As a young boy I was immersed in our family’s history.  Both sides.  From my father’s side, it was West Virginia and the Forneys who had been on that land since 1804.  There’s where the family graveyard sits, on a small portion of those180 acres.  Grandpa Jonathan Forney taught at Bethany College there in the Northern Panhandle.  There’s also, until it was recently replaced, a concrete bridge over Buffalo Creek that he built, or engineered.  Dad never told me what he taught, but I’m guessing it wasn’t Shakespeare.

The thing Dad did stress was that Grandpa was a hard-driving man with definite expectations of my dad, an only child.  Not strong on affection but stern on discipline.  That was part of my heritage from my father’s side.

On my mother’s side we were a mix of the Gross and Howe families.  Grandpa and Grandma Gross came from Iowa to California.  I wouldn’t say with nothing as Grandpa had a degree from Julliard School of Music.  He found a job as a letter carrier in Lodi where they’d settled.  Over the years he worked his way up ladder and at the apex of his career was the postmaster of Lodi, California.  His vocal talents were in great demand throughout the area and he sang at weddings, funerals, anniversaries, birthdays.  He had a great sense of civic pride, nurtured by his membership in the Odd Fellows organization.

Grandma’s side gave us two famous Howe relatives, General William Howe, who I told my 8^th grade classes, won the American Revolution by allowing General George Washington slip through his fingers three times.

Most exemplary in that lineage was Julia Ward Howe.  Yes, the author of the “Battle Hymn of the Republic.”  More notably, she authored the first Mother’s Day Proclamation in 1870.  Read it – it’s radical.  She was a suffragist and an abolitionist.  From her we get our activist roots.  It’s in our DNA to raise hell against injustice.

Altogether a marvelous lineage.  And what did I make of it?  Growing up, absolutely nothing.  I was so lost in my teen and early adult years, that all that heritage amounted to nothing.  I was as useless as an old stump.

Isaish, proclaims that even from old stumps can come amazing new growth.

“A shoot shall come out from the stump of Jesse, and a branch shall grow out of his roots.  The spirit of the Lord shall rest on him, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.”

Out of a useless old stump, fire of new life shall come.  Yes, even the useless old stump my life had become in those early years. 

That fire was the appearance of John the Baptist, a voice crying in the wilderness to rouse up life in the House of Israel.  Breathing fire, he minced no words concerning the corrupt leaders of the people.  “You brood of vipers!  Who warned you to flee from the wrath to come?  Bear fruit worthy of repentance.”

What preacher ever began Sunday’s sermon screaming at the congregation, “You brood of vipers…?”  And kept his or her job?

It’s a parallel to John the Revelator chastising some of the do-nothing churches of his day. Yes, right there in chapter 3, he zeroes on the congregation at Laodicea, “I know your works, you are neither cold nor hot…so I will spit you out of my mouth.”  A heritage gone for naught.  An old dried stump of the Jesus Movement.

Truth is, those congregations that have lost their way through numbing complacency, probably won’t be spit out.  They’ll just be ignored as irrelevant.  Irreverent and as useless as a dead old stump. 

And we who might take our ease in Zion, no sense of mission, no little light shining, might dwindle away to nothing.  Much of that pitiful journey is the story of Mainline Protestantism.

But, sometimes, just sometimes we’re jolted out of our lethargy.  A John the Baptizer comes along breathing fire on the dry stubble.  A flame bursts forth and the Church is transformed into the Glory of God. 

That’s the story of our patron saint, Francis of Assisi.  He heard the voice of God calling him forth, “Build my church.” 

That call of the Baptizer echoes down the ages, and fired-up leadership emerges, lay and clergy.  Even a few bishops to boot.

It was a sermon that fired me up.  Paul Tillich’s sermon, “You are Accepted.”  It was a jolt from beyond the blue.  Acceptance, welcome, is the first mission of the church.  Acceptance, welcome, is the sacramental presence of the Grace of God.

Our St. Francis Garden of Hope is the visible sign of that as we are now providing huge amounts of fresh produce for those our economy has shut out.  That produce and the canned goods distributed at St. John’s Food Bank, is the open door of acceptance.  And though we might on the outside look like a withered old stump, the folks there are splendid new shoots.  Sometimes shoots of fire as in the shrub Moses spied in his wilderness.

There’s a story of an old stump in England that is instructive.   Liddy Barlow tells the story of some vandals whose criminal actions were the source of great sorrow and anger in a small English village.

“Nestled into Hadrian’s Wall at the northern edge of England, the elegant Sycamore Gap tree rose from a dip between two hills. Its dramatic setting made it one of the most photographed trees in the country, featured in calendars and guidebooks and postcards. Day hikers posed in front of the tree for selfies; couples said their vows beneath its branches; Kevin Costner and Morgan Freeman strolled around it in Robin Hood Prince of Thieves.”[1]

On a stormy night on September vandals took chainsaws to that tree and sawed it down, leaving only a stump.  In the morning not only were many in that village mourning the tree, but the entire nation was gripped in sorrow and anger at the destruction of that iconic tree.

What had taken a century or so to grow was demolished in only a matter of minutes.  Thousands poured out to mourn the loss.  Such a treasure turned into sawdust and wood for what?  A hobby, furniture, knickknacks?  Only a stump left behind.

That following spring the Northumberland National Park Authority placed an amazing sign at the roped-off stump.  “This tree stump is still alive,” followed by the hope, “If we leave it alone it might sprout new growth.”  Passersby were warned to heed the admonition to respect the barrier.

And wonder of wonders that spring there were seven new shoots that had come forth.

Isaiah speaks to a nation that had a battle axe taken to it as families were split, killed and hauled into captivity.  A nation as dried up and desiccated as an old stump.  But out of the Torah heritage of what had once been a flourishing tree with strong limbs for birds to roost in, would come new life.  Green shoots.  As captivating as a burning bush in the middle of nowhere.

One would be sent and on him would rest the “spirit of counsel and might, the spirit of knowledge and the fear of the Lord.”

John the Baptizer would proclaim his advent, breathing fire and thunder at those who had led the people of Israel astray.  Offering an opportunity for repentance at the River Jordan.

And that old stump continues to produce wonderous growth, inviting all who would read and heed the summons.  Yes, fire from an old stump – that was John’s summons.

And that fire yet lives on in the hearts of all who have signed up to follow that Prince of Peace, that Mighty Counselor, God with us.

I saw it in a very small way in the grocery checkout line as I waited with Ileen, my home health aide.  We were behind a woman in one of those motorized shopping carts who was having great difficulty in getting her purchases out of the basket.  Without saying a word, Ileen went around in front of her and asked if she might help.  That customer was so grateful, it made my day.

But behind us was an elderly gentleman also in a motorized cart and there was Ileen in a flash helping him.  In just a few minutes of kindness, all of us were chatting together like old friends.  What an Advent delight.  Ileen is the embodiment of her Catholic tradition with a strong social conscience.

A delightful green shoot from that tradition.  A blazing spark of delight in what could have been a dead stump of a mind-numbing wait in a long line, listening to insipid Christmas elevator music.

President Obama was right when he counseled Americans on how to get through the deadness of a nation gone amiss in lies and repression.  Be kind.  Kindness is important, he advised.  It will get us through.  Its pedigree goes right back to the Prince of Peace.  Ileen is most kind – an Advent harbinger.

Amy Frykholm in her interview with a genuine woman of peace brings to her reader the Straight Glory right out of Isaiah’s promise.  Leymah Gbowee shares the amazing tale of an African woman caught up in the terror of Liberia under the dictatorship of the warlord Charles Taylor.  And the price the women of that nation paid.[2]

During that savage reign of horror, Leymah was a terrified 18-year-old girl.  As a result of the fighting between rebel forces led by Charles Taylor and the government, she and many others had taken refuge in a nearby Lutheran church compound, St. Peter’s in Monrovia.

Government forces, looking for food, attacked the church.  After raping and killing the woman who held the keys to the church they proceeded to massacre most of those sheltering there.  With knives, machetes, machine guns, they slaughtered more than 500 men, women and children.

Because Leymah’s uncle had lied to the soldiers, telling them that their family was of the same tribe as the soldiers, they had been released.

Traumatized by that incident, Leymah fell into a desolute life, entering into a relationship with a married man who was abusive.  Giving birth to four children.  She eventually moved back home to her family and reunited with that congregation at St. Peter’s.  There the pastor recognized her unique gifts and her intelligence.  He soon had her reading M.L. King, Gandhi and the Mennonite peace activist, John Howard Yoder.

One night she heard the summons, a call as distinct and clear as any ever heard by a prophet.  In the midst of that turmoil, sleeping in a church office, she heard the ask. “Gather the women to pray for peace.”[3]

Some women overheard her sharing that call but she didn’t see herself as a religious leader. 

“She was a single mother, never married, who had a complicated relationship with her church. ‘It was like hearing the voice of God, yes, but . . . that wasn’t possible,’ she writes in her memoir. ‘I drank too much. I fornicated! I was sleeping with a man who wasn’t my husband, who in fact was still legally married to someone else. If God was going to speak to someone in Liberia, it wouldn’t be me.’”[4] 

A gentle shoot out of desiccated remains of a nation torn by violence, rape and famine.  The few women who had overheard her sharing the vision of that night with a co-worker told her, “We need to pray.”

Some twenty women began to pray once a week, and this small green shoot became a national movement, “Women of Liberia Mass Action for Peace.”  It eventually was comprised of thousands, not just Christians, but Muslims, Jews and others – crossing all tribal, religious, educational levels, rural and urban.

Out of this Spiritual fire was born a new Liberia from the dead stump of a ruined nation.  Under the soul force of these woman, warring parties were brought to heel and arms were laid down.

Out of the stump of Jesse, God continues to breathe new life into the People of the Covenant, the people of the Jesus Movement.  And when that roll is called up yonder, I want my name to be there along with the wonderful folks of St. John’s and St. Francis in glorious array assembled. 

This godly heritage, every bit as much as the familial backgrounds of each of us, yet bears the possibility of new life.  If we but attend to and heed the promptings of the Advent Promise.  Amen.

---

[1] Liddy Barlow, “More Life to Come,” Christian Century, December 6, 2025.

[2] Amy Frykholm, “To tell the truth: Nobel winner Leymah Gbowee,” Christian Century, November 16, 2011.

[3] Op cit.

[4] Op cit.

Farmer Miguel with some of Wednesday’s harvest, 12-3-25
A sermon you can see and taste!

December 7, 2025

Second Sunday in Advent

Isaiah 11:1-10; Psalm 72:1-7, 18-19
2^nd Reading: Romans 15:4-13; Gospel: Matthew 3:1-12

“Fire From an Old Stump”

“Johnny, don’t go beyond the curb,” my mother would admonish me when I asked to go outside.  And if the ball goes out into the street, let someone go get it for you.  All instructions to keep me safe.

Later there would be other instructions and advice.  Like that from my father when I slacked on my homework or came home with terrible grades.  I was told that I needed to get an education so I didn’t have to rely on my back to make a living. 

My dad, growing up in West Virginia coal country, had seen the ravages of that industry on the men who moiled for that coal underground.  Men whose bodies were spent before they were forty.  Men with black lung disease slowly wasting away.  Families consumed by poverty and despair as union rights were violated by the owners. 

