I was in my office at our little church in Petersburg, Alaska, when I received a call from my friend Fr. Gary, the priest at St. John’s in Ketchikan.  There they had a Seaman’s Center connected to the church, a not-unusual ministry for Episcopal churches in port towns.  There men (and back then, they were all men) could get a warm bed, play cards or watch TV, wash clothes and get a good meal during the few days their ship was in port.

Gary wanted to know if it might be possible that I knew of any place their manager (I’ll call him Bob) could stay while the state ferry was docked in our town for a day or so.  Sure, I told him we had a foldout sofa in my office that made into a bed exactly for such purposes.

So, Bob, a fellow in his late fifties, and I connected by phone and I told him where we were located, but he needed to know that in the early evening  

he’d have to keep to himself because on Thursday nights we hosted an AA meeting.  “Great,” said Bob.  “I can make my meeting.”

Well, Bob came and went.  Made his meeting, I supposed, and was on the ferry the next morning to Juneau.  I’d met him before when I was down at St. John’s, and he seemed like a nice fellow.  I was glad we could help.

The next Sunday, one of the women on our altar guild caught me in the hallway with a question.  “I don’t drink wine, but somehow when I got things setup for communion, what I poured out of the bottle didn’t smell like wine.”  I took a taste.  Charlotte was right – it wasn’t wine.  It was water.

Our overnight guest had turned the wine to water.

I later told Fr. Gary that we’d have to look into his seminary degree.  And maybe look over his ordination exams.  He’d led poor Bob astray.  I wondered if Bob had actually made his meeting that night.

“On the third day” – in scripture the most amazing things always seem to happen on the third day – “On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there.  Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding.  When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine.’”

You know the rest of the story.  Gallons of water are turned into wine so the feasting can continue for the normal seventeen days of a wedding.  Not only were Jesus and his disciples present.  The entire town was present.  This wedding would have been the bash of the year.  Indeed, a good time was had by all.

Eastern Christianity celebrates this miracle as the Epiphany, not the star and the arrival of wisemen.  It is through this occurrence that Jesus’ divinity is perceived.  When Jesus is at the party, there is joy and good times in abundance.   

If this is so, how is it that many too often leave our churches feeling so beat down and worse for the wear?  Or even worse, bored out of their skulls.

The one take-away from this story is, God wants us to thrive, to be joyful.  As Jesus provided such fine wine, he was the Life of the Party.

How is it that we have too often taken the joyous fine wine of the Gospel of Good News and turned it into scolding, or the flat, stale water of irrelevance?

How is it that our country which springs from lofty Promise, has turned the dream of America into the polluted river of Jim Crow?  Turned it into banishment to reservations and impoverishment?  Turned it into insurrection and quack nostrums hawked at the highest level? 

I got the news this Monday that our supervising doctor in West Virginia for House of Hope had died of COVID-19.  He was an anti-vaxer.   He’d fallen for the junk science spread by the former president and Fox News.

Now we have some senators and other politicians comparing a COVID-19 mandate to the Holocaust.  Racial hate seems to be endless with these people.  No fine wine here, only rank pollution. 

“Rep. Warren Davidson (R-Ohio) on Wednesday joined that growing number of elected Republicans who have compared COVID-19 vaccine mandates to the horrors imposed on Jewish people by Nazis during the Holocaust.”[1] 

“Numerous 2022 Republican House candidates, Republican members of state legislatures and conservative media personalities have also invoked Nazi Germany in criticizing mask and vaccine rules.”[2]

As no members of that party have called out these people for this racist trope, they must be okay with it.  Have they and their party lost all sensitivity to how this sounds to our Jewish brothers and sisters?  Have they no shame?  The Proud Boys and the Three Percenters would be just fine with such trash.

I can still picture the grimace and wince of Dr. Birx as she sat at a press conference while Dr. Trump expounded on the miracle cures of bleach and ultraviolet lights.  Then, on to horse-dewormer and herd “mentality.”  The fine wine of our best science and medical knowledge turned into putrefying

ignorance.  Yes — the transformation of the fine wine of learning transformed into lies and propaganda.  And for too many, with this raging pandemic, the party’s over.  Over 800,000 Americans dead.  For them the party is permanently over.  No life here.

Here was the offering of the miracle of our best science, and it was squandered – poured down the drain.  Fine wine gone to waste.  And people died.

This coming Monday we celebrate the birthday of Martin Luther King.  He was a prophet for the ages who took our sordid history of racism and transformed it into promise.  A foundational promise born from Gospel Joy.  All are welcome.  All flourish.  It’s the content of character that counts.  Not any outward appearance.  Not class, learning, or color.  Nobility IS character.

As the 1619 Project demonstrates, for many this promise was stillborn.  Slaves were part of the story from the inception.  And, within a generation we had banished to starvation some of the same people invited to the mythic first Thanksgiving. 

As my new, favorite poet, Joyce Chisale of Mawali says, “Little by little.”  Little by little does our nation move into this promise.  But we have so far to go.  So far.

 But when one encounters the sewage spewed by ignorant and hateful minds, I grow tired of it all.  When we encounter our inability to deal with voter suppression and election corruption, we all grow tired.  Sick and tired of being sick and tired!

So enough with the garbage already.  Let’s look at the beckoning promise.  Let’s taste a sip of some of the fine wine brought to our democracy party around the Liberty Tree.

My friend, Martha Morales, a pastor at Claremont United Methodist Church, spoke to that promise in a sermon recently on the Methodist tradition of the Watch Night Service, held on New Years eve.  The Watch Night of which she spoke was held on the eve of the day the Emancipation Proclamation was to take effect.[3]

Pastor Martha writes of the Methodist tradition of the Watch Night Service — that she’d “come to know the Watch Night Service from another vantage point, that of the African American Church. This is from the African American lectionary:

“As close as it can be historically pinpointed, the initial observance of the Watch Night Service in the African American church began on December 31, 1862, when the service was referred to as “Freedom’s Eve.” On that cold December evening thousands of enslaved descendants from Africa gathered in churches and private homes to pray and praise God, anxiously awaiting the news that the Emancipation Proclamation had become law. Prior to this evening, rumors had circulated that at the stroke of midnight, January 1, 1863, all slaves in the Confederate States would be declared legally free, as a result of the new laws set in motion by President Abraham Lincoln. When the declaration of their human independence was affirmed, the freed slaves shouted, sang songs of joy, and fell to their knees with thankful hearts for the new era of freedom that had come their way. After this occurrence African Americans continued to gather annually to commemorate their independence and praise God for bringing them safely through another year and the promise of a new era of freedom on the horizon. This was the beginning of a tradition that still remains.”[4]

This tradition is of the finest of wines our nation has produced, enriching the souls of all.  Medicine for healing.  A good remembrance for tomorrow’s celebration of Dr. King.  The work is far from done, but “little by little…”

Having read Martha’s words, Juneteenth will have a richer, deeper meaning this year.  You remember, June 19 – Juneteenth – is the date that former slaves in Texas belatedly learned of their emancipation.

In the midst of sedition, lies and subversion, there is one Republican who gets the Profiles-in-Courage award, and he gets the Last Word, or close to it.

This Last Word today goes to Mitt Romney who had the moral courage to stand up in the well of the senate and say, “Enough!”  Enough of the lies, the grift and corruption.

Here is part of his speech as he cast his vote to convict on the impeachment charges in Trump’s Senate trial:

This is what Senator Romney said: 

“As a Senator juror, I swore an oath before God to exercise impartial justice.  I am profoundly religious.  My faith is part of who I am…I take an oath before God as enormously consequential.”[5]

After pausing to collect himself and reviewing the charges – asking a foreign government to investigate a political rival (make up dirt), Sen. Romney continued:

“The president withheld vital military funds from that government to press it to do so.  The president delayed funds for an American ally at war with Russian invaders.  The president’s purpose was personal and political.  Accordingly, the president is guilty of an appalling abuse of public trust.  What he did was not ‘perfect.’  No, it was a flagrant assault on our electoral rights, our national security, and our fundamental values.  Corrupting an election to keep oneself in office is perhaps the most abusive and destructive violation of one’s oath of office I can imagine.”

“Were he [Romney] to ignore the evidence and what he believed his oath and the Constitution required, it would expose his character ‘to history’s rebuke and the censure of my own conscience.’”[6]

In a stagnant cesspool of pollution, his words were a flowing spring of finest wine for our democracy, genuine refreshment of our liberties.

On Monday, we celebrate one whose words and actions have watered the Tree of Liberty.  As the Senate moves on to consider the John Lewis Voting Rights act, many of my fellow partisans would blame solely two senators if this fails to pass.

But they are wrong. 

In years past, senators on the both sides of the aisle have time and again voted nearly unanimously to renew this legislation.  Where are they now?  Senators, this is your Patrick Henry moment.  Your Dr. King moment.  Your John Lewis moment.

In Atlanta this week Our president put the existential question to America:

“So, I ask every elected official in America: How do you want to be remembered?  The consequential moments in history, they present a choice. Do you want to be on the side of Dr. King or George Wallace? Do you want to be on the side of John Lewis or Bull Connor? Do you want to be on the side of Abraham Lincoln or Jefferson Davis?”[7] For me and my house, I say, let’s pour out the fine wine of equity, opportunity, fair play, unity and solidarity.  Let’s go for a FAIR VOTE.  Let’s raise glasses of the finest vintage of democracy to Dr. King tomorrow.  The fine wine of full inclusion of ALL.   That’s the Life of the only Party that counts.  Amen.

---

[1] Josephine Harvey, “Another GOP Lawmaker Compares Vaccine Mandates to the Holocaust,” Huffpost, January 12, 2022.

[2] Ibid.

[3] Martha Morales, “Freedom’s Eve,” a sermon preached at Claremont United Methodist Church, January 2, 2022.

[4] “A Watch Night Celebration: New Year’s Eve.” See Behold a New Thing for “Ideas for Celebrating a Service of Watch Nigh; The Tradition of Watch Night; How to Explore Watch Night.” Online location: http://www.ucc.org/worship/worship-ways/pdfs/2007/07Behold -A-New-hing.pdf. accessed 21 July 2011 See also Kachun, Mitch. Festivals of Freedom: Memory and meaning in African American Emancipation Celebrations. 1808-1915. Boston, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003.; Williams, William H. O Freedom! Afro-American Emancipation Celebrations. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press, 1987.; Franklin, John Hope. The Emancipation Proclamation. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc. 1963; reprint edition, IL: Harlan Davidson, 1995. Also see the Cultural Resource unit for Watch Night 2011 in Brandon Thomas Crowley, guest lectionary commentator, The African American Lectionary, http://www.theafricanamericanlectionary.org/PopupLectionaryReading.asp?LRID=246

[5] Adam Schiff, Midnight in Washington (New York: Random House, 2021), 421.

[6] Op.cit., 422.

[7] Joseph R. Biden, quoted in Jackson Richman. “Biden Challenges Republicans in Fiery Speech: ‘Do You Want to be on the Side of Dr. King or George Wallace?’”, ’Mediaite+, Jan 11th, 2022,

January 16, 2022, Epiphany 2

“The Life of the Party”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Isaiah 62:1-6; Psalm 36:5-10; “Letter from a Birmingham Jail”;
John 2:1-11

Water, the stuff of life or dangerous, and swift the river.  The staff of life or chaos and death.

It is the stuff of our baptism into a new life – a new life offering companionship and also the danger of where that life might lead.

