards that inferno as others fled.  As the first commander on the scene, overall responsibility became Pfeifer’s.

After the second plane hit the South Tower, the fire department had the biggest catastrophe in New York history on their hands.  More and more units arrived on the scene, including one led by Chief Pfeifer’s younger brother, Kevin.  Kevin’s assignment was to take those under his command into the South Tower.  The last Joseph would ever see of his brother was as he turned and led a force up the steps of that building as more and more workers were fleeing down the steps from the flames and smoke.

Later, as both buildings collapsed, Joseph found himself sitting on a bench covered with dust, barely able to breathe.  He fervently hoped that somehow Kevin had made it out after Joseph had been the command for all fire personnel to leave the buildings.

Then he began to second guess his decision to send his brother up those stairs (of which there is a portion on display at the museum). 

Meanwhile, his wife Ginny, a nurse, had planned to take the children to a park with a friend on her day off.  As soon as she heard the news she turned on the TV.

Joseph, continues his story:[2]

“She knew I was assigned to Battalion 1 in lower Manhattan and would be the first fire chief to arrive at the WTC, since I was on duty.  Ginny was not too concerned since I had twenty years of experience fighting big fires and I had taught about high-rise fires to new chiefs at the academy.

“But when the South Tower collapsed, she went numb.

“’This can’t be happening,’ she told herself.  The nightmare Ginny never allowed into her thoughts erupted into anxiety.  By the time the North Tower collapsed, she was in full-fledged panic.  What if her husband of seventeen years didn’t come home?

“Was she a widow?

Were her children safe?  She couldn’t get through to their school.  Cell towers were overloaded by desperate callers.  She finally got through to her brother, Frankie, a priest.  She told him that she thought her husband was dead.  She was at her wits end.  Consoled in prayer by the same Christ, they devised a plan.

She was soon reunited with her children as they hugged one another through sobs and tears in the entryway.

Throughout that day and in the days to follow, in acts of selfless courage, in moments of consolation many, many that day answered Jesus’ question.  “You are the Christ.”  And in their actions, heroic and ordinary, was the living sacramental answer.  “You are the Christ.”  The Christ in me and the Christ in you, the Christ in stranger and coworker and family alike.

When Kevin’s death became apparent, the most difficult task before Chief Pfeifer was to later inform Kevin’s family that he would not be coming home.  Christ crucified on the twisted steel beams of those towers.

Later, as firefighters returned to their firehouses and shared stories of what they had experienced that day and the next several days, Chief Joseph learned that Kevin had remained behind, trying to get as many as possible down that staircase.  He had literally given his life for people he would never know.  And how many are still alive due to his efforts, no one will know.  Joseph found much comfort in hearing of Kevin’s selfless actions that dread morning.  A Christ for others.

And in the midst of our daily busyness, maybe not as frantic as on the daily streets of New York, What Say You?  What is this story of Jesus to you in the rush of your daily priorities?  What is the visible witness of your confession of faith?

At that hallowed memorial and the 9/11 Museum, I encountered the living Christ in the sacrifices that so many made that morning when the sun refused to shine through the choking clouds of smoke and dust of that living hell.

May we in times of danger and distress, in moments of perplexity and periods of calm discover and rediscover the living Christ that moves in and through our being.  Our life, our courage, our hope.  Amen.

---

[1] Joseph Pfeifer, Ordinary Heroes: A Memoir of 9/11 (New York: Portfolio/Penguin, 2021).

[2] Op cit., 82.

August 23, 2026
Pentecost 13, Proper 16

  “What Say You?”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Isaiah 51:1-6; Psalm 138

Romans 12:1-8; Gospel:  Matthew 16:13-20

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