The Life of the Party
I was in my office at our little church in Petersburg, Alaska, when I received a call from my friend Fr. Gary, the priest at St. John’s in Ketchikan. There they had a Seaman’s Center connected to the church, a not-unusual ministry for Episcopal churches in port towns. There men (and back then, they were all men) could get a warm bed, play cards or watch TV, wash clothes and get a good meal during the few days their ship was in port.
Gary wanted to know if it might be possible that I knew of any place their manager (I’ll call him Bob) could stay while the state ferry was docked in our town for a day or so. Sure, I told him we had a foldout sofa in my office that made into a bed exactly for such purposes.
So, Bob, a fellow in his late fifties, and I connected by phone and I told him where we were located, but he needed to know that in the early evening
he’d have to keep to himself because on Thursday nights we hosted an AA meeting. “Great,” said Bob. “I can make my meeting.”
Well, Bob came and went. Made his meeting, I supposed, and was on the ferry the next morning to Juneau. I’d met him before when I was down at St. John’s, and he seemed like a nice fellow. I was glad we could help.
The next Sunday, one of the women on our altar guild caught me in the hallway with a question. “I don’t drink wine, but somehow when I got things setup for communion, what I poured out of the bottle didn’t smell like wine.” I took a taste. Charlotte was right – it wasn’t wine. It was water.
Our overnight guest had turned the wine to water.
I later told Fr. Gary that we’d have to look into his seminary degree. And maybe look over his ordination exams. He’d led poor Bob astray. I wondered if Bob had actually made his meeting that night.
“On the third day” – in scripture the most amazing things always seem to happen on the third day – “On the third day there was a wedding in Cana of Galilee, and the mother of Jesus was there. Jesus and his disciples had also been invited to the wedding. When the wine gave out, the mother of Jesus said to him, ‘They have no wine.’”
You know the rest of the story. Gallons of water are turned into wine so the feasting can continue for the normal seventeen days of a wedding. Not only were Jesus and his disciples present. The entire town was present. This wedding would have been the bash of the year. Indeed, a good time was had by all.
Eastern Christianity celebrates this miracle as the Epiphany, not the star and the arrival of wisemen. It is through this occurrence that Jesus’ divinity is perceived. When Jesus is at the party, there is joy and good times in abundance.
If this is so, how is it that many too often leave our churches feeling so beat down and worse for the wear? Or even worse, bored out of their skulls.
The one take-away from this story is, God wants us to thrive, to be joyful. As Jesus provided such fine wine, he was the Life of the Party.
How is it that we have too often taken the joyous fine wine of the Gospel of Good News and turned it into scolding, or the flat, stale water of irrelevance?
How is it that our country which springs from lofty Promise, has turned the dream of America into the polluted river of Jim Crow? Turned it into banishment to reservations and impoverishment? Turned it into insurrection and quack nostrums hawked at the highest level?
I got the news this Monday that our supervising doctor in West Virginia for House of Hope had died of COVID-19. He was an anti-vaxer. He’d fallen for the junk science spread by the former president and Fox News.
Now we have some senators and other politicians comparing a COVID-19 mandate to the Holocaust. Racial hate seems to be endless with these people. No fine wine here, only rank pollution.
“Rep. Warren Davidson (R-Ohio) on Wednesday joined that growing number of elected Republicans who have compared COVID-19 vaccine mandates to the horrors imposed on Jewish people by Nazis during the Holocaust.”[1]
“Numerous 2022 Republican House candidates, Republican members of state legislatures and conservative media personalities have also invoked Nazi Germany in criticizing mask and vaccine rules.”[2]
As no members of that party have called out these people for this racist trope, they must be okay with it. Have they and their party lost all sensitivity to how this sounds to our Jewish brothers and sisters? Have they no shame? The Proud Boys and the Three Percenters would be just fine with such trash.
I can still picture the grimace and wince of Dr. Birx as she sat at a press conference while Dr. Trump expounded on the miracle cures of bleach and ultraviolet lights. Then, on to horse-dewormer and herd “mentality.” The fine wine of our best science and medical knowledge turned into putrefying
ignorance. Yes — the transformation of the fine wine of learning transformed into lies and propaganda. And for too many, with this raging pandemic, the party’s over. Over 800,000 Americans dead. For them the party is permanently over. No life here.
Here was the offering of the miracle of our best science, and it was squandered – poured down the drain. Fine wine gone to waste. And people died.
This coming Monday we celebrate the birthday of Martin Luther King. He was a prophet for the ages who took our sordid history of racism and transformed it into promise. A foundational promise born from Gospel Joy. All are welcome. All flourish. It’s the content of character that counts. Not any outward appearance. Not class, learning, or color. Nobility IS character.
As the 1619 Project demonstrates, for many this promise was stillborn. Slaves were part of the story from the inception. And, within a generation we had banished to starvation some of the same people invited to the mythic first Thanksgiving.
As my new, favorite poet, Joyce Chisale of Mawali says, “Little by little.” Little by little does our nation move into this promise. But we have so far to go. So far.
But when one encounters the sewage spewed by ignorant and hateful minds, I grow tired of it all. When we encounter our inability to deal with voter suppression and election corruption, we all grow tired. Sick and tired of being sick and tired!