I find it fitting, and intriguing, that the story of Jesus baptism is paired in our lectionary readings with the creation of Israel as it passes through the River Jordan to become a new people.

“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;”

But let me get there with a story from my early childhood.

As a young boy, one of my favorite stories was about a little tug boat, “Little Toot.”  Little Toot was the most rambunctious screw-up in New York harbor.  Up to mischief of one sort or another.  He had no sense of propriety.  Just like boys my age.  His father’s constant refrain, “Won’t you ever grow up?”  Sounds like a parent, doesn’t it?

Well, the little boat finally goes one prank too far and is escorted by stern police boats out of the harbor and banished.  Out there alone at night, out on the high seas as a storm gathers itself.  Soon waves are crashing all around.  Lightening streaks through the skies.  Thunder deafens the ear.

Amidst mountainous waves, completely dwarfing the small tug, Little Toot spies a S.O.S. flare high up in the sky.  The story ends most satisfactorily as Little Toot rescues a distressed ocean liner and, as clouds part to sunshine, brings the ship safely into harbor to his father’s praise.

I had been given a record of this story.  With all the terrifying sound effects of the raging storm and towering waves, that’s where my mind froze.  In my imagination I can still hear the fog horn, the music swelling as Little Toot was lifted on one gigantic wave, only to plummet down the other side.

It may be that I identified our family’s dysfunction with Little Toot’s predicament.  My father’s volatile moods and temper were that storm that crashed around helpless Little Toot.  At most any evening meal, the tension in our family was like waiting for the first thunder clap of that story.

In the second-grade room of our Sunday school, one morning a fellow came in asking for me.  I was to follow him into the church.  My teacher said it was okay and there I met my brother and another adult from his class and we were led up the aisle of this huge sanctuary of the Methodist church our family attended in Compton, California.

I remember the minister in a black robe saying some things, then sprinkling water on my head.  Afterwards, I was led back to my Sunday School room.

That might have been the end of it except our family continued to attend church up until I was in junior high school.

Over the years, I now realize that no matter the storm, my baptism has always pointed my small boat towards a safe harbor where there is welcome.

 After we stopped attending church as a family, I continued because my girlfriend went.  Church was a short walk about six blocks up the main street behind our house.  She lived across the street from me and we’d walk up together holding hands.

Later, I would be invited to the college group on campus by my roommate – Wesley Foundation.  At that point I had pretty much dropped out of church.  Our new pastor was so conservative he opposed fair housing, equal rights for Black people.  Women’s rights hadn’t even appeared on the scene yet, but he would have been against that, too.

It was plain to me that either Jesus loved all people – and we should as well – or he didn’t matter much at all.  I was on the didn’t-matter-much-at-all end of that argument.  Our church affirmed the upper crust, not so much others.  Jesus seemed irrelevant to their plight.  Of course, our family didn’t know any of these in the Willowbrook section of town.

Our college group had chartered, along with other college Wesley Foundations in Southern California, a bus to the quadrennial national conference of Methodist college students to Lincoln, Nebraska.  We had been talking up this event for some time in our group.  It was the in-thing to do. 

The keynote speaker was one Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  I’d never really heard of him, but when I actually heard him speak on the closing night, I said to myself, “If this is what the church is about, sign me up.” 

At which point, that mysterious journey up the central aisle of my church in Compton became real.  I was a part of THAT club, THAT family.  I had found a taste of that Beloved Community where ALL did matter.  This is what Jesus was talking about.

I met Black students from the South there who told me of their lives.  The scales fell from my eyes.  I had known nothing of the KKK and night riders, of segregation and lynching.  Or separate and unequal, or just lack of opportunity.

All this newfound knowledge was dangerous.  My Republican, conservative parents were not ready at all for this Epiphany.  This was dangerous, my father told me.  I should just let these things be.  Fair housing would just run-down property values.  Our only responsibility to Black people was “don’t say the N word” and just be “nice.”  Whatever that meant.  Be “nice.”  Obviously, nothing about being just or finding out what they’ve endured.  Talk about “deep waters.”  My dad was soon convinced that a communist cult had taken me in.  Maybe worse, a cabal of Democrats.  For a number of years, we didn’t talk.

As I began to read the adult church curriculum of Bultmann, Reinhold Niebuhr, H. Richard Niebuhr, Tillich, Bonhoeffer, and King’s writings, I discovered that my baptism had now led me far beyond simple Sunday school platitudes.  Or maybe it was that these writers had put meat on those basic Sunday school bones.  My new learning and experiences were definitely an Epiphany.   A whole new world of the Spirit opened up.  Joe Wesley Matthews of the Ecumenical Institute presented a muscular vision for my newly developing faith.  Not for the timid.

Later, as a medic in the army, my education in diversity continued, serving alongside folks of all sorts.  Some, their word you could take to the bank, others were best avoided.  People are just people; you take them as they come.  Race, class, background – seemed to make little difference.  I ended up friends with people I never would have imagined encountering.  I met my first Buddhist friend.  Another Epiphany.  God works through all sorts.

I wonder if that’s something of what happened with Jesus as he emerged from the waters, or was it the desert time?  Was he baptized with the Holy Spirit and with fire?  Did all this happen suddenly like a thunder clap, or smolder in him slowly as he lived into his ministry.

I have had Spirit-filled mentors along the way who enlarged the promise of my baptism.  By word and example, they were “Little Christs” to me.  They were seeds of hope.  By their steadfast persistence and belief in what I could become, they kept that hope alive, even when I had lost it.

Later in Los Angeles, I found a church community that did affirm a generosity of welcome – to ALL.  Many a Sunday as we closed worship, me on the string bass, with that raucous song, “Let the Sun Shine In,” from the musical “Hair,” I knew I stood on holy ground.

All the while living amidst the hustle and bustle, sometimes the chaos of life.  I figure my baptism is my general orders for living in chaos.  In the military, general orders enumerated one’s duties should, in the midst of chaos, you become separated from your unit or from command authority.  Or taken prisoner.  Such things as render aid to those around you, secure government property, work with others to restore order.  By our baptism, we all have holy orders, both lay and clergy – the same – live into the Beloved Community and welcome ALL.

Our nation is presently in CHAOS, with forty-some percent believing that Joe
Biden is not a legitimate president, and a good number in denial about the insurrection on January 6^th – just a normal tour group of visitors to the capital.

The mandate of baptism is to continue to work for a nation in which ALL are included, have a say and a chance for sharing in the bounty of America.  In Caesar’s time Christians did not have this privilege, but we do. 

Baptism is entered into as a life process.  Even Jesus was said to have grown in wisdom.  He grew to understand that even a Syrophoenician woman was included in God’s embrace.

We work in an imperfect system with imperfect people.  I trust the Holy Spirit which descended on Jesus at his baptism to continue to mingle amongst us, bringing out our best.  Lincoln referred to this happy outcome as the “better angels of our nature” taking hold.

These days, chaos swirls about us and about our nation as much as it ever did around Little Toot.  What we are promised is that there is a welcoming harbor – a place of refuge.

As we are reminded of the chaotic scenes on the one-year anniversary of January 6^th insurrection, equally distressing scenes flood in from our nation’s hospital emergency entrances.  Images flash across our TV screen of utterly exhausted medical staff as the Omicron variant lays America low.  The camera lens catches nurses scrambling to find one more bed.  Struggling to resuscitate another patient.  Again, gift shops and lunch rooms are repurposed to accommodate the sickest.  Hallways are in utter disorder.  Staff rushing to critical patients with IV lines and bottles as various monitors beep a cacophony of alarms.  Doctors flipping frantically through charts of the newly admitted.  Chaos.  Exhaustion.

When through the deep waters…we will hold on to one another.  We will keep faith.  Our baptismal holy orders.

“Weeping may endure the night, but joy comes in the morning.”  Though a deep darkness has settled over our nation, as Tony Judt put it, though “Ill fares the land,” there remains yet another, a newer chapter, to be written in the history books.  The content of that chapter is up to us.

We continue the work to strengthen and uphold one another.  All working on the House of Hope in both the Ohio Valley and in San Bernardino, we press forward towards the goal.  Funding is now in sight.

WE HAVE SO MUCH MORE WORK awaiting us in the days ahead. The problems we face are legion:  racism, voter suppression, the unleashed forces of sedition, a right-wing disinformation media complex, addiction, apathy, hunger and homelessness in our streets.  AND, not the least, a still-raging pandemic. 

It’s like housework – it’s never done.  But as St. Paul proclaims, “Here we are.  Alive.”

That is the full meaning of our baptism into the Jesus Movement, the Beloved Community.

Yet, in Christ, here we are, ALIVE!   Amen.

January 9, 2022, The Baptism of our Lord

“When Through the Deep Waters”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Isaiah 43:1-7; Psalm 29; Acts 8:14-17;
Luke 3:15-17; 21-22

There’s a story told of a Hindu speaker invited to give a presentation at an interfaith gathering.  Unfortunately, the host pastor preceding him, who was to give opening remarks, was from a very conservative church.  His agenda was not interfaith understanding.  He was there to prove the supremacy of his Christian faith.  He was solely bent on demeaning the other’s faith, proving the superiority of his own, rather than entering into any interfaith dialogue.  He cared not a wit about the sensitivities of those in the room who were not Christians.

He addressed the crowd reading from one of the most exclusivist passages of the John’s gospel.  “I am the way, the truth and the life, no one comes to the Father but by me.”

What a jerk, many thought.  Way to make our guest feel welcome!

Most in the audience were embarrassed by this lack of charity, by this lack of basic manners.  Folks sat in their seats in stony silence, glued to their places as interfaith relations were possibly set back hundreds of years.  As the guest speaker approached the podium, all wondered how he would respond.

The speaker stepped up and beneficently smiled at his audience.  After a pause, he proclaimed, “The pastor is absolutely correct.” 

“For, what is the way of Jesus, but the way of peace, humility, truth and respect.  That is the only way one can approach God, enter into the Holy.”

This Hindu man had seen in Jesus that which this pastor failed to register:  the Inner Light of God.  The speaker had seen the same spiritual luminosity that those Wise Sages saw in that baby’s eyes, lying in the poverty of a manger.

Now my wife avers that had those travelers from afar been women, they would have brought more practical gifts:  Pampers, Wet Wipes and a copy of Dr. Benjamin Spock’s book, Baby and Child Care.

I can still vividly see in my mind’s eye a Christmas pageant — read bathrobe drama — of a former church wherein the three Wise Men ended up in a giggling heap at the manger.  I won’t mention who two of those boys were.  Those three, afterwards, were known as the Three Wiseguys.  But we all remembered the story, to be sure.

Epiphany is all about the Inner Light so luminous that it shines forth in the lives of all who take it in.  Shines forth in the lives of all who have been transformed by it.  It is also about two forces.  Some saw the beauty of holiness and blessing in that child’s eyes.  Others wanted to snuff that light out.  Those two forces are still arrayed against each other to this day.

“Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the lord has risen upon you.  For darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness will appear over you.”

“In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born to Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews?  For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.”

We celebrate the Day of Epiphany this Sunday.  Yes, I know the real date is January 6^th on the Western Calendar.  It is the day we celebration the radical manifestation of the Divine in Jesus.  We celebrate a Way that leads into all that is holy and wholesome – Truth, Peace, Generosity, Equity – in short, Holy Spirit Light.  That is the gleaming those mystic sages saw in his eyes as they knelt in homage. 

