My friend Susan, a priest at All Saints, says that she is never disillusioned by the church.  That’s because she has no illusions about the church.  Whatever else the church is, it’s a fallible human community like all others.  How often have I arrived at a new parish but to be accosted by all and sundry wanting to make sure I understood their side of the various conflicts that had been roiling that congregation.  Sometimes for years.

Archbishop William Temple used to say that the Church is the only institution that does not exist primarily for its own members.  The poor archbishop, I fear, had far too lofty a view of our frail humanity.  Church folks can be as self-centered as those of any other grouping.

When I was in college, I was a promoter of California’s new fair housing law, which so-called conservatives were wanting to repeal.

My then girlfriend’s parents owned several apartment buildings and definitely felt that they should not be forced to rent to “undesirables” – read Blacks or Mexican-Americans. 

When I would attempt to make the case that we should all be able to get along and live together – isn’t this what the gospel teaches?  I was told in no uncertain terms that that was religion, but apartments were about business.  Two different issues.  Needless to say, under that disagreement my then girlfriend and I soon parted company.  And these folks were good Methodists, regular church attenders. 

Unlike my friend Susan, I did have illusions about Christian community. 

As Mark Twain would quip, “It would be easier to believe in the possibility of redemption if the redeemed looked a little more redeemed.  He, in his day, discovered the same spiritual blindness of the Church when it came to the issue of slavery.

The prophet Ezekiel proclaims that he has been made a sentinel for the house of Israel, to warn the wicked from their ways.

“If I [the Lord] 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.  But if you warn the wicked to turn from their ways and they do not turn from their ways, the wicked shall die in their iniquity, but you will have saved your life…I have no pleasure in the death of the wicked, but that the wicked turn from their ways and live; turn back, turn back from your evil ways; for why will you die, O house of Israel?’”

The message is always, “Choose Life.  Choose Life.”

That, AND that we are our sister’s, our brother’s keeper.  We have a mutual stake in one another’s well-being.

This is a difficult proposition in our American hyper-individualistic culture.  The Gospel ethic cuts straight across that stance.  Hear Paul this morning: “Owe no one anything, EXCEPT to love one another.” 

It’s the same ethic as that of my favorite fictional L.A. detective character in Michael Connelly’s Harry Bosch novels when it comes to effort put forth to solve murders, “Everyone counts or no one counts.”

Matthew enjoins his readers to do all possible to retain a member, even in the heat of disagreement and bad behavior.

I know that I sometimes get taken advantage of because of being too trusting.  I assume that most are honest, upright actors.  But even in the church, especially in the church, so much is at stake, we do get crossways with one another on occasion.

In the days at the height of the Cold War, when nuclear Armageddon was a real possibility, our state department went apoplectic when it looked like Reagan and Gorbachev were on the threshold of banning all nukes.

They did not trust Reagan’s over-optimistic assessment of Gorbachev as an honest broker.  How could we possibly believe those “dirty, rotten Commie so-and-sos?” 

Reagan’s answer?  “Trust but verify.”

That’s the one thing he said that I believe carried weight.  And hope.  I confess, I was not a fan, considering how he eviscerated our mental health establishment in California.  But as I said, this response resonates as true. 

About eighty percent of folks will behave in ethical upright ways.  Another fifteen percent might be ethically squishy.  And maybe five percent or fewer are of a larcenous heart and will rob you blind.

A welcome respite and antidote to our hyper-partisan culture comes in Elizabeth Currid-Halkett’s book on the middle of our nation, The Overlooked Americans.[1]  To get an assessment of the country, the author interviewed hundreds of people – all sorts, from all parts of the nation and of all political stripes.

What she discovered is that we have much more in common than the pundits and radio shock-jocks would lead us to believe.  A key question the author asked of all interviewees was what democracy meant to them.

What she found was an affirmative answer to Rodney King’s tormented question, “Can we all get along?”  A definite “yes” was the overwhelming answer of almost all respondents.

As a whole, we citizens had a capacious and generous understanding of the national covenant that binds us together as a people.  Some of our answers:

“…everybody has a choice, everybody has a vote, everyone mattering” – this from a single mom in Appalachia.

“Where everyone gets a fair say with decision-making, to some extent…People should help make decisions for the country and to have the freedom to have free speech and practice any religion, without being persecuted” – a neurologist from Memphis. 

Despite differences in age and section of the country, most answers seemed similar.  Maybe we can all get along.  And where we have differences, “trust but verify.”  Cut each other a bit of slack.

It all takes a bit of tending.  In a discussion between Marilynne Robinson and President Obama, quoted by the author, Robinson remarked on our national experiment with self-rule: “[Democracy] was something that people collectively made and that they understood they held it together by valuing it.”  “We cannot take it for granted…It is a main thing that we remake continuously.”[2]  It is based on our valuing one another.

When going through some of my brother’s things, in his workshop – a very large space – I came across one huge safe.  Then another.  And yet another.  These things weighed hundreds of pounds and were almost six feet tall by four feet wide and two feet deep.  One after another until I counted at least six of them.  Two of which were still in their shipping containers.  He had a forklift to move them.

My friend wondered what was going on with his thinking.  The answer?  Paranoia.  Tom didn’t trust much of anybody.  The world was obviously out to rob him blind.  I offered to loan my friend my psych textbook on paranoia.  It explains everything we were seeing.

The Gospel answer?  Life’s too short to live in continual distrust of one’s fellows.  Bad for the heart also.

The ethic of the Jesus movement is that of a generous spirit.  Most of us, even in the church, will do the right thing.  Our differences?  “We can work it out,” to quote the Beatles.  “We can work it out.” 

The church is like a big family.  We are not just a random assortment of individuals who happened to stumble in off the street.  We belong to one another.  And that’s the reality I witness every Sunday here at St. Francis.

Yes, like any family we have our differences, but there’s no evil intent implied or expressed – like any family.

I can still remember our late controversy here at St. Francis over the Thanksgiving gravy.  On one hand we had the giblet’s faction and opposed was the giblets-free opinion.  In my mind’s eye I could envision schism over gravy of all things.  Giblets were essential.  Giblets were an atrocity.  Which would it be?  As my grandmother would often exclaim in disgust, “Oh, good gravy!”

The problem was solved by having two gravy selections.  You choose. Would that all church controversies could be worked out so amicably.  Maybe this solution comes under the category of WWJD.  Or at least, it’s as close as we could get.

As one of my favorite hymns puts it: “Blest be the tie that binds/Our hearts in Christian love:/The fellowship of kindred minds/Is like to that above.  We share each other’s woes,/Our mutual burdens bear,/And often for each other flows/The sympathizing tear…When we asunder part,/It gives us inward pain.”

This is indeed a journey where everyone counts, where everyone is precious in the Lord’s sight.  Let us continually pray for the grace to live out this vision.  Amen.

---

[1] Elizabeth Currid-Hacket, The Overlooked Americans: The Resilience of Our Rural Towns and What that Means for Our Country (New York: Basic Books, 2023).

[2] Op cit, 29-30.

September 10, 2023
15 Pentecost, Proper 18

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Ezekiel 33:7-11; Psalm 119:33-40;
Romans 13:8-14; Matthew 18:15-20 “Trust But Verify

At my first assignment as a United Methodist pastor out in California’s Upper Mojave Desert, I served two congregations.  One of them, the one in Randsburg, I was supposed to close after the church had received a bequest left it by the matriarch of the parish, Mrs. Jewell.

Since we had only 4 members there upon my arrival that July 1, closure made complete sense.  However, since our attorney handling the matter was less than diligent, this matter was dragging on and on.  Pretty soon we were up to ten members, then twenty.  This was becoming a thriving operation.

One of the couples who lived up the hill above town, Muriel and Harold Beck, attended regularly, but Harold’s brother who lived next door wouldn’t darken the door of the church for Sunday services.  But if we needed any repair to the furnace or the plumbing, he was most willing to come down and get us operational again.

One weekday, when I’d usually make my visits to folks there, Harold asked me if I might make a pastoral call on his brother Jim.  He’d love to meet me.

Was I in for quite a story!  First of all, Jim had worked with the Wright Brothers – yeah, the first airplane Wright Brothers.  He had some wonderful reminiscences to share of Wilbur and Orville and their bicycle shop.  He had left before they had started building their biplane, the Wright Flyer in 1899.

But here’s the thing which stuck with me:  The tragic story Jim shared.  Upon leaving high school, he was signed up as a baseball player in one of the minor leagues, then for a short while went up to the majors.  I don’t remember the team, not even positive now that Jim was his first name.

When Jim told his pastor that he would have to be missing Sunday services, the pastor told him in no uncertain terms that he would be going straight to hell.

That was the last Jim’s church ever saw of him.  Or any church.  Though he and I developed a good friendship and we had numerous visits, he could absolutely not get over the hurt that pastor had inflicted on his soul.

In our reading from Matthew, we are told that the Church has been given great authority.

“And I tell you, you are Peter, and on this rock I will build my church, and the gates of Hades will not prevail against it.  I will give you the keys of the kingdom of heaven, and whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven.”

That foundational passage has been the source of much hurt and pain when interpreted in support of an imperial version of the Christian faith.  And it has been the source of much Gospel Joy, when interpreted as a prompting for servant leadership.

Too often those in authority have, since the rise of the Constantinian church, used this passage to exclude, to flout their authority, to oppress.  The abuse of authority, cloaked in those few verses, has itself been the source of great sin.

When confronted with such clerical pomposity, my wife responds, “And who put you in charge?”  Of course, they themselves did.

And the evil which flows from such misuse and distortion of authority is legion.

I believe that Paul Tillich best described the parameters of sin when he looked at it as a three-fold separation:  Separation from others, separation from self and ultimately, separation from God. 

Sin is not those nasty, spiteful or criminal things we do.  They are all symptoms of that initial separation.

