The Sacramental Dinner Bell
Food is basic – necessary for survival. Call me whatever you want but don’t call me late for dinner.
It is unconscionable that the civilized world stands by as famine stalks Gaza and Sudan – where just in Sudan three fourths of a million are on the verge of starvation. And the world sits idly by. Especially, when virtually all food shortage is the result of wars, mismanagement and government indifference.
Food is one of those areas in life where we can be most critical. At Pilgrim Place, our retirement community, if the string beans are undercooked there will be a flood of comments from the residents – at least one from me!
Some foods do not please and there’s no getting around it. My brother Tom could not abide Brussels sprouts. With me it was liver and onions. If I was quiet, when my parents’ attention was directed elsewhere, I could slip most of that in small pieces to our dog Skippy who waited expectantly at my seat.
One night as dinner was concluded, Tom still had five or six Brussels sprouts on his plate. He placed a napkin over them and proceeded to take his plate off the table, something he never did. As Dad looked up from the evening paper, he reached over a hand and whisked that napkin off Tom’s plate.
“Sit down,” he commanded. “You’re going to finish those.”
As Dad went back to his paper Tom mulled his options. Then a flash of inspiration. Maybe these horrible things might taste better if he put them in his glass of lemonade. Nah, that didn’t improve them. Well, what about some ketchup. That always made food taste better. By this time, Dad had lost his patience. “Tom, you’re going to eat those…NOW!”
Tom tried to choak one down, gagging and sputtering lemonade all over. He was soon in tears when Mom, the peacemaker, came over. She got Dad to agree to let him dump the concoction if he would eat just one. And promise to never do that again. I was sure glad that I didn’t mind eating my Brussels sprouts.
In scripture, food is symbolic of the goodness that God intends for all. It is what the end-time feast is all about, a metaphor for God’s bounty that all are invited to share in on the Last Day. “On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.”[1] All the stuff I now can’t eat due to my renal diet I’ll be able to indulge in. And…I’ve already notified St. Peter that if there’s no beer, I’m not going.
Again, this week’s passage from John’s gospel brings to mind the Eucharistic feast. I consider this sacrament as Christ’s invitation to all the sit at the Table of God’s Free Bounty when the dinner bell is rung. That wafer is the sacramental token of God’s desire that all are welcome to partake in the riches of creation. “Taste and see that the Lord is good.”
Food is a metaphor of God’s graciousness, the whole shebang – God’s will that all are satiated with the entire goodness of creation. As we, the Church, — Christ’s Body — cooperate with the Spirit to bring this vision to reality, we are Christ present to our neighbors. It might not be much – a few tomatoes, some peaches and apricots – but it shall suffice when offered up with all the other food that’s donated and distributed every Wednesday at St. John’s.
Unfortunately, this is not how the real world works within our economic system. If one examines that word, “economy,” it comes from two Greek words – “oikos,” meaning house and “nemean,” meaning to manage.
In the teachings of Jesus, there is about those left to manage affairs for an owner who is away — just as we are given responsibility to manage our affairs in the physical absence of the Lord. And how are such managers to be judged? – not on the Last Day but now, in the daily grind of our economic system? I like to think the standard to which they are held is how the wealth of the household is distributed equitably to all. Especially the “least of these.”
Now, if we had a manager who was responsible for say, one hundred souls, and say only two of them ended up with 90 percent of all the goodies. And forty of them had virtually nothing, or near nothing — how would we rate that manager? If half of them had untended illnesses and never saw a doctor or health care professional, how long should that manager remain in charge? If sixty percent went to underfunded schools or mostly missed classes, would you keep paying that manager? If ten members of that household actually had to live on the streets, or were sold into servitude because the manager refused to provide for their essential care, would you keep that manager? Does this regime the look like the Beloved Community of the Jesus Movement?
“You’re FIRED!!!” would the end of that operation.
Indeed, you would say that manager ought to be relieved of his or her position and, if not cast into the outer darkness with the mournful whaling and the gnashing of teeth — he or she at least ought to be compelled to live in a tent city on Wilshire Blvd. or some Skid Row among those suffering is the result of the neglect this manager has wrought. And maybe after a bit of eternity, we might hope that this derelict manager would have developed a little compassion for the cast aside.
Is it any wonder that a good number of the younger generation have given up on the capitalist system? Their beef? All it’s done is saddled them with massive amounts of student debt, mainly because the uber rich have refused to support public colleges the way they were previously compelled to under a tax code when they paid their fair share.
When I went to a community college, I think my tuition didn’t amount to much more than $25 a unit – no longer the case. Even at public colleges, our students end up graduating with $30,000 to $40,000 in student loan debt. Hundreds of thousands if they go on to graduate school.
