To Forgive and Reconcile
My next-door neighbor Tom – the one who taught me how to drive a big rig — told me one afternoon that his brother had gone to collect the rent at one of the houses he owned. His brother knocked on the door, it opened and the occupant shot him point blank in the head.
The family was distraught for months on end. The murderer got off with a relatively light sentence. The youthful shooter was “just a kid,” they said. “Just a kid.” The family wanted blood. How does forgiveness carry any weight in such circumstances? How is it possible?
Yet in faith, by the Grace of God, it is possible. Let me tell you the story of Azim Khamisa. Azim Khamisa is a father awakened to the news that his only son Tariq had been shot by a 14-year-old gang member, Tony Hicks, over a slice of pizza. In the bitter days that followed it would have been natural for Azim to have been consumed by anger. That would have been the end of Khamisa’s life. Bitterness ending only at the grave.
But something happened to intervene. After a number of weeks when bitterness subsided, Azim began to think, in reality, there were two sets of victims. There was also the family of the gang member who had shot his son. After a while Azim was prompted by all that is Holy and all that is Reconciliation –prompted to reach out to the killer’s family. It was a grandfather. This man had raised the other boy.
That two families not be devastated, the two men, Azim and Ples Felix, Tony’s grandfather and guardian, began meeting. Azim finally went to visit Tony in jail, where he was serving a 25-to-life sentence.[1]
When Azim looked deeply into Tony’s eyes, he didn’t see a killer. He saw a very wounded human being, pretty much like himself. Wounded.
“Since the beginning of this tragedy, Tony confessed to his crime and has continuously sought to better his life. He has apologized to the Khamisa family, shares his remorse, and plans to join Mr. Khamisa and his grandfather, Mr. Felix, in their efforts to teach children accountability, compassion, forgiveness, and peacemaking.”[2]
“From prison, Tony has written numerous blogs responding to questions from youth participating in the TKF (Tariq Khamisa Foundation) programs. He has also earned his GED and is working towards his AA degree in Social Work. Tony participates in Gang members Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Toastmasters, and has done rigorous self-inventories to identify his character defects.”[3]
Through the efforts of Azim, Tony is now out of prison and has a job at the Tariq Khamisa Foundation.
On the foundation’s web site are many stories of forgiveness. From perusing them, it became clear to me that there’s no automatic formula. Nothing’s more unrealistic than the teacher demanding of two boys who had been in a knockdown-dragout fight than to say, “All right, you boys shake hands now and be friends.” The muttered response of one would surely be, “See you after school.”
Forgiveness is a spiritual gift as much as anything, born of calmness and a softening of the heart. It is nothing to be demanded. It is at best an endeavor by both parties. It can’t be compelled in the heat of the matter. Perhaps, later, much later, those harmed and traumatized by the tragedy of September 11th will be able to let it go, or at least get beyond disabling grief. To “let go and let God.” But probably not today.
One more story from the Azim’s foundation from the “Forgiveness Project.” This is the story of two fathers, one Israeli and the other Palestinian. The conflict that has endured for generations. I share the story of the Israeli father.
“I was on my way to the airport when my wife called and told me Smadar was missing. When something like this happens, a cold hand grabs your heart. You rush between friends’ houses and hospitals, then eventually you find yourself in the morgue and you see a sight you’ll never forget for the rest of your life. From that moment you are a new person. Everything is different.
“At first, I was tormented with anger and grief; I wanted revenge, to get even. But we are people – not animals! I asked myself, “Will killing someone else release my pain?” Of course not. It was clear to my wife and me that the blame rests with the occupation. The suicide bomber was a victim just like my daughter, grown crazy out of anger and shame.
“I don’t forgive and I don’t forget, but when this happened to my daughter, I had to ask myself whether I’d contributed in any way.
“The answer was that I had – my people had, for ruling, dominating and oppressing three-and-a-half million Palestinians for 35 years. It is a sin and you pay for sins.[4]
Getting back to my Facebook political posts, the other day two of us had sharp disagreement and some harsh words over how our president has handled his responsibilities. Commenting on my rant about his calling our fallen, “losers” and “suckers,” he responded that I didn’t know who I was talking to.
In his next post, seconds later, he announced that he was a vet and had twenty years of service. At that moment my heart softened a bit and I thanked him for his service, letting him know that I also had served. Two years as an Army medic.
Surprise, he also had been an Army medic in Afghanistan. And thanked me as well for my service.
Then he let me know that the main reason he had voted for Trump was that he was fed up with elite politicians who just talked and had done nothing for people like him. I said I understood. Understood completely. That’s why I had supported Bernie.
We ended in agreement that the politics of this nation are pretty screwed up and agreed to a virtual toast, that no matter how things turned out on November 3rd, we would hoist a virtual beer “To the Constitution and to the Declaration of Independence.’ We bid each other, “Good night.”
When we consider the pain and suffering brought on by the 9/11 attacks twenty-five years ago, what does forgiveness mean? We are now in the territory that time and God alone can enable us to cope.