We can remain locked in to this separation.  Out of judgmental disposition we can attempt to lock others into the tragic separation which is often the human condition.  To remain bound, we tie ourselves to something that will eat our souls alive.  Much as flesh-eating bacteria consumes the living body.

Or we can choose release.  “Let go and let God” – an insight from the Holy Spirit.  Grace abounding.

Yes, we can retain sin.  But our calling in Christ Jesus is to pronounce release.  Sometimes called forgiveness.

Some of you are aware that recently my brother Tom passed away.  He had been a resident of Twin Falls, Idaho.  He had never married and had no children.  I was his only sibling.  So, guess to whom the chore has come in wrapping up his affairs.

Tom, had an extra copy of the family packrat gene.  Little by little, I’m discovering what all he left behind.  One of his former employees, now my employee, discovered in going through is check register, four huge storage units here in California.

These are really huge – 14 feet by 50 feet – completely packed with stuff:  Pieces of scrap metal, furniture, assorted piles of lumber, machinery, and at least two vehicles.  There was an old Chevy panel truck in one and a Ford Ranchero in another.  The Ford’s worth restoring, but I have to first find the hood somewhere.

When we got the first storage door opened and I looked inside, I could only mutter, “Lord, take me now!”

He owned a triplex in Loma Linda and one of the garages there is also full of his stuff, including an 80s-something Lexus.

Besides leaving all this stuff behind, Tom had a personality disorder, leaving behind a lot of hurt.  He could say all manner of hateful and resentful things.

Looking back at our troubled relationship, I’m faced with a spiritual choice:  Do I retain all this hurt and emotional mess, or am I willing to release it?

This choice was given greater focus when I was confronted with the responsibility of writing his obituary.

Also, most helpful was meeting one of his tenants at the Loma Linda triplex, an African named Rose.  Rose, a former citizen of South Africa, was most kind and generous in her hospitality.  This was the open and welcoming African hospitality I had experienced in Ghana.  I was invited in to her apartment, given a warm hug and offered coffee or tea.

Rose, was completely devastated to hear of Tom’s death.  She reminisced on what a generous landlord he had been.  She needed a new dishwasher?  He had one installed.  She needed a new refrigerator?  He purchased one for her.  Over the years, he had kept rents well within reason.

When I met with two of the women who ran the storage facilities, I heard similar stories.

From his former employee, I heard of his concern for the environment.  He would not use plastic anything if he could avoid it.

The final analysis?  Tom was a mixed bag, even though he had been estranged from the rest of the family for years.  In writing his obituary, I was given the Spirit-nurtured opportunity to both acknowledge the damage he had done over the years, and to acknowledge the grace-filled aspects of who he was: in short, to “let go and let God.”

Over the weeks and months to come, as I empty out the mounds of stuff from his storage units, I will pray for the spiritual strength to keep this perspective.  One day at a time.

We can, in our own hurt and despair, choose to retain the sin of separation, but our life-giving opportunity, our calling, in the Jesus Movement is to release it.  And the promise is that even greater life will flow back into us. 

As we pray every Sunday after communion:

Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
  Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
  where there is injury, pardon;
  where there is discord, union;
  where there is doubt, faith;
  where there is despair, hope;
  where there is darkness, light;
  where there is sadness, joy.

Grant that we may not so much seek
  to be consoled as to console,
  to be understood as to understand;
  to be loved as to love.

For it is giving that we receive;
  it is in pardoning that we are pardoned;
  and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.

A tough assignment for sure; yet in such living, we are led the door of eternal life.  Amen

August 20, 2023
13 Pentecost, Proper 16

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Isaiah 51:1-6; Psalm 138;
Romans 12:1-8; Matthew 16:13-20

When we lived on Green Street, I had a five-mile walking course laid out that took me up to Foothill then back down Towne to home.   I would often do this route after dark.

One evening as I was heading back down on Towne, I didn’t notice that one section of the sidewalk had been lifted up by tree roots.  The next thing I knew I was sprawled out in some juniper bushes in the park strip.  Down for the count.

As I slowly gained my wits and realized that I was probably going to live, I noticed a sharp, stabbing pain wracking my shoulder.  Then I began to feel like maybe, in fact, I wasn’t going to make it.  The pain was excruciating.  “They’re going to just find my cold, dead body lying here in the morning when they bring in the trash containers,” I thought.  After laying there for a number of minutes, I realized nothing was broken, and gingerly got back on my feet.

Obviously, I didn’t expire, but made it back home.  The next day I did report this trip hazard to the city.  I wasn’t going to sue them, but the next victim might.

In our reading from Matthew, we discern the importance of the Law and the tradition.  We see the importance of Jesus’ mission to the people of Israel.  But, in today’s reading, the gospel writer is moving us beyond this narrow vision. The dietary restrictions are not the sole point of it all – the be-all, end-all in themselves.

“’Listen and understand:  It is not what goes into the mouth that defiles a person, but it is what comes out of the mouth that defies.’ Then the disciples approached and said to him, ‘Do you know that the Pharisees took offense when they heard what you said?’…’Let them alone; they are blind guides of the blind…what comes out of the mouth proceeds from the heart, and this is what defiles.’”

Mathew goes on then to introduce the foreign woman, breaking all boundaries of protocol.

“Just then a Canaanite woman from that region came out and starting shouting, ‘Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.’”

Jesus ignores her, as well he should according to custom and propriety.  But she persists.  “’Send her away, for she keeps shouting after us.’”  But this is my kind of woman.  She will insist that Grace trumps all.  She will not be denied.  When Jesus tells her that his mission is solely to the house of Israel, and that one does not take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs, she nails him and his stodgy, limited understanding of God’s Welcome. 

“She said, ‘Yes, Lord, yet even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their master’s table.’” 

At this point Jesus grants her the healing she seeks for her daughter. “’Woman, great is your faith!  Let it be done for you as you wish.’ And her daughter was healed instantly.”

And like the Grinch who Stole Christmas, Jesus’ heart grew three sizes larger.

The divine, enfleshed in human yearning, grew beyond the narrow bounds of nationality and custom.  Grace upon Grace.  That’s what God is all about as revealed in the maturing vision of the Matthew’s community of faith as evidenced by their preserving of this story.

We come to the consummation of this vision when the Risen Christ in Matthew commands us to take this understanding out to all.  “Go and make disciples of all nations.”  All means All!

The Johannine community captures this sentiment exactly.  “God is Love, and those who abide in Love abide in God and God in them.”  Not a sloppy, sentimental, Hallmark pastel-cheap sentiment – but a Love that costs.  A Love that commits to doing the necessary thing.  A Love that speaks the Truth and lets the chips fall where they may.  What Bonhoeffer called “costly grace.” 

Somewhere the spiritual writer Anne Lamott nailed it when she posted, “You can safely assume you’ve created God in your own image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.”

So, folks, here’s the takeaway:  When we act as the “Frozen Chosen,” when rules become more important than the essential of Grace, are we Christians not a stumbling hazard every bit as much as that broken sidewalk that sent me sprawling into the bushes? 

Such impediments were called a skandalon, a stumbling stone – just as such attitudes are a scandal to the proclamation of the Gospel in our day.

When we ignore the damage done to the “least of us” and just go about our comfortable lives, aren’t we as dangerous to the faith as that cracked concrete?

In the Episcopal Diocese of West Virginia, Bishop Mike mandated that every parish and mission would have Narcan, the antidote to opioid poisoning, available on site with people trained to administer it.

One stodgy priest was heard to comment, “Why would we do this?  They’ll just overdose again.”  Yeah.  Right – probably up there with what Jesus might have said.  And just what part of the Gospel did this uncaring clergy creep miss???  A stumbling stone to the proclamation of Gospel Grace, that soul is.

Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks, indeed!

I find that there is much joy to be had in being part of the welcome, in being part of the solution.  That’s what the Jesus Movement is all about.

Saturday morning, I went out to Amy’s Farm, a non-profit organization and met with Randy Berkendam, Amy’s husband who runs the business end of things.  He showed me around and we talked about the prospect of them moving to St. Francis as they are being evicted due to the land being sold to a developer.

I witnessed all sorts of healthful, productive activity – now that’s Gospel Grace.  That farm is a welcome to all – Gospel Welcome.

This is an opportunity for Love-in-action that God may now be giving to us.  Just as a woman with a hemorrhaging daughter was an opportunity for Jesus to grow spiritually – dare I say, for God to grow? — the community of faith to grow?

Randy, at another location, showed me a huge, monster pile of composting soil which would need to be stashed elsewhere than at St. Francis.  It is the essential soil composting.  With this, Randy believes he can get moved and have the farm up and running in as little as 6 weeks. 

Right now, Amy’s Farm is economically self-sustaining.  Unfortunately, selling healthy food does not pay all the bills.  Two potential sources of income would be reimbursement from the House of Hope – San Bernardino for making this form of therapy available for our clients; the second being from a local college or university which would want to make a sustainable farming course available to their students.  Amy’s Farm presently has one such arrangement.  Our son Jonathan took such a course at Kenyon College and loved it — one of the best classes he took there, he says.

Are we interested in hearing what Randy has to say?  Are we sufficiently daring to step out in faith for the sake of Love? — Jesus did.

Everybody, stay safe, keep batteries and flashlights handy just in case.  But in any case, the lights will NOT go out on the Spirit of St. Francis!  Amen.

Randy shows off the farm.  It was built over a bed of wood ships then layered with rich, composted soil.  Notice the efficient drip irrigation.

 Rich, black, living soil, makes the kale grow!

August 20, 2023
12 Pentecost, Proper 15

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Isaiah 56:1, 6-8; Psalm 67;
Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32; Matthew 15:10-28

“All Means All – Take 2”

When I was a callow youth, my sights were pretty low.  I thought that I would have made it if I had a 57 Chevy – you know the one, with the fins and all that chrome.  That and a girlfriend. 

At the moment I had neither.  I had a family cast-off 1950 Studebaker.  Hardly a chick magnet.  And my love life was butkus – going nowhere.