Herod and his minions perceived such generosity of spirit as a threat to their power and wanted to extinguish it.  We remember the slaughter of the Holy Innocents on December 29^th – a slaughter that continues yet to this day in the Middle East, in China and Myanmar.  And in the streets of too many American cities.

The Hindu speaker grasped the true reality of Jesus – “Light of Light descending from the realms of endless day,” goes one of my favorite hymns — “As the darkness clears away.”

About the darkness.  Lately, it has seemed overwhelming.

January 6^th is the Day of Epiphany.  In America it is also a day of deep darkness over our land.  A year ago, malignant forces of sedition brought America to one of its darkest hours in recent history.  January 6^th was definitely not the dawning of the Age of Aquarius for our nation.

The alarming tragedy of that day was that the efforts to extinguish a government “of the people, by the people, and for the people” continue to this very day.  Snuff out the radiance of Lady Liberty’s torch.

The deep darkness of doubt is cast over our elections.  Cries of “Stop the Steal” and “Rigged” coarse through recent mass rallies, not unlike those heard in Germany in the 30s. 

Over seventy percent of one of our two major political parties do not believe in the results of the 2020 election.  No. Joe Biden is NOT the legitimate president of the United States.  Most of these folks believe that the hearings to investigate the January 6^th insurrection are a sham, or if not – in any case, we should just move on.  Some things are better left alone.

We now know that over one hundred representatives in Congress were prepared to overturn the counting of the election. If only there had been no riot and if only Vice President Pence had gone along with the scheme.

Yes, many would snuff out the torch of Lady Liberty, but her Lamp by the harbor door will not be extinguished.  The call to patriots is still heard and answered.  “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the lord has risen upon you.” 

As Lt. Col. Vindman proclaimed, “Here, Right Matters.”  That was the testimony of Fiona Hill and Ambassador Marie Yovanovitch – all who had the courage to stand up, be counted, and testify to the White House corruption they had witnessed. 

Despite slurs, lies, death threats and character assassination – all speaking Truth at great risk to their careers and to their very lives.  Patriots all.  The very Light as shining forth as from that Epiphany Star.  This is the luminous manifestation of our democratic heritage still shining across the land.

They’re with Tom Bodett in his commercial for Motel 6, “We’ll leave the light on for you.”  In their patriotic service, they’ve “left the light on.”  So must we.

It is still the very Light reflected in the eyes of those three Visitors to a lowly birthplace some two thousand years ago.  It is the very light which has inspired the best of who we are – those who scribbled down the promise of the Declaration of Independence, those Abolitionists who stubbornly stood against slavery, Conductors on the Underground Railroad, those Suffragettes struggling for the women’s vote, those who marched against senseless and endless wars in the sixties.  They are the Light of this nation.  The bipartisan January 6^th Select Committee is the Light of this nation.  Especially the two Republicans, Liz Cheney and Adam Kinzinger; they have paid the highest price.

Epiphany – on January 6^th let us celebrate the manifestation of all that is Holy in our Lord Jesus Christ.   And the light that yet radiates from that vision of those wise sages.  That same force radiates down through the pageant of history.  Col. Vindman summed it up in his testimony before congress and in his book, Here Right Matters.[1]  Our Epiphany journey is through the morass of lies and deceit.  Not for the fainthearted.

Michael Connelly, through his fictional LAPD detective character, Harry Bosch, puts this life value well.  Harry is like a dog with a bone when it comes to pursuing a case.  When he’s sometimes derided by fellow officers for this stubbornness, his come-back is: “Everybody counts or nobody counts.”  Doesn’t make any difference to Harry whether the victim lives on the streets or in a Westwood mansion.[2]  Everybody counts or nobody counts – that’s the truth of the Epiphany star, the Jesus ethic.

This, the message of the inner Light, diffused down through the years in the best of us is still, “Everybody counts.”  That’s the ethic of the Jesus Movement.

Today those same reactions are at war.  Trust the Light of Lady Liberty’s torch and encourage full participation.  On the other hand, fearful voices still seek to stifle such notions.

Senator Rand Paul recently put forth the proposition that an election is stolen just because poor and minority voters are encouraged and organized to go to the polls.  Straight out of Jim Crow 2.0.  That he has not yet been rebuked by his partisan colleagues, is telling.  They must be okay with that perversion of democracy.  Stomp out that dangerous torch of liberty – the “wrong” people are voting.

The Prince of Peace that we behold is the embodiment of God’s Generous Welcome.  And no welcome could be more generous this time of year than Lawrence O’Donnell’s and MSNBC’s K.I.N.D fund project.

That is the spirit behind Lawrence O’Donnell’s efforts to promote education in Malawi through the K.I.N.D. project — Kids in Need of Desks.  Lawrence is imbued with Catholic social teaching.  He and his partners have changed everything in those classrooms where previously children sat on the floor.  Now, many, for the first time, have desks.

Lawrence and his partners on MSNBC and in UNICEF have gone beyond that simple need to also promote girl’s education by providing girls with high school scholarships.[3]  Education is in fact the Christ Light, opening full potential in these young women.  Educate women and you build up a nation.

Each year Lawrence introduces one or two of the girls whose lives have been transformed by this gift of education.  This year, featured has been Joyce Chisale, who is not only an aspiring poet, but is now a first-year student in a medical school.  All because of the K.I.N.D Fund and the hundreds of thousands who have contributed – they are the living radiance of the Epiphany Star.

This year Joyce Chisale read a poem she had penned in 2017, “Little by Little.”  Young as she is, here’s one woman the darkness has not overcome.  In the years to come, we’re going to hear a lot more from her.  Joyce Chisale gets the Last Word

Little by Little

Little by little we’ll go
no matter how far the distance is
we’re not shaken

Little by little we’ll go
and reach our destination

Little by little we’ll go

no matter how bumpy or rocky the road is

we’re not going to turn back
little by little we’ll go
and stay true to our dreams

Little by little we’ll go
no matter how narrow the path is
we are going to force ourselves to pass

and little by little we’ll go
and reach the promised land

Don’t be shaken
don’t turn back
little by little we’ll go
and reach our destination.

Little by little is how those three wise men happened upon Bethlehem.  In this same manor Joyce Chisale arrived at a medical school in Malawi.  Little by little, we’ll preserve our democracy.  Little by little, a light shows the path – and little by little is how we’ll reach our “Star of Wonder, Beauty Bright.”  Amen.

---

[1] Alexander S. Vindman, Here, Right Matters: An American Story (New York: Harper, 2021).

[2] Michael Connelly, The Darkest Hour (New Your: Little Brown, 2021).

[3] Andrew Brown, “Little by Little a Malawian Girl Follows Her Dreams”, UNICEF Malawi, 2017

                  St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach

                  Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

                The Epiphany
                January 2, 2022

              The Way, the Truth, and the Light

Isaiah 60:1-6; Psalm 72:1-7, 10-14
Ephesians 3:1-12; Matthew 2:1-12

Last week, when I opened my e-mail, this ad came in over the transom. 

This promo easily could have been an exhibit in our seminary’s annual show of Tacky Religious Art — another commercial desecration of Christmas.

For us Episcopalians, “tacky” is one of the worst offenses, a venial sin for sure.

Excuse a minor digression.  BUT…This is why I so love All Saints Day.  They haven’t figured out yet how to monetize it.  How much All-Saints schlock have you seen on TV with dancing chipmunks and harmonizing toilet bowl scrubbers?

In any case, here is — the Christmas promo.  A Hot Deal Directly from the North Pole.  Yes, folks there actually is a North Pole…in Alaska, near Fairbanks.  And those fine citizens milk it for all it’s worth this time of year.  Actually, Christmas 365 days a year up there.

Well, here’s the special.  You can order up your Certified Letters from Santa.  Each piece printed out on Fine Linen Paper.  Use the special code, “Jolly15,” and you’ll save 15% right now!

Now you see why I so like All Saints Day.  No special letters from St. Francis or St. Peter to purchase from God knows where.

But if you want the real message of Christmas and not a bunch of Santa hoo-ha, let’s turn to Mary and her message instead.  Her song, we call the Magnificat.  Magnificat, because God often magnifies the least to produce the most glorious results.  Magnifies us when we feel ourselves to be the least, to be of no account.

Magnificat – now here’s a promo.

Mary, a woman accounted for nothing in her society.   Most men have no idea what that feels like.  Though I did get a smidgen of insight into personal nothingness the other day.

I went to the auto dealer for a recall issue.  It was early in the morning, cold and breezy.  A fellow came up to my car, asked a few questions and put a big number on my windshield.  Then I stood by my car as I was asked to do.  In the cold.  In the wind.  And stood.   And stood.  And stood.

Meanwhile, a number of agency personnel walked by.  And walked by.  And walked by.  It was as if I was invisible.  I finally stopped one.  As he began to walk away without away listening to me, I asked him, “What am I?  A customer or an inconvenience?”  It was a little taste of invisibility.  In that moment I felt like the “Least of All.”  Welcome to Mary’s club.

Mary, frightened, expecting a child and on her own.  Shunned by all in her village.  Scared for the child she was expecting.  Utterly alone — How on earth does she tell Joseph?  Wanting to shrink into anonymity.  So much uncertainty.

But as my friend Mike Kinman said several years ago, Mary gathered up her skirts and burst forth with her full agency.  If she was to bear this child, she would not be a shrinking violet.  She cut loose with the most radical proclamation, straight out of Israel’s prophetic tradition.   Pure, unadulterated, terrifying Grace.

She knew in her bones — this child – her child — would turn the world upside down.  Mary comes off more like Mother Jones than Mother Teresa.  Mother Jones – a union organizer — hell raiser totally in it for her people.  As Fr. Mike put it that Sunday, Mary took one step back and said, “Hold my beer and watch this.”

“He has shown the strength of his arm, he has scattered the proud in their conceit.  He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly.  He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.”[1]

These verses are not the namby-pamby platitudes that pass for many of our sermons in the prosperity gospel congregations, or many mainline churches. 

This torrent of righteous proclamation is straight out of one considered to be of no account.  Don’t give me any portraits of Mary is soft blue pastels, harmless as a cocker spaniel.  I want the “Mother Jones” Mary.  The “Rosie the Riveter” Mary.  The Eleanor Homes Norton Mary!

It is out of this radical option for the poor that every union organizer is born, has breath.  It is out of this radical option for the poor that our economics will find rebirth and our planet a future.

You folks who oppress your labor force, your time is up.  Either wages rise and everyone gets a fair shake or no one works.  You’re shut down.  That’s the union hall translation of “the rich are sent empty away.”

The candle business that forced people in Kentucky to keep working as the tornado sirens screamed their warnings – yes, you folks.  I’m talking to you.  Your workers, at least those who survived your callous indifference – these workers should take you to court until they have wrung every last penny out of you.  You considered them of no account, disposable, less than nothing.  And many died.  It’s ironic that it was a candle business that was an agent of such deep darkness.  Don’t you think?

Micah has it right when he proclaims, “You, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule.”[2]  Out of the Least of All, God’s righteousness springs up.  Like the grass that grows through the cracks, though they spread the asphalt over it.

The high and mighty thought they could plan an insurrection on January 6 under the cover of darkness and anonymity. Overthrow our constitutional government.  It is the “little people” who have spied them out – reporters and lowly congress critters who have pulled back the curtain.  These are the ones of whom Mary sings in her Magnificat.  These are the least of Ephrathah, the lowliest of clans. 