Is there forgiveness for so much pain, so much loss? There’s no alternative. Eventually. The early church knew our failings and the damage we do to one another.
The Gospels tie God’s Grace in with forgiveness. Forgiveness is front and center in the Parable of the Lost Son and Forgiving Father. An essential part of the Lord’s Prayer. Hear this admonishment from today’s gospel.
Upon hearing Jesus’ teaching on forgiveness, Peter approached him with a question. This was an inquiry based upon the teachings of the Torah – “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive? As many as seven times?” This was the standard proscribed. Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but I tell you seventy-seven times.”
Forgive seven times seventy? The natural man, the natural woman, says, “I don’t think so.” Yet here is this implacable demand: “Seventy times seven times.”
To back it up, Jesus tells the parable of a man forgiven a great debt by a generous king who receives most distressing news. The slave recently forgiven an enormous debt is shaking down his fellows for what they owed him. Seizing one debtor by the throat, the slave demanded, “Pay what you owe.” This is a debtor who was owed only a fraction of what had been forgiven him by the king. Hearing this news, the king was enraged. He had that slave tortured until he should pay his entire debt — hundreds of thousands of dollars owed the king. As the slave was led away, the king raged, “Should you not have had mercy on your fellow slave, as I had mercy on you?”
I’m wondering how many Americans this past week hearing or watching those tapes on TV replay, listening to still grieving family members, replaying in our own memories like an endless loop – asked what can forgiveness mean? What can reconciliation mean in the face of such horrendous evil?
The wrong done is beyond the pale. So much pain. So much pain.
As I wandered a few weeks ago through the 9/11 Museum at Ground Zero, heavy of heart, the enormity of the sacrifice of so many was overwhelming. The firefighters rushing up those stairs of doom as fleeing office workers stampeded down. Those workers who risked their lives on those stairs in aiding handicapped colleagues get down. Sometimes physically carrying them. It was overwhelming as I realized those stairs preserved in that exhibit were Holy Ground. Tears clouded my vision.
Looking at the crushed fire engine on display — seeing again the videos of those jumpers who would rather die in that manner than be burned to death. Often holding hands with a colleague as they plummeted to their deaths. The story of a women standing on the ledge attempting to preserve her modesty by straightening her skirt before jumping.
I began to understand that it will only be through the awesome Grace of God that I am able to move on. That we as a nation will regain our humanity. We must absolutely refuse to blame all Muslims for this act of perfidy. I must claim all the more strongly this people of Abraham as my brothers and sisters, all of us sharing a common humanity.
As the day closes, I can only fall back on the spiritual wisdom of Reinhold Niebuhr’s Serenity Prayer:
“God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change,
The courage to change the things I can,
And wisdom to know the difference.”
And St. Francis:
Lord, make me an instrument of your peace.
Where there is hatred, let me sow love;
where there is injury, pardon… Amen.
[1] https://www.virtuesforlife.com/father-forgives-sons-killer/
[2] https://tkf.org/tony-hicks/
[3] Ibid.
[4] Rami Elhanan, “The Forgiveness Project,” Stories of the Tariq Khamisa Foundation
September 13, 2026
Pentecost 16, Proper 19
“To Forgive and Reconcile”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Genesis 50:15-21; Psalm 103:8-13
Romans 14:1-12; Matthew 18:21-35
Holy Persistence
When I ran an ecumenical fair housing project for the San Gabriel Valley, I could always count on four faith communities: the Quakers, the Universalist Unitarians, Disciples of Christ and Catholics who believed in the social teachings of the Catholic Church.
But day-in and day-out it was the Quakers who inspired me. They never gave up. Social justice ministries were their cup of tea. If we needed someone to follow up on a complaint of housing discrimination, they would be at the ready.
I first encountered them when I put together my application to be a conscientious objector to the Vietnam War. I explained to my contact that I was not willing to kill anyone over this unjust, immoral war but I would be willing to help patch up some poor soul who had been shot or blown up. With his guidance, the draft board accepted me under that condition and I served my two years in the Army as a conscientious objector medic.
At the church we attended in San Francisco, Jai and I were enlisted to help provide a Sunday dinner at the halfway house run by Quakers for those returning from incarceration. This allowed a free day off for the couple who were caretakers and mentors for their housemates.
These Quakers were what the gospel looks like in action. All around the globe their impact is felt. Holy Persistence.
The persistence of this faith community mirrors the faithful persistence of God – the Hound of Heaven. When the people of Israel have strayed, God sends prophet after prophet to bring them back. To speak warning. To speak justice. To speak forgiveness. All to woo them back to the life-giving path of Torah Righteousness.
Ezekiel speaks to that wayward people. Yes, God will offer forgiveness but repair comes only after accountability. Ezekiel’s words are a harsh warning. If this community continues on the path of wickedness, surely it will come to ruin. As sure as night follows day. In the same harsh tones of a parent warning a child not to run out into the street without looking. The parent is responsible for that warning every much as Ezekiel is responsible to speak truth to power.