I remember the day I ran into an old friend at Cal State Long Beach.  After catching up, he, out of the blue, asked how my love life was going.  I had to admit.  It was non-existent.

He suggested that I might want to come to a meeting of the Wesley Foundation, the Methodist student group on campus. 

I told him that I had had it with religion.  The church was just a bunch of hypocrites.  In fact, the pastor of what had been my home congregation in Long Beach had come out against California’s fair housing law.  “Nah, not interested.”

My friend continued, “They have some pretty fine women who go there.”

“What time do they meet,” I skeptically responded.

And that was the beginning of a long journey back into the church.  In spite of my doubts, the campus minister who was appointed to shepherd the group introduced me to some of the theological giants of the twentieth century – a trip far beyond my then fourth-grade Sunday school understanding of the faith:  Tillich, both of the Niebuhr brothers, Kierkegaard, Bultmann, Barth and the Jewish theologian Martin Buber.

The Methodist Quadrennial conference in Lincoln, Nebraska, introduced me to Dr. Martin Luther King, the keynote speaker at that event.  And I was saved!  I thought, “If this is the church…include me in.”  I also met a lovely young woman on the bus, to whom I’ve been married now over fifty-seven years.  Now — What a journey it’s been – and still continues to be!

Today, we celebrate the Transfiguration – that episode up on the mountain where Jesus has gone to pray.  It is said that he took Peter, John and James with him, and as he prayed, he became transplendent –utterly surpassing the limits of ordinary experience.  In the sparkle he was joined by Moses and Elijah, talking with him.  The scene became ethereal.

“Now Peter and his companions were weighed down with sleep; but since they had stayed awake, they saw his glory and the two men who stood with him.  Just as they were leaving him, Peter said to Jeus, ‘It is good for us to be here.  Let us make three dwellings, one for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah’ – not knowing what he had said. 

And as a cloud envelops them, the divine command is heard, “This is my Son, my Chosen; listen to him!”

Jesus knew that this moment, no matter how glorious, was not the destination, but only a signpost on the way.  A confirmation that they were all on the Way.  The Torah Way, where they all would discover their fulfillment in the Torah command, “You shall love the Lord your God and your neighbor as yourself.”  On such hangs all the Law and the Prophets.  And your very destination.  And that path will also go down through all the miseries and joys known to humanity. 

On that road you will also be Transfigured — in no small way are “being transformed into the same image from glory to glory, just as by the Spirit of the Lord.”[1]  (Brother John Wesley would call it, “Going on to perfection.”)  And in the midst of the living of your days, the Glory of the Lord shall be revealed, is revealed!

That is the meaning of these two men conversing with Jesus – Moses, the figure of Exodus living and summation of God’s gift of the Law, that we know how to care for one another, self and creation.  And Elijah, the prophet of End Time – which is to say that NOW is the time of fulfillment.  NOW is YOUR time.  No matter what is showing on the clock, this is the “Eternal NOW.”  Your moment, as in reality, is every sacred moment.

It was out of such quotidian moments that a new people was forged under the leadership of Moses and the promise of Elijah.  Testing and trials in forty years of wilderness journey brought forth the prophetic sensibility of love of God and neighbor, that they are one and the same — for God dwells in that person, that neighbor.  And, down through Jesus, to those who, in his vision, continue this journey: St. Francis, Dorothy Day, Harriett Tubman, Caesar Chavez, Delores Huerta, William O. Douglas, the Standing Rock protestors, Martin Luther King, Rosa Parks, William Stringfellow – all resplendent icons of transfiguration.  All with moral countenances gleaming as the sun.  All a cascade of moments upon moments as our journey is drawn to the final vision of God, the Omega Point, of End Time. 

And now Elijah’s mantle falls to us in our hour.  In all senses of the phrase, it’s our time to Rise and Shine.

We’ve intellectually known that democracy is indeed a fragile thing, but have not really experienced, until these past days – have not really experienced its existential peril.  With Jack Smith’s indictment of the Former Guy, we’ve come to see how tragically close we have come to its ruination.

And the idolatry of worship given the Former Guy by the base of his party is nothing less than that which Moses discovered upon his descent from Mount Sinai.

Can you imagine his abhorrence when confronted by the fawning, prostrated worshipers before a golden calf?!  Not the God who brought them out of slavery but a tinsel trinket of nothing – A shambolic idol of death and chaos, just as empty as that of the Former Guy’s personality cult, where all is subsumed to an insatiable desire for personal gratification. With this idol, as the first, you get nothing back in return.  Loyalty is a one-way street.  All is up for grabs: the Constitution, Rule of Law, family, friends, allies and business associates.  All laid before that orange-haired fraudulent altar to Nothingness.

Moses led the Children of Israel, through the Grace of God, into a more robust vision of the Grace of God, despite that apostasy and idolatry, despite the constant grumbling and failure of vision. 

And through those who have held to the journey steadfast, we are led into yet a more fulsome vision of America.

Now, you, too, are offered a hand up to board this Freedom Train.  Do not sit silent when those around you belittle and deny the severity of our nation’s most tragic hour. “Get on board, li’l children, get on board.”  We’re bound for Glory!   Silence is acquiescence. Silence is betrayal.

Support the heroic work of those working on our behalf to affirm the truths we hold as self-evident:  Fani Willis in Fulton County, Georgia, investigating election fraud (and now ready to file a fourth indictment); their Secretary of State Brad Raffensperger who refused to “find” — read “manufacture” –11,780 votes – as the Former Guy whined, “which is one more than we have because we would have won the state.” 

We must honor the faithful and daring work of the Michigan Attorney General Dana Nessel, now preparing charges against that group of fake electors, poised to steal the election from the voters of her state — voters who actually, and fairly, chose the real, legitimate president of the United States.  Yeah, the one we have now – thanks be to God.  She has held fast to the responsibilities of her office despite death threats and the need for a constant security detachment everywhere she goes.

Stand in support of that countless number of election workers, those whose names you will never know – except, maybe those publicly defamed by the Former Guy – those who, for faithfully carrying out their duties of office, now fear for their lives and those of their families, and who been ruined by his public scorn and incitement — and by the terrorism of his mob of followers with their lies and vigilante violence.  All part of the journey of America in these later days.  Our days!

So, here we are, on the precipice of the most dangerous political polarization since the Civil War – an attempt to overthrow a legitimate election and the resulting government of the United States.  Nothing less than treason in my book!  Lincoln hanged some such seditionists; I’d settle for a long stint of house arrest.

Hear just some of the charges:

“Shortly after election day, the Defendant also pursued unlawful means of discounting legitimate votes and subverting the election results. In so doing, the Defendant perpetrated three criminal conspiracies:

“a. A conspiracy to defraud the United States by using dishonesty, fraud, and deceit to impair, obstruct, and defeat the lawful federal government function by which the results of the presidential election are collected, counted, and certified by the federal government, in violation of 18 U.S.C. § 371;

“b. A conspiracy to corruptly obstruct and impede the January 6 congressional proceeding at which the collected results of the presidential election are counted and certified…

“and c. A conspiracy against the right to vote and to have one’s vote counted, in violation of 18 U.S.C. § 241. Each of these conspiracies—which built on the widespread mistrust the Defendant was creating through pervasive and destabilizing lies about election fraud…

Count 1: the defendant…did knowingly combine, conspire, confederate, and agree with co-conspirators, known and unknown to the Grand Jury, to defraud the United States by using dishonesty, fraud, and deceit to impair, obstruct, and defeat the lawful federal government function by which the results of the presidential election are collected, counted, and certified by the federal government.

And this is just the start.  Go online, warm up the Google machine, and read the entire number of counts being leveled.  It staggers the mind.  You can’t make this stuff up.  We all saw it live, in living color on our television screens.  And replayed and replayed ad nauseum.

It is NOW your turn to pick up the leadership of Moses as we move onward into a land of freedom and dignity, where all can thrive. 

You, as a young student, hand over heart, pledged loyalty to this union, never perfect but ever perfectible; it is now your moment to put that sentiment into action – to affirm in word and deed that no one is above the law.  We are all accountable to the common good.

As my wife says: “Lead, follow or get out of the way.”  This is our leg of the journey.  We’re up at bat.

As with Moses and Dr. King, we may not get to that Promised Land but we have been to the Mountain of Revelation, the Mountain of Transfiguration.  We have seen the Promised Land.

Sometimes, that’s how I feel about our House of Hope.  I might not get there, but I’ve seen the vision.  And hopefully, if we work at it and stick together, we have a team who will bring it into reality.  That’s our promise to all who enter our doors: “Where hope becomes reality.”

On that journey we, too, are transfigured into the image of the Risen Christ.  That’s where a scattered, rag-tag group of fugitives from Pharoah’s wrath were forged into a People of God.  That, too, is the destiny of all of us of the Jesus Movement.

In his fellowship, we shall discover who we are and what we’re called to be.  As they’d say at the YMCA pool, “Come on in.  The water’s fine.”   Amen.

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[1] II Corinthians 3:18, New King James Version

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
2855 Sterling Avenue, San Bernardino, CA 92404

August 6, 2023 – The Transfiguration

“The Journey is the Destination”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99

2 Peter 1:13-21; Luke 9:38-36

In most dysfunctional families, various members fill different functions.  There is the identified “problem,” the drama revolves around.  A supportive cast is the enablers, the deniers, a co-addict, maybe a family clown, and if fortunate for all, a realist.  I would cope by injecting humor.  Crack a joke.  Do something funny.

In school I was the class clown.  I still remember the day at the beginning of a new semester in Algebra II asking a question. I distinctly remember it had to do with something about exponents.  We had covered all this in Algebra I.

I remember our teacher, Mr. Coulson, in astonishment asking me, “Mr. Forney, what grade did I give you last semester?”

“A C-,” I sheepishly answered.  By this time the entire class was tuned in.

“I gave you a C???”  “Yes, sir,” I answered.  “I gave you a C???” he reiterated.   (pause).