And some of that instruction sunk in.  Even though my grades and diligence did not substantially improve, his admonition idled at the back of my thoughts.  I knew he was right.  His instruction had imbedded itself in my consciousness.  And after I was married with a family, I finally had my nose to the grindstone.

Does anyone know how many “A”s it takes to redeem a 1.2 GPA.  Yeah, I was a real academic screwup.  I knew my mind was much better than my back.

Isaiah proclaims similar words of wisdom and enlightenment in today’s Advent reading.

“In the days to come the mountain of the Lord’s house shall be established as the highest of the mountains and shall be raised above the hills…Many peoples shall come and say, ‘Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord…that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.’   For out of Zion shall go forth instruction and the word of the lord from Jerusalem.”

Instruction and wisdom, indeed!  Torah Righteousness will find a new expression, a new embodiment.  And his name shall be Mighty Counselor, Prince of Peace, Emmanuel, God with us.”

Matthew alerts us, that that day which no one knows, not even the angels of heaven, may happen in a flash.  That day when the roll is called up yonder.  Scientists tell us that that day is certain.  Our sun will massively explode consuming all the neighboring planets.  The universe will slowly expand into lifeless nothingness.  All this apocalypse billions of years away.  Here is one doctrine supported by science.  Trust the science; but more, trust the Lord’s goodness to embrace us all in that end.

Yet in a sense, it is every day.  Opportunities to enter the kin-dom of God present themselves, are revealed through the agency of the Holy Spirit.  Let us each prepare a humble manger of our hearts that it might be born in us.  The Spirit of Christmas Promise never sleeps – 24/7 she’s on duty seeking to rummage through our dreams and imaginations, bearing anew the Christ Child.

And how gentle is often his instruction, his guidance.  Yes, sometimes he has to overturn the tables of our obstinacy and blindness.  All to our own good.  Don’t rush heedlessly into the traffic of evil this guidance compels.

Sometimes, it’s a word I resist.  I’ve been reading Fr. Greg Boyle’s new book, Cherished Belonging,[1] a work revealing the gentleness of Christ on the streets of Los Angeles.

When someone at a retreat of his order was praised as “THAT is a good Jesuit,”[2] inwardly he instinctively rebelled.  If there are “good” Jesuits then it is implied that there are “bad” Jesuits.  It was the Christ within him crying out in that inner moment of protest.  He states that he has never known a “bad” Jesuit.  “I’ve met many broken Jesuits: traumatized, despondent; on the spectrum; wounded; stuck in shame, mental illness and crippling inferiority.  I’ve known Jesuits who are strangers to themselves.  But I’ve never met a bad one.  Please don’t call me a good one.”[3]

The gift that Mary carries in her womb would instruct the world in such gentle, patient understanding.  It’s called Grace.  A sister of the Torah Righteousness that would instruct the life of her child to be born.

Now, I’m often so resistant to that gentle word of admonishment, that gentle word of Love.  Out of the damage of my childhood, I want to nourish my hate for one who has wronged me, wronged our nation.

Perhaps, maybe this president is not evil as I would like to judge, but he is a very damaged person.  And out of that damage he inflicts damage on the rest of us.  Damage that in itself is evil.

Just as Jesus did not see a “loose” woman at the well in Samaria that day, he saw a precious child of God who had become lost in the trauma she had endured as a girl.  Lost in the trauma of assault by similarly damaged men.  Self-absorbed men having no regard for anyone but themselves.

It is the gift of Grace that would await us this Advent season, the gift of allowing us to get beyond ourselves, the gift of self-transcendence that allows us to enter a glorious Kin-dom of God’s full creation.

The Christmas gift for which we prepare is a spiritual reality clothed in flesh and foliage, other people, and yes, Ellen, the animals. Crickets and bees.  Trees and lettuce, baobab trees and seaweed.  St. Francis being a branch of that revelation.

We await further instruction each day to the splendid gift of this wonderful world.  That is the Advent summons to our hearts and minds.

This instruction we would imbibe, would “read, learn, mark and inwardly digest.”  It is the open door to a new way of living that Mary’s child will reveal.

It’s not for sissies, for in our days evil deeds are done by very deranged people.  People whose actions we must resist with all the faith that is within us.  Yes, these times call for “Holy Resistance.”

The pure, unadulterated Grace that awaits to be born in our lives is liberation from all that separates us from our true selves, men and women fully alive in the Glory of God.  God has put a big, shiny bow on that in the work of Bryan Stevenson, founder of the Innocence Project. 

That Christ living in his work is a direct spiritual inheritance, root and branch, from his mother who lived it daily.  The Advent gift we expectantly await in these divided, traumatized times.

Bryan Stevenson’s mother lived the beatitude of reconciliation.  She was an Advent Beatitude, blessed to the core.

Blessedness restores broken relationships and enables life to go on.  Bryan Stevenson tells of a lesson in saying you’re sorry his mother taught him that has stuck with him over the years.  Sometimes the most embarrassing lessons are the ones that stick.

Blessed are those who say they’re sorry.  Blessed are those who go the extra mile, those who seek to understand with the heart. 

Bryan Stevenson’s mother is one tough lady, the sort of disciple Jesus will call. The sort he needs.  You have to be tough sometimes to be a parent these days.  She, and any parent on God’s green earth, knows, parenting is tough stuff – not at all for sissies or the unformed.  There’s a reason sixteen-year-olds shouldn’t be having children.

For those who don’t know Bryan Stevenson, he is the Black lawyer who works on death penalty cases for indigent inmates awaiting execution in Montgomery, Alabama.  As he listened to one inmate about to be led into the execution chamber who was having great difficulty in talking with Brian due to a severe stutter, Bryan had a flashback to an old memory from his childhood. 

Bryan and some of his friends had been making fun of another boy with a speech impediment.  As Bryan and his friends were laughing at this boy, he saw his mother looking at him with an expression he’d never seen before.  Bryan continues his story in his book, Just Mercy:

It was a mix of horror, anger, and shame, all focused on me.  I stopped my laughing instantly.  I’d always felt adored by my mom, so I was unnerved when she called me over.

When I got to her, she was very angry with me.  “What are you doing?”

What? I didn’t do…

Don’t you ever laugh at someone because they can’t get their words out right.  Don’t you ever do that!”

“I’m sorry.”  I was devastated to be reprimanded by my mom so harshly.  “Mom, I didn’t mean to do anything wrong.”

“You should know better, Bryan.”

“I’m sorry. I thought…”

“I don’t want to hear it, Bryan.  There is no excuse, and I’m very disappointed in you.  Now, I want you to go back over there and tell that little boy that you’re sorry.”

“Yes, Ma’am.”

“Then I want you to give that little boy a hug.”

“Huh?”

“Then I want you to tell him that you love him.”  I looked up at her and, to my horror, saw that she was dead serious.  I had reacted as apologetically as I possibly could, but this was way too much.

“Mom, I can’t go over and tell that boy I love him.  People will—”

She gave me that look again.  I somberly turned around and returned to my group of friends.  They had obviously seen my mother’s scolding; I could tell because they were all staring at me.  I went up to the little boy who had struggled to speak.

“Look, man, I’m sorry.”

I was genuinely apologetic for laughing and even more deeply regretful of the situation I had put myself in.  I looked over at my mother who was still staring at me.  I lunged at the boy to give him a very awkward hug.  I think I startled him by grabbing him like that, but when he realized that I was trying to hug him, his body relaxed and he hugged me back.

My friends looked at me oddly as I spoke.

“Uh…also, uh…I love you!”  I tried to say it as insincerely as I could get away with and half-smiled as I spoke.  I was still hugging the boy, so he couldn’t see the disingenuous look on my youthful face.

It made me feel less weird to smile like it was a joke.  But then the boy hugged me tighter and whispered in my ear.  He spoke flawlessly, without a stutter and without hesitation.

“I love you, too.”  There was such tenderness and earnestness in his voice, and just like that, I thought I would start crying.[4]

That day Bryan learned compassion.  Now, that’s a BLESSED moment!

That is the glorious, new way of living that awaits us each under the Christmas tree, or my friend Bob’s Hannukah bush.

“O Come, O Come, Emmanuel” and ransom us from a world gone awry, from ourselves gone awry.  Reveal a greater Glory that awaits.  With expectant hearts we stand by.  This Advent we await with eagerness to be instructed in such Love.  Amen.

---

[1] Gregory Boyle, Cherished Belonging: The Healing Power of Love in Divided Times (New York: Avid Reader Press, 2024).

[2] Op. cit., 42.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Bryan Stevenson, Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption, (New York, NY, Random House, 2000), p. 286,287.

November 30, 2025

First Sunday in Advent

Isaiah 2:1-5; Psalm 122;
2^nd Reading: Romans 13:11-14; Gospel: Matthew 24:36-44

“Instruction Shall Go Forth”

At a student conference at the University of the Pacific in Stockton, California, I first encountered a mature, muscular understanding of the Christian faith I had received from Sunday school.  The Rev. Joseph Wesley Matthews had been holding forth for several days on an understanding of the faith that led to intentional living, cruciform living for the world.

The energy level of those days was unbelievable.  Methodist students from all over California had assembled for that week.  And the air was electric with possibility, with hope.  I remember on one break, several of us male students and their pastors had gathered around a piano singing “For All the Saints.”  The bond of that male camaraderie was nothing like anything I had experienced in the church.  Yes, “Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host.”  Indeed, a taste of heavenly bliss.

As we broke for lunch, over the PA loudspeaker, boomed an urgent announcement, “Jim Donaldson, this is your eschatological moment!”    Oh oh.

Eschatological — of final things.  A moment of being called to account.  Dealing with final judgement.  Yes, we’d absorbed a lot of theological jargon in those few days.

But in a sense, that conference was an eschatological turning point, days of decision, for many of us.  More than one that week began a journey leading to the ordained ministry.  We were, in a way high on a conversion experience – a decision for a life of intentionality.  I can say I’m here in the church because of that week in Stockton.

The prophet Malachi proclaims such an eschatological moment in the life of the people Israel.  “See the day is coming, burning like an oven, when all the arrogant and all evil doers will be stubble, the day that comes shall burn them up, says the Lord of hosts, so that it will leave them neither root nor branch.”

Out of this moment of crisis shall come a sprig of hope.  “But for you who revere my name the sun of righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings.”

One of my favorite hymns, “Once to Every Man and Nation,” speaks to such moments of decision, eschatological moments when our entire life is summoned before us.  “Comes a moment to decide…for the good or evil side.”

While the theology might now be somewhat questionable and the imagery sexist, the truth of this hymn is that in the life of a person and nation, there are critical moments.  Eschatological moments when it’s all on the line.  As the old union song asks, “Which Side Are You On?”

America presently faces such a moment.  As more and more of the Epstein files come to light, we now have three of Jeffrey Epstein emails attesting that Donald Trump knew all about the underaged girls being raped and trafficked by him and Maxwell.  In fact, one avers that Trump had been alone with one of those girls in Epstein’s house for several hours.  What was going on?  I doubt he was helping her with her math homework.  Certainly not a paper on morality!

In this critical moment of decision, who will we be as a people?  Will we join with the MAGA cult to sweep this all under the rug?  Ignore those brave women now coming out to testify to the horrors of their ordeal? 