What is also clear is the persistence, Holy Persistence, commanded by God. Ezekiel is to repeat and repeat the message no matter its reception. Whether the wicked repent and turn to God, that is on them. But Ezekiel is to be a faithful messenger no matter their decision. Wash, rinse, repeat. Wash, rinse, repeat. That’s Ezekiel’s appointed mission.
“So you, mortal, I have made a sentinel for the house of Israel; whenever you hear a word from my mouth, you shall give them warning from me. If I say to the wicked, ‘O wicked ones, you shall surely die,’ and you do not speak to warn the wicked to turn from their ways, the wicked shall die in their iniquity, but their blood I will require at your hand.”
Whether the wicked heed the warning or not, if Ezekiel lets the truth die in his throat before it is heard, Ezekiel will have failed God.
Holy Persistence is demanded of him. As it is of us all who would live in the Kin-dom of Torah Righteous and Gospel Goodness. Holy Persistence.
And down through the ages we have splendid, life-giving witnesses to that calling. Yes, the Quakers do come to mind.
Also do those who serve to bind up the wounded in combat. One such was Clara Barton, who served in the Union ranks as a nurse. Nurse and a most I came across this from the Library of America readings from the Civil War – a letter that Clara Barton had written of her experiences amidst that bloody carnage. Holy Persistence for sure.
In the volume, The Civil War: The Second Year Told by Those Who Lived It[1] there is a wonderful letter of Clara Barton to a friend, John Shaver. With the outbreak of hostilities, she left her job as a clerk in the Patent Office to begin nursing the wounded on the front lines. She became know as the “Angel of the Battlefield.” Her ministrations to the wounded were one of Holy Persistence.
In that letter of 1862, she writes (I have not changed any of the spelling or grammar in the original) of the evacuation of the wounded from the battlefield at Manassas. In it she describes the chaos and the inept attempts to get the injured onto trains for transport to safety:
“I can not tell you the scenes which awaited our eyes, –the wounded were constantly arriving—but no hospitals this time, only God’s great one under the blue canopy. The men were brot down from the field and laid on the ground [that] was ‘littered’ like ‘bedding’ for the horses, — they came till dark and then it was dark indeed…
“…the men lay so thick we could not take one step in the dark, by midnight there must have been three thousand helpless men lying on that hay.
“…My one stew pan which I remembered to take, and this made coffee for them, all night we made compresses and slings and bound up and wet wounds when we could get water, fed what we could, travelled miles in the dark over these poor helpless wretches, in terror lest some ones candle fell into the hay and consume them all, at length morning came, and we sent up the train with 1250, next 1000, next 1100, next 950, and so on. Still the ambulances came down, and cars went out and we worked on, took the meat from our own sandwiches & gave it to them and broke the bread into wine and water to feed the poor sinking wretches as they lay in the ambulances.
“On Monday the enemies Cavalry appeared in the wood opposite & a raid was hourly expected…On Monday PM all the wounded then were sent off, and the danger became so eminent that Mrs Fales begged to be excused from accompanying her, as the ambulances were up to the field for more, and I knew I should never leave a wounded man there if knew it, though I were taken prisoner 40 times.
“At 6 clock it commenced to thunder and lightning, and all at once the artillery began to play joined by the musketry about two miles distant, we sat down in our tent and waited to see them break in but Reno’s forces held them back. The old trusted 21st Mass. lay between us and the enemy and they couldn’t pass. God only knows who is lost…the next day all fell back…Poor Kearney, Stephens & Webster were brought in…and in the PM Kearney’s and Heintzleman’s divisions fell back through our camp on their way to Alexandria. We knew this was the last. We put the thousand wounded we had then into the train. I took one car load of them, Mrs M another. The men took to horse, we steam off, and two hours after there was no Fairfax Station (the aid station at that railway juncture, soon abandoned to onrushing Confederate forces), reached Alexandria at 10 oclock at night.
“Our forces are all back again in the old places around the city. McClellans army here again and he in command of it all…I have told you nothing of the old friends who met me among the wounded and dying on that bloody field. I have no heart to tell it to day but will some time.
Clara Barton, over those dreadful days, exhibited heroic Holy Persistence like few others. She and just a handful of other nurses to tend some 5,000 wounded. And would again and again for the duration of that war.
Later she would go on to found the Red Cross and bring many reforms to the medical treatment of the wounded and those beset by natural disasters. Often against the strident opposition of doctors who objected to a woman knowing anything about anything.
She and those who waged that bloody struggle were themselves that “terrible swift sword” bringing freedom to over half the population of our southern states. Freedom that has brought liberty and a future to half my present family. A most righteous cause.
Now we suffer not under a great wartime leader as Lincoln or Roosevelt, but under a petulant man-child who knows nothing of the havoc he reeks. Again, we find ourselves in an interminable, senseless war. The kind he promised to keep us out of.