Jorge Reiger, in his book, Christ and Empire,[2] takes the analysis of the disparity further than H. Richard Niebuhr’s Christ and Culture by noting that most theology is done in the context of a comfortable middle-class culture. If we are going to look at the context from a comfortable, highly educated standpoint, that’s not the group Jesus was interested in. The “Least of These” was his focus. We must ask, what does it mean to do theology from the bottom? Yes, Jesus was interested in the well to do, but only in that they might develop a heart for those at the bottom, the dregs of the empire’s economic and political system. How often are we are that rich, young man, woman, sent empty away?
The emphasis on the importance of food enough to satisfy all is a stand-in for God’s will that all have enough of life’s goodies to flourish. Not only are we talking about freedom from hunger, but the freedom for each woman and man to be fully alive, to reach their full potential. It’s about being fed with the freedom to have decent work at a living wage. The freedom to have political agency. The freedom to love whom you love. It’s about the freedom to have decent housing in a safe community. The freedom to learn and go as far as your talent and effort will take you. In short, to thrive. St. Ignatius proclaimed, “The Glory of God is a man [a woman] fully alive.” That means, not only us middle class folks but especially those at the bottom the heap. The heavenly dinner bell is rung for those who hunger, not for the well satiated.
At my favorite bookstore in Charleston, West Virginia, this past week, I came across a new biography of Harriet Tubman by Tiya Miles. In her new work, Night Flyer, Dr. Miles centers her story in the context of Harriet’s spirituality and African traditions. Harriet Tubman rang that heavenly dinner bell loud and clear for those would escape the brutality of their enslavement. Her’s is a theology from the bottom. Freedom was the nourishment she served up.
Though Harriet never learned to read, she was deeply immersed in the fabric of the Christian story. In her work, God was a reality providing comfort, assurance and guidance. Immersed in a patriarchal society wed to the institution of slavery and domination, she developed a countercultural belief centered on freedom and liberation.
“God set the North Star in the heavens; He gave me the strength to my limbs; He meant that I should be free.”[3] She followed that North Star, the apogee of the Drinking Gourd,[4] to lead her to her own freedom, and would by it, lead hundreds of others out of the yoke of bondage to their own freedom. This notion of freedom “stemmed from her lived experience, moral intuition, critical inquiry, cultural learning, religious feeling and environmental surroundings.”[5] That call to liberation was Harriet’s dinner bell ringing.
Would that the Church learn from Harriet Tubman and realize that if we are to be faithful to the vision of the Jesus Movement, we too must stand against the norms of a society that leaves far too many in the dust. Ours must be a countercultural stance. As Christ’s option is for the poor, so must ours be as well. As managers in the Jesus Movement our task is clear. The poet spells it out: “We are simply asked to make gentle this bruised world. To be compassionate of all, including one’s self. Then in the time left over to repeat the ancient tale and go the way of God’s foolish ones.”[6] May it be so. Amen.
[1] Isaiah 25: 6, NRSV.
[2] Joerg Rieger, Christ & Empire: From Paul to Postcolonial Times (Minneapolis, MN, Fortress Press, 2007). H. Richard Niebuhr, Christ and Culture (New York: Harper & Row, 1975).
[3] Tiya Miles, Night Flyer: Harriet Tubman and the Faith Dreams of a Free People (New York: Penguin Press, 2024), xviii.
[4] the constellation we now call the Big Dipper.
[5] Ibid.
[6] Peter Byrne, “We are Simply Asked” as set to music by Jim Strathdee, “Light of the World,” Caliche Records, Ridgecrest, CA, 1982. Words copyright 1976 by Peter Byrne, S.J. Music by Jim Strathdee, copyright 1981.
August 18, 2024
13 Pentecost, Proper 15
Proverbs 9:1-6; Psalm 34: 9-14
Ephesians 5:15-20; John 6:51-58
What’s This Stuff?
When I was in the Army, our cook was often a favorite target for scorn and derision – and bad jokes. We knew they believed in hiring the handicapped because we joked that Cookie must have had his taste buds shot off in the Korean War.
But mess hall food was far superior to C-rations. Various items in tin cans we called “mystery food.” I still remember the end of a long day out on bivouac after having marched for miles when we finally sat down to dinner with our various cans of C-rations. I searched through the pile of them and was overjoyed to find a can marked “lima beans and ham.”
We had these small devices to open the cans we carried around in our pockets. I got mine out and could soon smell the odors of my anticipated meal wafting out into the still, late afternoon air. When I finally got the can opened, it was a major disappointment. What’s this stuff? There, I beheld one lima bean floating in a sea of grease. Having nothing else, I managed to choke it down. Enjoy. “Bread of angels…food enough,” our Psalm asserts.