“You must have lost your head,” I stammered.  By this time the entire class was in fits of laughter.  I think I then mumbled something about doing better this year.  I didn’t.  I got a D.

Fast forward to the time of having completed my two-year stint in the Army as a conscientious objector in the medics – that I did excel at.  I was newly married and would soon be back in the civilian world.  It was time to get my act together.

When our captain gave the “re-up” speech, I positively knew I didn’t want to do that.  As my Christian journey had deepened over those past two years, I felt drawn to think about seminary.

It was time to wise up.  I had to get serious about my studies.  I had a family to support.

However, being an academic screw-up, I had a terrible GPA to clean up.  Do you have any idea how much work it takes to fix a 1.8 GPA?  Having new responsibilities, I definitely needed to wise up.  I was now in prime time.

King Solomon, having kingship thrust upon him with the death of his father David, realizes he is way too inexperienced for these newly acquired responsibilities.  He also needs to wise up.

As the legend goes, the Almighty appears to him soon after his accession to the Davidic throne. 

“At Gibeon the Lord appeared to Solomon in a dream by night; and God said, ‘Ask what I should give you.’…O Lord my God, you have made your servant king in place of my father David, although I am only a little child; I do not know how to go out or come in…Give your servant therefore an understanding to discern what is right.”

And, of course, we all know the story:  Solomon was accounted the wisest of all Israel’s kings.  His wisdom is legendary.  You remember the story of offering to cut an infant in two to reveal the true mother?  The one who in terror cried out, “No, give the child to her.”

And the discernment I was given was the summons to burn the midnight oil with my books.  Indeed, time to wake up, time to wise up.

This past week, as our planet baked under the hottest temperatures in any July, Mother Earth was giving us all an urgent message, “It’s time to wise up.” 

And we’ve been getting that very same message from our scientists, weather forecasters and the few responsible leaders we have.

Secretary General Antonio Guterres of the United Nations in an address this week warned, “Humanity is in the hotseat.”

According to the data released today, July has already seen the hottest three-week period ever recorded; the three hottest days on record; and the highest-ever ocean temperatures for this time of year.

The consequences are clear and they are tragic: children swept away by monsoon rains; families running from the flames; workers collapsing in scorching heat.

For the entire planet, it is a disaster.

And for scientists, it is unequivocal – humans are to blame.

And this is entirely consistent with predictions and repeated warnings.

The only surprise is the speed of the change.

Climate change is here.  It is terrifying. And it is just the beginning.

The era of global warming has ended; the era of global boiling has arrived.

The air is unbreathable.  The heat is unbearable.  And the level of fossil fuel profits and climate inaction is unacceptable.[1]

The warning was clear and unequivocable:  TIME TO WISE UP.

The signs are there for any to read.  As Jesus asked his disciples after telling them similes concerning the Kingdom of Heaven – about a mustard seed, a pearl of great price, about a net cast over the side of a boat that brings all sorts of fish, a woman at work with yeast in a lump of flour, a treasure in a field…” Have you understood all this?”

And, the fact is, for the most part, they understood very little of it as they argued amongst themselves as to who is the greatest, and who would get to sit as his right hand in paradise. 

And we, like they, seem to understand very little of what Mother Earth and the Secretary-General and all his scientists are telling us.

But it’s all as clear as the truth about those mustard seeds, as promising as the joy of a farmer who’s discovered a hidden treasure in his field.  The planet’s at the boiling point.

Now, a whole bunch of people have become so jaded, so cynical … maybe they’ve listened to too much Fox or Newsmax, like those disciples, in fact they understand none of this.  To our peril.

The warnings given ARE that Pearl of Great Price.  They are that Hidden Treasure.  Every bit as precious and trustworthy as the warnings about my lack of diligence from my Latin teacher (among others).

Will we be as those weeds on the Last Day, thrown into the Eternal Fire?  Most likely, the fire that gets us will be an inextinguishable one which whips across the plains, fed with hurricane-force winds as the firestorm creates its own weather – a “firenado.”

Prayers for discernment and wisdom might be a start.  But only a start.  If you do pray, yes, ask for wisdom and understanding.  Then pray for the courage to take a hard look at the signs around you – what is happening.  Ask for the courage to heed those honest leaders telling us what we need to know, NOT what we want to hear.

It’s time to wake up.  It’s time to wise up.

In addition to the cast of characters surrounding the “problem” person, if he/she is fortunate, there will be a realist or two ready to conduct an intervention.  To sit the “problem” down and tell them the facts of life about their life.

God has given the wisdom to discern what is really going on and the mature spirituality to act on it.  As Jesus would often conclude a teaching, “Those who have ears to hear, let them listen.” 

Winston Churchill is reputed to have said, “Americans always do the right thing.  After they have tried everything else.”  It’s time for all of us to wise up and do the right thing.

And there are some hopeful signs.  No, we can’t in any of our lifetimes undo the damage to Mother Earth and one another.  But we can ease the pain and make sure the effects are shared with more justice.

Pick up a current book on the problem.  One I’ve been reading lately that I highly recommend is The Heat Will Kill You First by Jeff Goodell.  Pick it up.  Listen to it on Audible.  The warning of this author is God’s Grace.  Pray God for the wisdom to “read, mark, and inwardly digest” this warning.  It is a planetary wake-up call.

“The human race – which built the pyramids and the iPhone, wrote epic love poems and invented rock ‘n’ roll, worshipped ancient gods and now deifies Hollywood stars – will exist in a world beyond the world it grew up in, beyond the place where our hearts were shaped and our genes were forged…”[2]

Heat will be the engine of this transformation.  The heat that propels us out of our Goldilocks Zone…

As Imam Saddiq told us on global warming at one Friday evening prayer service I had attended, “Don’t blame Allah.  Allah didn’t do this.  We DID this.”

Signs of hope – Ancient Wisdom still speaks.  An intervention?  Let’s hope so, let’s pray so.  And let’s heed it.  Time to wise up!

Signs of hope – Even with our ruinous politics, even in the chaotic House of Representatives, realists of both parties are again reconstituting the Climate Caucus.  Some asleep, no-account politicians are waking up, wising up.  Time to take the car keys away from this inebriated driver who’s steering the climate car over the cliff.

And you, dear reader, most likely have gotten the message:  Change the light bulbs, buy less, pick up your trash.  But that’s only a small beginning.

The other day, another beacon of God’s Grace flashed before my mind – Bill Nye, the Science Guy.

On the “Joy Reid Show,” he was telling the audience that all the small efforts at mitigation will, in the end amount to little or nothing if we don’t change the politics.

“Do not vote for anyone who is a climate skeptic or enables them.”  Do not vote for anyone who does not put climate change at the very top of their agenda.” 

Solomonic Wisdom from On High and from Deep Within.  Make this discussion your priority.  Vote climate!  Often and always.

At the close of her Harry Potter book, Chamber of Secrets, the head master of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, Albus Dumbledore, consoles a defeated Harry Potter.[3]

“It is our choices that show what we truly are, far more than our abilities.”

King David knew this truism, that he alone was responsible for his actions.  Solomon prayed for the wisdom to exercise this charge wisely.

And now, it’s up to all of us and the choices we make.  Pray God, we’re given the wisdom to do the “right thing.”  Pray God, we’re given the spiritual gumption to Wise Up.  This living, breathing planet is a Pearl of Great Price.  Amen.

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[1] Antonio Guterres, “Secretary-General’s opening remarks at press conference on climate,” UN Headquarters, July 27, 2023.

[2] Jeff Goodell, The Heat Will Kill You First: Life and Death on a Scorched Planet (New York: Little, Brown and Company, 2023), 309.

[3] J.K. Rowling, Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets.  Scholastic Books, (Cincinnati, OH: Scholastic Books, 1999), chapter 18.

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
2855 Sterling Avenue, San Bernardino, CA 92404

July 30, 2023 – 9Pentecost, Proper 12

“Time to Wise Up”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

I Kings 3:5-12; Psalm 119:129-136

Romans 8:26-39; Matthew 13:31-33, 44-52

How many of us boys early on got the message that big boys don’t cry?  And just who told us that?

 In our house feelings were not allowed, certainly not tears.  I still vividly remember the time Grandpa died.  He had gone into the hospital for a hernia operation.  I was too young to understand what that meant, but had the feeling that this was a “normal” thing for older people to have, and wasn’t all that serious.  Not like cancer or a heart attack.

Within a couple of days, it was a complete shock to the family when the news came that he had gotten a blood clot somewhere and had died.

There were whispered conversations around the dinner table about how to take care of Grandma, about a funeral, where he would be buried.  I don’t remember much from that somber day when a black limousine arrived from the mortuary and picked our family up at our house.  We were escorted to the front row of the church.  It was very quiet with the organ playing something softly.

Grandpa was one of my childhood heroes.  He had been the postmaster of Lodi, California, until FDR was elected.  Grandpa was a Hurbert Hoover appointee, and after the election was fired by “That Man.”  The name was not to be spoken in our household.

Grandpa would take me and his little Scottie dog Mini down to the corner drug store most afternoons when we were up in Lodi and buy me a soda.  He would tell me about his life in the post office work, and later as an ambulance attendant and then working for Wells Funeral home printing out all their announcements.

But more than all that, Grandpa taught me about the world.  He was an avid stamp collector and got me started in the hobby.  As he would show me the stamps from far away foreign lands, he would tell me about them.  We could spend hours leafing through the pages of his stamp album.  It’s how I learned about the countries Germany overran in WW II.  I learned about the various European colonies in Africa and Asia.  I learned about the new “republics” incorporated into the Soviet Union and about the 1917 Revolution. 

So, this was how the reality of his death hit me with great distress.  Since we couldn’t talk openly about this in our family, after the service, in shame at the tears welling up in my eyes, I shut myself in my closet and cried my heart out for several hours.