Open the daily paper. Atrocity upon atrocity. In Iran a girl’s school is bombed with the result of hundreds of deaths, mostly young students and their teachers.
The other day it was a wedding at a private home.
That day began like any traditional wedding day. Woman had arrived early with their hands elaborately decorated with henna. Children played in the courtyard. A festive meal was cooking as enticing aromas wafted through the compound.
It ended when a bomb brought down the roof, turning the event into a jumble of sandals, dust-coated rubble and blood-soaked rugs.
Dozens of guests had already arrived. A woman who had come a day early for the henna party reports on a blog post, “Tonight was supposed to be a night of love and laughter…But the wedding turned into mourning, and a sweet night will forever be bitter.”[2]
Five wedding guests killed including a six-year-old boy, some 67 others wounded. Another American disaster in a war of choice by the most ignorant Commander in Chief that we have ever had. Not knowing in this tragic, misguided carnage he will have earned the bitter enmity of Iranians for generations to come. Not a clue.
A war without notice to Congress or any accounting to the American people. A war with no end in sight.
As the ballad of the 60s puts it, we citizens of this republic are called to “hammer out danger…hammer out warning.” Like the message to Ezekiel, if we lose this democracy, it’s on us. We will have only ourselves to blame. If I do not share the Word I have also received, it’s on me. I have no right to stand in this pulpit.
And the perpetrators of this autocracy will give no quarter. They will not quietly fold up their tents and vanish into the desert sands of the coming American desertscape brought on by global warming. Yeah, drill, baby, drill.
Fredrick Douglass cautioned us when dealing with such as this ilk:
“Power concedes nothing without a demand. It never did and it never will. Find out just what any people will quietly submit to and you have found out the exact measure of injustice and wrong which will be imposed upon them, and these will continue till they are resisted with either words or blows, or with both. The limits of tyrants are prescribed by the endurance of those whom they oppress.”[3]
And this wise counsel from one of our most intrepid legislators, Barbara Jordan:
“As a first step, we must restore our belief in ourselves…Let each person do his or her part. If one citizen is unwilling to participate, all of us are going to suffer. For the American idea, though it is shared by all of us, is realized in each one of us.”[4]
We wring our hands. We toss about restlessly at night. We tune out, drop out. Yes, I know how you feel as we witness the slow-motion train wreck of this republic. As we witness the destruction of cherished dreams of yore and dashed hopes for a livable tomorrow. I know. I feel it too.
But when I consider the sacrifices of those gone on before: Clara Barton, those hundreds of thousands of dead of the Grand Army of the Republic – their Holy Persistence. Their holy sacrifice. What right do I have to get depressed and throw up my hands in surrender to the deadly imbecility of this current administration? No, I will not go quietly into that dark night! Nor should you.
Consider the valiant struggles of Gloria Steinem whom we recently lost. Her Holy Persistence for the cause of her sisters of this nation. And that, even in the face of recent rollbacks of victories previously won — she never tired. Holy Persistence. She never tired nor will I. Nor should you.
If I do not honor in word and action the sacrifices, the toil of those gone on before, yes, and those who now assemble at the battlements of this present struggle to preserve the soul of this nation — what right to I have to stand at the Pledge of Allegiance to the Flag? It would only be an empty performative stunt. Signifying nothing.
Each is now summoned by a Divine Word of Warning, implanted in hearts and minds. Each summoned to action. We find ourselves, ordinary people now living in extraordinary times.
“We have to acknowledge that there is no cavalry coming to protect us. No knight in shining armor to save us from the situation we are in. It’s up to us. We are the people who decide what happens next. While daunting, it can also be empowering to know how essential we are in the fight for freedom and our democracy.”[5]
The Most Holy Spirit presently summons us, each and every one, to the greatness that God has created us to be. To Holy Persistence in the struggle before us. And our efforts, no matter how great or small, in and through the Grace of God, shall be sufficient. We can retire to bed after this November 3rd, knowing we have done our part for the future of this nation and our grandchildren to come. Amen.
[1] Stephen W. Sears, The Civil War, The Second Year Told by Those Who Lived it (New York: The Library of America, 2012), 413-415. Spelling and grammar are as in the original text.
[2] Christiaan Triebert, Malachy Browne, Farnaz Fassihi, Erika Solomon, “Bomb Turned Wedding in Iran into Tragedy: Evidence It was U.S., New York Times, September 4, 2026.
[3] Quoted from, Ordinary People, Extraordinary Times: A Guide for all of us, How to Reclaim Your Power, Fight for Freedom, Reimagine Democracy, Skye Perryman, Ten Speed Press, 2026. 7.
[4] Ibid.
[5] Op cit., 12.
September 6, 2026
Pentecost 15, Proper 18
“Holy Persistence”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Ezekiel 33:7-11; Psalm 119:33-40
Romans 13:8-14; Matthew 18:15-20
In the Arena
Many of our presidents have been bigger than life. I suppose that just putting oneself forth in such a contest requires a fairly strong ego. It requires the conviction that you can win and it requires the conviction that you can do the job, that you have something to offer. That you can meet the unknown challenges that will come during the four years of your presidency. A task not for the timid, the indecisive or the uninformed.