Amazingly, maybe we will.  The House of Representatives has been away on vacation for seven weeks, in part to avoid seating a new representative who had pledged to sign a discharge petition to force a vote on releasing the entire Epstein files.  Yes, hiding in order to protect child rapists.  And depriving children of their nutritional benefits only to protect these rapists.  Depriving one in eight Americans who rely on the Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Program (SNAP) benefits to protect these traffickers of girls?   And a tawdry president attempting to cover it all up.  Yes, what WAS he doing alone in that room for several hours with that underage girl?

Once to this nation can’t come soon enough the moment to decide.  November, 2026 awaits our judgement of it all.  Judgement of this corrupt administration and of all who have by their obfuscation and silence have countenanced this criminal sex trafficking ring.

Oh, and just why might Ghislane Maxwell now be ensconced in a country-club prison with room service?  Of course, it wouldn’t have anything to do with her silence, would it?  Or a presidential pardon? 

This is America’s eschatological moment.  We stand before the bar of history.  Whose side are we on?  The day is coming to decide.

The protectors of the world’s climate are now gathering in Belém, Brazil over these next few weeks for COP30.  COP30 stands for the 30^th Conference of the Parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change.  That’s a mouthful, but all stands for our collective effort to combat global warming.

Needless to say, the United States is absent, having pulled out of the Paris Accords under this anti-science administration.  Yeah, “Drill, baby, drill” – “Dig, baby, dig.”  What could possibly go wrong?

Well, plenty.  Sarah Palin may have suggested that we don’t need all this “sciency stuff,” but what you don’t know can actually kill you, and the planet.

The Paris Accords, due to the temporizing position of the Obama administration, watered down a critical goal – to keep global warming at or under 1.5 degrees Celsius increase – an increase 2.7 degrees Fahrenheit.

Beyond that, we approach or exceed critical “tipping points,” beyond which there is no return.  Climate disaster becomes a run-away freight train barreling through the coming centuries to the planet becoming a crispy critter.

Those pesky climate scientists warn us that we have already exceeded that goal and are on the way to a 2-degree Celsius increase – some even thinking that enough warming has already been stored in our oceans to take us to a 3-degree Celsius increase in warming.

The root cause driving all this, at the very bottom, is a predatory capitalist system demanding, “More, more, more.”   As the economics professor Richard Parker said, “Only a fool or an economist would believe in the possibility of infinite growth in a finite system.”  Our Mother Earth has its limits, and we’re exceeding them.

At a three degrees Celsius increase, what is the future?  The Amazon, due to the shift in the jet stream, looses its rainfall, becoming as arid as the Gobi Desert.  All gone.  The great Amazon River with its piranha and fresh water porpoises.  howler monkeys, spider monkeys and jaguars – all gone.  Statuesque mahogany trees, Brazil nut trees, and the immense Kapok tree.  And did I mention the cacao tree, yes, your Hershey’s chocolate bar gone to extinction.  All the shifting sands of an Oklahoma Dust Bowl.  And what about my coffee?  Huh? – now, this is getting serious.[1]

And worst, all that carbon storage the Amazon provided.  That jungle is truly the lungs of the planet.  Our world is becoming a runaway freight train headed to oblivion as tipping point after tipping point is passed.

In the days of flood, drought, tornado, and wildfire comes the moment to decide.  Our planet’s eschatological moment.  Will we opt for a livable future or an unknown hellscape?  Poor Luther James, we have dropped a very heavy load on his shoulders.

Luke’s gospel warns that those standing for what is right will be hauled before the authorities.  Before ICE and the machinery of government weaponized against our citizens.  We must be ready to give an account for ourselves who believe in Torah Righteousness and Gospel Goodness.   In this contest, “you will gain your souls.”

I believe the evidence is in — that Malachi’s promise, Luke’s promise is worthy of our faith.  “But for you who revere my name the sun of Righteousness shall rise, with healing in its wings.”  And power our future.  This last November the American people rejected MAGA extremism and the starvation of our children as the cutoff of SNAP benefits was used to punish our most vulnerable.  We will reject sexual predation of the most vulnerable.  And Global Weirding.

This administration may not be present at the COP 30 conference, but our Governor Newsom has led a large delegation to place a marker down, that America will accept its responsibilities.[2]  And, without the Trumpy folks present this time, just maybe this time we will accept a realistic goal for action.  No more aspirational, pie-in-the-sky “hopium.”  The delusional thinking of the past is a narcotic the planet can no longer afford.  It is our eschatological moment to decide.  The day is coming.

Bill McKibben, in his new book, Here Comes the Sun,[3] lays out the realistic possibility of a living future for our Mother Earth.  We have it in our capacity to amend our ways.  Much damage has been done, irreversible damage.  But we can yet adopt to something like a 2-degree Celsius increase.

“In the US, something like 42 percent of the energy we use comes down to how we heat our air and water, cook our food, dry our clothes and drive our cars.  That is to say, almost half of the emissions are the result of decisions we make around the proverbial kitchen table…a big part of Biden’s Inflation Reduction Act (IRA) was designed to push those decisions toward the clean and efficient appliances I’ve been describing” – heat pumps, induction stoves, bikes, electric vehicles. 

Just ditching the gas stove can be done for an induction burner at $60.00 to $100.  Of course, a full induction stove will cost around $2000 and you will probably need new cookware.  But all this is possible. 

In that legislation, the IRA, approximately a half trillion dollars was allocated to help America adapt.  Until it was canceled under this administration of anti-science know nothings.  It is up to us to chose the future we want.  The tools are at hand.  Yes, the day is coming – a day when we either burn the place down, as with the fires of last year, or we “cool it,” as the kids would say.  The day is coming.  Our moment to decide.

Momentum is building for solutions.  Time magazine in its November 10th issue, featured a large number of activists, scientists, and others on the front lines working for solutions, and sounding the alarm – yes, that a five-alarm fire is in the making.  Our climate crisis is finally getting front-and-center attention necessary to grab collective attention.[4]

And I believe the American people will choose wisely.  As my friend Vern was wont to say, “Timing is everything.”  The day IS coming.

I close with my favorite quote from James Baldwin on our collective responsibility, our pledge to one another, from his essay, “Nothing Personal.”

Listen to James Baldwin in this essay, he admonishes:

“For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; The earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us.  The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.”[5] 

Through the power of the Holy Spirit, might we pray for the strength and wisdom to keep the Christ Light burning brightly now and, in the days to come, that we might not be found wanting of any good grace.  Let us commend the faith that is in us.  All to the “Glory of God and our neighbor’s good.”  Amen.

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[1] Mark Lynas, Six Degrees: Our Future on a Hotter Planet (Washington, D.C., National Geographic, 2008), 140-143.

[2] Melody Gutierrez, “Climate Gives Newsom a World Stage,” Los Angeles Times, November 13, 2025

[3] Bill McKibben, Here Comes the Sun (New York: Norton, 2025).

[4] “Climate: The 100 Most Influential Leaders Driving Climate Action, Time Magazine, November 10, 2025.

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

November 9, 2025

Pentecost 23, Proper 28

Malachi 4:1-2a; Psalm 98;
2 Thessalonians 3:6-13; Luke 21:5-19

 
“The Day is Coming”

I remember that as my father got older and began to decline, he would sometimes ask me that I thought happened to us after death.  While he was not a church-going person, he had grown up in the cradle of what we now know as the Disciples of Christ denomination.  Originally known as the Christian Church, and before that, named after their founder Thomas Campbell, as the Campbellites. 

This is a rather austere form of the Jesus Movement.  Baptism is valid only by full immersion.  There is little to no use in speculative theology or the creeds.  Their stance?  “Where the Bible speaks, we speak; where the Bible is silent, we are silent.”

Our family farm, outside of Bethany, is just down the street from where Thomas’ son began enlarging the family home to accommodate those coming to study.  The first meeting house still stands, right across the highway from the Forney house in Bethany, West Virginia.

While my father had since rejected his mother’s austere, literal approach to the Bible and their pious keeping of the Sabbath, the roots of that background lurked deep in his soul.  His mother, Grandma Bertha’s version of the religion was very, very strict – though not so much when it came to charity; she hoarded everything.   I remember as a fifth grader, when she was living with us in Long Beach, she offered me a dollar to read the Bible.  It was so boring, all the begats and begats – one generation leading to another, that after a while, I offered to give her back her dollar.  Her version of the faith was all works righteousness.  Her God was a punishing scorekeeper.  One had to earn their way past the pearly gates and St. Peter’s scrutiny.   Grandma Bertha’s personality did not commend the faith either.  She was a complaining, embittered, rigid person with nothing much good to say about anyone.

She was convinced that no woman was good enough for her son, my father.  All the time she lived with us she only referred to my mom as “That Woman.”

Even as a young person, I knew that her version of the faith wouldn’t get me anywhere worth going.  Especially, after death.

Jesus, in our scripture lesson today, is confronted by a group of lawyers who set out to ridicule him, show he’s a fraud.  Some lawyers will do that, you know.  This group does not believe in any afterlife.  So, they pose a most perplexing problem to ridicule Jesus and his after-life ideas about a Kingdom.

I can hear his detractors now – the same scoffers of religion today.

So, how high up is heaven?  The Russian Youri Gegarian went up there in a spaceship, looked around and didn’t see anything, certainly not God.  Yucka yucka, yuck.

And, wise teacher, what are people going to eat up there?  Who’s gonna to be the bracero to pick the veggies?  Who will brew the beer?  You know, Fr. John’s not going if there’s no beer, or rhubarb.

Will there be sex?  Is it the 70 virgins we’re promised?

Is there homework?  No more homework, no more books, no more teachers’ dirty looks.  Yea!  And what about baseball?  Will St. Peter umpire?

Who’s going to clear the tables after this feast in the sky?  And do the dishes?  Now they’re rolling around the ground in fts of laughter.  Can’t catch their breath.

What will people do?  Just sing Alleluia every day, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday singing Alleluia?  Forever and ever, world without end?  They’ll be bored out of their skulls.

The cynics, who have everything and know the value of nothing will be having a field day at Jesus expense.

For the “cultured despisers,” the skeptical in this modern era, much of religion is considered fluff, of no account.  At worst, a delusion and laughing matter. And face it, some claims of the faith are highly dubious and utterly laughable at worst.  Did the sun really stand still so Joshua could finish a slaughter on the battlefield?[1]  And if same sex relations are an abomination punishable by death, so is eating shellfish.  Should everyone eating clams be also stoned to death?  Oh, yeah, then there was that relationship between David and Jonathan, which might have been problematical.

And when one considers how the Christian faith has been misused to promote toxic masculinity, promote wars, promote the worst sexist, racist and rightwing nationalist ideologies – not only is it risible, it’s downright dangerous.  (As an aside, I say thanks be to God for our first woman Archbishop of Canterbury!).

Just as pernicious, ideas of heaven and hell are used to excuse and make us overlook the injustices of this world.  The political realist would say that all that pious heaven-and-hell talk is a sedative, an opioid answer to the criminal avarice right under our eyes – the grift of do-nothing political hacks raking in billions.

As Dr. King said that all that talk about golden slippers, long white robes and such is fine, but I’m more interested in God’s people having a decent pair of shoes and a shirt on their back down here.  Golden streets are fine, but what folks need down here is some change in their pockets, something to get a square meal and pay the rent.