When my mom finally noticed me later on, wondering if I was okay, I lied, “I’m okay.”  Of course, I wasn’t okay.  Far from it.  But I had learned to stuff my feelings.  After all, big boys don’t cry.

What’s wrong? my wife asked somewhere in the first weeks of our marriage.  I was obviously upset about something.  “Nothing,” would come my abrupt response.  “I don’t want to talk about it.”  It’s a wonder I didn’t drive her crazy that first year.  Fortunately, with lots of counseling, over the years I have become better with feelings.

But what had been deeply instilled in me was deadly.  That false idol I served, without even realizing it, might have worked momentarily but over the long haul it was loneliness and death.

Such sacrifice to this notion “manliness,” this masculine ideal, is the altar on which we still offer up our boys.  This idol of self-sufficiency, through isolation kills.  It is a god of death, an unforgiving master, robbing our young men of their souls.  Notions of being in control rob us of connection.  No one likes to be around a “control freak” for any length of time.

The god of male infallibility is a jealous god that destroys all it touches.  Such notions are an idol, a false god.  This deity does NOT redeem.  Hear the words of Isaiah of true redemption and of the One who restores.  Hear the word of Isaiah concerning this idol.

“Thus says the Lord, the king of Israel, and his Redeemer, the Lord of hosts.  I am the first and I am the last, besides me there is no god.”

Sometime ago there was a movie of a family going through divorce, “The Children are Okay.”  This was an overriding concern of the mother in the chaos of that time – that the children, in the end, might somehow be okay.

Well, the children – at least our boys, are NOT okay.  The author of a new study, reported in Science News, contends that in our concern about girls, we have missed the struggling of boys.[1]

Depression — the destruction brought by the god of self-sufficiency young males are taught to honor – manifests itself in boys very differently than in girls.  Girls exhibit signs of sadness, and mental distress.

Depression in young males manifests itself as emotional suppression, anger, aggression, alcohol and drug abuse, sleep disorder, destructive, promiscuous sexual behavior, risk taking and suicide.[2]

It should be no surprise that virtually all our mass shootings are perpetrated by men – men, who as boys growing up tended to be loners, and as grown men were reported to have few if any close friends.  Many had throughout their lives exhibited the dysfunctional behavior manifested by male depression:  scrapes with the law, poor academic achievement, job instability.  Many had, Neo-Nazis and other radical fringe political hate groups attract an overabundance of these males.

It has been shown that we males, by the time we’re in our teens have already developed a loyalty to a beer, a brand of automobile, and a sports team.  I sure had – with the fervor of worship.  In a healthy way, that is the time that many, if ever, make a commitment to Christ or a life of faith.  That’s the reason this is the age for confirmation in many churches, bat mitzva and bar mitzva services in Judaism.

St. Augustine says what we are all born with a God-shaped hole.  Unfortunately, we too often try to fill it with that which is less than eternal.  When this need for self-worth and affirmation goes off the rails, the death-dealing god of our cultural promises and expectations can be deadly.  Your cool car, your over-inflated opinions, or your trophy girlfriend will not save you in the end.  Or guarantee you any long-term happiness.

It is John Calvin who warns us that the most powerful idols we serve are not of wood or metal.  He says, “the [human] heart is an idol factory.”  The mind, as well.  

“[The human] mind, full as it is of pride and boldness, dares to imagine a god according to its own capacity; as it sluggishly plods, indeed is overwhelmed with the crassest ignorance, it conceives an unreality and an empty appearance as God.”[3]

The ideals and conceptions we hold and serve can exact a terrible toll – fake gods all.  Especially, our distorted images of masculinity.  There is no “Prince Charming” – and you’re not it!

I can still vividly remember our diocesan convention held one year at Juneau.  I hadn’t been paying much attention to the proceedings when I noticed somewhat of a commotion up at the presider’s table.

Someone had come running up to where our bishop, who was chairing the meeting, and Holly, the secretary of the convention, were seated.  Everything stopped.  There was a very audible gasp and scream from Holly.  She and others quickly fled the room.  After a few moments Bishop Charleston asked that we pause the proceedings for prayer.  He announced that Holly’s son, Chad, had been shot and had died.  No one knew the particulars.

I knew this young boy.  He had been at the camp I ran in Southeast Alaska on numerous occasions.  I knew his parents as well.  They were a solid family.  How had this happened?

Later I got the story from his father.  The father had been working in his home office at the time when he heard the gun shot.  He rushed into Chad’s room to find him dead in his bed, a gun at his side and a hole in his head with blood everywhere.

Neither mother or father had any idea what demon their son had been wrestling with.  He had exhibited no mental illness, though looking back at it, he had seemed withdrawn and somewhat morose.  But he had said nothing about what was the matter.  If asked, the answer was typical teenage: “Oh, Nothing.”

Our researchers in the Science Magazine article report that we are now getting a better handle on male vulnerability.  Doctors and therapists are adding new questions to their repertoire to ferret out the signs of male depression – questions about anger and irritability in addition to those concerning hopelessness and substance abuse.

High schools, even junior highs in some cities, now host Alateen meetings for students knowing they have a problem with alcohol or drugs and want to find and maintain sobriety.

“Alateen is a place where members come together to: share experiences, strength, and hope with each other to find effective ways to cope with problems. discuss difficulties and encourage one another; help each other understand the principles of the Al-Anon program through the use of the Twelve Steps and Alateen’s Twelve Traditions”[4]

In fact, there are “recovery high schools” with faculty trained to meet the needs of this group of students.  In our high school, peer counselors were given training to approach fellow students who seemed withdrawn or having a bad day.  And it works!

All such efforts are the outflow of a Gospel of Life, that our most vulnerable thrive.  Would any such efforts have saved Holly’s and Bob’s young boy?  No one can say.  But, when I was on the school board, we had the testimony of many students at our high school who had been helped.  The magic sauce was peer support. 

I heard a quote from a famous sports writer the other night on The News Hour of PBS which rings true – certainly in working with young men, “People won’t care how much you know until they know how much they care.”  And that, my friends, is testimony to the love of our God who created the heavens and earth, who brought us up from bondage in Egypt — and in Mississippi.  This is the God of Loving Connection.

In the end it comes down to that Grace-filled Call from beyond ourselves — in the words of the hymn, “I sought the Lord, and afterward I knew//He moved my soul to seek Him, seeking me;//It was not I that found, O Savior true;//no, I was found of Thee.[5]”  May we daily live into that reality.  Amen.

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[1] Sujata Gupta, “The boys are NOT okay,” Science News, July 1, 2023

[2] Op. cit., 19.

[3] John Calvin, Institutes of the Christian Religion.  Ed. John T. McNeill.  Trans. Ford Lewis Battles (Philadelphia, PA: Westminster, 1960). p. 108.

[4] Teen Corner (Alateen) – Al-Anon Family Groups, http://www.al-anon.org/newcomers/teen-corner.

[5] Words by Jean Ingelow, 1863.

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
2855 Sterling Avenue, San Bernardino, CA 92404

July 23, 2023 – 8 Pentecost, Proper 11

  “Who Told You That?”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Isaiah 44:6-8; Psalm 86:11-17

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

There’s a story told of several monks at evening vespers that gives insight into the spirituality of each order they represent.  One is a Franciscan, another Dominican and finally, a Jesuit.

As they begin, the lights go out.  In darkness the Franciscan begins a litany to Brother Darkness.  The Dominican commences to philosophize about the nature of Light.  The Jesuit goes outside and changes the fuse.

In this batch, I’m the Jesuit.  Let’s make “stuff” happen is my spirituality.  I want joyful doers of the Word, not just hearers.  My preference is to joyfully change the fuse.

So, let’s launch into the fray with joyful abandon.

The theologian Pierre de Chardin somewhere proclaimed, “Joy the infallible sign of the presence of God.” 

That’s what I admired most about Hubert Humphrey.  He was the quintessential “Happy Warrior.”  He went out in joy to engage his opponents in the arena of ideas.  Without personal venom, he entered the political contest, making his case for what he thought to be right, what he thought would benefit the most vulnerable.  And that’s why he had strong friendships on both sides of the aisle.  And got stuff done.  A sourpuss tends to accomplish little to nothing. 

This is the spirituality of later Isaiah – a joyful return to the Israel for the Babylonian captives.  We go out with joy trusting that God’s Word in us does not return empty, but accomplishes its purpose.  That was true in the sixth century before Christ, it is true now – Go Out in Joy!

“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven, and do not return there until they have watered the earth…so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth…it shall not return to me empty.  For you shall go out in joy, and be led back in peace; the mountains and the hills before you shall burst into song and all the trees of the field clap their hands.”[1]

God, through the working of the Spirit, prepares the soil of hungry hearts in our hyper-individualistic American culture. Go out in JOY, ever “leaning on the promises.”

One of my listeners suggested that it was a shame that I had not been born ten years earlier – I might have more “good things” to remember about America.  Actually, I consider myself a “glass-half-full” person.  But, a Reinhold Niebuhr realist.  Definitely, not a Pollyanna.  Hopeful but “Keepin’ it real.”  So, it’s tough out there, but let’s go out in Joy, each and every day.

JOY is a hard sell these days. 

The American public is in a dyspeptic, sour mood.  A recent Associated Press survey shows that only ten percent of us believe and have faith that our democratic form of government is working.[2]  Ten percent!

Most folks believe that the common needs and desires of the average voter are ignored by the rich, and powerful well-connected. 

Insider scandals add to the alienation.  This past week another giant financial institution was hit with a huge fine for bilking their customers out of hundreds of millions – Bank of America. 

Charging exorbitant bogus fees and then double dipping on this robbery – profiting further on what they had extracted from their depositors’ accounts.  Fined $250 million, they were by the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau. 

“CFPB said Bank of America implemented a ‘double-dipping scheme’ to ‘harvest junk fees’ from customers and those actions are “illegal and undermine customer trust.”[3]

Is it no wonder the plutocrats and their political hacks tried to kill off this agency?  Still trying!