Though every now and then a ringer slips through the electoral system. Like now. I dare say that a bland personality like Calvin Cooledge or Warren G. Harding would never make it in this overheated media environment, in this era of blogs and internet barrage of conspiracy and lies. It is true that the Orange Voldemort at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. is certainly a puffed-up personality uniquely suited to this cutthroat reality show media age.
Looking back, one of the presidents that has always captured my interest is Theodore Roosevelt. No saint he. He was an imperialist from the word go. Sorely misguided in his expansionist vision for America. Yet he brought a moral sense of duty and fairness to his life in the political arena. A sense sorely lacking today.
Here is that famous quote that has inspired resiliency and perseverance from his speech, “Citizenship in a Republic”, delivered at the Sorbonne, in Paris, France on 23 April, 1910. Often referred to “Man in the Arena.” [1]
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
Roosevelt, for his many shortcomings on the international stage, was an intrepid leader of the Progressive movement. He was notorious for his late-night prowling through the streets of the City of New York when he was police commissioner. Often, late at night, a sleeping officer would be rudely awakened to find Commissioner Roosevelt in his face.
At the time Roosevelt cleaned up the force, which had been no better than a shake-down operation. When he went after those taking kickbacks from the brothel operators and their patrons, he got a huge amount of blowback. Yet he persisted. He joyfully took his place in the arena of duty and action.
TR was raised in a Presbyterian/Reformed faith. As a young man he taught Sunday school. This faith tradition inculcated in him the sense of purpose and duty. His was an active faith that joyfully engaged the world. He relished his role in whatever political office he held. He genially was “Deeeelighted!” This exclamation was no mere affectation. In his role as public servant, he was genuinely “Deeeelighted!” Whomever he met, he was “Deeelighted!”
Jesus instructs his followers in a similar path of discipleship. They are not to have warm, cozy spiritual feelings. Not to sing kumbaya praise songs. They are not to be an exclusive club. No, their path is into Jerusalem. In the arena. To bear one’s cross, where need meets one’s calling.
“Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed…And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, ‘God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.’ But he turned and said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ You are a stumbling block to me…’” This is definitely a faith lived in the arena. Jesus’ entire ministry was in the arena.
If you wear a shiny cross around your neck or on your lapel, it had better stand for something – an active, sacramental faith grounded in today’s figurative Jerusalem. We should find you in the arena.
Martin Luther, the 16th century church reformer, instructed his followers on the duty of the laity of the church. Their duty was twofold: to their families and to their vocation. Today, I would add, also to the political life of their nation. In a republic, we are entrusted with its care that it provides for all its citizens. We have the stewardship responsibility to correct and reform it when it neglects the will and needs of its citizens. Especially when it gets wrapped up in its own self-aggrandizement.
Having subbed in some special ed classes, I understand the full commitment of those teachers who have chosen that specialty. They are totally in the arena.
This past week my son Christopher has been subbing in a special ed class. He tells this story of one of his first days on the job. Definitely in the arena of our contemporary Jerusalem. He shared this story.[2]
“It was my second day on the job, subbing for a Special Ed aide role. I
had my schedule printed out for the day, and the first class went by
without incident. That was the last normal thing that happened.
I walked into my second class to help a sweet third grader named Theo, but the moment I stepped into the room, the school psychologist, Ms. E, let out a sigh of relief and pulled me into a different problem: Brayden, a big kid, easily six inches and several dozen pounds bigger than his classmates, was refusing every instruction and rampaging around the room, kicking over chairs and flipping tables. Ms. E tried to physically restrain him, and he lost it completely, charging for the door, nearly bowling over several other kids on his way out. For his safety and theirs, we had to stop him. I dropped low into a power position (which I’d last used in high-school football and wrestling) braced for the impact, and wrapped Brayden up. That’s when he started bawling. Once he’d calmed down enough, Ms. E and a second teacher walked him out, one arm each, toward the office.
“I’d barely caught my breath when Roger, a first grader with a
full-time 1-to-1 aide, burst into the room mid-meltdown. His aide, Ms. B, quickly put him in a full-body hold and needed help. I grabbed his top half, she had his legs, and we carried him back to his classroom
together. Once there, the two of us tried to talk him down, and got
middle fingers and “F you” for our trouble, along with a smack across
the face that sent my glasses flying across the room.
“Before I could even find my glasses, the door flew open again. One of the office staff said they needed me back in the main office
immediately. Brayden was there, alternately crying, screaming, and
kicking Ms. E. Another male teacher and I held him while she worked to calm him down. Somewhere in the middle of trying to settle in for what I figured would be a long wait; Roger was brought into the same office, sobbing, and begging not to be sent home. He’d kicked his aide, Ms. B, in the throat hard enough to knock her off a climbing structure and send her to the hospital. Before too long, the police showed up to have a talk with him.