There’s a Passover song that’s traditionally sung, “Dayenu.” It translates as “it would have been enough.” If God had only brought us out of Egypt, and left us at the Red Sea, “It would have been enough.” If God had led Moses’ band to the Red Sea and left them there, “It would have been enough.”
If God had split the sea for us, and had not taken us through it on dry land, it would have been enough. Dayenu.
If God had led them through the desert wilderness and had not given them the Torah, “It would have been enough.” Dayenu.
If God had only provided manna and nothing else, “It would have been enough.” Dayenu.
It’s an exclamation of gratitude for that which is actually provided. Dayenu!
If God had only provided one lima bean floating in a sea of grease that evening, “Dayenu.”
When confronted with this white stuff that arrived in the morning – supposedly food – that’s what the children Moses had asked for – What’s this? Which is the literal translation of manna – “What’s this stuff?” – a variation on the question we soldiers asked of Cookie’s offerings.
It’s the answer to Moses’ band’s complaint about the food.
“In the morning there was a layer of dew around the camp. When the layer of dew lifted, there on the surface of the wilderness was a fine flaky substance, as fine as the frost on the ground. When the Israelites saw it, they said to one another, ‘What is it?’…Moses said to them, “it is the bread that the Lord has given you to eat.” Dayenu!
What’s this stuff? Sometimes you don’t want to know.
When we had our diocesan convention in the interior of Alaska, an area mostly populated by the original inhabitants, Athabascan peoples, we would have delicacies of the cooking of that region. Minto was spectacular in their hosting of us all from around the state for an entire week.
Among the offerings were fish head soup and moose head soup. Don’t ask what’s in those dishes. Just enjoy and be a polite guest. In the face of such gracious hospitality, no one dared ask, “What’s this stuff?” It was all the largess of God’s free bounty. Enjoy. “Bread of angels…food enough.” Dayenu!
If all we can provide from St. Francis Garden this year is a few tomatoes and some fresh fruit – Dayenu.
As we wander through a wilderness, much of it our own making, we often feel helpless and depressed at the choices. In the darkness of the journey, we are so polarized that many have dropped out, given up hope.
That’s the burden of a democracy where we all have a voice. Sometimes those voices are shrill and racist. They speak revenge and retribution. And do so with millions of dollars.
So, I would say, if only we had two, out-of-touch guys competing for our votes for president, Dayenu.
If we now have a completely different race with a clear choice, and folks still stay home. Dayenu.
If we are still at gridlock but at least can’t pass any harmful legislation, Dayenu.
If Simone Biles had only won the silver and not the gold. Dayenu.
If she had won the gold but not been given a shout-out on the Wheaties cereal box, Dayenu.
This summer fire season started earlier than ever. By July just one fire, the Park Fire, had burned an area comparable to the size of Rhode Island. If we just can’t summon the political will to address global warming, but more folks are engaged in the conversation, Dayenu.
But, every now and then, the odds do break in favor of those who are oppressed, those unjustly imprisoned.
Like, many who witnessed the release of captives unjustly held by Putin in Russia, I was overjoyed to see their arrival back In the good old US of A – and even though we didn’t get them all out, Dayenu.
For the families of those journalists and activists held in Putin’s autocratic regime, we got quite a few released. It was through months and, sometimes years of hard work we freed the ones we got. Dayenu.
In the wilderness of our longing there are no secret cures, no magic, but we have by God’s grace the manna of hope and perseverance. Dayenu.
If sickness assaults us, and there seems no cure, we have the power yet of accompaniment with those who travel that wilderness. Dayenu.
Steady acts of faithfulness, often don’t seem like much but they are enough. Dayenu. An “attitude of gratitude” shall be sufficient by the Grace of God to not only find a path forward and survive, but maybe, just maybe, to thrive.
And yes, we grumbled about mess hall food but Cookie did the best he could, which on occasion was stellar. And if nothing else, quantity made up for quality after a long day’s marching. Dayenu.
On this Sunday, my eighty-second birthday: for what has been, my teachers and family who have brought me thus far; for what is today, friends and family, my business associates and partners who support me now in the opportunities and challenges that lie ahead; and for what the future holds – it’s been one heck of a ride, and I say, DAYENU! Amen.
August 4, 2024
Pentecost 11, Proper 13
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Exodus 16:2-4, 9-15; Psalm 78:23-29;
Ephesians 4:1-16; John 6:24-35 “What’s This Stuff?”