They will keep the spotlight of the God’s honest truth on those January 6^th seditious malefactors until they are marched off to prison for conspiracy.  Yes, the fish rots from the head.  Thrown down from their thrones these perpetrators will be.  Actions have consequences.  There will be plenty of time for God’s mercy when you’re in contrition-mode with a few years behind bars to think about your actions.

Again, it will be the Least of All – Hundreds of strong women and their supporters in this very same spirit marching in the streets – for health care rights, for voter’s rights, for a fair economy.  Not going to take it anymore.  Going to be the drudge and scapegoat no longer.  They are here to scatter the proud in their conceit.  A Gospel Action if ever there was one.

This, the birth of one destined to turn the world upside down.  All who follow in his path are insurrectionists in the cause of a Love beyond all Love.  Sometimes the work has a hard edge – of necessity.

Sometimes it’s a gentle soft touch, soft as velvet, as tasty as a ripe peach just off the tree.  In all cases, true liberation from what weighs down.

Jai passed along a wonderful such story from Elizabeth Gilbert — a story of one of the “Least of All.”  A big-city bus driver at the end of a long afternoon picking up exhausted, cranky commuters heading on home.

Elizabeth Gilbert gets the Last Word:

“Some years ago, I was stuck on a crosstown bus in New York City during rush hour. Traffic was barely moving. The bus was filled with cold, tired people who were deeply irritated with one another, with the world itself. Two men barked at each other about a shove that might or might not have been intentional. A pregnant woman got on, and nobody offered her a seat. Rage was in the air; no mercy would be found here.

But as the bus approached Seventh Avenue, the driver got on the intercom. “Folks,” he said, “I know you have had a rough day and you are frustrated. I can’t do anything about the weather or traffic, but here is what I can do. As each one of you gets off the bus, I will reach out my hand to you. As you walk by, drop your troubles into the palm of my hand, okay? Don’t take your problems home to your families tonight, just leave them with me. My route goes right by the Hudson River, and when I drive by there later, I will open the window and throw your troubles in the water.”

It was as if a spell had lifted. Everyone burst out laughing. Faces gleamed with surprised delight. People who had been pretending for the past hour not to notice each other’s existence were suddenly grinning at each other like, is this guy serious?

Oh, he was serious.

At the next stop, just as promised, the driver reached out his hand, palm up, and waited. One by one, all the exiting commuters placed their hand just above his and mimed the gesture of dropping something into his palm. Some people laughed as they did this, some teared up but everyone did it. The driver repeated the same lovely ritual at the next stop, too. And the next. All the way to the river.”

Out of the Least of All, out of you and me, the coming promise of Christmas is arriving to turn our world upside down.  Sometimes with a bullhorn on a picket line, sometimes with the soft strains of a holiday song, sometimes by poem.  Or a gentle smile.   Maybe on a crowded bus.

“He shall feed his flock like a shepherd.”  In his stead YOU may be the one on the soup line serving up hearty nourishment.

In our land, as a great darkness descends over our democracy, you may be the Paul Revere, sounding the alarm.  Up to “trouble, good trouble, necessary trouble.”  Waking folks up.

In the darkness a light has shined.  Now, you are that Light.  Let it shine.

This is what Mary’s alarming song is all about.  Someone of lowly birth coming to kindle the life spark where it had been extinguished, born to set the world on fire.  And all of us, of lowly birth — arsonists for Christ.

That’s what this bus driver was, the sheer audacity of Grace, all the way down to the river. 

 Christ has come.  Christ is come.  Christ will come again.  Light that fourth Advent candle.  Amen.

---

[1] Luke 1:46-55, NRSV.

[2] Micah 5:2, NRSV.

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach

                  Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

                   Advent 4
                December 19, 2021

Out of the Least of All

Micah 5:2-5a; Canticle 3 (the Magnificat);
Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-55

Today we light the pink candle on the Advent wreath.  This is Mary’s Sunday.  And this is Stir Up Sunday – the clue that it was time for folks to get their Christmas puddings started.  Why, you ask?  The collect that begins worship for today begins, “Stir up thy power, O Lord, and with great might come among us;” Ladies, get your puddings stirred up.  Christmas is coming.

Some of you are probably expecting to see Deacon Pat up here this morning.  I got a call early Friday morning that she was having a medical issue.  As she spoke, my Army medic mode kicked in and I realized this might be pretty serious.  I told her to have her son Will get her to the hospital right away, as in NOW.

That’s how it is, one thing after another.  Life sometimes smacks us upside the head.  Yes, I know that it’s Joy Sunday.  We lit the pink Advent candle, but life intrudes.  Stuff happens.  Where is the Joy?

The JOY is in the real world.  The work and problems given to our hands and minds – there’s the JOY.  We have commitments, errands, dishes to wash.  I always give thanks at the beginning of each morning while I’m sitting on the side of the bed waiting to make sure I have my balance that once again, I can put on my pants one leg at a time and get to it.

After Pat’s early morning call, I called Barbara to make sure we had follow-up, as she lives much closer to Pat than I.  I then went and found the newspapers to see what else God might have on the morning’s agenda.  Then I opened up the computer to check the e-mail.  Finally, I got to work on a sermon that I hadn’t planned on writing this week.

If God was going to stir up divine power, I realized that I’d better, and quickly, stir up my gumption if I was going to be part of this action.

Like Fr. Malcolm Boyd used to say, “Are you running with me, Jesus?” 

Unfortunately, it seems, God has some pretty poor material to work with.  I’m talking about us.  About me.  But with God, we shall be sufficient.

“Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter of Jerusalem!”[1]

Sing, we will!

In this time of festive preparations for the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, out of the blue, my friend Dick called with tickets to the Claremont Chorale Christmas Concert.  Indeed, we will sing.  What a treat.  Sure, we will enjoy the music, but much more than that, the joy is to be surrounded with such a group of kind, thoughtful friends.

As our House of Hope team looks forward to another trip back to West Virginia, funding sources are finally coming together.  One of the programs we will borrow from is Recovery Point out of Huntington, West Virginia.

While in West Virginia on our last trip, if one was looking for meager material of humble beginnings, we found them as we visited a rehab center run by the clients themselves.  In recovery jargon, it is known as a peer-to-peer operation.  There were no medical or other professional staff.  The curriculum is solely The Big Book of AA.

Our version of the program will include medical detox.  It’s much more humane.  And definitely more effective in getting folks through the recovery.  To go cold turkey is hell.  Just read Dopesick or watch the new documentary based on that work on Hulu.[2]

As we were shown the facility and spoke with residents there, it was obvious, one could not get to more humble beginnings.  As we were leaving, a fellow in an orange jump suit and in shackles was being escorted in by a couple of armed deputies.

Behold, this place was, in living color – orange, the Christmas miracle come alive.  Out of degradation and desperation, God was including one more person in God’s great plan of salvation history.  Yes, from Abraham, Joram, Ruth, and a whole bunch of other people we’ve never heard of – right up to Bathsheba, Solomon, to Joseph and beyond – the story continues until it comes to such as you and me.  And a smelly, sorry-ass fellow in an orange jump suit.  Gloria. Gloria!

Recovery Point in Huntington is solely a men’s facility; there’s a separate women’s facility in Charleston.  It seemed like there were about one hundred men living there, mostly in their twenties and thirties. 

I was astounded at the organization and the ethic of recovery I witnessed in those men.  Two of the biggest learnings accompanying the journey to sobriety are respect and accountability.  All chores are done by those living there from cleaning up and making one’s bed to kitchen duty and mentoring those coming out of detox.  The place ran like clockwork.  Discipline was strict.  Consequences were meted out for screw-ups.  And it was all accepted with equanimity by those who knew in their gut that Recovery Point was their last, best chance. 

Now, I sure wouldn’t want any of these men seeing the office and desk I came home to.  They’d know I’d flunked recovery from the chaos.

In Luke’s telling of Jesus’ baptism, hundreds are flocking to John to be baptized into a righteous life.[3]  John tells them that to prepare they must put on a new ethic, the garment of righteousness and humility. 

To the tax collectors, “collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.”  To the soldiers (and we would say to all policing authorities) “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.”  And Black lives do matter, along with the lives of all our citizens.  Decent behavior and compassion will be the sign of your entry into the Kingdom of Salvation. 

It would be almost unbearable, what the Baptizer would have said to Wall Street tycoons and bank presidents.  “Do not send battalions of lawyers up against union organizers.  Do not cheat your depositors by setting up bogus accounts and burying them under enormous fake fees.”  Recovery leads to joy, but it’s a hard road.

Like, as with the clients of Recovery Point, recovering capitalists would find new joy in some of the simpler pleasures of life – a warm cup of coffee in the morning and a dazzling sunset at eventide.  Yes, a cup of joe and a cup of joy to begin each day.

Right there at Recovery Point, Huntington, West Virginia!  Gloria.  Gloria!  This was far better than any Miracle on 34^th Street.  This was the real deal.  Miracles created every day through newly found sobriety.

And to top it off, the following day back in Charleston at Starbucks, I spied a young woman wearing a Recovery Point jacket with a friend.  I introduced myself and mentioned House of Hope. They told me that they were staff at the woman’s center in Charleston.  

Thinking back, my pickup line that morning was probably one of the weirdest, most unlikely, that may have ever worked.  Anyway, these two women came over and shared some of their stories. 

One shared of her seven-year-old boy in an institution.  He had been damaged from her neglect when she was stoned.  Recovery’s not easy.  She will live with that reality the rest of her life.  But here she is, picking up the pieces.  Here she is – Stayin’ Alive!  Stayin’ Alive!  All the work of Holy Spirit baptism.

The dead are brought back to life and the blind see with new eyes.  She finally has hope for something better.  Christmas Miracle in Charleston, West Virginia!  Gloria.  Gloria! 

We know how that story begins – a single step.  And Mary answered the angelic messenger, “Let it be unto me according to thy word.”   Gloria.  Gloria.  “Sing aloud, O daughter Zion.”  

As we offer up prayers this morning for Deacon Pat, let us with joyful hearts, reflect on all the love she has given over the years to St. Francis — the joy she has brought to so many.  And we pray that she will have many more years of ministry in our midst.  Now, let us light that pink candle for JOY.  It comes each morning, fresh with the sunshine.  Amen.

---

[1] Zephaniah 3:14, NRSV.

[2] Beth Macy, Dopesick (New York: Little, Brown & Co., 2018).

[3] Luke 3:7-18, NRSV.

                  St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach

                  Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

                   Advent 3 (Gaudete Sunday)
                December 5, 2021

Stir Up Your Power

Zephaniah 3:14-20; Canticle 9 (the First Song of Isaiah);
Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18

As we approach Advent, thoughts turn to endings and beginnings.  We are on the cusp of coming out of COVID-19.  Yet, it is still with us.  We see folks dining outside, playing in the park.  Kids are in school.  At the same time, the mood of the public is on the sour side. 

A cloud of fear and suspicion hangs over thoughts of hesitant Christmas shopping.  With death threats whispered, our politics are in the toilet. Sports teams are playing again.  By the way, kudos to the Atlanta Braves.

Speaking of sports, something of a stench hovers over the gridiron in Wisconsin.  “You lied to everyone,” Hall of Fame quarterback Terry Bradshaw scolded.  Aaron Rodgers cared about only one person – himself.  His selfishness exposed his teammates to the corona virus. 

Now, Rodgers has tested positive for the disease.  On Fox Sunday Sports, while featuring a tribute to the Naval Academy, Bradshaw let loose. 