“So, there I was, in the middle of that — Roger facing a police visit
crying in one corner, Brayden still simmering in another — and I just
sat with Brayden and talked. WWE (that’s World Wrestling Entertainment for those not into such pugilistic delights). Knott’s Berry Farm. Michael Jackson.
“Whatever he wanted to talk about, for about forty minutes, until his
grandmother arrived. By the time she picked him up, we’d established a little bit of a rapport.
“And this was all before lunch.”
Definitely in the arena.
Down into Jerusalem with all its attendant problems and suffering we followers in the Jesus Movement are called to go. In that arena of strife and chaos we will discover who Jesus is for us today. Same with our political responsibilities. Today just voting is not enough. As our nation’s founders, Madison and Jefferson insisted, a democracy depends on an educated citizenry. And in the struggle and the exhausting effort, we will discover the blessing of a peace that passes all our poor understanding. A taste of eternity.
Those in the St. Francis Garden of Hope and serving at St. John’s food bank are definitely in the arena. Especially given these scorching summer days of weeks past.
I close with the wise spiritual counsel of Mother Teresa, a woman definitely in the arena. She writes on our call as Jesus followers when the arena is difficult and painful. When we are assaulted by nagging self-doubts:
Mother Teresa’s Anyway Poem
People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered;
Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies;
Succeed anyway.
If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you;
Be honest and frank anyway.
What you spend years building; someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.
The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough;
Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.
You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God;
It was never between you and them anyway.
Mother Teresa gets the “Last Word.” She was most definitely in the arena.
Amen.
[1] Often better known as the “Man in the Arena” speech from the line, “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena.”
[2] Names of students changed to protect privacy.
August 30, 2026
Pentecost 14, Proper 17
“In the Arena”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Jeremiah 15:15-21; Psalm 26:1-8
Romans 12:9-21; Matthew 16:21-28
What Say You?
I have returned from three marvelous adventures: San Francisco where Jai and I celebrated our 60th wedding anniversary; West Virginia where we held our 9th annual Wounded Warrior event; and the City of New York where Alexis’s aunt Charlene was married. With a great family BBQ, the day afterwards hosted by her Aunt Sojo.
In New York, I also had given myself a number of days to take in the delights of that city. The wedding was a grand family gathering. I was joined by Christopher, Alexis and her mother Denise. Oh yeah, and Luther who’s now walking. Soon after the ceremony folks were on the dance floor. If I had tried to bust a move like some of those young people, call 911. And I would have been in traction for a number of weeks.
I was most impressed with how enterprising New Yorkers are. On the sidewalk, move right along or you’ll end up causing a lot of consternation among the pedestrians. Maybe not so much if you’re an old guy with a walker.
It is a most industrious city. There were hardly any vacant storefronts. Often there were 3 to 4 restaurants or quick food joints. All small businesses – many opened by immigrants bringing their own unique cuisines. A lot of hustle for sure.
The traffic is no less rushed. It would seem that lane markings are only considered suggestions. The traffic weaved in and out like spaghetti. A couple of cab rides would have been rated an “E-coupon ride” in the old days at Disneyland.
And then that poignant reminder of 9/11. I went to the museum which told a most moving story of that day. An ordinary day with a cloudless cobalt blue sky. Folks just arriving at work at what looked to be a most ordinary of days.
Like virtually everyone reading this or hearing it delivered, if we are old enough we remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when we first heard the news.
At the time I was running my family’s construction company. I was just about to head to the office next to the house when I got a call from my oldest son. Jonathan’s urgent voice told me something was wrong. “Dad, do you have the TV on?” “Why, what’s happening?” “Go, turn it on. Someone’s bombed the World Trade Tower in New York.”
He closed with the warning, “Dad, I don’t think we can let this slide.”
My fear was later somewhat different. Yes, we would respond. And probably do something very stupid. Which is what we soon did, the result being two endless wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. And we still had not captured the mastermind, Osama Bin Laden.
What wisdom does scripture offer in these chaotic moments? What are the choices?
As Jesus and his disciples were walking through the district of Caesarea called Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is? They replied, “Some say John the Baptist, but other Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” But who do you say that I am?” Many engage in idle speculation, but when it comes down to the wire, this Gospel inheritance, What’s it to You?
In the midst of the New York City hustle and bustle, I suspect Jesus’ question to Peter was furthest from folk’s minds. For those of us watching that unfolding disaster on 9/11, it was probably not on our minds. And for those trying to escape those burning towers, probably not on their minds.
Yet, in the midst of the carnage and flames, many heroes responded with an unspoken answer. They answered with their aid. These were the people rushing into those blazing infernos to aid their fellow human beings. The Christ in them propelled them forward through the choking dust. Responding to the distressed Christ in neighbors they never knew. The Living Christ was in full display in the midst of a living hell.