A Generous Extravagance
Nothing signifies abundance like a church potluck. In the downtown United Methodist Congregation I served as a young deacon, we had a wonderfully diverse congregation: black, white, Salvadoran, Asian, Mexican – all of which enriched our culinary experience at our potlucks.
It was Sr. Aguilar who taught me to make authentic Mexican rice. We would have everything from Southern fried chicken, tamales and spring rolls to refritos and Mexican stew. And there was so much, there were always lots of leftovers.
Just as in the story from 2nd Kings we read today – an extravagance of God’s unbounded generosity – as found in this morning’s psalm.
“The eyes of all wait upon you, O Lord, and you give them their food in due season. You open wide your hand and satisfy the needs of every living thing.”[1]
In our gospel reading from the book of John we have a retelling of the miracle of the feeding of the multitudes found in the three synoptic gospels which preceded John’s gospel by well over thirty to forty years (Matthew, Mark, Luke).[2]
John even mentions a seemingly small detail of abundance, “Now there was a great deal of grass in the place…” – another sign of the lushness of God and what was to transpire.
The point here is that God’s abundance was so great, even when beginning with not much of anything – five barley loaves and two fish – like our church potlucks, there was enough from the banquet Jesus served up that the leftovers from the fish and bread were enough to fill twelve baskets!
When I was a little boy, I remember asking Grandma why aren’t there miracles anymore. One commentator’s answer: to see a miracle, just look at what you now have, little or much – that right there is enough to make a miracle.
The gift of creation is the everlasting Kingdom of God. And its abundance is meant for all. Its beauty is all about, even in the tiniest of creatures.
After our Friday gathering, “Suds on the Deck,” at our house, I caught out of my peripheral vision some small movement. There on my pant leg was a small jumping spider. Now, you may not know that jumping spiders are among the most intelligent of the arachnid family, with very good eyesight. I carefully brushed it off and returned it to the deck.
I was enthralled to watch her tentatively explore her new surroundings. I say “her” because by this time of year most males would have fulfilled their biological purpose and would have passed on. She, then jumped well over twenty times her quarter of an inch length to the leg of one of the chairs. I must have sat there some twenty minutes mesmerized by this wondrous creature – more evidence of the expansiveness of the unmerited gift of creation. God’s bounty is all about.
When two lovers are drawn together, by chance or fate, the miracle is that they find a way to love each other in this often-tragic world. Christopher and Alexis met on line. Of all the possibilities, one combination in millions, maybe billions. And they are so suited for each other! We absolutely delight in seeing then together. Jai and I met on a bus heading to Lincoln, Nebraska. She was sitting on the seat behind me. What are the odds? The love and long-distance phone calls, letters and all – signs of God’s gracious bounty.
Wonder at it all is certainly in order. So is gratitude and our loving response. We are called to have a theology of abundance, not scarcity.
As we head into November’s election, the American people are presented with two stark visions: one of the expansiveness of the Founder’s vision and one of retribution, vengeance and scarcity. Will we live into the vision of a republic of equality and opportunity, or will we reserve all the goodies for only the “right” people, the “deserving” people. Does America mean “all,” or just some?
To those who have trouble with DEI – diversity, equity and inclusion — you’re cutting out a huge swath of the voting public. You’re cutting out my daughter-in-law and all other women of color. To demean our vice president as simply a DEI hire is beyond the pale. Such racist misogyny is not the “politics of addition” that my favorite commentator Mark Shields always talked about. Not the theology of abundance.
I trust that those who are so cavalierly dismissed will return the favor in November.
Will we cherish the created order and address global warming? Or how hot has it got to get before we wake from our slumber, from our ignorance? Of course, we could call it something else. The wit Andy Borowitz suggested an alternative, “The world’s going to burn to a crisp and then we’re all gonna die.”
God’s faithfulness is seen in the majestic wingspan of a golden eagle. Still fresh in my memory is a float trip I took with friends through the interior of Alaska. To be out there in that wilderness is totally renewing. The bounty is beyond our imagining. One day, as we drifted around a bend in the river, we startled a golden eagle at its lunch. It launched from a branch overhanging the river then silently soared just feet over our heads. I think we let out a collective gasp in amazement at the beauty of it’s majestic eight-foot wing span. Such is the “glory” of God’s wonders – beauty that is fitting praise to the Lord.
On that trip, of course we had packed adequate food, but most of those freeze-dried packages went unopened. We caught so many Dolly Varden, an ocean-going trout, that for every meal we had fresh fish. These were so large, I had to cut them in half to get them to fit in my ten-inch frying pan. They can be huge, with some getting up to twenty-seven pounds. God’s free bounty, indeed!