“I’ll give Aaron Rodgers some advice. It would have been nice if he had just come to the Naval Academy and learned how to be honest [and] learned not to lie,” said Bradshaw of the Packers quarterback. “Because that’s what you did, Aaron. You lied to everyone.”[1] 

Gone is the day when America once looked up to its sports heroes and establishment without reservation.  These days, for too many professional athletes, it’s all about entitlement and the big bucks.  

Aaron, that your team in your absence lost their game this last Sunday is a small, insignificant price to pay for what you have done to your reputation and to the respect of your teammates and the fans.  Aaron, maybe you might consider those midshipmen at Annapolis for a few moments this coming week.  Contrition is still good for the soul.

I’ve become pretty disillusioned by professional sports over the years.  Cities spend fortunes on state-of-the-art stadiums, and on a whim their team up and moves for a better offer.  What is it now – the Advil Raiders and the Microsoft Chargers???  Playing in God-knows-where!

The edifice has crumbled.  The trophies are tarnished by cheating and steroids.  Tarnished, has much of America. Not a whole lot left but the money.  AND, to wring more of your cold, hard cash out of you, gambling is now allowed at many sports venues.  Next, the players themselves will be placing the bets.

We live in unsettled times, as was Jerusalem in 66-70 of our Common Era (CE). 

In Mark’s depiction, as Jesus’ disciples enter the holy city of Jerusalem, they are agog as they stare up to the splendor of the Temple.  One of the disciples, tugging on the sleeve of his garment, exclaims, “’Look, Teacher, what large stones and what large buildings!’  Then Jesus asked him, ‘Do you see these great buildings?  Not one stone will be left here upon another; all will be thrown down.’”

The lesson here is impermanence.  And rebuilding.  For Jews, out of the calamity of 69 CE, the destruction of the temple and the fall of the fortress of Masada, came the end of temple worship centered around the sacrifice of burnt offerings. 

Born was rabbinic Judaism centered around the synagogue and came the Diaspora, the scattering of Jews to all corners of the earth. 

The early followers of Jesus, those who had survived the destruction, being Jews, likewise were also scattered like chaff blown by the wind.

Into this social upheaval came all sorts of charlatans promoting all sorts of nonsense.  Just like today.  Ivermectin, bleach and other quack nostrums are nothing new under the sun.  The bruhaha over vaccinations is but a symptom of a society in stress.  When it comes to the halls of reason and scientific method, not one stone is left upon another.

Unfettered craziness!

Senator Ted Cruz has now taken on our beloved Big Bird.  Did you hear, the other day Big Bird stood in a line for his vaccination.  I guess, so he wouldn’t get birdie pox.  Ted Cruz had a conniption.  Said that Big Bird was a shill for government vaccine propaganda.  Brainwashed, his little birdy brain was.  Instead of reason, we get outrage porn.  Not one stone left upon another in the precincts of logic.  Not one!

And it gets worse.  Did you know that all this harangue about masks and vaccinations is evil?  Emerald Robinson’s employment at Newsmax was terminated for claiming that COVID-19 vaccinations gave one the mark of the devil.  She’s presently off the air while her employer reviews her tweets claiming that the shot gives recipients Satan’s seal of ownership.

Ms. Robinson tweeted: “Dear Christians: the vaccines contain a bioluminescent marker called LUCIFERASE so that you can be tracked. Read the last book of the New Testament to see how this ends.”  Not one stone left upon another in the temple of sound religion. 

In spite of such absurdity, Simon and Garfunkel cross my mind: “And here’s to you, Mrs. Robinson/Jesus loves you more than you will know, wo wo wo…”

I think I’m beginning to miss Tammy Faye and Jim Bakker and the PTL crowd.  At least, with that grift, no one died to purchase gold faucets for their humble abode.

Mark was written either shortly before, or most likely, after, the destruction of the temple in Jerusalem in the year 69.  That year the city was pillaged and razed to the ground.  Much of the population was killed or taken captive in a slaughter perhaps comparable to the Srebrenica massacre, to that of Rwanda, or President Jackson’s genocidal policy of Indian removal from the eastern United States.  Let us not forget the “Trail of Tears.” Only the Holocaust, in recent history, would have been among tragedies surpassing that of Jerusalem.

For Mark and the early Christian community, the events of the Roman-Jewish war were a complete disaster.  But more than that, those events were full of portents of what was to come for those who had survived.

In times of profound sense of loss, let us keep the faith in one another and listen.  In such commitment is the substance of Christian Hope.  Faith that God is still working wondrous purposes out.

First, is the necessity to grieve.   These tears are healing rivulets flowing down cheeks.  Sometimes stuff happens, very bad stuff.  In disaster, hope is a scarce commodity.  Time is necessary for shock to dissipate.  Time is necessary to gain orientation to present-day realities.  To discern new beginnings, Spirit openings.  The craziness of this time – it will subside like a bad head cold.  We will get through this together.  Faith will suffice for the days ahead.

Second, is to organize, plan, think and write.

The huge production of books and articles on our current difficulties is one source of comfort and hope.

Books on the opioid epidemic have proliferated over the past ten or so years.  They attest to the necessity and blessing of community.  We are not alone in facing this.  There is help.  Just the shared experience of another who has walked this path is comfort.  Hearing the stories is an essential spiritual discipline.  Do not turn away.

Sam Quinones, in his second book on the addiction crisis, brings the living testimony of families, of communities, some, for the first time ever, working in concert to confront this scourge.

He tells, early on, of the hunger he found for presentations after his first book had been published.  In communities, large and small, in Appalachia and all throughout the middle of America.

He tells of one of the moments in the small town of Portsmouth, Ohio, that was the seed for his second book on our drug crisis, The Least of These.[2]  He writes:

“After my speech, an older couple—thin, short, and pale—came up to a table where I was signing books.  We were alone.  Quietly, so only I could hear, the man said that their daughter was in prison for many years for a crime related to her opioid addiction.  He said they were raising her young daughter and didn’t know what to do.  They were exhausted.  They were concerned they wouldn’t live long enough to see the girl through to adulthood.  He was a man of few words and no tears.  He looked shellshocked.”

“’It’s so hard,’ he said.”

“I was new at this and didn’t know how to respond.  We each held the others hand, frozen in mid-handshake, this man and I, and stared into each other’s eyes as his wife stood by in silence.  I squeezed his hand finally, and I think I said something about them not being alone.  That I was sorry.  They moved on, and I can still see the man looking back at me and nodding.”

“This book grew from that moment and others like it.”

Such are the moments of healing, the beginning of hope.  It’s in the simple act of sharing with another that you can’t go on any farther.  Admitting exhaustion.  Such is the beginning of hope. 

Drawing from ancient testimony of the psalmist, Jesus followers remembered a saving truth: “The stone which the builders rejected has become the chief cornerstone.”[3]

When asked where he sees hope, “What places have you seen that are doing the right thing?” Sam responds, “Right here.”  The cornerstone! That has become his answer. 

Addiction is not a Republican or Democratic, not a Green or Independent problem.  People who would never have agreed on much of anything are joining their efforts, are now learning each other’s names, making plans, going out for pizza together.  When not one stone is left upon another, they are the chief cornerstone.  They are the ones restoring hope.  You very fine citizens; you are the ones leading others with new eyes to see beginnings that God is about.

Ordinary neighbors, those with the courage to unite in towns big and small, these are stones rejected – rejected by the purveyors of these drugs, rejected by indifferent bureaucrats, entitled politicians.

It’s going to be just average folks who have a care.  It is out of this cornerstone that the entire dwelling of sobriety be constructed.  Such is the seed of Hope.

Not one stone left upon another, but in the rubble lies the cornerstone.  This is the gospel testimony we of the Jesus Movement claim.  It’s through folks like that older couple who dared to share their desperation, it’s through writers like Sam Quinones who can document these stories with a generous spirit, and with hope – that we rediscover the Hope of things eternal.  Through such hope, we uncover a chief cornerstone to build anew. And to you, Mrs. Robinson, to us all: “Jesus loves you more than you will know, wo wo wo.   Amen

---

[1] Fatma Khaled, “Terry Bradshaw Rips Aaron Rodgers Over COVID Fiasco: ‘You Lied to Everyone,’” Newsweek, 11-7-2021.

[2] Sam Quinones, The Least of These: True Tales of America and Hope in the Time of Fentanyl and Meth (New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2021).

[3] Psalm 118:22, Mark 12:10, Matthew 21:42, Luke 4:11, Acts 4:11.

                                St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach

                                              Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

        Pentecost 25, Proper 28
        November 14, 2021
 

    “Not One Stone Upon Another”

                                      Daniel12:1-3; Psalm 16;
                                 Hebrews 10:11-14,19-36; Mark 13:1-8

“In our Custody, In our Care.”  That’s the motto of the Minneapolis Police Department.

This last week the jury that had convicted Derick Chauvin of murder assembled with the media for the first time since that fateful trial.  Seven of the eight met for an interview with the host of CNN’s Don Lemon Tonight.

Several jurors reported a moment of epiphany, when it dawned on them that something was missing.  Some critical act missing that was triggered by the motto of the Minneapolis Police Department – “In our Custody, in our Care.” 

The forewoman explained:     “At some point, I think it was Jodi, I’m pretty sure it was Jodi said, ‘Wait a minute, does the intended act of harm have to be the death of George Floyd, or can it be him not providing the life support?’ And it was like all of a sudden the light bulbs just went on for those people that I think were undecided or on the not guilty side.”[1]

As Jodi said, for her the defining moment of that incident is not what the officer did.  It’s what the officer failed to do.  That, for her, proved intent.

As another juror added, “George Floyd was in their custody. He was never in their care.”  That was the assessment of juror Sherri Hardeman.

Thus came the first ever guilty verdict for a white officer for killing a black man — “Never in their Care.”

Yet, CARE was not derelict.  Never absent at that scene.  A young woman who gave a care steadfastly kept her camera rolling as those fateful eight minutes, forty-six seconds ticked by.

And millions of Americans gave a CARE as in outrage they took to the streets to protest the indignity shown George Floyd.  Unfortunately, our congress has yet to muster up the courage to show the same spine, the same CARE as that young bystander.

As we celebrate the Saints of God, I am coming to believe that it’s all about CARE.  They are the ones who simply give a CARE.

That’s the entire story of the resurrecting of Lazarus.  Jesus is the cosmic embodiment of CARE.  As, might any suffering loss, suffering the sting of death of a dear friend, Jesus wept at the news of his friend.  He and the entire village, had unabashedly joined Mary and Martha in mourning the loss of their brother Lazarus.  Here we find the shortest verse in the Bible, John 11:35, “Jesus wept.”  Those two words encompass the entire mercy of God.

We are drawn to a God who promises to wipe away our tears when in a season of weeping.  A promise of comfort, of CARE.

We have lost several dear ones at St. Francis in this past season of weeping:  Our sisters Alicia, Stephanie and Diane.  Our brothers Fred and Oliver.  Numbered among the Saints of God to be sure.  In their own inimitable ways, they gave a CARE for us all and for the Church of Christ.

But, more than that, we worship a God who summons us back to life. Just as did those millions of marchers who filled our streets after the death of George Floyd.  Black, white – all ethnicities – rich and poor – urban rural.  All of them calling America back to its founding principal motto:  E Pluribus Unum – Out of Many, One.  Calling this nation back to life.

That trembling young woman with a cell phone, steadfast, she is one of the Saints of God.  She would have never claimed to be anyone special, would never have claimed any special notoriety.  She just followed the instincts of the Spirit-implanted humanity in her soul.  She simply did her duty as a fellow human being, a Saint to be sure!  Calling us to witness.  To life.