One of the books I purchased at the museum store was Ordinary Heroes: A Memoir of 9/11 by Joseph Pfeifer, the first FDNY chief to arrive on the scene at the World Trade Tower.[1]
Most of those firefighters Chief Pfeifer led had been deeply rooted in their Irish Catholic faith. The Christ inculcated in them as none questioned the duty to run towards that inferno as others fled. As the first commander on the scene, overall responsibility became Pfeifer’s.
After the second plane hit the South Tower, the fire department had the biggest catastrophe in New York history on their hands. More and more units arrived on the scene, including one led by Chief Pfeifer’s younger brother, Kevin. Kevin’s assignment was to take those under his command into the South Tower. The last Joseph would ever see of his brother was as he turned and led a force up the steps of that building as more and more workers were fleeing down the steps from the flames and smoke.
Later, as both buildings collapsed, Joseph found himself sitting on a bench covered with dust, barely able to breathe. He fervently hoped that somehow Kevin had made it out after Joseph had been the command for all fire personnel to leave the buildings.
Then he began to second guess his decision to send his brother up those stairs (of which there is a portion on display at the museum).
Meanwhile, his wife Ginny, a nurse, had planned to take the children to a park with a friend on her day off. As soon as she heard the news she turned on the TV.
Joseph, continues his story:[2]
“She knew I was assigned to Battalion 1 in lower Manhattan and would be the first fire chief to arrive at the WTC, since I was on duty. Ginny was not too concerned since I had twenty years of experience fighting big fires and I had taught about high-rise fires to new chiefs at the academy.
“But when the South Tower collapsed, she went numb.
“’This can’t be happening,’ she told herself. The nightmare Ginny never allowed into her thoughts erupted into anxiety. By the time the North Tower collapsed, she was in full-fledged panic. What if her husband of seventeen years didn’t come home?
“Was she a widow?
Were her children safe? She couldn’t get through to their school. Cell towers were overloaded by desperate callers. She finally got through to her brother, Frankie, a priest. She told him that she thought her husband was dead. She was at her wits end. Consoled in prayer by the same Christ, they devised a plan.
She was soon reunited with her children as they hugged one another through sobs and tears in the entryway.
Throughout that day and in the days to follow, in acts of selfless courage, in moments of consolation many, many that day answered Jesus’ question. “You are the Christ.” And in their actions, heroic and ordinary, was the living sacramental answer. “You are the Christ.” The Christ in me and the Christ in you, the Christ in stranger and coworker and family alike.
When Kevin’s death became apparent, the most difficult task before Chief Pfeifer was to later inform Kevin’s family that he would not be coming home. Christ crucified on the twisted steel beams of those towers.
Later, as firefighters returned to their firehouses and shared stories of what they had experienced that day and the next several days, Chief Joseph learned that Kevin had remained behind, trying to get as many as possible down that staircase. He had literally given his life for people he would never know. And how many are still alive due to his efforts, no one will know. Joseph found much comfort in hearing of Kevin’s selfless actions that dread morning. A Christ for others.
And in the midst of our daily busyness, maybe not as frantic as on the daily streets of New York, What Say You? What is this story of Jesus to you in the rush of your daily priorities? What is the visible witness of your confession of faith?
At that hallowed memorial and the 9/11 Museum, I encountered the living Christ in the sacrifices that so many made that morning when the sun refused to shine through the choking clouds of smoke and dust of that living hell.
May we in times of danger and distress, in moments of perplexity and periods of calm discover and rediscover the living Christ that moves in and through our being. Our life, our courage, our hope. Amen.
[1] Joseph Pfeifer, Ordinary Heroes: A Memoir of 9/11 (New York: Portfolio/Penguin, 2021).
[2] Op cit., 82.
August 23, 2026
Pentecost 13, Proper 16
“What Say You?”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Isaiah 51:1-6; Psalm 138
Romans 12:1-8; Gospel: Matthew 16:13-20
A Glory that Transfigures You and Me
Transfiguration Sunday, in the eyes of many, is a one-off miracle testifying as to just how great Jesus was. That understanding sells Transfiguration Sunday short. Far, far short. Christ bathed in the radiance of the Torah tradition of Love of God and of neighbor. Allowing this Christ to transform us is a life-time adventure. With a bit of rain amidst the sunshine.
Luminosity is in what happens afterward. Same as in the transfiguration of Moses as he bears the radiance of his encounter with God on Mount Sinai. What does he find upon returning? Apostasy and idolatry. Yet his leadership shines forth for the tribes of Israel.
From our ancestor on my mother’s side of the family, Julia Ward Howe, we get the significance of this transfiguration. “…with a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me.”
Transfiguration in Christ is an ongoing event. Echoing down through the halls of human history, working itself out generation after generation. Down to you and me; and all others who claim the sweet embrace of Our Lord.
It works itself out in the lives expended for others, those who engaged in bitter strife that half my family might be free.
As St. Irenaeus proclaimed, “The Glory of God is a man, a woman fully alive. “As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free.” That was the price exacted to free one half of those living in abject misery in the South.