At night the northern lights would dance over our heads, filling the sky with a splendor beyond belief. Yes, “All your works praise you, O Lord,” and we your servants are transfixed in wide-eyed and open-mouthed amazement.
Certainly, gratitude and respect are in order – as well as care.
Some biblical scholars explain the feeding of the five thousand as a miracle of sharing. Once the loaves and fishes were divided up and passed around, others opened their hearts and shared what they had brought, resulting in enough to go all around with sumptuous leftovers. In our greedy, materialistic, self-centered culture, such sharing alone would be considered a miracle. However it happened, the Gospel of John refers to it as a sign of God’s gracious extravagance. This is how God rolls — enough for all. Sharing can be our only response.
All this is God’s gracious gift of something out of nothing – creation ex nihilo. We didn’t make it. Any heart pumping warm blood can only respond in gratitude.
This November will we vote to revere this gift, or just pave it over? Will it be about our common life together or about whoever-dies-with-the-most-toys wins? As our president said in his Wednesday address to the nation, the idea of America rests with its people, you and me.
What’s your money, time and enthusiasm on?
When it comes to a choice between the politics of greed, vengeance and retribution, or the politics of “God’s free bounty,” my money’s on that soaring golden eagle. Amen.
[1] Psalm 145:16-17.
[2] Matt. 14:13-21; Mk. 6:32-44; Lk. 9:10-17,
July 28, 2024
Pentecost 10, Proper 12
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
2 Kings 4:42-44; Psalm 145: 10-19;
Ephesians 3:14-21; John 6:1-21 “A Generous Extravagance
Poor Choices and Costly Alternatives
When I was stationed at Letterman Hospital, San Francisco, I served in the Neurology Department. There I was trained as an encephalograph tech, the brain wave test. Initially we had an NCO in the EEG lab, an E-5 Specialist Monroe, who was senor to both of us two trainees.
Shortly after my arrival, specialist Monroe was court martialed and busted down to corporal. This wasn’t the first time he had been demoted. When we asked him what happened, from the bruises on his face it should have been evident.
Over the weekend he had been in another bar fight. The word that came back through the scuttlebutt was not good. Apparently, he and his combatants had pretty well torn the place up – furniture broken, shattered windows, broken beer bottles everywhere – the place was trashed. Hundreds of dollars in damages. What a weekend. Finally, the MPs arrived to break it up and Monroe ended up in the stockade for a spell.
Monroe had little recollection of what had happened, but word came back that the more he drank, the more belligerent, the mouthier he got. And from there, it was off to the races as chaos ensued while fists flew, along with chairs, ash trays and glasses.
This was the second or third time he had been busted in rank. The colonel, chief of our neurology service, had had enough. Monroe was out of there. Assigned to the worst job possible, laundry duty.
I was promoted to E-5 and became senior enlisted staff.
I had seen Monroe at our barracks after work and asked him, why did he frequent these bars which were just trouble for him. He really had no answer, except that he had been barred from the enlisted officer’s club. I didn’t have to ask the reason.
Poor choices, but there were alternatives – like maybe dealing with his drinking problem, like staying in the barracks and watching TV – oodles of alternatives come to mind. But no – poor choices was all he seemed capable of.
Amos tells the story of poor choices. His prophecy is a warning, much like my mother’s, “Johnny, look both ways before running out into the street.”
“This is what the Lord God showed me: the Lord was standing beside a wall built with a plumb line, with a plumb line in his hand. And the Lord said to me. ‘Amos what do you see?’ And I said, ‘A plumb line.’ Then the Lord said, ‘See, I am setting a plumb line in the midst of my people Israel; I will never again pass them by; the high places of Isaac shall be made desolate, and the sanctuaries of Israel shall be laid waste, and I will rise against the house of Jeroboam with the sword.’”
A plumb line is used to determine if a wall is 90 degrees vertical to the ground or a people morally straight by Amos’ reckoning. The plumb line never lies.
Apparently, Jeroboam’s sin was the revolt he led against Solomon’s son Rehoboam which split the Davidic kingdom in two – Judah in the south and Israel in the north with Jeroboam as it’s king. Further, he designed a religion to cater to his whims, building two temples with golden calves. Idolatry, in other words. He chose poorly. There was an alternative — the God of the Torah, the plumb line of righteousness and equity.
Today, out of nowhere, in Mark we get the story of Herod having had John the Baptist beheaded at the whim of his wife. John had railed against Herodias, for she had been his brother Philip’s wife, and it was not lawful to have one’s brother’s wife. It was score-settling time.
One commentator avers that there is not a word of grace to be found in this story, which seems like an incidental one-off.