Dr. King had no use for preachers who just focused on the afterlife and “pie in the sky” in the face of the poverty and misery of Jim Crow brutality.  A lifetime of suffering endured by Black Americans would not be compensated by such rationalizations and pablum.  What God demanded was folks actively working in this world to promote justice, dignity and community.

So here come these religious know-it-alls out to ridicule what they don’t understand, the Torah faith of inclusive community and right relations.

If a man is married and dies without children, according to the law his brother is to take the widow as wife so his brother would have, in a fashion, an inheritance.  And just suppose, just suppose that that man dies, and she has to marry the next brother, and he dies…so on and so forth until at the end she has been married to seven of those brothers?

By this time the crowd is amused and many laughing up their sleeves.

So, then she dies, maybe of exhaustion.  In the afterlife whose wife would she be?  What is she going to do if there’s in fact a resurrection?

People edged closer, eager to hear how he’s going to handle this one.  They winked at one another and shoved an elbow into a neighbor’s ribs.  “This is gonna be good.  What’s he going to say to this?”

Jesus will have none of this foolishness.  God is not to be mocked.

Jesus turns the tables on them.  Whatever the afterlife might be, it won’t be like here on earth.  People won’t be married there.  Whatever happens after death will be nothing at all, absolutely nothing at all like here.  And as no one has returned to tell us about it, anything else is speculation.  A distraction from what we’re to be about down here.

We use metaphor and poetry to express such yearning for eternal fulfillment.  As to such final things, Jesus says, “You know neither the day nor the hour” when you will see your last sunset, dream your last dream.  But, that Kingdom, that Kin-dom of God?  It’s already here among you.  Don’t you catch a smidgen, a brief glimpse of it from time to time?  I do.

Jesus made it clear that the door to eternity is through the life we live in this world.  It’s signs, wonders and markers are all about.  NOW!

I have a cherished memory of a cold, cold night on the balcony of our home in Petersburg, Alaska.  It was clear and frigid as I lay on the chaise lounge outside, bundled up in a heavy duty Kelty sleeping bag, looking up at the flickering of the northern lights. Pink, white, shades of blue and green they began to dance across the velvet black sky.  Just as I was about to head back indoors —  even in a heavy-duty sleeping bag I was freezing my butt off – just then it seemed as if all the lights of heaven gathered themselves over my head.  In one burst of glorious energy, they exploded over my head.  “Take me now, Lord,” I thought.  “It doesn’t get any better than this.”  Moments later I headed back inside suffused with a radiant glow.  A little bit of heaven.

Yes, the wonders of nature, the beauty of the hills inspired more than one Psalm, inspired more than one poem, more than one quiet sigh of contentment.

Yes, in this life we get small glimpses of eternal joy and bliss.  Glimpses of “undaunted courage.” To enter the life of another human being is such a door.  Especially a life filled with unbearable pain.  This week I began reading Elizabeth Guiffre’s book of the torment she endured at the hands of Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislain Maxwell.  The courage she displays in telling her story with all its horrific and dehumanizing detail – that courage is a smidgen of eternity.  A door that opens the reader to her, his full humanity.[2]  The Glory of God, a woman fully alive despite all the worst life had dished out.

Even her collaborator, Amy Wallace, had to take breaks from this sordid tale, over four years in the making.  Her courage in being willing to immerse herself in the muck that was Epstein and Maxwell lifts my courage to stand for what is right.  Amy’s listening and helping Elizabeth clarify her story is an overwhelming gift to other girls who have been assaulted and abused – you are not alone.  There is help.

After hours of working on her book in Paris, Elizabeth needed some fresh air.  Her lawyers had been grilling her for hours, wanting to maximize, to focus her testimony.  She thought the Louvre might be the distraction she needed.  Wandering through the galleries, looking for the Mona Lisa, she turned a corner and everything fell apart.  Another flashback – fearsome flashbacks of shame that came unannounced at her most vulnerable moments.  Flashbacks she could never banish from her waking days or nightly dreams of terror.

“I climbed a flight of stairs, turned a corner, and froze.  I know this room, screamed a voice inside my head.  I’d been in this precise spot before – two decades ago, when I was just seventeen.”

“The room I am in is painted bloodred and dominated by a large tapestry: a depiction of Louis XIV’s garish bed chamber.  In 2001, when Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislane Maxwell took the teenage me into this room for the first time, they had been sexually abusing and trafficking me for months.  Now I am a thirty-seven-year-old wife and mother…Still I can practically see him standing next to me, admiring the tapestry, whose dark palette he was determined to mimic in the décor of his opulent Manhattan townhouse.  In my mind’s eye, I imagine Maxwell beside him, as always.  A molester with posh manners and an aristocratic pedigree…played den mother to Epstein’s dysfunctional family of underage girls.  I was one of those girls, and I spent more than twenty-five months in their house of shame.”[3]

Though Elizabeth exhibited great courage, resolve in the face of death threats to keep quiet, the devastation finally overwhelmed her, unable to escape the domestic violence in her own marriage, she took her own life at her remote farm in Australia.

In an email sent three weeks before her death, Elizabeth wrote, “In the event of my passing, I would like to ensure that “Nobody’s Girl” is still released.  I believe it has the potential to impact many lives and foster necessary discussions about these grave injustices.” 

Elizabeth’s gift to the numerous and unknown victims of sexual predation is priceless.  Inspired courage.  A priceless moment of eternity.

How do put the whole matter that Jesus was confronted by that day as scoffers ridiculed him?  First, there are some questions that can’t be directly answered by any living person with an absolute, literal answer.  To the scoffers, any answer comes as one lives into the question, picks up their cross and put’s their shoulder to the wheel.  In all finality, what I can say is, “We came as a gift from God and we return to God.  Thanks be to God.”  It’s all Grace – “What a Wonderful World” indeed!  And as my friend John Cobb remarked when nearing death, “I waiting to be surprised.”  Amen

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[1] Joshua 10:12-14.

[2] Elizabeth Roberts Giuffre, Nobody’s Girl: A Memoir of Surviving Abuse and Fighting for Justice (Alfred A. Knopf: New York, 1925).

[3] Op. cit., xx-xxi.

November 9, 2025

Pentecost 22, Proper 27

Job 19:23-27a; Psalm 17:1-9;
2 Thessalonians 2:1-5, 13-17; Luke 20:27-38

“And My Eyes Shall Behold”

If there’s somethin’ strange in your neighborhood · Who you gon’ call? (Ghostbusters!) If there’s somethin’ weird, and it don’t look good. Who you gon’ call? (Ghostbusters!). 

Well Halloween’s over and the vampires, skeletons and ghosts have put their costumes away for another year.  But we continue to live in frightful times.  A lot of scary stuff is out and about – a lot worse than a fantastical 200-foot-tall Pillsbury Dough Boy phantom roaming the neighborhood.

Tyranny stalks the land.  And we’re led by a low-information president with the impulse control of a two-year-old and twisted heart bent on revenge.

President Zelensky comes calling in search of what he needs to defend his country and halt Russian bombardment.  What he gets is a harangue about “making nice” to Putin.  And how much land he will have to cede to the Bear.
I say, let’s give ‘em Florida and call it even; and their soldiers can just go back home to Russia.  Oh, and they can pay for all the damage they did.

Just a fortnight ago Zelensky was told that “you can win this.” In a Face the Nation interview of September 23 Trump says Ukraine can take all their land back from Russia.  Talk about attention deficit disorder. 

Meanwhile the average Ukrainian is being bombed and frozen.  And yet, through steadfast caring for the bereaved, the wounded and the displaced, burying the dead, these Ukrainians endure.  Steadfast in God’s Grace, caring for one another.  They endure.  They abide.  Saints alive!

In America, as SNAP benefits (food stamps) are being cut off, our poor are being starved.  With health care supplements being cut off and the cost of insurance premiums doubling, families are being denied health care.  Even middle-class families, not to mention those barely scraping by.   And not to mention one source of nutrition for our poorest children being cut, free school lunches and the end of Head Start.

Who’s to blame?  What’s the cause of all this catastrophe?  While I don’t believe that any human is absolute evil, some do the most horrid and inhuman things.  In my blessing at the end of the service, along with blessing those present, those they love, those they serve; I also ask a blessing on “those we must resist.”

In today’s Old Testament lesson Daniel reports a dream.  A vision in the midst of the captivity under the reign of King Belshazzar of Babylon. In the precarity of captivity, most dire straits, Daniel has a dream.  “A vision softly creeping.”

Dreams are voices of our unconscious, sometimes of the Spirit, in the midst of the night when our psychological defenses are down.  Sometimes of warning, often the face of night terrors, or sometimes pondering a situation we are facing, sometimes of fond hope we cherish.

With Daniel’s dream, it’s a vision of terror.

“I Daniel, saw in my vision by night the four winds of heaven stirring up the great sea, and four great beasts came up out of the sea, different from one another.  As for me, Daniel, my spirit was troubled within me.”  Now let’s get this straight, this vision scared the crap out of him.  “…the visions of my head terrified me.”  Daniel approached one of the attendants of this dream asking of those four horrific beasts.  “As for these four great beasts, four kings shall arise out of the earth.  But the holy ones of the Most High shall receive the kingdom and possess the kingdom forever—forever and ever.”

Yes, among us perfidious, horrid persons will arise and do evil things.  And I suspect, looking at our contemporary political and economic landscape, we all have our candidates for “the worst person in the world,” as Keith Olbermann would label such.

My mother always told me that you will be judged by the company you keep; or in Putin’s case, shelter.

In a recent article on the missing enforcers of Bashar al-Assad’s murderous regime in Syria, it turns out that many have found refuge in Russia.  These are the “the worst of the worst.”  Scores of them safely living with impunity for the most barbaric of crimes against humanity.  Just at random, to take a few:  Qahtan Khalil, an officer in the Air Force Intelligence, the murderer of hundreds of peaceful anti-government protesters.[1] The worst of the worst. One we must resist.

Yassin Dahi, Head of Branch 235, a secret arm of the Asaad regime.  He was responsible for the torture and execution and disappearance of civilians.  The worst of the worst.  There are scores more.  Another we must resist.

They have all vanished into nothing thanks to Putin, who continues to hide most of these war criminals.  Putin, a tyrant the entire world must resist.  As my mom would say, you lie down with dogs, you don’t get a chocolate malt!  Or something like that.  Certainly not a Lvivske beer.

Yes, Syria has endured horrific catastrophe under a brutal dictator, but they are surviving.  When in my Arabic classes we were taught about the fellaheen, the people of the soil, the farmers who tend the land.  They endure.  Today they survive the worst atrocities imaginable.  They persist when the harvest is good and when the rain doesn’t come.  They are the people Jesus preached the Good News to. Here today, here for centuries.  They endure.  And so will we.  Their steadfast caring for the land, their families, their communities is God’s Grace Incarnate.  These fellaheen are the Saints of God enduring, abiding.  Because of them Syria will endure.

These next few days many will lose the very food required to say alive.  They will lose medical benefits.  Their children risk losing Head Start and the meals provided there.  Oh, did I mention the kids who had received free lunches in the cafeteria line?  Gone.  No spaghetti or even tasteless meatloaf for them.  Sorry, kids.

I remember the cartoon of one inner-city kid in a cafeteria line eyeing the glop and smelling the horrid odors wafting from the pots, noting a dead cat sticking out of one of one – he remarked to the slovenly, unkempt cafeteria server: “No thanks.  I think I’ll take my chances with the drive-by shootings.”