One who has never been in combat can grasp the enormity and tragedy of that struggle through Shelby Foote’s novelistic presentation of what was maybe the determining battle of our Civil War, Shiloh.[1] It presents the fruits of historical scholarship and the narrative pace of lively writing.
To those escaping to join the ranks of the approaching Union armies, it was a taste of being fully alive like none other. In appreciation, former enslaved persons would regularly gather in cemeteries where Union soldiers were buried to lay flowers – a simple but moving show of gratitude for freedom won. Transfiguration changing an entire society.
Transfiguration brilliance outshining Jim Crow, outshining this racist and bigoted administration. That same Transfiguration strengthening the souls of today’s Holy Resistance.
If you prefer a more irenic interpretation to the phrase, “…let us die to make men free,” one might understand it as an admonition to fully expend your life as a transfigured person up to the day of death, however that comes. As Oscar Wilde remarked, so I also strive, “When I die, I want to be all used up.” Leaving nothing on life’s field.
As one reflecting the insecurities of having grown up in a rather dysfunctional family, I’ve also experienced the same Transfiguration. Through the course of years and under the influence of the living Christ in my life as presented by the Church, pastors, and just ordinary folks of the Jesus Movement, I, too, have been changed. Certainly more fully alive.
Part of that change was evident on our recent trip to San Francisco to celebrate our 60th wedding anniversary with a good part of my family.
First, I’ve become much more appreciative of those people on this trip who went out of their way to show a little kindness. It was a number of Uber drivers who took care to handle my walker and dialysis bag on those trips at 5:00 in the morning.
It was the kind woman at the United check-in counter at the San Franscisco Airport who saw that Jai and I needed assistance with all our luggage and figuring out the computerized check-in procedure. She arranged extra help with our luggage and ticketing. She was a delight as was her supervisor who assisted Jai with 6 pieces of luggage. (Yes, we don’t travel light with all I need for dialysis and sleep apnea.)
What should have been airport hell was transfigured into a very human and rewarding experience. A little bit of sunshine on a rather daunting ordeal. A Transfiguration of my attitude.
Having Alexis, Christopher, Luther and Denise with us made the trip a delight. Part of my little smidgen of Transfiguration is the increasing value I put on family. This group certainly made this return after 60 years a fantastic San Francisco experience.
Watching little Luther marvel at the delights of Muir Woods, his infectious smile, playing la-la-la-la-la with him at the snack shop. Seeing him with his parents and their loving care and encouragement of his entire being. All a delight – the Glory of God manifest in this natural spender of delight. My heart softened and a bit more aware to the joys of life over the years, under a Divine Guiding Hand. Transfiguration of you, me and the entirety of creation, ever renewing.
Transfiguration through a growing sensitivity to the misery and deprivation witness. No longer wrapped up in my own woes and insecurities but alive to the need around me. And being able to realize my part in it all.
When I see the destruction of Gaza and Lebanon in the daily paper, I now know my culpability. The horrid temperatures in France and Spain and here in America. All part of our climate denialism. Thank God, I notice.
Transfiguration of my self-absorption. Transfiguration through working to be the change I can be. And courage to change the things I can.
Knowing that through my actions I can set a good example for others to follow. Knowing the delight in my soul in being a part of the solution with others. Even if it’s a ten spot and a little conversation with that shopping- cart lady on the corner; or writing a sermon that encourages and gives hope; or in composing a letter to the editor encouraging us all to get out and vote for change. And be the change.
Finally, allow a little humor. While at the checkout counter of one bookstore I spied a little tease, Lessons from Cats for Surviving Fascism.[2] Fascists hate unpredictability, cats are never predictable.
“Cats never let anyone know where they’ll be next, and neither should you. Cats are masters of unpredictability.
“Fascism thrives on predictability; confuse it by unexpectedly launching on to the back side of a chair, then rappelling down the curtains.
“One minute they’re curled up on the couch, radiating serenity, and the next they’ve perched on top of your fridge, judging you for your life choices. You’ve made terrible choices and cats know it.”[3]
Transfiguration delights in the unexpected as well as in duty. So, go ahead and start a ukulele jam session at three o’clock in the morning. And tell me what cat isn’t fully alive. Humor opens the door.
If you are a part of the Jesus Movement, or even have a tangential relationship to it, you’ve experienced a taste of Christ’s Transfiguration. And in the process become just a little bit more alive.
For those of us Followers of the Way, now and then we know we’ve been touched by the same light, a smidgen of brilliance of that original Transfiguration. And that shall suffice. Transfiguration one day at a time. Transfiguration together. Amen.
[1] Shelby Foote, Shiloh (New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 1992).
[2] Stewart “Brittlestar” Reynolds, Lessons from Cats for Surviving Fascism (New York: Grand Central Publishing, 2024).
[3] Op. cit., 3.
August 2, 2026 – Transfiguration Sunday
“A Glory that Transfigures You and Me”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99;
2 Peter 1:13-21; Gospel: Luke 9:28-36