Herod, like too many guys basking in their power, thought he had to play the big man, testosterone-fueled. Yet, there was an alternative tugging at his soul. He knew John was a righteous and holy man. While greatly perplexed by John’s utterances, he liked to listen to him.
This request by his step-daughter he could have refused, but it would have cost him dearly in the esteem of his guests. So, John’s head was served up on a platter as the trophy for her dancing. Poor choice, even though he knew in his heart that this was wrong. As Dieterich Bonhoeffer would call the alternative, “Costly Grace.” Requiring a huge helping of humble pie.
That is the grace I see in Amos’ prophecy and Herod’s dilemma. There is a choice, an alternative – as difficult as that may have been — Costly Grace in the form of repentance.
Of course, Amos’ desire is to warn the people of Israel of the destructive path they are on, his purpose is exactly to get repentance. The path they were following as a society would implode upon itself. Out of their weakness, they would have no resources or wisdom to deal with outside threats such as the Babylonian army, soon to be at their gates.
The forced exile to follow, the prophet attributed as their just deserts for their debauchery and crushing the poor in their midst. My Buddhist friends would chalk it up to Bad Karma. What goes around comes around. The logical results for violating the moral structure of the universe and Torah ethics. As my junior high coach would warn, “You’re cruisin’ for a bruisin’.”
Amos’ purpose? To get his hearers to amend their ways. To turn from self-destruction – to turn around, a complete change of mind — the meaning of metanoia, repentance. It’s all about changing behavior, not about feeling sorry or remorseful. As the hymn puts it, “Turn back, O mortal, quit thy foolish ways.”
And as one verse of “How Firm a Foundation” puts it, “When through fiery trials thy pathway shall lie, my grace all sufficient, shall be thy supply; the flame shall not hurt thee; I only design thy dross to consume, and thy gold to refine.”
Unfortunately, how often we grasp for the easy solution, not the costly alternative. American foreign policy is littered with such poor choices.
I’ve been recently reading of one the worst episodes of our venture into the Philippines after we seized them as a result of the Spanish American War, 1898, Massacre in the Clouds by Kim A. Wagner.
The story opens with a photograph of a gristly massacre received by W. E. Du Bois. It depicts an open pit filled with the bodies of defenseless men, women and children – some one thousand in all. On the rim of the killing grounds, American soldiers are shown standing nonchalantly by. No evidence at all of shame.
This tragedy was the result of an expedition up a dormant volcano by Major General Leonard Wood and his men on March 1906, who for hours would fire indiscriminately upon those who had taken refuge in the crater of that volcano, the so-called Moros, American slang for the Muslims of the southern islands of that nation.
The incident became know as the “Battle of Bud Dajo.” Not a battle at all but the wanton killing of trapped unarmed men, women and children. This atrocity was bigger than either Wounded Knee or My Lai and would have slipped into the mists of history except for that one photograph.[1]
U.S. military authorities tried to bury the story. When that became impossible, it was claimed as “a brilliant feat of arms,” according to President Theodore Roosevelt.
We have little or no recollection of that horrific day. But they do! They remember as if it were yesterday.
The only three of note who spoke against the atrocity were W. E. B. Du Bois, Mark Twain and Moorfield Story, president of the Anti-Imperialist League. Virtually every American paper heralded it as a courageous action. Medals were to be passed out to those participating in the tragedy, many participants promoted for what now would be called a “war crime.”
Fortunately, through the diligent efforts of Kim Wagner over years, the story has come to light.
There was never any expression of remorse from the killers because the victims had been completely dehumanized – just vermin, savages. General Wood summed up the operating ethic in a report from Manila, “They will probably have to be exterminated.”[2]
Why must we remember such sordid and ghastly events of the past? Because there is no healing possible without telling the truth of these events. That is the only path to healing. In our remembrance is the grace of costly alternatives.
Incidentally, I wondered as I made my way through this book, did any of these soldiers ever learn a counter narrative from their Sunday school teachers or the sermons they might have heard? They certainly would not have found such in their history books, which to this day glorify American expansionism and whitewash its crimes. I wonder, did ever an inkling of a costly alternative cross those soldier’s minds as they fired upon those hapless victims?
That we have this story is sheer unbounded grace, for its truth may someday set us free – get us to reconsider our role as a nation. As my friend Ed Bacon was wont to say, “The truth will set you free, but first it will hurt like hell.”
As Amos concludes his short book of dire prophecy on a note of hope, “On that day I will raise up a booth for David that is fallen and repair its branches, and raise up its ruins, and rebuild it as in the days of old; in order that they may possess the remnant of Edom and all the nations who are called by my name, says the Lord who does this.”