No, they won’t even be getting those delicacies.

Good bye, Meals on Wheels for many.  This is “Let them eat cake” politics.  Shut down all because Republicans don’t wish to make medical care affordable for our people.  Get this, the House under Speaker Johnson has been on vacation for five weeks, not wanting to face the music.  Our people are enduring hunger and gross uncertainty, and they’re luxuriating at home on vacation!  Absent because avoiding a vote on releasing the Epstein files.  Your tax dollars at work.

That is why it is absolutely essential that in California we pass proposition 50 this November to win back the House of Representatives — to bring a check to this incompetent, cruel, vengeful and lawless administration.

Marjorie Taylor Green is the last person I thought I would be in agreement with – not in all my born days.  Yet, we’re in perfect alignment on the need for affordable health care.  The other day she ripped Johnson to shreds, saying he is a disaster on health.  He shuts the government down over health care subsidies, yet he has ABSOLUTELY NO PLAN OF HIS OWN!  You go, girl!  God raises up the most unlikely allies.

And, somehow…somehow the American people will get through all this.  Like we always have: watching out for one another and opening our hearts and wallets.  Saints steadfast to the end — we will be the tangible Glory of God for these children and their families.

Just like the fellaheen of the Middle East, we will endure by joining together in deeds of Love.  We tend the land in St. Francis Garden of Hope.  This past Tuesday some six students with their teacher from Aquinas High School came across the street to harvest lettuce, kale, bok choy, and cilantro.  Their teacher Chris Burrows helped organize things and our farmer, Miguel Bonila, with over 40 years’ experience in urban farming, supervised the harvesting.  He was great with the students.  I ask you; how many other Episcopal churches hire a farmer?

A great team led by Peggy Dub-Lutz organized the kitchen crew and kept us on track.  Last Tuesday, my caregiver, Ileen, noted, “What a great team you have here.”  Yes, we do.  Saints of God abiding.  Steadfast for sure!

Our garden is a living sermon you can see, touch and taste.  And. as scripture says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good.”  Good indeed, manifest in the hearts, minds, wallets, hands, and aching backs of all that make all this happen.  Saints alive!  Saints abiding, right here on Sterling Avenue, San Bernardino!

I love All Saints Day for it is dedicated to the best impulses in humanity.  It celebrates the God-spark in common, ordinary folks who tend creation and bring into realty the Beloved Community.  And unlike Christmas, Easter and All Hallows Eve, our vulture capitalist system has not yet figured out how to monetize it.

Jew, Buddhist, Muslim, Christian, Jain, non-of-the-above — that God-spark resides in each, though sometimes very deeply hidden.  We are commissioned to bring it forth, that all might Taste and See that the Lord is Good.

I close with a quote from a man who dared to get involved, to be in the arena, Theodore Roosebelt.  Not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but never the less, he gave it all the good he had in him.  Left nothing on the field.

“It is not the critic who counts: not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood, who strives valiantly, who errs and comes up short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming.[2]”

Yes, we, imperfect as we are, with soiled faces, aching backs and sometimes tears — you, we, at St. Francis have chosen to be in the arena, making it happen.  Along with our colleagues from Aquinas High.  Steadfast Saints of God abiding, “For the Glory of God and my neighbor’s good,” as Helen’s Church of the Brethren would proclaim it.  Amen.

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[1] Devon Lum, Neil Coller, Christoph Koetti, Muhsen Al Mustafa, “The Vanishing Act,” New York Times, October 19, 2025.

[2] “Citizenship in a Republic“, delivered by Theodore Roosevelt in Paris on April 23, 1910.

November 2, 2025

All Saints Sunday

Daniel 7:1-3, 15-18; Psalm 149;
Ephesians 1:11-23; Luke 6:20-31

“Saints Steadfast to the End”

It has oft been said that there are no atheists in foxholes.  When shells are bursting all around, the air is rife with prayer every bit as with smoke.  Deafening explosions and smell of cordite bring forth from the human breast desperate sighs and moans of petition to the Almighty.

I still remember, safe as it was, our live-fire drill in the Army.  As Sarge briefed us on what we would endure and warned us not to stand, for the live glowing tracers would be streaking not that far over out heads.  At conclusion of his talk, someone suggested maybe a chorus of “Nearer My God to Thee.” 

Extreme times elicit prayer, spoken and unspoken – the sighs of the inner Spirit.  And as long as there are tests in school there are prayers “without ceasing.”  I remember blankly staring at my physics test, not able to remember a single formula, traumatized, silently praying, hoping, “Just get me out of this with a ‘C.’”  And, of course, desperate prayer is no substitute for diligent preparation.  The results were far worse than a C.

In Luke’s gospel we have the Parable of the Unjust Judge, the teaching that most remember when it comes to prayer and persistence.

“In a certain city there was a judge who neither feared God nor had respect for people.  In that city there was a widow who kept coming to him saying, ‘Grant me justice against my opponent.’”  You know the rest.  Though he would not respond to her urgent pleas, she persisted, knocking on his door at all hours of the night — night after night until she wore him down.  Out of exasperation, or maybe due to too many sleepless nights, he gave in.

We are enjoined to be just as persistent in our prayer.  Now comes the content of her prayer.  She prayed for justice.

This past week at a Chicago ICE raid, a Presbyterian pastor, inspired by the injustice of these raids, stood in prayer at an ICE enforcement action.  Arms outstretched in supplication for justice, he was shot in the head by a pepper ball from a rooftop ICE sentry.  As he crumpled to the ground he was swarmed by well-wishers.

Later that week in an interview on the Rachel Maddow Show, he brushed aside concerns about his health.  He said if folks were moved by what they saw, their concern should be for those harassed and abused by ICE and our unjust immigration policies.  These victims should be the recipients of our care and concern, not he himself.  His prayer was for justice for the victims of ICE mistreatment.  And, yes, many of them are U.S. citizens.

Prayer, urgent, soul-wrenching prayer is a cry from the depths of the God-spark deep within, crying out in supplication for justice, mercy.  It is fervent prayer moving to action.  The kind of urgency that takes one outside of their comfort zone.

Though we are in distress, at a loss for words, “the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words.”[1]

It is such prayerful concern, spoken and unspoken, maybe only a nudge that has propelled many to sign up for our No Kings Day demonstrations all across the nation.  Millions upon millions, the largest demonstrations we have ever seen on one day.  Those impelling prayers are born out of dire concern for our democracy.  Born of fear of what we are becoming as a nation, a people.

And the answer to those prayers bubbling up from deep within from so many across the nation?  As the poster in my office of folks at voting booths says, “Bring your thoughts and prayers here.”  Prayer, earnest prayer leads to agency – active care for others, for the planet.

Prayer, deep-down prayer from the core of the soul enables us to hear the pain of others.

 JoAnn A. Post in Christian Century tells a story of concern for the pain of her dog as it became quite ill.[2]

Her dog, Ginger, a golden retriever, suddenly began losing weight.  Her coat began to thin and her appetite failed.  She no longer scoured the floor looking for dropped scraps of food.  She had no interest, becoming skinnier and skinnier.

A trip to the vet confirmed the worst fears.  She was slowly dying from untreatable liver cancer.  The most that could be done was to make her as comfortable as possible.

JoAnn vividly remembers those last few days.  She writes:

“Will she be in pain? How will we know if she hurts?”

“You may not,” he admitted. We were to watch for sleeplessness, pacing, a change in temperament—but dogs can’t tell you when they hurt. Or what they need.

A few days before she died, I lay beside her on the floor, stroking her soft fur, whispering in her floppy ear, “Do you hurt, Ginger? Are you sad? What do you need? Please tell me.”

“Ginger was silent. I wept.”[3]

JoAnn takes from this experience an important lesson on pain, the pain of others.  It is possible to be forgiven from recognizing the pain of another who cannot speak, who cannot give voice to their own distress or sadness.

It is unforgivable to turn away and choose not to hear of another’s pain.  Prayer, urgent, sincere prayer attunes our ears to hear and hopefully our hearts to respond.  And maybe our feet, hands, wallets and whatever. 

It is out of such an outpouring of national pain, that so many of us will have been out in the streets this October 18 protesting the pain of so many, many “least of us.”

And, as Elizabeth Warren has discovered, persistence pays off, just as in this parable of a wronged widow in Jesus’ story.

In our church, for centuries and centuries, women have been shut out.  They’ve not had their gifts and contributions recognized.  For many years a woman couldn’t even be on the vestry or serve as a delegate to convention, let alone be a priest, or, heaven forefend a bishop.  How many urgent prayers it took before those first “irregular” ordinations of the first women priests in our church.  Fervent prayers impelling to action these women and a courageous bishop who presided at the ceremony.

Let us remember our own shameful neglect and discounting of the gifts woman yearned to bring to the priesthood.

The General Convention in1973 voted to reject women’s ordination.  That was a signal for many that the time had come to work outside the legislative system. Suzanne Hiatt, who had hoped to be ordained, recalled, “I realized […] that my vocation was not to continue to ask for permission to be a priest, but to be a priest.” Women deacons turned to civil disobedience in their attempts to fulfill their call to the priesthood.[4]

In New York, five qualified female deacons silently presented themselves alongside their male counterparts to Bishop Paul Moore for ordination.  They were not ordained.  

Later in Philadelphia, eleven women were ordained at the Church of the Advocate on July 29, 1974 by bishops Daniel Corrigan, Robert DeWitt, and Edward Welles II.  Let us remember those trail blazers: Merrill Bittner, Alla Bozarth, Alison Cheek, Emily Hewitt, Carter Heyward, Suzanne Hiatt, Marie Moorefield, Jeanette Piccard, Betty Bone Schiess, Katrina Welles Swanson, and Nancy Wittig.  And we never looked back.  These and so many more women to come have deepened and blessed our understanding of the ordained ministry.

I thought we had arrived when we consecrated our first woman bishop here in America.  But these women had greater aspirations.

And this fall, October 3^rd, we chose the first woman as Archbishop of Canterbury, the titular head of the entire Anglican worldwide communion.  And does she have the “right stuff!”  Yes, persistence, persistence, persistence.

Such prayer is dangerous business, you never know where it will get you.

The Rt. Rev. Sarah Mullally, Bishop of London has been chosen as the 106^th Archbishop of Canterbury, the first woman to serve in that office since St. Augustine arrived in Kent in 597 to plant the church in England.  A glorious day for our dear Church.[5]

Bishop Mullally will take office on January 28, 2026, when her ceremonial election by the canons of Canterbury Cathedral will be confirmed at a service at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. She will be formally installed on the Throne of St. Augustine at a service in Canterbury Cathedral next March.

Though brought up in an evangelical congregation, she represents what might be know as the “broad church.”  She has been instrumental in enabling the church to address sexual abuse.  She has been at the forefront of an inclusive church that welcomes the LGBT community.  Though quiet in promoting her own views, she has been a moderating force to move the church to the next steps in changing the rite of the Church of England to full marriage inclusion.

Early on, she implemented a series of changes, including a proposal to allow clergy to bless same-sex unions within the context of regular church services, which was narrowly endorsed by the church’s General Synod in November 2023.  On this issue, we in the Episcopal church in the U.S. have been further ahead in proclaiming that “All Means All.”  And acting on it.