This, after the Wells Fargo indictment for saddling their customers with fake accounts and, in 2012, the largest scandal ever ensnaring many of our revered financial institutions — Deutsche Bank, Barclays, Citigroup, JPMorgan Chase, among others — jiggering the over-night transfer system, known as libor,[4] among banks. Through illicitly manipulating this world-wide, over-night reconciliation mechanism, these folks raked in hundreds of millions.  Most folks have never heard of Libor, yet this financial mechanism underpins some $350 TRILLION dollars of financial transactions. 

Like Willie Sutton, these crooks robbed the banks because that is where the money is.  But this heist was an inside job.  Laughing all the way IN the bank!  Not TO the bank.

Is it any wonder that most of us feel the system is rigged, that it serves only the rich and well-connected?  That we feel that ninety percent of recent tax cuts all went to the top ten percent?  Because it did!  As my mom was wont to say, “One damn thing after another.”

Yet we go forth in Joy to drain this swamp. 

Just a few pennies here, a few pennies there, and, as Tip O’Neil would say, “Pretty soon it adds up to real money” – oodles of billions.  The corrosive effects on the body politic of such corruption are also additive.

Scripture reminds us that our life in Christ is not to be all roses: “Count it all joy, my brothers and sisters, when you meet trials of various kinds, for you know that the testing of your faith produces steadfastness.”[5]  Go forth in Joy, nonetheless.

My political heroes are those who entered the political arena with such Joy –  Happy Warriors all: “Fighting Bob” Lafollette, Hubert Humphry, George McGovern, Jim Hightower.  And countless activists, scholars, teachers, reporters and muckrakers across this land who have refused to settle for business as usual – who refuse to cover up and excuse away money-grubbing greed and political entitlement that the real swamp be drained.

Some of our teachers are now being sanctioned by political hacks for allowing their students to learn of our failings – accused of being “woke.”  This is what happens in Russia, NOT in America!  Well, maybe in Florida and in Texas.  But in the end, the Spirit will reveal all Truth.  The Great Wikileaks!

That we can still publish and teach such inconvenient facts without sanction in most places, that is one of the things absolutely right about America.

Recently, I’ve come across a wonderful scholar, Kidada Williams, who has written a new book on the history of Reconstruction.  Most of what I was taught on this subject was that it failed because newly freed Blacks were incapable of handling their lives and affairs.  Nothing could be further from the truth.  Professor Williams demonstrates that it failed through unmitigated white terror against successful Blacks.  The same white resentment of Black success that gave us the Wilmington Coup in 1898 and the Tulsa Massacre in 1914 as a follow-up.

She tells the story not from the top down, but from the bottom up – in the testimony of those who risked life and their livelihood to testify at the congressional Ku Klux Klan hearings of 1871 and other original sources.  Her work allows the victims of this oppression to speak for themselves.  No “whitewash” here.

She tells the story of one newly freed slave in Mississippi who had the temerity to believe that America’s promises now applied to him and his family.  He went into town to vote.  He knew that his rights and the rights of his people would mean nothing without the political power to guarantee them. 

“On a November night in 1871, some ten miles east of Aberdeen, Mississippi, Edward Crosby stepped outside to get some water for his thirsty child, when suddenly, he heard and felt the thunder of a team of horses.  He gazed out, and by either moonlight or the glow of his torch, he saw about thirty disguised men descending on his home, their mounts draped by full-body coverings.”[6]

So begins her book, as professor Williams recounts the testimony of Mr. Crosby.  White writers would euphemistically refer to these raids as “visits” to mask the “brutality behind the veneer of a friendly social call.”

Edward knew that “death was coming for him but hoping it would spare his wife and children, Edward slipped into his family’s smokehouse.” [7]

“When the posse arrived in the Crosby’s yard, several men got down from their horses and called out for Edward to present himself.  Although terrified, Edward retained his composure and stayed in his hiding place.  Mrs. Crosby calmly told the men that she did not know where her husband was, but she thought he had gone to call on his sister.  The men hung around for a bit, dithering about what to do, before accepting they would not catch their target and leaving.”[8]

The Crosbys survived that raid but the scars and fear would haunt them the rest of their lives.  What we would now know as PTSD.  Many of their neighbors were far less fortunate.

When those “night-riders” arrived at Edward’s door after his attempt to vote, they “brought with them white southern hate for who the Crosbys were and what their new lives and status as freed people represented…this menacing violence infused the Crosby’s home and took up residence in the souls of each of its occupants.  That “visit” “exposed the freed family’s disposability…”[9]

We are told by some fear-mongers that teaching such history, telling such truth about our nation, might make some students feel “uncomfortable” and shouldn’t be mentioned.  Well, for the snowflakes who can’t handle the telling of this truth, my friend Debi’s response is, “Suck it up, Buttercup.”

Every day, teachers stand before their classes in Joy attempting to dispel clouds of willful forgetting and ignorance.  I’ve had such teachers.  So have you.  After all the years, those are the teachers you remember.

There’s an old gospel song that asserts, “If you can’t bear the cross, then you can’t wear the crown.”  Bearing the cross in our dysfunctional society means allowing the pain of others to enter your being.  It means being vulnerable to the hurt and pain, the hopes of others.  That’s called empathy.  This is NOT being WOKE, Governor DeSantis!  It’s living truthfully, living faithfully, living compassionately. 

Yes, the “Truth will set you free, but first it will hurt like hell.”  That was always the admonition of my friend Ed Bacon.  Yet, go forth with Joy.

As a nation, too many of us seemed to have lost that quality.  It’s all about me!  “I, I, I” — That’s not the Gospel of Jesus Christ.

To go out with “Joy in the Morning” is to set one’s face to the opposition and refuse to become as they — joyfully believing we can make a difference, that we ARE the difference.  In this, God’s Word does not return empty, but like the hidden working of yeast in a lump of dough, accomplishes its purpose. 

Like the seeds in Jesus’ parable, sown in Joy, enough do fall in fertile soil, bearing a harvest ten-fold, one-hundred-fold – What yield?  God alone knows.

I have on my wall an icon of St. George and the Dragon.  It is to remind me of the struggle each day, and that sometimes the dragon wins.  Yet, I sally forth with Joy, believing that I can make a difference.   That God’s word, however miniscule in me, will not return empty to God.

I close with a Franciscan Blessing – To send us out with Joy this blessed morning!

May God bless us with discomfort at easy answers, half-truths, and superficial relationships, so that we may live deep within our hearts.

May God bless us with enough foolishness to believe that we can make a difference in this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done.

May God bless us with anger at injustice, oppression, and exploitation of people, so that we may work for justice, freedom and peace.

May God bless us with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, homophobia, starvation and war, so that we may reach out our hand to comfort them and to turn their pain into joy.

Go out into the world in peace; have courage; hold onto what is good; return no one evil for evil; strengthen the faint-hearted; support the weak, and help the suffering; honor all people; love and serve the Lord, rejoicing in the power of the Holy Spirit.  Amen.

---

[1] Isaiah 55:10 ff., New Revised Standard Version

[2] Nicholas Riccardi, Linley Sanders, “Americans are widely pessimistic about democracy in the United States, an AP-NORC poll finds,” AP, July 14, 2023.

[3] Ashley Curtin, “Bank of America pays $250 million to customers and in penalty fees for illegal practices,” Nation of Change, July 14, 2023.

[4] LIBOR, the acronym for London Interbank Offer Rate, is the global reference rate for unsecured short-term borrowing in the interbank market in the over-night electronic settlement of global accounts.

[5] James 1:2, Revised Standard Version (alt.).

[6] Kidada E. Williams, I Saw Death Coming: A History of Terror and Survival in the War against Reconstruction (New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2023), xi.

[7] Ibid.

[8] Op cit., xii.

[9] Ob cit., xiv.

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
2855 Sterling Avenue, San Bernardino, CA 92404

July 16, 2023 – 7 Pentecost, Proper 10

“Go Out in Joy”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

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

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

If your high school American history class was anything like mine, it was not the most exciting.  Actually, mind-numbing boring.

Unfortunately, our teacher, Mr. Roberts, struggled with a rather severe handicap.  He was wheelchair bound.  He also struggled with a less than dynamic personality. 

He would sit at his desk and read from the textbook.  Within minutes, he had lost his audience.  Whispers and muffled giggles broke out as he droned on.  I found it the perfect time to finish the algebra problems assigned the previous day. 

He would read on until the ambient noise became so loud and behavior so disruptive, he would take this huge book and slam it down on his desk.  Heads would pop up.  Silence reigned – for a while.  He would commence reading again until this cycle of disruption was repeated. 

The betting was, how many times would he slam his book down in the course of our one fifty-minute period?

We didn’t get much flavor of the rich tapestry of our nation’s story from this class.  Mr. Roberts desiccated version captivated no minds. 

It was in my government class that I learned of the Muckrakers – why the peas in the can looked so nice and green – formaldehyde, and about the sweepings off the slaughterhouse floor that ended up in the wieners.

In Mr. Marchek’s class the following year we learned the story of unionization, about scabs, boycotts and lockouts.  About the Pinkerton thugs who beat and shot picketers.  This version of America’s story was soaked in struggle and blood.  Mr. Marchek had my full attention, and that of the rest of the class.

As we’ve celebrated another birthday, our history remains most problematic for many.  As Frederick Douglas, freed slave who became America’s most powerful orator in the mid eighteen hundreds, questioned, “What, to the American slave, is your 4th of July?  I answer: a day that reveals to him, more than all other days in the year, the gross injustice and cruelty to which he is the constant victim.”[1]

I had never even heard of Frederick Douglas!  My teachers had taught us that the slaves on the plantations were happy and well cared for.  Of course, these teachers were all white.

Our scriptural heritage informs us of a generous God – a Spirit that invites all to thrive.  That is Torah ethic, transmitted through the prophets, the writings and down to Jesus.  It has been called “a generous orthodoxy,” one including all. 