With repentance, this is “that day.” With repentance, costly and saving alternatives spring to mind and heart.
“The flame shall not hurt thee; I only design thy dross to consume and thy gold to refine.” Amen
[1] Kim A. Wagne, Massacre in the Clouds: An American Atrocity and the Erasure of History (New York: Public Affairs Press, 2024)/
[2] Op. cit., 86.
July 14, 2024
Proper 10
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Amos 7:7-15; Psalm 85:8-13;
Ephesians 1:3-14; Mark 6:14:29
“Poor Choices and Costly Alternatives”
Just Us Chickens
Early on in my ministry I encountered a woman with an excruciating tale of abuse. No, not her. Her daughter was being sexually abused by her father. She told of having fled in the middle of the night while he was off carousing. She and her daughter had holed up in a cheap motel. As the long shadows of that night darkened her soul, she grew more and more desperate.
She, finally, in the wee hours of the morning decided to turn to God. Her situation was so pitiful and desperate she reasoned that only God could help her. She had no inner resources left. She was running on empty.
She found the Gideon Bible in one of the drawers of the dresser and thought that if she just opened it, just opened it anywhere, God would provide an answer. She laid it on the bed, opened it with a finger and put it to a passage on the facing page. “They conspired to kill Paul,” it read.
Was this the message God meant for her, that maybe she should kill herself? Fortunately, good sense prevailed and she did not heed that message.
We had a notice on our church at the door leading into the worship service, “We know you often talk with God – but probably not on your cell phone. Please silence it before worship.”
So, how would you know if you had received a message from God? In what manner might it have come?
Have you ever known with absolute certainty that the message was directed to the core of your being from the creative force at the center of all existence?
This is the experience of Ezekiel. He relates his commission from God in our lectionary reading:
“’O mortal, stand up on your feet, and I will speak with you.’ And when he spoke to me, a spirit entered into me and set me on my feet; and I heard him speaking to me. He said to me, ‘Mortal, I am sending you to the people of Israel, to a nation of rebels who have rebelled against me; they and their ancestors have transgressed against me to this very day. The descendants are impudent and stubborn. I am sending you to them, and you shall say to them, ‘Thus says the Lord God.’”
Two things here. First the commission is absolute. You SHALL say to them. Second, it’s not going to be a walk in the park. Ezekiel’s being sent to a tough crowd, dead set in their ways. Obdurate and recalcitrant.
This is exactly the same crowd Jesus encounters, folks who could not believe that any saving message could come from their own midst. Just us chickens here. No one else.
This Jesus fellow? How’s he so special? Where did he get all this? Don’t we know his family? He’s just the carpenter’s son. As Nathaniel asks in John’s gospel, “Can any good come out of Nazareth?” His hometown folks could not accept that a redeeming message could come from their midst. The result of his visit was bupkis. Nothing!
“And he could do no deed of power there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and cured them. And he was amazed at their unbelief.”
“So, he then left and went among the villages teaching. He sent the twelve out, two by two, giving them authority over unclean spirits.” Travel lightly, he instructed them.
The twelve, who were they? Just ordinary fishermen he encountered along his walk. No impressive credentials, just plain folks. As my mom would say, “Just us chickens.” No one special.
Yesterday I delighted in watching the PBS special, “A Capital Fourth.” Sure, it was an over-the-top celebration of America. But it wasn’t all the pomp and circumstance, or the military hoo-ha that was the source of my pride. It was the crowd.
This was a good, diverse cross section of America, “just us chickens” –average folks out having a good time together. Yes, there were a few exceptional “chickens” present. Present was one of the original “Rosie the Riveters” who put together bombers to defeat the forces of tyranny during WWII. These Rosies were just ordinary people who answered the call to duty when it came.
These were the people who returned from work to tend “victory gardens” and save metal and rubber. They watched over one another’s kids and supported good schools. “Just us chickens.”
And that’s who Jesus sends out to spread the good news. Yes, there are a few folks who need to amend their ways, as we all do from time to time. But the overwhelming message is that God is good and so is the life we are given to live.
Take a look at what some of us ordinary folks are called to do. Most of us will raise up the next generation to be self-sufficient, caring adults. No mean feat in these troubled times with rampant drugs and cell phone addiction while immersed in a culture where “greed is good.” Most will be of a generous heart and hold to the norms of respect and honest dealings.
Most of us, like those twelve Jesus set out on “Mission Impossible” come from rather ordinary backgrounds.
This past week we lost one of baseball’s greats, Willie Mays. His background was rather ordinary. He grew up in a mostly Black industrial town in Alabama, Westfield. His parents, never married, separated when he was three. He was subsequently raised by his father and two aunts, with a good foundation from his AME church.