She is a process person, making sure all are heard and included.  One of her fellow bishops, the Rt. Rev. Jonathan Baker, says of her ministry, she “has always shown the greatest respect for the different theological traditions which coexist within the Church of England. In London in particular, she has generously supported my ministry and enabled the flourishing of traditional Catholic parishes and clergy across the Diocese.”[6]

Yes, the fervent prayers of many come to full fruition in her selection.  “Pray without ceasing,” and you never know where that might lead – justice, gratitude, full inclusion, redress of wrongs, solidarity with those in pain, a profound sense of acceptance, of being loved.  And definitely outside our comfort zones.

I heard a speaker once say that if prayer is not leading you outside your comfort zone, you are not doing it right, not listening or perhaps praying for the wrong things.  I’ve found that deep down listening opens me to the pain of others, to injustice.  Prayer of that sort is 90% listening.

As we share the matters that weigh heavily on our hearts and minds, let us always, always pray without ceasing.  The results might astound.  In Christ, we might just astound ourselves.

As my dear departed friend Rabbi Leonard Beerman was wont to say, “My prayers are my marching feet.”

Get those marching shoes on – and see you out on the streets and at the voting booth.   Or maybe in St. Francis Garden of Hope?  Amen.

---

[1] Romans 8:26.

[2] JoAnn A. Post, “Injustice comes with so many alibis and aliases,” Christian Century, October 9, 2019.

[3] Ibid.

[4] Mark Michael, “First Woman Appointed Archbishop of Canterbury,” The Living Church, October 3, 2025.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid.

October 19, 2025

Pentecost 19, Proper 23

Genesis 32:22-31; Psalm 121;
2 Timothy 3:14-4:5; Luke 18:1-8

“An Eruption of Prayer”

In 1985 the noted Columbian novelist, Gabriel García Márquez wrote Love in the Time of Cholera.  The story is set in an un-named, steamy South American country at the time beset by multiple outbreaks of cholera.[1]

The main characters are caught up in tempestuous love affairs.  To say their lives are messy is an understatement.  Like cholera which slowly drains the body, these relationships drain the psyche.  The main character, Florentino, is love-sick with the consuming symptoms paralleling those of cholera.  At the end of the novel, the yellow cholera flag on a passing ship plying the river docks at port symbolizing complete surrender – to love and to the disease.[2]

We live in a diseased time, a leprous time.  We denounce our opponents as “unclean,” evil, despicable.  The actions of our government, subtle and not so subtle, are dark and deadly in our diseased society.  We’re waging a running war on science.  We concoct “alternate facts” to sanitize our history.  We pray, in the words of Kierkegaard, that this is not a “sickness unto death.”  A soul sickness of us all.

As ICE raids terrorize our populace, the yellow flag would not be inappropriate. 

This last week, the Illinois governor, J.B. Pritzker, lambasted ICE agents who stormed an apartment in Chicago.  He decried this raid carried out by “jack-booted thugs” in the middle of the night.  An invasion of his state and the city of Chicago. 

Early on October 6th, landing on the roof, agents swarmed the apartments, kicking in doors, discharging flash-bang grenades, rousting people, naked, out of their beds, terrified kids screaming as they’re ripped from their parent’s arms.

Pertissue Fisher is still recovering from being detained by the storm troopers who burst into her South Shore apartment and pulled her out of bed. 

“’An agent put a gun in her face’ she said.  Another placed her in handcuffs tight enough to leave bruises.”[3]  Though Fisher and the other victims are U.S. citizens. they were held for hours.  At 54, she is terrified to think what would have happened to her family if they had shot her.  “I have kids, I have grandkids, and if I would have [gotten] killed, who gonna answer for it?  Nobody.” [4]

U.S. citizens, for God’s sake!  Never in my born days would I have imagined such terror being inflicted upon decent, law-abiding citizens.  And with impunity.  Not what we were taught in 8^th grade U.S. history.

We live in a time of great sickness.  Possibly a sickness unto death as this democracy slides into totalitarianism and its demise?  The vestiges of our civil society are leprous indeed. Unclean.  Stinking to high heaven.

And yet it is in such times – precisely in such times — that the miracle of Jesus healing power is made manifest.  Yes, even amidst broken doors, tear gas, flashbang smoke and terrified, screaming and crying children.  In this chaotic dark night of national despair, we need Christ’s healing word, his healing touch.

You know the story.  “On the way to Jerusalem Jesus was going through the region between Samaria and Galilee.  As he entered a village, ten lepers approached him.  Keeping their distance, they called out, saying, ‘Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!’  When he saw them, he said to them, ‘Go show yourselves to the priests.’  And as they went, they were made clean.”

Now the story takes a surprising turn.  One of the cleansed lepers turns back.  Praising Jesus, he fell to the ground.  Yes, you guessed it, the hated Samaritan, a despised foreigner.  Out of the ten, only one showed gratitude for his release from that dreaded, disfiguring disease.  The Samaritan!

Incredulous, Jesus asks, “Was none of them found to return and give praise to God except this foreigner?”

Gratitude here is the remedy.  Just as urged in the 12-step movement, what’s needed to get you through life — “An attitude of gratitude.” That and “Brats, Cheese and Beer.”

Yes, my Wisconsin friends have a slogan for their political work; it’s on my coffee cup: “Brats, Cheese and Beer can save Democracy.”  Now, for sure there’s magic in brats, cheese and beer, but the real magic is that other ingredient – ALL of US.  That’s all of us coming together to work for a more just, more humane society through the sharing of those delectables.

Good food and justice work go together like none other.  They are the grease in the machinery of gratitude.  Why do you think Jesus was always feeding people?  All that is the antivenom to this leprous, diseased time.  And in the midst of our disease, we will make love.  And justice is what love looks like in the public square.

It begins with gratitude and goes from there.  No one gives back like our teachers acting out their thankfulness for what had been passed on to them.  Their vocation is an entire life of gratitude. It’s certainly not about the pay. And if it’s only one out of ten, through God’s power working for good, that shall suffice.

In the ACLU magazine for the fall, I came across one teacher preparing his students to live in this diseased world of racism and entitlement.[5]

Starting with the leadership of a principal, Jaime Cook, whose school reflects the values of inclusion.  “We’re constantly striving to keep all of our students free from fear.”  And down into the classroom.

When ICE raids threatened students at Sackets Harbor, (NY) teachers and parents organized public demonstrations.  When one family was ripped from their community in the dead of night, teachers and parents at that school organized larger rallies protesting ICE in their community.  The news of which got Governor Kathy Hochul’s attention.

The New York governor could not think of “any public safety justification for ICE agents to rip an innocent family, including a child in the third grade from their Sackets Harbor home.”  On April 7, the principal, Jaime Cook, learned that the combined pressure of the governor and the local citizenry had ended up in freeing this family.

Teachers and students organized a warm welcome back for the third-grader who had been taken.  Students made cards.  A huge welcome sign to hang in the classroom.  Yes, cookies and punch – no, brats. cheese, and definitely no beer.  

Principal Cook gave her teachers full support in making their school community a place that practices what they teach.

“We’re teaching about what it means to live your morals…You gotta walk the talk, otherwise you’re not a very good teacher.”  Further, “When one of your best friends is taken in the night, that ripples through a classroom…When we look out for one of our students, we’re really looking out for all of them.”

An attitude of gratitude in action!

That caring by a community is the best remedy for what ails us — our leprous politics.  Our leprous polarization shall not have the last word.  At heart, at our best, we Americans are better than our disease.  Yes, in a time of cholera we will make justice, for that indeed is what love looks like in the public square.

In ways big and small, gratitude for what we have finds expression in various ways.  At St. Francis this past week at the meeting of Inland Congregations United for Change, we organized to get “know your rights” cards out to families in our area.  A small thing, but it sends a loud and clear message to our immigrant neighbors, we have your back.  You belong.  This is your America.  “Live long and prosper.”

I’ve found that those immigrant families generally show much more gratitude for their new life in America than most of us who are native-born.  We take so much for granted. 

And while some of us are a little embarrassed by all the flag waving, stop and think what that flag means to those new arrivals – a new life of opportunity, an education for their children, a decent job.  Yes, a whole new life. 

Sure, it’s messy.  We don’t always live up to that promise.  Just like love in real life, in a time of pestilence, is often messy.  Or as one of my married friends says of her marriage, “It’s complicated.”  That’s the given.  And that’s the glory.

This past September 15^th, we noted the anniversary of the 1963 bombing of the 16^th Street Baptist Church in Bermingham, Alabama.  By that Sunday night, Dr. Martin Luther King had arrived by air.

Following that outrage, Dr. King urged his hearers in his eulogy for three of those innocent girls killed in that savage bombing – he urged them to hear what those girls had to say to the rest of us in their deaths.  In part, this is what King urged:

“They say to each of us, black and white alike, that we must substitute courage for caution.  They say to us that we must be concerned not merely about who murdered them, but about the system, the way of life, the philosophy which produced the murderers.  Their death says to us that we must work passionately and unrelentingly for the realization of the American dream.”

In gratitude, that is the ongoing work we the living are privileged to continue.  All “to the Glory of God and our neighbor’s good.”  Amen.

---

[1] Gabriel García Márquez, Love in a Time of Cholera (New York: Vintage Books, 1988)

[2] Op. cit., 340.

[3] Mary Norkol, “After military-style raid on South Shore, apartments, Congressmembers rally around residents,” Chicago Sun Times, October 6, 2025.

[4] Ibid.

[5] ACLU Magazine, Fall 2025.

October 12, 2025

Pentecost 18, Proper 23 – Jon Braveroff Memorial BBQ
2 Kings 5:1-3, 7-15c Psalm 111;
2 Timothy 2:8-15; Luke 17:11-19

“Love in A Leprous Time”

Looking at our president’s business history, I remember telling my wife that we could be a lot richer if I followed his example.  First, stiff all the workers and if they complained, threaten them with massive lawsuits.  Secondly, strip all the assets from our company and pocket the money.  Third, declare bankruptcy to get out of all our financial obligations. Lastly, walk away, laughing all the way to the bank.  The Art of the Deal, right?

Yes, we would have a lot more money.  And in the process, we would have lost our soul.

Life is not about whoever dies with the most toys wins.  That’s not the Main Thing.

Amos similarly warns that greed is not the point of the glorious heritage of Israel.  He excoriates those thieving merchants who jigger the scales to rob the poor, “buying the poor for a pair of sandals, and selling the sweepings of the wheat.”  And these vulture capitalists can’t wait for the sabbath to be over so they can go at it again the next week.

Nothing is new under the sun.  In the same way, most of our major banking institutions have been caught up in the same greed.  I was personally the victim of the fake accounts Wells Fargo set up for their customers, draining their accounts each month with bogus fees.  And we customers were completely unaware of these phantom accounts.  Millions of these accounts were created out of thin air to bilk us out of our hard-earned money.   These folks didn’t even wait for the sabbath to be over.  And Wells Fargo didn’t have far to go to laugh all the way to the bank.

JP Morgan Chase hid hundreds of thousands of payments from scrutiny that Jeffrey Epstein made to run his international sex trafficking ring.  Transactions which should have been by law reported to the FDIC.  The reason for this provision is to prevent money laundering.  A blind eye was turned at that bank.  Who got paid off?  And how much did they rake in on these suspicious transactions?  And Jeffrey Epstein laughed all the way to his bordello.