Here the words of the Deuteronomist:

“For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who is not partial and takes no bribe, who executes justice for the orphan and the widow, and loves the strangers, providing them food and clothing.  You shall also love the stranger, for you were strangers in the land of Egypt.”^[2]

Our Gospel lesson appointed for today from Matthew sums up this ethic.  It is a Midrash on forbearance:

“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’  But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father in heaven; for he makes the sun to rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the righteous and the unrighteous…Be perfect, therefore, as your Father is perfect.”[3]

Such hyperbole is in service of urging a kinder, gentler approach – an approach that nudges open the door to Eternal Life.

“Be perfect,” is not an injunction to moral superiority, but an invitation and summons to live into who you were created to be.  Thus, a mandate to our nation to actually live out its creeds and the bit about “justice for all” and “E Pluribus Unum.”

We who claim to follow and be grounded in Christ would do well to remember this instruction and admonition on our nation’s birthday.  These lessons are provided for sound guidance, that our nation might choose life and not death, generosity and not calumny.

I write this part of today’s sermon from Ketchikan, Alaska.  Our youngest son Christopher and his fiancée, Alexis, gave us this wonderful trip to celebrate my 80th birthday — and what a delightful present it has been.  Jai and I have thoroughly enjoyed the cruise with these two and have fully enjoyed ourselves and this great land.  It was sunshine virtually every day.

On board we celebrated Canada Day and a little bit later the 4th of July – that in Juneau with a marvelous small-town parade.  Along with the exploits of the early Sourdoughs, the heritage of some of the indigenous, First-nations culture was on splendid display.

I offered to enter Jai in the ax throwing contest in Ketchikan at the Great Lumberjack Show but she declined.  I’m sure she would’ve been a winner.

I remember my first introduction as a new priest in Petersburg to some of the cultural friction of Alaska when at the local video rentals store, the proprietor, an Alaskan Native, asked me, “Why did you guys sell the Indians’ church?” 

I learned the story of the decision of the Episcopal Diocese of Alaska to close one of the two Episcopal congregations in Ketchikan — and they chose St. Elizabeth’s to sell.  The Native American’s church.  Those parishioners were to be absorbed into St. John’s.  But no matter how much some of the St. John’s folks tried to be accommodating, because the original Tlingit people felt they had had no say in the matter, there were bound to be bad feelings.  Thus, the hostile question from the video store owner.

This 4th, as I reflected on our two national birthday celebrations, USA and Canada, a bit of humility would have seemed to be in order.  Our relations with other peoples need a lot of “perfecting,” to say the least.  We have much to learn from others.  Just days prior to the 4th, a mass shooting in Baltimore in a single day killed and wounded more people than have been harmed in all such incidents over good number of years running in Canada.  We have much to learn from this continent’s Original Peoples of the proper care and use of the land.

One of the questions I got before embarking on this journey was, how many books was I packing to read during the trip?  “A couple of hundred,” was my answer – all on my Kindle

One of those books was Annie Dillard’s Teaching a Stone to Talk.[4]  In it she recounts at one point the earliest, disastrous explorations into the frozen North and South.  Since the early eighteen hundreds the race was on to arrive at both the North Pole and South Pole.

One party, that of Sir John Franklin with 138 officers and crew set off to discover a northwest passage above Canada, through the Arctic Ocean to the Pacific.  Instead of using precious space for the needed coal for this two-to-three-year voyage, they took books – a 1,200 volume library.  In addition, they took a hand-organ “playing fifty tunes.”[5]  No extravagance was spared: “china place settings, cut-glass wine goblets and sterling silver flatware.”[6]  The officers were clothed solely in their standard, navy-issued dress uniforms.

This group of intrepid though poorly outfitted explorers was never to be heard from again – alive, that is.

Years later, the world learned of their unfortunate demise from groups of Inuit who came across the scattered remains. “Some had glimpsed, for instance, men pushing and pulling a wooden boat across the ice.” 

“Some had found, at a place called Starvation Cove, this boat, or a similar one, and the remains of the thirty-five men who had been dragging it.”

“At Terror Bay the Inuit found a tent on the ice, and in it thirty bodies.”[7]

It was not until such explorers as Roald Amundsen, traveling Inuit style, and Robert Perry, also employing Inuit dog mushers, were able to survive the harsh, unforgiving polar extremes.

There’s a lesson here, though our brief Alaskan excursion did not get us anywhere near the Arctic Circle…

If we Americans are to last into our next century, like those later intrepid adventurers, we will need to adapt, to learn from others who have been here far, far longer than our puny two hundred-some-year history.

Yes, my country’s skies are bluer than the ocean, but other lands have skies just as blue as mine.  And we all have one Creator, known by different names and revealed through different stories.   That is the working of the Great Spirit, residing in all.  I trust that you all had a Happy Fourth.

Amen.

---

[1] On July 5, 1852, Douglass gave a speech at an event commemorating the signing of the Declaration of Independence, held at Rochester’s Corinthian Hall.

[2] Deuteronomy 10:17-19, New Revised Standard Version.

[3] Matthew 5:43-45, 48, New Revised Standard Version

[4] Annie Dillard, Teaching a Stone to Talk (New York: Harper Collins, 2007), 30 ff.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid.

[7] Ibid.

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
2855 Sterling Avenue, San Bernardino, CA 92404

July 9, 2023 – Independence Day Propers

“From the Redwood Forest to the Gulf Stream Waters”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

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

Hebrews 11:8-16; Matthew 5:43-48

Like many of our nation, on January 20 our family tuned in to the ceremonies on that festive day, freezing cold.  The breath of frozen vapor of the guests leaving the open door of the Capitol to take their seats was clearly visible.  Cold, indeed!

And what made that date so special, in addition to the hope we finally had a president who would be more focused on us, the citizens and the business of this nation than the grift, was a slight African American poet, Amanda Gorman.

She spoke the needed, the eloquent word at the moment.  Her charm and poise, her intellect – it all sparkled like diamonds on that crisp, brilliant sunlit day of winter frost.  The hope of which she spoke restored my faith, restored the faith of many, in who we were, in the American prospect for days ahead.  These words met the moment:

“For there is always light,
If only we’re brave enough to see it,
If only we’re brave enough to be it.”[1]

Like Jeremiah, this woman has a gift within her bones that cannot be shut in.  These words and the sentiment they expressed are inherent in her character.  With exuberance they burst out – at that presidential inaugural, at climate change summits, in books and even at the Superbowl.  Yes, her poetry at Superbowl LX.  On that occasion Amanda celebrated the three honorary captains of that game whose work has honored their communities: a veteran, an athlete, a nurse.  Shut up in her young bones this ode was.

Jeremiah, like many to come after, is the bearer of a message he cannot but speak.  A prophetic word of doom and disaster, should Israel follow its present course, yield to its worst instincts. 

“I speak, I must cry out, I must shout, ‘Violence and destruction!’  For the word of the Lord has become for me a reproach and derision…there is something burning like a fire shut up in my bones; I am weary with holding it in, and I cannot.”

The Truth will out.

Poets, activists, musicians, teachers, and dare I say it – even a few of our elected leaders daily meet the moment, profess the truth they know, live the truth deep within.  Character matters!

Phil comes to mind, a sometime delegate in the West Virginia House of Delegates.  Phil comes from solid union roots.  I believe I first met Phil on our farm when he showed up for our annual August Wounded Warriors event.  We have one hundred acres of backwoods abandoned logging trails.  People bring their offroad vehicles out for the afternoon and we give these veterans and their families the ride of their lives.  Definitely an “E” coupon ride – for those who remember the old Disneyland tickets.  Two or three bands would hold forth.  And the community of the old German Beer Gardens would put on a sumptuous feast.  And there was Phil.  Every year, even after he was voted out of office, he’s out there supporting our event – no fair-weather friend he.  That’s what union solidarity looks like.

Phil came up through the trade union movement and after he went to Charleston, he never forgot his roots.  Decency is shut up in his bones, and just lights up any event where Phil shows up.

He is one of the few, the very few political folks that House of Hope has been able to absolutely count on.  This coming July House of Hope looks forward to a House of Hope fundraiser dinner sponsored by Phil.  Decency and magnanimity are part of who this guy is.  That, one can take to the bank!  Can I get another chorus of “Solidarity Forever?”

And when the cost is high and the struggle long, these folks are golden.  I think of the many Republicans who have spoken out against the “crazy” and paid a price.

While I would fundamentally disagree with Liz Cheney, I applaud her courage in standing up to the election lies of many in her party, in denouncing the Big Lie that the election was stolen. 

Such truth will set family members against one another, father against son, mother against daughter-in-law.  I think my father and I did not talk for five or six years during the Vietnam war.  He bought and erected a huge flagpole at our house to show his support for the war.  I was most weekends marching down Market Street in San Francisco against it.

On the night Gorman finished her poem, the day insurrectionists stormed our nation’s capital, she had worked late into the night.[2]  Up until then she had managed to have only a few lines committed to paper.

Gorman said she wasn’t given any direction in what to write, but that she would be contributing to the event’s theme of “America United.” She was about halfway finished with the piece when, on Jan. 6, the MAGA crowd stormed the halls of The People’s House.

“Gorman ended up staying up late following the unprecedented attack and finished her piece, ‘The Hill We Climb,’ that night. The poet, whose work examines themes of race and racial justice in America, felt she couldn’t “gloss over” the events of the attack, nor of the previous few years, in her work.”

“’We have to confront these realities if we’re going to move forward, so that’s also an important touchstone of the poem,’ she told the reporter of the Times piece, ‘There is space for grief and horror and hope and unity, and I also hope that there is a breath for joy in the poem, because I do think we have a lot to celebrate at this inauguration.’”

Amanda, during her reading, wore a ring, a gift from Oprah, with a caged bird – homage to Maya Angelou, a previous inaugural poet.

Such well-spoken wisdom, such eloquence shut up in those bones of hers!