Yes, as the hymn proclaims, “You can meet them in school, or in lanes, or at sea, in church or in trains, or in shops or at tea…”[2]  A saint has that force within to kindle the life quality where it was not.

Sometimes it’s by raising a ruckus, like those who steadfastly protest the indignities heaped upon the “least of these.”  They are about “trouble, good trouble, necessary trouble.”  As we move through the process of “sausage making” in congress, the Saints of God are on the alert for indignity heaping.  Senator Patty Murray is one, an exemplar of that necessary trouble when she calls out “one seventy-four-year-old man” who would deny paid leave to women having to tend to a sick child or care for an elderly mother.

Senator Patty Murray was in high dudgeon on Thursday:  “We’re not going to let one man tell all the women in this country that they can’t have paid leave,”[3]

The outrage didn’t stop there.  Remember the bit about “a woman scorned” and Hell’s fury. 

“I think it’s horrific that one white man can make this decision,” said Dawn Huckelbridge, director of Paid Leave for All. “But I think it’s also a failure of our entire government…And this could have been a cornerstone program that would have helped every working family in this country. And we’ve squandered that opportunity.”[4]  Shame.  Shame on us.

Legislating, that so-called sausage making, is not a pretty process.  Much sturm und drang.  Especially when it’s the little people, the “least of these” getting ground up in the process.  Ground up and discarded.

To no one’s surprise, the folks with the most means don’t usually get pulverized in this messy process.  In the midst of the offal and slime on the floor, God’s Saints call out privilege when they see it, when they smell it.  The Saints of God continue to call America to values imbued in its founding documents, foundational tracts and essays. 

Yes, Frederick Douglas, I’m thinking about you.[5]  I’m thinking about those stirring words in the preamble to the Declaration of Independence.  I’m thinking about Jane Addams at Hull House and Susan B. Anthony.  I’m thinking about a good friend and fellow marcher, Rabbi Leonard Beerman.  A companion on the journey who always asserted, “My marching feet are my prayers.”  Mine too.  All Saints of God who have mentored our democracy through its fitful journey to the present day.  Raised us back to life.

I’m thinking of those intrepid guides who followed the “Drinking Gourd,” leading the enslaved to freedom up north.  I’m thinking about Sojourner Truth and Harriet Tubman – all the anonymous conductors, Black and White, on that most blessed Underground Railroad to freedom.  All following a bright North Star — leading America to a brighter destiny.  These are the incandescent Saints of God I celebrate today.  Holding the “least of these” in tender care.

Yes, you can meet them on trains, but also in demonstrations, at the workplace and in the Halls of Congress. You find them on the internet, lobbying for a just politics. You can find them in our Pilgrim Place dining hall, writing letters on behalf of those imprisoned and tortured for protesting tyranny and dictatorship. Yes, I’m thinking of you who monthly write those letters on behalf of Amnesty International. Right here in Pilgrim Place, in our churches and around the world. You have a CARE for the most despised and forgotten. Saints, to be sure.

One more thing.  In researching the turmoil around the Build Back Better Bill and paid family leave, I came across an outfit of insurance brokers serving the Black community.  This business was created because many national companies, due to “red-lining,” had refused to issue policies in minority or poor neighborhoods.

Wealth & Equity, a non-profit, was “created to unite the insurance industry on a mission to educate, underwrite, and empower the Black community by leveraging life insurance and enhancing financial education, while also helping Black agents and agencies reach their highest level of career success.”[6]

These people looked around and noticed that most insurance companies thought communities of color and low-income neighborhoods were not worthy of their effort.  This discrimination led some righteous souls early on to enter that market.  As a result, the nonprofit, Wealth & Equity, was given birth as a Black owned enterprise.  They gave a CARE.  And still do.

If ever business folks could make it into the pantheon of Saints, these self-help, non-profit folks are Saints of God!  They’re all about respect and empowerment.

Yes, saints galore.  Closer to home, so close — saints who abound.

These are the husbands and wives, who over the years have gone the extra mile with tokens of love and affection.  Flowers for no special day.  A favorite breakfast.  A spontaneous day in the park together.  Even through kiss-and-make-up arguments.  Sometimes it’s loved ones who forgive the unforgiveable.  Cherished quiet time they allow one another.  It’s how they’ve made allowances for each other, cut one another some slack.  It’s those joyous moments of celebration like the discovery that a new baby might be on the way.  It’s shared moments of sorrow too deep for words.  They do the necessary chores to keep things going, day in and day out, without complaint.  Saints to be sure!  Folks who daily give a CARE.

Saints are those who’ve kept up long-term friendships that have weathered misunderstandings and absences.  Friendships that year after year spring up, even after the years and months have flown by, as if not a day had been missed.  Folks who will always have your back.  The ones who bring out the best in you, expect the best from you and are willing to believe the best about you.  People who hold you in prayer and tender thoughts.  Precious, indeed, in the sight of the Lord.  Saints to be sure.

The Saints of God – “They lived not only in ages past, there are hundreds of thousands still, the world is bright with the joyous saints who love to do Jesus’ will.”  The Saints be Praised, AND May I be one too.   Amen.

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[1] Nick Paschal, “Jurors Reveal it was Something Derek Chauvin didn’t do that Convinced Them all to Vote Guilty,” Yahoo Entertainment, October 29, 2021.

[2] Lesbia Scott, The Church Hymnal, #293, Church Pension Fund, 1985.

[3] Chris Cillizza, “This Democratic Senator is Irate at Joe Manchin,” CNN State of the Union, October 28, 2021.

[4] Quoted in unsigned op. ed., Wealth & Equity, October 28, 2021.

[5] Frederick Douglass, “What to the Slave is the Fourth of July?”  Speech given to Independence Day celebration for the Rochester Ladies’ Anti-Slavery Society, July 5, 1852.

[6] Wealth & Equity, “Who are We,” https://wealthandequity.org/.

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach

                                              Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

        All Saints Sunday
 

       “In our Custody, In our Care”

                              Wisdom of Solomon 3:1-9; Psalm 24;
                                     Revelation 21:1-6a; John 11:32-44

I remember driving from Ridgecrest out through the desert to our church in Randsburg, just off Highway 395.

It was not an infrequent sight to see in the distance a group of buzzards circling over what I presumed to be their lunch,  As I got closer, I could see them fighting over the scraps of Br’er Rabbit, or whatever was left of some unfortunate road kill.  These buzzards were a tenacious lot.  It wouldn’t be until the last moment when I was about to run over the lot of them, that they would hop away or take to the air.

From time immemorial, these scavengers have been a warning to desert travelers that this forbidding terrain could be deadly to the lost and unprepared.  Fatal to those who scoff at the precautions of survival.  Or just the plain stupid. Yeah, what you don’t know can easily kill you out there.  With temperatures of one hundred twelve and higher, one does not last long without water and shade.  Besides the heat, hazards lurk under rocks. Unseen mine shafts await the unwary.  That circling group of birds is your stark warning.  You may end up dinner, with a few scraps left over for their breakfast in the morning.

Those circling birds are indeed a timely warning for the desert traveler.  Every bit as sharp and urgent as Amos’s prophecy to the nation Israel.  And now, to the nation America.

The purpose for this is exactly the same as that warning from your mother about the hot stove or the rushing traffic on a busy street.  It’s the skull and cross bones on that little green bottle in the back of the kitchen cabinet.  Its purpose is that you might “live long and prosper.”  That you might not be removed from the gene pool at a tender young age.  Or at any age.

For his nation, Amos’s warning was so that its people might keep and enjoy the freedom won by God when they had crossed the Red Sea before Pharoah’s horses and chariots.  Exodus was Freedom.  It would be hard to keep.

No nation can sustain itself for long when it is riddled by corruption and fraud.  More on that later.  Corruption has set in, so this is the law suit that God has brought against the nation of Israel.  Court is called to order at the city gate, the seat of judgement.  God is present to hear the case and pronounce judgement.

Here’s the opening summons:

“Seek the Lord and live, or he will break out against the house of Joseph like fire…Ah, you that turn justice to wormwood, and bring righteousness to the ground…

Now come the particulars of God’s indictment against the House of Israel:

“They hate the one who reproves in the gate, and they abhor the one who speaks the truth (read, “but we have Alternative Facts”).  Therefore, because you trample on the poor and take from them levies of grain …you take a bribe, and push aside the needy in the gate.”

Finally, the summation and judgement:

“Seek good and not evil, that you may live; and so the Lord, the God of hosts, will be with you, just as you have said.  Hate evil and love good, and establish justice in the gate; it may be that the Lord, the God of hosts, will be gracious to the remnant of the people.”

It may be that the Lord, the God of hosts, will be gracious to a righteous remnant – that’s the earnest and desired purpose.  Blessedness and Righteousness will kiss each other in your dealings — that’s the intent.

The purpose of it all is an amendment of one’s ways.  Repent, which simply means to turn around and head in a new direction – a saving direction, the direction of national solidarity and wholeness.

God doesn’t want that we should feel sad or guilty; the purpose here is that we should thrive.  It is that the nation should be a realm of justice and equity so that we dwell in peace with one another, and the sojourner who also lives in the land. 

This is a warning about the path you are on which is leading to ruin and destruction. 

Apart from God’s corrective word, our hearts are idol factories.  How quickly we lose the purpose of it all.  The prophets, running all the way from Moses to Zechariah to Jesus and to Dr. Martin Luther King are the corrective to our self-serving, destructive rationalizations.

Under the category of self-serving revelations: Jai came across televangelist Kenneth Copeland, who told his congregation that airline vaccine mandates were “the mark of the Beast,” and another reason why they should buy him a private Jet.

No, pastor.  God doesn’t want you to have a jet and lots of bling.  God wants you to be a decent human being and faithful to the gospel you pledged allegiance to upon your ordination.  God wants you to be an upright citizen in the land.

Perhaps a more contemporary warning and revelation has come from one of our conservative columnists, Robert Kagen — not an alarmist, but a deeply ethical foreign policy analyst who served in the U.S. State Department in the 80’s.

He sounds a warning to us Americans that our democracy is on the brink.  “The United States is heading into its greatest political and constitutional crisis since the Civil War, with a reasonable chance of over the next three to four years on incidents of mass violence, a breakdown of federal authority, and the division of the country into warring red and blue enclaves”

The warning signs are obscured by the theatrics of Trump and his supporters, the January 6^th insurrection, the pandemic, the economic malaise and flat-out “wishful thinking.”  But the evidence is right out in the open.  In front of God and everyone.

Bogus charges of election fraud only serve to diminish our faith in constitutional order.  Even in California, one of the leading candidates to replace Governor Gavin Newsom in our recent recall election, began claiming that the election was rigged before a single vote was in.

Election laws are being perpetrated across over a dozen states that would limit the franchise, reinforce gerrymandered districts and permit legislatures in Red states to overturn the results of any election they don’t like.  No matter what a secretary of state has certified.  “We just don’t like your electors.  Take ours!”

A local, John Eastman, a product of our very own Claremont McKenna College…that’s right, our own home-grown, a Claremont educated seditionist, provided Trump with the road map necessary to overturn the 2020 election.[1]

This is how it was to work.  I know, it’s “in the weeds.”  But this is how democracies die. 