Under this administration no charges have been filed.  No surprise here.  No, nothing new under the sun.  Only one person sits in jail to account for an international sex trafficking ring involving hundreds of girls – and in a country club jail at that!  What’s the pay off?  A future get-out-of-jail-free card?

Is the Main Thing a hoard of wealth?  Or might it be a life of integrity lived in solidarity with one’s neighbors?  The Jewish theologian Martin Buber nailed it.  God is Relationship. 

My friend Jim always reminds me when I go off on a tangent with our House of Hope project, “Let’s keep the main thing the main thing.”  Jesus and the prophets, the body of the Torah reminds us again and again of the “Main Thing.”  It is a compassionate life with others that opens the door to eternity.

Now today we come to this perplexing parable in Luke of the “Unjust Steward.”  Hearing rumors in the marketplace that his steward is crooked, the master calls him to serve notice.  The steward knows he’s screwed if he doesn’t take immediate, drastic action. 

After all, the tenancy system of that time and place was screwing most everyone.  Except the landlord.  And even Caesar and his tax collectors had his claws into him.

The steward calls in the master’s creditors.  Tells them to jigger their accounts.  If you owe 50 denarii, here write in the books, 10.  Or maybe 5.  You owe 50 ephahs of wheat, write 7.

In this way, when this steward was out on the streets, maybe some of these former business colleagues will have pity and give him a job, or at least some charity.

Now, get this!  Jesus praises the steward for his shrewdness.  His larcenous savvy has saved his hide.  Even in unjust systems, the children of this age are shrewder than the children of light in dealing with corrupt systems.

What to make of this parable?  One commentary said, tongue in cheek, there are as many interpretations as there are readers.

Perhaps a minor digression, but a juicy story.  One writer in Christian Century has a marvelous recounting of a disastrous attempt to preach this parable to a group of students assembled in the school auditorium of their evangelical high school.[1]

First of all, this speaker, an ego-inflated, puffed-up jock whipped out a football, I guess to substantiate his credentials as a real he-man.  He asked if any out in the audience would volunteer to catch his pass.  One eager student raised his hand and the speaker uncorked a perfect spiral.  Unfortunately, the receiver was not in the same league as the passer.  He bobbled the catch which hit the student behind him in the face who was soon carried off to receive medical attention.

Things went downhill from there.  The speaker, puffing out his chest as he tried to unravel this most difficult parable, bobbed and weaved.  Inanity followed inanity leading to nothing anyone remembered.  Certainly, the narrator of the incident remembered nothing.  Except that it was awful.

Like that hapless receiver, most of us are not in a league to catch the purpose of this parable.  Don’t feel inadequate if you find it terribly mystifying.  With this one it’s easy to go astray.  So, here’s my take.  Hopefully, I can do a bit better than our jock expositor.

If there is anything commendable in this parable, it is that when the chips were down, the steward decided and took action.  Just as those who might hear the Gospel’s call to life abundant and choose action — leave their boats and nets to follow this Living Word through the door to Eternity. 

I came across a marvelous story of a woman, who was caught in one of the upper floors of the World Trade Center on 9/11 and has taken such dramatic, life-enhancing action.[2]

Jocelyn Brooks was on the 40^th floor when the plane hit her building, about an hour after she had arrived for work. The whole building shook and she thought, “This is it.”  Outside the window she saw thick black smoke and debris raining down along with people leaping from windows to avoid being burned alive. 

She thought she was going to die.  Gathering her wits, she left her backpack and cellphone behind as she ran to the staircase.  By now it was overcrowded with people descending and firefighters ascending.

She came upon one woman whose progress was stalled, grasping a handrail. Gasping for air, the woman shouted, “I can’t breathe.  I can’t breathe.”  Brooks said she thumped her on the chest for about a minute and told her to breathe until she calmed down.

When Jocelyn got clear of the building, she had a clear vision on what the Main Thing was going forward.  Amidst the debris and body parts, the smoke and anguished screams.  For her, the Main Thing was clear.  As clear as it was for those fishermen who eagerly left their nets so long ago on that lakeshore.

When she looked around through the carnage, saw the clear blue sky, she realized she had been given a whole new life.  She had two thoughts, she needed to see her two boys grow up to be adults, and she needed to be a nurse.

Surviving seemed like the hand of fate, she said, and she wasn’t going to waste it.

In that clarifying moment, Jocelyn knew what she wanted to do.
“I must become a nurse,” Brooks recalled thinking. “I’m getting a chance, and I am going to do it.”  Every bit as clarifying a moment as that of a steward who heard he was about to be canned.

And she has – and still does at 62 at the Sloan Kettering Cancer Center.  By a bedside she takes the time to hold someone’s hand “because I survived.”  She often trades stories with cancer patients sick as a result of the toxins they inhaled on that fateful day. The Main Thing indeed!

She daily brings a joy to her work.  Her colleagues often remark on the spirit she brings to the entire unit.

“’She just has such a gentle, caring way about her that I’ve never seen in any other nurse,’ said Brooks’s colleague, Rachel Lemmey.

On busy mornings when manynurses are overwhelmed, Lemmey said, Brooks is enthusiastic and gives a pep talk that Lemmey recites back to herself.

‘We’re going to get through the day together,’ Brooks said she tells her colleagues. ‘And it’s going to be a great day.’”[3]

Keep that Main Thing at the heart of your days as Jocelyn does, and you’re going to find that “It’s going to be a great day.”  Every day!  All the way to the Promised Land.  Amen.

---

[1] Jon Mathieu, “Wait, What’s the Point of This Parable? Christian Century, September 21, 2025.  The story he tells on the Parable of the Unjust Steward.

[2] Kyle Melnick, “She survived 9/11, then began a life of healing others,” Washington Post, September 11, 2025.

[3] Ibid.

September 21, 2025
Pentecost 15, Proper 20
Amos 8:4-7; Psalm 113;
1 Timothy 2:1-7; Luke 16:1-13

“On Keeping the Main Thing, the Main Thing”

On some days when I would arrive at the Long Beach office of our family construction company, which I helped my dad run, I would find him to be in an absolute tizzy, frantically hunting for his hearing-aids he had misplaced.  Sometimes we would spend the first hour or so of my day there hunting.  Nothing but nothing could happen until they were found.

It’s the same with my keys or sometimes my glasses if I have taken them off during the day.  We all know that obsession that can only be ended with eureka, I’ve found it.  Finally!

In the book of Exodus Moses is told to get his butt down the mountain muy pronto.  The people he led out of Egyptian slavery have yielded to a new slavery.  Every bit as pernicious and soul-sucking — a golden calf.

This idol will only subject them to the theocrats who set it up.  It will not get them to any promised land.  They’ve lost their way.  Destruction will be the end result.  And God’s going to lower the boom – which will only be the logical consequences of such a disastrous choice.

Moses arrives on the scene at the critical moment.  He reminds the people of how far they’ve come from slavery.  He recalls the improbable and mighty acts of God that got them thus far.  He pleads with God.  And God’s mind is changed.

Like those nomads Moses led, we in America have lost our way.  The signs are as obvious and as bright as a golden calf.

Who will intercede for us who have lost the true way?  Who will help us recall the glorious moments of our journey that got us thus far?  Will we listen?

That is a key question:  will we listen?  Will we attend to the looming danger?

In a recent issue of The Economist, there was an article on the mental health of our youth.[1]  In longitudinal studies of well-being, previous generations pointed to experiencing significant despair in their 40s and 50s.  Gen Z reports even higher levels of despair in their early 20s.

There seem to be multiple factors involved.  Especially, among the less educated, work no longer provides the protective effect against poor mental health.  My suspicion is that this is in part due to the transient nature of employment and the decline in union membership which provided essential face-to-face solidarity and support.  I remember going to union picnics with friends whose fathers were union members.  The comradery was palpable.  Not so today.  Without unions a strong ingredient of social cohesion is missing – from picnics, to bowling leagues to meetings at the union hall.

Another factor in poor sense of well-being is social media and cellphones.  Many of our young people have lost their way.  Jonathan Haidt, a social psychologist, in a new and definitive book on the psyche of our young people, documents the anxiety and depression of this new generation.[2]

One reviewer writes, “Jonathan Haidt is a modern-day prophet, disguised as a psychologist.  In this book he’s back to warn us of the dangers of a phone-based childhood…”  So says Susan Cain, the bestselling author of Bittersweet and Quiet.[3] A prophet indeed.  A prophet we ignore to this generation’s peril.

He lays out the addictive aspect to the mathematical algorithms that suck in the users of social media.  He describes in painful detail the battle royale that ensues in many families around these smartphones.

These devices can be deadly – this is not hyperbole.  The other day I saw a pedestrian almost run over in a parking lot while totally immersed in his cellphone.  Not aware of his surroundings at all, weaving his way through traffic.  I was tempted to yell out the window, “Hey, mister, when you get killed, can I have your phone?”

More pernicious than a traffic accident is what social media has done to our face-to-face support systems.  Like the family, like school, like faith communities.  In ways, large and small, we have lost our way.

Think back to your childhood.  The most exciting memories were of times you spent outdoors with your friends.  Even those times that were a bit risky.

When in the sixth grade I got a new bicycle, a 10-speed racer, an entirely new world opened up.  Of course, the first thing we were told was, don’t go to far.  Stay right around the neighborhood or just bike to school.  Especially my folks didn’t want me peddling to the Pike in downtown Long Beach. 

And of course, where was one of the first places I and my buddies went on a bright Saturday morning?  To the Pike.

The Pike with its vast assortment of carnival rides and game booths was a notorious destination in WWII for sailors on shore-leave.  It had, at best, a tawdry reputation with flim-flam men and ladies of the evening and other assorted scammers and pickpockets.  No, you don’t want your kid down there.

By the time we biked down there it had been cleaned up quite a bit, but still had that bad reputation, especially among our parents.  Definitely off limits for us young boys.

Much of that outdoors adventure has evaporated for many of our teenagers.  Their souls are sucked into some damned electronic device.  They think they have lots of friends on Facebook, yet in reality these are just acquaintances to pass away the hours with trivia.  No face-to-face contact, the essential ingredient of what makes us human, what builds community.

We are all on journey, our nation is on a journey.  Not unlike that of the people Moses led.  Such adventures are fraught with danger as well as promise.

In the journey of the soul, Dante begins his poem, The Inferno.  “In the middle of the journey of our life, I came to myself, in a dark wood, where the direct way was lost…I cannot rightly say how I entered it. I was so full of sleep, at that point where I abandoned the true way…”

Too often in the early years, the true way is lost.  As early as the late 1980s, Haidt notes the transition from a play-based to a phone-based childhood.  Yes, we cannot rightly say where the direct way was lost, so insidiously it crept up on us — with the full connivence and foreknowledge of the pushers of this addictive electronic drug.

He documents parents and their children lost in cell phone addiction.  Or if the parents seek to guard their kids’ mental health, the battles that too often result, especially around the dinner table.