Such testimony hints at the same insight and daring shut up in the bones of all of the Jesus Movement.  We speak of that which we know and what we have seen.  We might not accomplish a big righteousness, but daily are impelled to do the little things of which we are disposed to accomplish.  And, most often, given the discernment and wisdom to figure out the possible.

“Those who find their life will lose it, and those who lose their life for my sake will find it.”[3]

My friend, Pastor Charlie Clark, used to fulminate against those in his church who had no vision.  “Do not quench the Spirit,” he would demand, voice raised.  That church had had five pastors in six years before he had arrived.  There was a reason he was well into his seventh year when I knew him.  He had no tolerance for cynical nay-sayers, cretins of no vision.  “Do not quench the Spirit.”  I’m still not sure how he kept from being fired, but under his leadership that congregation was a part of our fair housing effort, Project Understanding – though many there refused to understand equity and that “Good Neighbors Come in All Colors.”  Justice was shut up in his bones, and he would not be quiet.

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

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

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

James Baldwin captured our duty before us in The Price of the Ticket.

“For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; the earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock.  Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have.  The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us.  The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.”[4]

On that spectacular 20th of January morning, that young woman got it right:

“For there is always light,
If only we’re brave enough to see it,
If only we’re brave enough to be it.”^[5]

Amen.

---

[1] Amanda Gorman, “The Hill We Climb,” delivered on the occasion of the inauguration of the 46^th President of the United States, Joseph R. Biden, January 20, 2021.

[2] Alexandra Alter, “Amanda Gorman Captures the Moment, In Verse,” New York Times, January 19

[3] Matthew 10:39, New Revised Standard Version.

[4] James Baldwin, The Price of the Ticket (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1985), 393.

[5] Amanda Gorman, “The Hill We Climb,” delivered on the occasion of the inauguration of the 46^th President of the United States, Joseph R. Biden, January 20, 2021.

[6] Lydia Makepeace, “Affirm Black Women Portrait Series: Amanda Gorman,” February 10, 2021.

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
2855 Sterling Avenue, San Bernardino, CA 92404

June 25, 2023 – Pentecost 4, Proper 7

“Shut up in My Bones”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

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

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

A favorite scene from “The Simpsons” is when Homer cautions Bart against attempting to cover up something from his mother.  “You couldn’t fool your mother on the foolingest day of your life if you had a electrified fooling machine.”[1]

That spark of divinity — dare we call it God? — within each one of us is not fooled any easier than Bart’s mother, Marge.  Reality can’t be fooled, for God is in and through reality.  Fentanyl is the proof of this severe truth.

Gregory Brown, an African-American man who looks to be in his sixties, has lived on the streets of North Hollywood for over a year.  He became unhoused when he caught his girlfriend cheating on him.[2]

“It was several months ago, as he was lying in his tent that he heard a man screaming, ‘She’s dying!  She’s dying.’”[3]

Brown recalled rushing out of his tent, shirtless. A woman’s eyes were rolled back, and her lips were blue. He shouted for someone to call the paramedics.

“’I kneeled down and said, ‘God, please, please, save another one.’”

He pumped her chest with his hands, then blew air into her mouth, he said. His tears fell on her face as he continued to perform CPR.

Eventually, the woman came back to life. She looked tired, he said, as if she had been awakened from a deep sleep.

Inside his tent afterward, he was still crying. He thought of his mother, who died nearly two decades ago, and how proud of him she would have been.

Reflecting on his role in saving the woman, he said: “I’m proud to say I did that, and I’d do it again.”

A not unusual day on the streets of the Los Angeles Metropolitan area, the Inland Empire, the San Joaquin Valley.  Opioids are the killing scourge of those living on our streets – those whom Sam Quinones calls “the least of us.”

This morning our text from Matthew is all about these folks, the least of these:  Jesus calls one of the least, a despised tax collector, traitor to his people, Matthew to be a follower.  Sits down at table with him.  When berated by religious know-it-alls, he responds that those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick.  Go and learn what this means.  And while you’re at it, mercy is what is called for.  Not sacrifice. 

He then heals two women, both considered to be unclean.  One assumed to be dead and another with a disgusting flow of blood, suffering from hemorrhages for twelve years.  Unclean for sure.

At the moment of urgency, it was Gregory Brown who was Christ of the Streets, agent of mercy. 

That’s where House of Hope engages the crisis of “Lives of Despair.”  It begins with those of the QRT, at work early in the morning.  QRT – Quick Response Team, a group of four: a medical person, a social worker, a clergy person and a police officer or sheriff in plainclothes.

This team, as soon as the new activity of the day begins, is at work checking hospital admitting rooms, jails, courts, the streets – all in the hope of reaching those who had overdosed the previous night.

And what they offer is a severe mercy.

The conversation goes something like this – let’s assume for the sake of our story that “Bob” is the name of the guy found by his housemate on the front lawn at 2 o’clock that morning.  Not breathing, blue lips and no discernable pulse.

“Bob,” the leader of the QRT group says.  “How are you doing this morning?  Do you know what happened to you last night, where you were found?  Your friends thought they’d about lost you.  This time you came really close to permanently checking out.”

“Do you want to live?”  (silence).  If you want to live, we’re here to offer you that chance – the chance to get into a treatment program that is serious about recovery – not like the Suboxone clinics you’ve been through.  This is a serious, two-year program that will lead you into a whole new life.”

“If you want to live, we’re here to make that possible for you.”  Don’t worry about the cost, that’s already been taken care of.”  Our only question to you is, ‘do you want to get well?’  Yes, it will be hard.  Maybe the hardest thing you have ever done.  But you won’t be alone.  You will discover a whole new group of friends.  True friends who will call you to honesty and accountability.  True friends who put their trust in you to be responsible for your own recovery.  It’s hard, very hard, but we’re here because we believe you’re worth it.”

“If your answer is yes, as soon as the doctor releases you, we will pick you up – you can come with us and your journey to recovery can begin.”

A severe mercy.  Severe, because nothing is sugar-coated.  Life hangs in the balance, suspended on the scaffold of addiction.  Mercy, because that is the nature of redemption, the nature of second and third chances.  Such is the heart of God.

Like Matthew, whether we knew it or not, this is what we signed up for when we enlisted in the Jesus Movement.

And what moves our hearts to engage in this work?  It is the memory of the same love we have received.  Whether we acknowledge it or not, we are all recipients of second chances.  Or third or fourth.  Or is it seventy times seven?

It is a way of life that is Life itself.  And Life even more abundant returns to fill our souls to overflowing.

In response to my recent letter to the Claremont Courier chiding those who would rather we shoo the homeless off to some neighboring city, came a couple of letters suggesting that we “do-gooders” were naïve concerning this population.[4]

They refuse treatment.  They commit crimes.  They are mentally ill.  It will cost a lot to address their needs.  They’re druggies with no incentive to get sober.  They present needs that go 24/7, 365 days a year.

Yes, I would admit.  All true.  But does the shepherd abandon the sheep because of the difficulty of the sheep?  The whole point of Jesus calling Matthew is to say, “NO.”  His gospel is a preferential outreach to those in need — the sick who require a physician.  This is a greater righteousness that goes beyond the letter of the law.

That is our mission to the addicted – to offer a way of Life that itself is a door to Life Eternal.  Easy, no.  Essential, yes.  For our sake and theirs.

Ron Ruthruff – a professor at Seattle School of Theology and an associate with the Center for Transforming Mission for 27 years — tells a grace-filled story arising out of his work there. 

This organization in Seattle that works with homeless and runaway adolescents.

“The work was made up of meeting kids on the street and then, through relationships, inviting them in to receive services that could help them exit the streets. A drop-in center included a clothing room, Ping-Pong and pool tables, showers, and laundry — all impor­tant emergency services. And a nightly dinner provided a key opportunity to build trusting friendships with kids skeptical of service providers.”[5]

“One evening I noticed a young man sitting alone at a table in the drop-in center. I went over and began a conversation with him. He told me his parents were first-generation Americans from Ethiopia and that they didn’t understand him anymore. He quickly grew silent, feeling he had shared too much, too soon. Trying to reengage, I turned the conversation to food and asked him if there was a good Ethiopian restaurant in Seattle.”

“He told me of a little place near where I live. When I assured him I would try it, he cautioned me: “It’s very traditional; we all eat from the same bowl.” I said I was familiar with the custom, but he shook his head as if to say that I really didn’t understand what I was saying yes to. He held out his hands, dirty from the streets, and asked, “Would you share a bowl with these hands?” Suddenly, this story from Matthew rushed to the front of my mind. This was Jesus in the house of Matthew.”

In entering Matthew’s house, Jesus demonstrates the same radical hospitality that God has shown to each of us.  Station, education, race – it all makes no difference.  All are invited to table.  ALL is what sets apart those of the Jesus Movement — it’s ALL, including us imperfect followers who straggle along.  God sets a bigger table than our often too small imaginations allow for.  A severe mercy.

Ron concludes, “Sitting in Matthew’s home and with a boy from Ethiopia, I see a radical dinner invitation. Jesus, sent from the Transcendent One, shows up to be with Matthew and his friends. No house uninhabitable, no hands too dirty. This is the Good News for us all.”   Amen.

---

[1][1] “The Simpsons,” Season 4/Episode 18.

[2] Reuben Vives, “Homeless people fight to save lives, and stay alive, as L.A.’s fentanyl crisis worsens,” Los Angeles Times, May 31, 2023.
3 Ibid.

 

[4] Claremont Courier, Letters to the Editor, June 9, 2023.

[5] Ron Ruthruff, “Sitting and talking with a boy from Ethiopia, I received a radical dinner invitation,” Christian Century,” June 5, 2023.

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
2855 Sterling Avenue, San Bernardino, CA 92404

June 11, 2023 – Pentecost 2
Proper 5

“A Severe Mercy”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Hosea 5:15-6:6; Psalm 50:7-15;

Romans 4:13-25; Matthew 9:9-13, 18-26