Trump gets enough states like Arizona and others to have their Republican legislators submit alternative slates of electors – alternative to those previously certified by their secretaries of state.  All V.P. Pence needed to do was to void both slates of electors from those states, then declare that because were not enough valid electors for either candidate, and throw election into the House of Representatives.  There the number of small, sparsely populated red states would overwhelm the rest, and then declare Trump re-elected.  Warm up the Marine Corps Band for one more chorus of “Hail to the Chief.”

More realistic and far more dangerous than the delusional fantasies of Mr. Pillow Guy.  This week I came across the headline from Salon, the internet magazine: “Mike Lindell’s new genius plan: Knock on your door and ask whether you’re dead. The pillow maven’s last-ditch effort centers around sending out canvassers to neighborhoods across the nation.”[2] 

Maybe on Halloween such a canvasser might get a “yes” to that inquiry.  

When fraud and lies and fantasy prevail, no nation can long endure.  “Stop the Steal” and insurrection are dead ends for the promise of America.

Kagan, in preface to his essay quotes James Madison, author of much of our Constitution: “Is there no virtue among us?  If there be not, we are in a wretched situation.”

Whether it be bribery, theft, cronyism, nepotism, or just plain idiocy…a nation governed on such a foundation cannot long endure.  That was the judgment of the prophets.  That was the judgement of earliest Americans who founded the Iroquois Confederacy, and those who met at Independence Hall in 1776.  That is the lesson of all nations down through history.

What can we then do?  We are not helpless.  We have a sacred right and responsibility.  We the moral obligation of agency as citizens in this republic.  An obligation that goes far beyond simply voting every two or four years.

Become informed and involved.  Yeah, newspapers are sometimes boring.  Books are long and definitely more difficult than Facebook or Snapchat.  If we want our children and grandchildren to have a chance at a decent life in a free society, it will take a bit of effort.  Actually, a lot of effort.

This is not the of heroics as storming the beaches of Normandy or conducting undercover operations behind enemy lines.  Won’t get you a Presidential Medal of Freedom or your name on that marble wall at the CIA headquarters.  But it just might help us keep our democracy.

To raise these issues might be unpopular in some circles.  But all it takes for tyranny to overtake us is for good men and women to say nothing, do nothing.  Just keep quiet.

It maybe it is you who is appointed as the Paul Revere of this moment.  You may be the one to trip the alarm.  Wake us up to the fire on our doorstep.  Or just urge your neighbor to vote.

Everyday in our morning news, faithful reporters and newscasters inform us of the rot in the Ship of State.  The timbers are compromised.  Wood borers have eaten through much of the structure.  The sails mildew.  The malnourished crew is exhausted.  The ship is adrift.  David Brooks, Robert Kagin and others are sounding the alarm.  Just as Amos did for his nation.

DO NOT DESPAIR.  Warnings are given that we might right the ship before it’s swamped.  Before malefactors have scuttled it. 

Warnings are given that all might enjoy “life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.”  Their aim is that we all might live in peace, each secure in their own home, under their own fig tree. 

Choose the better way and prosper.  To flourish is the will of God, in harmony with all others and all living things on this “earth, our island home.”

“Seek good and not evil, that you may live…”

There are critical steps we can take now to preserve the inheritance of this land.  Before it looks like Putin’s Russia, Kim Jong-un’s North Korea.

Push for the inclusion of all. Conservative and former Republican, David Brooks, a guiding light on the communal ethic necessary for our survival as a democracy, now urges not 3.5 trillion, but — GET THIS – 4 TRILLION in the Build Back Better legislation presently mired in congressional deadlock.  This from our conservative friend!  Why?

Like Amos and the 8^th century Prophets, David Brooks knows that no country, no economy is sustainable if over half the people are left out.  Left in hopeless destitution.  And that’s how they feel.  Jessie Jackson is right in his summons, “Keep HOPE alive.”

These people need a real champion, not a fraud who mainly cares only about himself and is too busy with mass rallies of adulation.  That was Mussolini and Papa Doc in Haiti.  That’s the old “bread and circuses” ploy of dictators.

“Seek good and not evil, that you may live…”  That’s active citizenship.

Do your bit to help on election day.  I never had so much satisfaction as when driving those without transportation to the polls.  Join a service club.  Subscribe to a local paper.  Support a philanthropic organization.  Maybe all you can do is send in a few dollars a month to a charity.  Remember, it’s not just you.  The money of us all adds up.  Support your local school board.  Many board members and teachers are presently under vicious attack.

You have opportunities at your disposal Amos did not have.  This is how we create the beloved community.  These are the building blocks of the New Jerusalem, the New San Bernardino, the New Highland, the New Claremont, the New West Virginia.

Truth is the cornerstone.  Love is the password.  Open are the city’s Gates of Justice.  It is all meant to be glorious in the Lord’s sight.

None of this work is glamorous.  Face it, meetings can be flat-out boring.  But this IS the work of DEMOCRACY.  It’s what you signed up for when you first put your hand over your heart in the third grade and learned the Pledge of Allegiance.  It’s what you signed up for when you were first allowed to hold your very own sparkler on a magical Fourth of July night.  It’s what you signed up for when you entered the voting booth that first time.

“Seek good and not evil, that you may live…”  Amen.

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[1] https://www.documentcloud.org/documents/21066248-eastman-memo.

[2] Zachary Petrizzo, “Mike Lindell’s Genius Plan: Knock On Your Door and Ask Whether You’re Dead,” Salon, October 5, 2021.

                                     St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach

        Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

       Pentecost 19, October 10, 2021
  Proper 23

        “Some Fundamental Respect Needed Now”

                                Amos 5:6-7, 10-15; Psalm 90:12-17;
                                     Hebrews 4:12-16; Mark 10:17-31

In one of Martin Luther King’s most poignant writings, written from a city jail in 1963, Dr., King spoke of our common fate in America.  We are one people tied up in a bond of interconnectedness.

“Moreover, I am cognizant of the interrelatedness of all communities and states. I cannot sit idly by in Atlanta and not be concerned about what happens in Birmingham.  Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere.  We are caught in an inescapable network of mutuality, tied in a single garment of destiny.  Whatever affects one directly, affects all indirectly.” [1]

This sage warning is no more apropos of our survival than today, when we consider our society’s response to COVID-19 and a myriad of other present challenges.  It is most relevant to our texts from Genesis and Mark considering marriage.  And…wait…wait for this….it ties into our celebration of St. Francis and our patronal feast day this Sunday.

First, on marriage and this rolling pandemic.

St Francis is the saint of interrelatedness.  He believed that all creation is a seamless work of mutuality.  All – humans, plants – even the sun and the moon – the physicality of it all, living and non-living.  And this is indeed true because in the end, you see, we are all stardust.  Precious in the being of God, stardust.

For most of us, in this mortal life, our family is the most immediate expression of the reality of our mutuality.  Marriage is the sacrament of transforming mutuality.  Somewhere, theologian and preacher Barbara Brown Taylor said marriage is our “one opportunity to grow up.”

“But from the beginning of creation, ‘God made them male and female.  For this reason a man shall leave his father and mother and be joined to his wife and the two shall become one flesh’ So they are no longer two.  Therefore what God has joined together, let no one separate.”

Down through the ages peoples of all faiths have been very wary of infringing on this relationship between man and woman.  It is most precious and holy – except when it hasn’t been.  Since the days of slavery, families were torn asunder on the auction block with no regard to the sanctity of the marriage vows.  Just as they were most recently at our southern border.  All justified and excused by the supporters of our previous president and his party of so-called Family Values.  Heart-wrenching, the scenes were.

As our knowledge of human relationships and genetics has grown, society now can acknowledge that Ed and Steve can live in the same bond of wedded bliss as John and Alice, or Jane and Joan.  And do raise well-adjusted and successful children.  The point is – it is through the intimate mutuality of the family that most of us will find our greatest satisfaction and love in life.

I had a cynical high school teacher whose take on marriage equality was, “why shouldn’t they suffer just like the rest of us?”  Now it might have been that Mr. Coulson’s relationship could have used a touch of family counseling.

Given that some of us come out of damaged and damaging family relationships, the ideal doesn’t always work out.  Sometimes addiction and mental illness are challenges too big to overcome.  Sadly, divorce is the better option.

For some, especially as we grow older, deep and abiding friendships provide that love and support.  As especially for the aging who may have earlier lost life partners.

Growing up in Signal Hill we had neighbors who had know my family for years.  The wife had actually been the baby sitter for my brother and me when she was a teenager.  When they moved down to the ocean, one of their sons and his partner moved in to the house.  My father, especially, was intolerant of what he called their “lifestyle.”  He wouldn’t have anything to do with them and called them names you’d have gotten thrown out of school for using.

But over the years, a good number of years, Dad mellowed.  He grew beyond his West Virginia provincialism and prejudice – actually, ignorance.  Eventually, they were just Fred and George.  Two wonderful neighbors who helped him with some of his chores as he grew less able to do for himself.  And after Mom died, they became close companions.

That is the sort of “web of mutuality” of which Dr. King speaks — the interconnectedness of creation of which our beloved St. Francis lived.

Secondly, we also form those bonds with our non-human companions.  I still miss having our son’s two cats that lived with us for well over a year while he was in Spain and Morocco working on his dissertation – yeah, he’s still working on it!  I keep telling him, as in the old Grey Poupon mustard TV commercial, “While we’re young, Christopher, while we’re young.” 

But back to these cats — It would only be seconds after I got back home that they’d be curled up on the sofa with me watching the news.  Brian and Larry, I was so glad to see them when we went back to New Haven to visit.  It’s like we hadn’t missed each other a day as Brian curled up in my lap.

This past week we lost another beloved sister at St. Francis.  Covid and pneumonia took Diane from us, even though she had had her “jab.”  Departed, but still living on in the memories of those who loved her, she remains a part of our blessed, unbroken circle.  Diane, presente!

All life about us is precious without measure.  Let us cherish one another every day.

As the planet warms, much more than Brian and Larry will we all be missing.  Last week when I opened the Los Angeles Times, the accompanying picture to an article on the diminishing Salton Sea, as we rob it of water, was the photo of a magnificent great egret taking flight.  The wing span of that bird was breathtakingly beautiful as it began to gain altitude.  It’s long neck so graceful in takeoff.  In Spirit I am a part of that bird, and it is part of me.  I knew this reality deep in my soul as I sat transfixed, mesmerized by that picture.  We are blessed with one woman at our church with a tender heart who understands such relationships.  Sister egret, we cherish you – precious gift of our Creator.  Just as St. Francis taught us.  If we destroy your habitat, it will be a spiritual loss to our souls, to the soul of all creation.

Should we use up all the water from the Colorado river and dry up the Salton Sea, we humans have the power to drive these splendid creatures into extinction.  At least here in California.  Remember, we must, the old Beatles song from their White Album, “Hey, hey, Bungalo Bill – what have you killed today?”  That’s us. 

Don’t forget the millions upon millions of passenger pigeons, so numerous they once darkened the skies over America.  Don’t forget the “Good God Almighty” woodpecker whose last, dying cry long ago echoed through the old forests of Arkansas and Tennessee.[2]  A cry and a sight that astounded all who ever witnessed it.

Thank you for the warning, Dr. King, Thank you for the warning, St. Francis.  Extinction is forever.