When he was only five, he and his father would play catch out in the yard. By high school, he was showing evidence of his mother’s athletic ability. He signed his first professional contract with a Negro League team before he was out of high school at seventeen. And you know the rest of the story – one of baseball’s greats.
His nickname, the “Say Hey Kid,” stuck early on from how he would greet his team mates. After a few home runs for the New York Giants, one sports writer Jimmy Cannon, would write, “There goes the Say Hey Kid.”
His over-the-shoulder catch in Game 1 of the 1954 World Series is one of the most famous baseball plays of all time. Known as “The Catch,” hundreds of young aspiring baseball players would grow up practicing “The Catch.” Famous as he was, he was not above playing stick ball with kids of his old neighborhood on visits back home.
Just one of us chickens, who with a bit of talent and lot of hard work became a very notable chicken. Just like Peter and John and some of the others Jesus sent out. Just like you and me, sent out to do the best we can, making our witness where opportunity opens up. In our families, in our jobs and in our free time.
Let me tell you another story of some very ordinary chickens doing an extraordinary thing. Have you ever heard of the “Wide Awake” movement? Neither had I. It was a forgotten force for ending slavery and getting Lincoln elected president.[1] Jon Grinspan, curator of political history at the Smithsonian Museum has dug deeply into the forgotten past to bring us an amazing story. Read his book, Wide Awake.
The story begins with an episode of mob violence following the presentation of an abolitionist speaker in Wheeling, West Virginia. The mob howled, “The speakers! The speakers! The northern dogs! Let us have them!” James Brisbin, one of the speakers, could hear the shouting and hissing.
His only hope was to get out of town unnoticed, to get across the Wheeling Bridge across the Ohio River back into Ohio. During his presentation an angry crowd had grown outside the lecture hall.
As rain poured down and the carriage rocked on the uneven road, passing the plaza before the bridge leading to the Wheeling Island, a large crowd blocked the path. Brisbin, clearly identified as a northerner by his clothing, his white hat and long brown hair, was clearly identifiable as an outsider.
He’d have to run for it. No choice.
“Then Brisbin was out of the carriage, trying to move briskly but inconspicuously through the crowds. But his outfit gave him away. Just as he neared the great bridge’s iron toll gate, a hand yanked him by his long hair. Another grasped his shawl. Brisbin sprang forward, losing a fistful of hair and breaking his shawl’s fastener. He wheeled halfway around and struck one of his pursuers in the face. Then, certain he was going to die, dashed for the bridge.”[2]
As he pounded down the wooden planks, a strange sight emerged in his field of vision. He slowly made out a squadron of men, dressed in black, eighty strong. At their head, a veteran officer kept them in a tight martial column. “Some held banners with their stark symbol: an open and unblinking eye.” Many held torches and some, revolvers. These were the Wide Awakes.
This was a sight never before seen in American politics.
Later Brisbin would tell his Virginia hosts that he had marched into Wheeling with these “Wide Awakes and I would return with them dead or alive.”[3]
Who were these men? And why do we know so little about their movement. Most likely, they have escaped the pages of history because we write about the giants of our national story. None of those assembled that night were notable. The Wide Awakes were a grass roots phenomenon founded by a group of tailors on the spur of the moment. Their original purpose was to protect abolitionist speakers. It would soon mushroom into hundreds of chapters with millions of adherents in most cities across the nation. Just ordinary folks, livery stable boys, store clerks, handymen, farm laborers and assorted others. Just us chickens, no one special. Yet, they became one of the major forces propelling Lincoln to the presidency. They were bound and determined that a group of some 600,000 slave holders in the South would not seal the fate of the American promise. Read the book, Wide Awake, it’s a most amazing story.
Just average folks, much like those gathered out on the National Mall this past Fourth of July, doing their best to be good citizens and watch out for their neighbors, raise decent kids. Much like those simple fishermen sent out to proclaim a new day of hope. “Now is the moment of salvation.” Stand on your feet and announce it to the hills and hollers, countryside and city: “God is doing a new thing.” Join in. This is our moment. Yes, just us chickens. We will save this democracy. “We are the ones we’ve been waiting for.” Amen.
[1] Jon Grinspan, Wide Awake: The Forgotten Force that Elected Lincoln and spurred the Civil War (New York: Bloomsbury Publishing, 2024).
[2] Op. cit., x.
[3] Ibid.
July 7, 2024
Propers 9
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Ezekiel 2:1-5; Psalm 123;
2 Corinthians 12:2-10; Mark 6:1-13
“Just Us Chickens”