“Gen Z became the first generation in history to go through puberty with a portal in their pockets that called them away from people nearby and into an alternative universe that was exciting, addictive, unstable, and – as I will show – unsuitable for children and adolescents.”[4]

Too many of today’s teens are “sucked into spending hours and hours each day scrolling through shiny happy posts of friends, acquaintances and distant influencers.”[5]

To find these lost and lonely kids – that must be our mission.  As parents, grandparents and friends.  Every bit as urgent as God, imagined as a desperate woman frantically hunting for a lost coin.  As desperate as God’s prophet Moses, struggling to reclaim his people’s freedom.  As desperate as Dante fearing the true way has been utterly lost.

So, to find these lost and lonely souls?

Haidt says that early, collective action is essential.  We now know the harmful effects of social media.  Far worse than anything that might happen at the Pike.  First of all, we need to become aware of the scope and depth of this danger.  Both parents and their children.

One girl who has come out of electronic addiction recounts:

“What made it so addictive was that I just wanted to fit in with my peers.  I didn’t want to miss anything, because if I missed anything then I was out of the loop, and if I was out of the loop, then kids would laugh at me or make fun of me for not understanding what was going on, and I didn’t want to be left out.”[6]

Your phone is a drug.  Know the danger every bit as you know the danger of heroin, gamboling or alcohol.

Parents, grandparents, early on guide your children and grandchildren into healthy, outdoor activities.  And be there with them.  Little League, outdoor camping trips, trips to museums.  Yes, even the Pike (though it’s since been demolished – even the highest wooden roller coaster on the West Coast – all gone.  So sad. Though I remember being scared spitless the one time I rode it on a dare).

Insist on quality face-to-face time without phones or tablets on.  At dinner time, allot at least one meal for the entire family without electronic intrusions.  Phones off.  Even, especially, for the adults.  Present adults are what these young folks need.  Even though they may protest.

To find the lost and lonely, ever the goal.

Support school districts in their mandates that phones go off during school hours.  The addicted will scream and shout as if you were ripping on their arms or subjecting them to some diabolical torture.  Stay strong and demand your school board has a policy in place.  Lockable pouches for phones. 

Parents need to support each other, stick together.

Engage your children in a faith community or if secular, in a public service community like Sierra Club or in political action against the wayward violations of our Constitution, norms and values.  I can’t tell how many political activists recall how at young ages a parent brought them to political demonstrations.  Also, a wonderful grandparent activity with young ones.  Pack a picnic, make a sign together.  Have fun and meet likeminded people. 

Do some good cooking together.  The fun’s in the making and the delight is in the tasting.  And the hours will fly by in great smells and life-giving conversation.  A reason some cuisines are called “soul food.”

Get a croquet set or toss a baseball with your young one.  They’ll love it and so will you.  Good healthy exercise.  A gym membership together is also a winner.  Soul-making physical exertion.

A family cross-country driving trip to see the splendors of America and our historical heritage.  Visit a national park or a presidential museum.  Visit a college to implant the idea of an educated future.

Use your imagination.  It’s the Spirit’s breeding ground.  And you will find the lost and lonely.  I guarantee it.

To find the lost soul of our nation; for this democracy depends on an educated and engaged citizenry.  Not an addicted populace.

Check out the Center for Humane Technology, an organization created by the former Google ethicist Tristan Harris.  He is offering solutions and laying out initiatives to stem the tide of attention theft.

To find the lost and lonely in this electronic age is every bit as essential as is the Spirit moving through a desperate old lady hunting for her lost coin.  It’s the Gospel mandate.  And in the finding, we together, might find our souls – lost somewhere in the journey of life, we cannot quite recall how or when.

The Gospel mandate is to stay strong, every bit as strong as those Mothers Against Drunk Driving.  Remember, that fake calf is a drug that won’t take you anywhere good.

To find the lost and lonely; and in the seeking we might also find ourselves and discover a smidge of the Glory of God.  Amen.

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[1] “Teenage Angst,” The Economist, August 30, 2025.

[2] Jonathan Haidt, The Anxious Generation: How the Great Rewiring of Childhood is Causing an Epidemic of Mental Illness (New York: Penguin Press, 2024).

[3] Ibid.

[4] Op cit., 6.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Op cit., 222.

September 14, 2025
Pentecost 14, Proper 19
Exodus 32:7-14; Psalm 51:1-11;
1 Timothy 1:12-17; Luke 15:1-10

“To Seek the Lost and Lonely”

Last week when weighing in at the dialysis clinic I was chatting with some of the technicians who know I’m a clergyperson and always welcome me with the greeting, “Father.”  They also know a little of our work with our Garden of Hope at St. Francis and ask me how the watermelons are coming along.  “Haven’t planted them yet,” I reply.  “The coyotes ate up some of our dripline irrigation.”

I mentioned that in our evening family prayer I often give thanks for how well they keep me in good health so I can be about my work.  To which one of the older fellows responded, “Pray for my soul.”  I told him that I would indeed pray that he, in cooperation with God, be about good soul-making work.  Spiritual development is not a spectator sport.  Not done by proxy.

The action required is choice. 

The Torah injunction is to choose life.  “See, I have set before you today life and prosperity, death and adversity.  If you obey the commandments of  the Lord your God that I am commanding you today, by loving the Lord your God, walking in his ways and observing his commandments, decrees and ordinances, then you shall live and become numerous and the Lord your God will bless you in the land you are entering to possess…Choose life so that you and your descendants may live…”

To choose life is to choose Truth.

This week many of the victims of Jeffrey Epstein and Ghislaine Maxwell chose Life in speaking their truth of what they had endured.

These brave women, after hiding in years of shame and guilt spoke what this administration has gone to unbelievable lengths to cover up – the predations of Epstein and Maxwell, and their associates — and how it was all swept under the rug.

As one woman demanded, her voice quaking, how is it that she, Maxwell, is the only one in jail when hundreds of others were involved?  How is she the only one answering for these crimes?

What is the sweetheart deal that kept the entire tawdry affair secret?  Letting hundreds off the hook.  After all, this was an international sex trafficking operation.  Surely more than just two persons were involved.  Who are they protecting?  And now she’s in a “country club” jail – explicitly forbidden for sex offenders.  How is that?

Her question is our question.  And what are the House Republicans, the see-no-evil-hear-no-evil crowd, trying to hide by keeping the hundreds of thousands of pages of this episode, the video tapes, the FBI files, hidden?

That Trump’s Republican supporters have attempted to sweep this all under the rug and deny these women their voice, this is despicable.  You might even say “deplorable.”  They are complicit in these crimes in their cover-up.  Most of all, the dismissive Rape President[1] who cries, “Hoax, hoax, hoax,” as these women recounted the horrors of their ordeal.  Do the jobs of The Donald’s Republican sycophants in Congress count for more than their souls, than the soul of this nation?

By sharing their story, these victims, some as young as 14 when first abused, have chosen Life.  And we who dare to listen, to “read, mark and inward digest” the testimony of these brave women have chosen Life.  As painful as all this is to take in.

Elie Wiesel counsels, “Always take sides.  Neutrality helps the oppressor, never the victim.  Silence encourages the tormentor, never the tormented.”[2]

In hearing these women out, our nation is choosing the Truth of this perverse and corrupt presidency.  And that Truth shall eventually set us free.  Yes, it will be costly to have our tawdry laundry on full display to the derision of the civilized world.  It will be a huge dish of humble pie.  And we will have earned every mouthful.

To enter into the Truth of these women’s testimony is soul-making.  Nowhere does scripture say that this is easy or fun.

Speaking of fun – consider the fun that deputy Attorney General Todd Blanche and Ghislain Maxwell were having on the tape of his interview with her.  Lawrence O’Donnell, on his Tuesday evening program, spoke of his disgust at the laughter from all in that room that filled much of the tape of that interview.  They spent several hours yucking it up at the expense of the trauma Maxwell’s victims endured.  Absolutely horrific!  The banality of it all is astounding. 

The disrespect for these women that this president and his administration, his Republican toadies in Congress, continue to display is nauseating.  These abominations, the sexual abuse of children, reek to the highest heavens.  To call their testimony a hoax is the most damnable lie yet of this wretched administration.

This presidency continues to drag our nation through the most putrefying of vile sewers.  Once we come, or enough of us come; to realize the reality and extent of our Fall, Life will begin to shoot forth green sprouts.  It presently is, thanks be to God.

America, these women will restore our national soul.

Never mind the utter incompetence of the appointees of this administration.  Never mind that Republicans in states they control, they are banning schools, first in Florida, the requirement of  vaccinations.  That we are giving up on the fight against polio and pertussis, measles and Covid19.  That stupidity seems not to register with Trump’s supporters.

Never mind that hundreds of notable, reputable scientists have castigated the most recent report on global warming coming out of EPA this past week.  Denounced it as weak and dismissive of the existential crisis this planet faces – that climate tipping points have been reached and now crossed, leading to irreversible consequences for a habitable world.

Never mind that that the newest best buddies of this president are not our allies but the most notorious autocrats and murderous war criminals since the Axis of WWII.  Never mind that Putin continues to bomb Ukraine with impunity while this president is in denial that he is being played for a chump.

Never mind any of that.

The Truth that will set us free of this corrupt, incompetent regime is the stories of these victims.  It is the rage of these women who will bring down the whole rotten mess of this despicable government — and every single one of their cowardly apologists.  Mark my words.   And great will be the fall of it.  Right around November, 2026.

When these women join together to assemble their own list of all the other perpetrators, the high and mighty, the foundations of this stale and rotten propriety will shake top to bottom.  As Jesus in Luke counsels, propriety and secondary claims must be put in the context of the Gospel call to God’s love and justice.  Yes, indeed, what are they trying to hide.  Let these women count the ways!

Dietrich Bonhoeffer warns us that Grace of such Truth ??? can be quite costly.  I discovered that early on in my college years when I lost a girlfriend over the fair housing issue.  Her father owned apartments, and she couldn’t understand why I would be supporting “those people” in their rights to rent them.

What I lost was nothing.  Absolutely nothing compared to what these women have sacrificed in coming forward – the reliving of the trauma of their ordeal all over again.  Yet their testimony is God’s Liberation – Life itself.

The admonition is before us each and every day.  Choose Life that you may live and your children after you.

On many days I fear for the world that we are leaving to my new grandson soon to be born in a couple of weeks (more or less).  But when I heard these women speak on the “News Hour,” [or were you watchng The Last Word?] my spirit soared.  I was filled with hope, and pride that we in America can still imbibe at the living fountain of such dangerous Truth.  National soul-making. 

What can you do?  Call your representatives and demand transparency.  Raise hell in the checkout line and wherever you have an impromptu audience.  Write letters to the editor.  Do not let the enormity of these crimes slide in casual conversations.  No. they do not all do it!  Donate to the opposition, those willing to stand for Truth.  Take sides.  This will be your soul-making.

As Lawrence O’Donnell typically closes his show, these women get “The Last Word.”  The God’s Gospel Truth.  We and our children and grandchildren will be blessed by its telling and retelling down through the generations.  Amen.

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[1]  In the filing from Judge Lewis A. Kaplan, he stated at Trump’s sentencing that while the jury did not explicitly convict the president of rape, his actions fit the definition of rape as most people would understand the term.  The Washington Post, July 19, 2023.

[2] From Bits and Pieces, Chicago, IL, September 2025.

September 7, 2025
Pentecost 13, Proper 18
Deuteronomy 30:15-20; Psalm 1;
Philemon 1-21; Luke 14:25-33

Intentional Soul Making