Back in college, several of us guys would pack up most every summer and go camping in Yosemite.  Most mornings we would hike up to Vernal Falls from the valley floor, and once or twice, to the top of Half Dome.  Often, as we would begin our climb up the trail to the falls, an old guy – I mean, a really old guy, all muscle and bone, would pass us, running up the trail.  By the time we would be about two thirds of the way up, huffing and puffing, he’d greet us on his way back down.  Today, I’m not in his shape, but do still envy his stamina.  Face it – I was NEVER in his shape.  He, too, was every bit a part of St. Francis’ amazing web of interconnectedness, as was Half Dome and the rush of Vernal Falls. Thank you, King and Francis, for the reminder.

Those invigorating summer days were a life-saving reconnection back to God’s splendid, restorative creation.

One year us guys decided to go to see the Big Trees in Sequoia National Park — not all that far from Yosemite.  I had never seen anything so awesome.  Staring up into the heavens to where the treetops soared, was a spiritual experience.  Some of these 3,000-year-old giants were over three hundred feet tall.  With trunks larger than six feet in diameter.  St Francis would surely be one with these magnificent specimens. I surely was.  In fact, on first arriving, all us guys got very quiet as we beheld their majesty.  I remember us jumping out of the car and just staring up into the clouds and treetops.  WOW!

Now, we could lose it all to fire.  These magnificent trees, the Ancient Ones, as known by Native Americans — have stood for centuries – from the time of the Prophets, Amos and Hosea — from the time of Jesus and the Roman Empire.  From the time of tramping boots of conquerors: Charlamagne, Alexander the Great, Genghis Khan.  From the time of George Washington, Mozart, John Muir and John Donne… from the moment of that very first Fourth of July at Independence Hall…Lewis and Clark, Sacagawea… Harriot Tubman, Sojourner Truth, Susan B. Anthony, Margaret Sanger – these trees have witnessed it all.  Count the tree rings.

They now urgently summon us to face the catastrophe of Global Warming.

These lofty Ancients of Days have been on the minds of many of us lately as infernos now rage about them.

The Sequoia National Monument lies partly on the Tule River Reservation. Many of those devastated by the fire damage, and those who care for these trees, are First Americans.  But these trees are precious to all who’ve ever been transfixed by their majesty.

A forest ecologist with “Save the Redwoods,” Linnea Hedlund, remembers the first time she saw one of these trees.  “My 7-year-old brain could not fathom it was real.  It was unlike anything I had ever seen, she recalled.”[3]

Sequoyah Quinton, a member of the Cherokee Nation and a storm chaser, had been named after his grandfather, “who was named for Sequoyah, who had created a written form of the Cherokee language in the early 19^th century, felt his heart break as he watched firefighters wrap the base of the Sherman tree in aluminum foil.  The morning the fire approached the sacred grove, Sequoyah dropped to his knees and prayed for something to stop the destruction of the sequoia trees.”[4]

Together, we are one blessed gift of God, bound up in an “inescapable web of mutuality” — Husband, wife, lovers, children, companions – Brian, Larry, First Americans, and old man running.  Sequoias and Half Dome.  All that shares being itself with us.

The first gift of Grace, the first gift of Creation, is the simple blessing that there is Something at all.  Instead of Nothing.  “It is not fitting that man and woman should be alone.”  We are not.  We are all One in the Spirit of the Great Creator.

Thank you, St. Francis; thank you Dr. King, for this reminder.  In the splendor of all creation, “Soon and very soon, we shall see the King.”

Pray, God, we learn to take care of one another while there’s still time.

Now, let’s go bless the animals.  Amen.

.

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[1] Martin Luther King, Jr., “Letter from a Birmingham jail,” April 16, 1963

[2] Ed Bradley, “Finding the Good Lord Bird,” 60 Minutes, https://www.cbsnews.com/news/finding-the-lord-god-bird/

[3] Diana Marcum, “Making a Stand for the Giants,” Los Angeles Times, September 24, 2021.

[4] Ibid.

     St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach

        Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

       Pentecost 19, October 3, 2021
  Proper 22

 “A Single Garment of Destiny”

                           Genesis 2:18-24; Psalm 8;
                         Hebrews 1:1-4, 2:5-12; Mark 10:2-16

“Oops, I shouldn’t have said that.”  How many times have the words gotten out of our mouths before we wish we could take them back?

In the heat of argument, the insult, the half-truth, the jibe at another’s expense – those words come back to haunt us.

As a political pugilist I confess I have called those on the opposite side of an argument things one wouldn’t want to print in a sermon.  Definitely not flattering, life-enhancing descriptors.  So, I write this sermon to myself as much to anyone else.

The counsel from the book of James is a corrective.  James urges a more excellent way: “Show by your good life that your works are done with gentleness born of wisdom. But if you have bitter envy and selfish ambition in your hearts, do not be boastful and false to the truth…Those conflicts and disputes among you, where do they come from?  Do they not come from cravings that are at war within you?”[1]

Envy, ego, malice – they rear their ugly heads at one time or another in most any congregation, making a most foul-tasting broth.  The author of the book of James was very aware of social and disordered spiritual dynamics of his flock. 

Every bit as much as much as St. Paul.  See first and second Corinthians.  Things get said that would have been better off left unsaid.

As a newly arrived pastor on one congregation, I was soon met by several women on the altar guild.  They were tired, they complained.  They had been doing this forever.  Couldn’t some of the younger folks take this over.

I spent several weeks talking with some of those younger folks about how they could assume their responsibilities for our common life.  Eventually a couple or so agreed to join the altar guild.

Things seemingly went fine – for a couple of weeks.  Then I encountered one of these women who told me she was needing to quit.  When I asked what was the matter, she said that what the existing members really wanted was newcomers who would do things exactly as they had done them – done them for years! 

They wanted clones of themselves with no new ideas and were somewhat rude in letting the newcomers know their place.  Definitely, not a more excellent way.  My way or the highway!

One of my associates was always fond of quoting Luke 6:5, “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”  And fisticuffs fly.  And feelings are bent out of shape.

Avarice, competition, envy, guilt – they are so often reflected in our lame excuses.  Even to the point that the coverup become ludicrous. 

One day, as young students were walking up the hill from their elementary school there was a very loud explosion.  Then yells and screams.  When one of the teachers arrived on the scene, she discovered a boy with some badly burned fingers.  It turned out that he had brought a packet of gunpowder he had taken from his father’s reloading operation to school.  As he was bragging about it and what he could do with it, it went off.

Caught red-handed, or black-handed in this case, he told the teacher, “I don’t know where it came from.  It just dropped down out of the sky and I picked it up.”  That’s certainly much more inventive than, “The dog ate my homework.” 

Is this any more risible than the Wells Fargo’s lie to cover up bilking thousands of customers out of millions and millions of fake fees for opening bogus accounts in their names?  “The branch employees did it.”  Oh, really?  In branches all across the nation – all at once?   Hmmmmm.

Such lies and half-truths may bring forth a chuckle.  But repeated in full blossom, they can wreak havoc in any church, in society.  Did I tell you about the January 6^th damage inflicted on our nation by the BIG LIE?

Jesus is said to have brought forth a little child, suggesting that his career- climbing disciples should be as selfless as that young one.  If so, I don’t think Jesus knew much about children.  We learn deceit and treachery at a very young age. 

Taking the child into his arms, he said that whoever welcomes such a one, welcomes me and the One who sent me.  But be under no illusions.  We are born for trouble as the sparks fly upward – Job 5:7.

I remember rushing to the aid of our youngest one day, who was crying his eyes out.  It turns out that his brother had bit him.  Hard enough to leave teeth marks.

As I attempted to reason with our oldest, that it was much better to use words if you didn’t like what someone said or did, his response was, “Well, if they don’t agree with you, you just have to bite them.”  Here we are just at second grade and ready to wage war World War III.  Out of the abundance of the heart comes all sorts of vile and nasty stuff.  Teeth marks included.

“Show by your good life that your works are done with gentleness born of wisdom” – it takes a lifetime to absorb this advice. 

Yes, take that young person into your arms, and train her up in the way she should go and she shall not depart from it.   The beginnings of that “excellent way.”

Definitely, there is a more excellent way.  The purpose of James advice is to preserve the gift of community.  Martin Luther King called it the Beloved Community.  It is Gospel Spirit that urges our hearts to yearn for such companionship.  It is the call that comes in darkest night.

My grandmother’s advice is appropriate here.  “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” 

Similar is the Four Way Test in Rotary of the things we say:

1.  Is it the truth?
2. Is it fair to all concerned?
3. Will it build good will and better friendships?
4. Will it be beneficial to all concerned?

Sometimes a hard truth is appropriate to the moment, but spoken without the personal attack, it might be heard.  Danger, abuse, racism must be called out, yet Dr. King knew this could be done without the demeaning ad hominem, the personal insult.

When Mrs. Reiner called me in after class to talk about the homework I was not turning in and my lack of preparation for her high school English class, she did it in such a way that I really wanted to do better.  And I did.  She had an investment in my succeeding, an investment in me, and communicated that with a generous spirit.  It is testimony to her active concern that today I still remember her fondly.  That is the more excellent way commended to our hearts.

Through friends, parents, teachers and mentors – those who want us to succeed — God reaches down to the best in us — instills in our hearts the power to choose for the more excellent way, the “way born of wisdom.”

“Be perfect as your Father/Mother in heaven is perfect.”  When we are urged to be perfect in Matthew 5:48, what is being urged is not some sort of compulsive perfectionism.  The Greek here means grow towards the end to which you are intended.  To grow into your full and true self, your full potential.  This is exactly what Mrs. Reiner was urging.  As with a more “excellent way,” this takes a lifetime of seasoning.

As my Methodist friends are wont to say, “I’m going on to perfection.”  Still a long way to go for me.

In a remarkable op ed piece in the New York Times, Venus Williams gives testimony to the wisdom she received from her mother as she began her remarkable tennis career.  Physical strength was certainly important.  But equally so, psychological and spiritual balance.  This is irreplaceable motherly wisdom passed down from generation to generation.

At the age of fourteen, Venus was beginning to move into the professional level of tennis.  She had traveled with her mom to an important tournament in Oakland, and was entering a new level of her young career.  There would be pressure beyond what she until then had known. 

That day in Oakland, her mom took her aside to warn her of the intense scrutiny and demands she would now be under as she advanced.

The wise counsel her mother gave her was that this sport was not just about being tough with a well-honed body.  It wasn’t about how hard she hit the ball.  It was about the balance of a complete life.

“What my mom was telling me that day in Oakland was that none of those elements of winning would work unless I also tended to my mental health. I needed to have a balanced life and not identify myself solely as a tennis player. Even though I was beginning to have success as a young pro, I had to remain committed to my education, stay connected to my religion and enjoy the experience of improvement — not be so driven that I would miss it all.”[2]

That gift of love, bestowed by a wise mother, has carried Venus through tough years when she discovered she had an autoimmune disease.  It has carried her through upset and disappointment.  It has carried her through triumph with poise and humility.  Her mom and her faith have given Venus the gift of a “gentleness born of wisdom.”

For those who have followed her career down through the years, Venus has been an example of perseverance and generosity.  Always tending towards what God has intended her to be.  Venus has chosen a more excellent way.  So may it be with each of us – that we grow into the fullness of our authentic, God-intended, selves.   Amen.

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[1] James 3:13 ff.,  New Revised Version.

[2] Venus Williams, “Being Tough Means Taking Care of My Whole Self,” New York Times, Opinion, September 13, 2021.

St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach

        Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

       Pentecost 17, September 19, 2021
  Proper 20

     “A More Excellent Way”

                         Jeremiah 11:18-20; Psalm 54;
                          James 3:13-4:3, 7-8a; Mark 9:30-37