So enough with the garbage already. Let’s look at the beckoning promise. Let’s taste a sip of some of the fine wine brought to our democracy party around the Liberty Tree.
My friend, Martha Morales, a pastor at Claremont United Methodist Church, spoke to that promise in a sermon recently on the Methodist tradition of the Watch Night Service, held on New Years eve. The Watch Night of which she spoke was held on the eve of the day the Emancipation Proclamation was to take effect.[3]
Pastor Martha writes of the Methodist tradition of the Watch Night Service — that she’d “come to know the Watch Night Service from another vantage point, that of the African American Church. This is from the African American lectionary:
“As close as it can be historically pinpointed, the initial observance of the Watch Night Service in the African American church began on December 31, 1862, when the service was referred to as “Freedom’s Eve.” On that cold December evening thousands of enslaved descendants from Africa gathered in churches and private homes to pray and praise God, anxiously awaiting the news that the Emancipation Proclamation had become law. Prior to this evening, rumors had circulated that at the stroke of midnight, January 1, 1863, all slaves in the Confederate States would be declared legally free, as a result of the new laws set in motion by President Abraham Lincoln. When the declaration of their human independence was affirmed, the freed slaves shouted, sang songs of joy, and fell to their knees with thankful hearts for the new era of freedom that had come their way. After this occurrence African Americans continued to gather annually to commemorate their independence and praise God for bringing them safely through another year and the promise of a new era of freedom on the horizon. This was the beginning of a tradition that still remains.”[4]
This tradition is of the finest of wines our nation has produced, enriching the souls of all. Medicine for healing. A good remembrance for tomorrow’s celebration of Dr. King. The work is far from done, but “little by little…”
Having read Martha’s words, Juneteenth will have a richer, deeper meaning this year. You remember, June 19 – Juneteenth – is the date that former slaves in Texas belatedly learned of their emancipation.
In the midst of sedition, lies and subversion, there is one Republican who gets the Profiles-in-Courage award, and he gets the Last Word, or close to it.
This Last Word today goes to Mitt Romney who had the moral courage to stand up in the well of the senate and say, “Enough!” Enough of the lies, the grift and corruption.
Here is part of his speech as he cast his vote to convict on the impeachment charges in Trump’s Senate trial:
This is what Senator Romney said:
“As a Senator juror, I swore an oath before God to exercise impartial justice. I am profoundly religious. My faith is part of who I am…I take an oath before God as enormously consequential.”[5]
After pausing to collect himself and reviewing the charges – asking a foreign government to investigate a political rival (make up dirt), Sen. Romney continued:
“The president withheld vital military funds from that government to press it to do so. The president delayed funds for an American ally at war with Russian invaders. The president’s purpose was personal and political. Accordingly, the president is guilty of an appalling abuse of public trust. What he did was not ‘perfect.’ No, it was a flagrant assault on our electoral rights, our national security, and our fundamental values. Corrupting an election to keep oneself in office is perhaps the most abusive and destructive violation of one’s oath of office I can imagine.”
“Were he [Romney] to ignore the evidence and what he believed his oath and the Constitution required, it would expose his character ‘to history’s rebuke and the censure of my own conscience.’”[6]
In a stagnant cesspool of pollution, his words were a flowing spring of finest wine for our democracy, genuine refreshment of our liberties.
On Monday, we celebrate one whose words and actions have watered the Tree of Liberty. As the Senate moves on to consider the John Lewis Voting Rights act, many of my fellow partisans would blame solely two senators if this fails to pass.
But they are wrong.
In years past, senators on the both sides of the aisle have time and again voted nearly unanimously to renew this legislation. Where are they now? Senators, this is your Patrick Henry moment. Your Dr. King moment. Your John Lewis moment.
In Atlanta this week Our president put the existential question to America:
“So, I ask every elected official in America: How do you want to be remembered? The consequential moments in history, they present a choice. Do you want to be on the side of Dr. King or George Wallace? Do you want to be on the side of John Lewis or Bull Connor? Do you want to be on the side of Abraham Lincoln or Jefferson Davis?”[7]
For me and my house, I say, let’s pour out the fine wine of equity, opportunity, fair play, unity and solidarity. Let’s go for a FAIR VOTE. Let’s raise glasses of the finest vintage of democracy to Dr. King tomorrow. The fine wine of full inclusion of ALL. That’s the Life of the only Party that counts. Amen.
[1] Josephine Harvey, “Another GOP Lawmaker Compares Vaccine Mandates to the Holocaust,” Huffpost, January 12, 2022.
[2] Ibid.
[3] Martha Morales, “Freedom’s Eve,” a sermon preached at Claremont United Methodist Church, January 2, 2022.
[4] “A Watch Night Celebration: New Year’s Eve.” See Behold a New Thing for “Ideas for Celebrating a Service of Watch Nigh; The Tradition of Watch Night; How to Explore Watch Night.” Online location: http://www.ucc.org/worship/worship-ways/pdfs/2007/07Behold -A-New-hing.pdf. accessed 21 July 2011 See also Kachun, Mitch. Festivals of Freedom: Memory and meaning in African American Emancipation Celebrations. 1808-1915. Boston, MA: University of Massachusetts Press, 2003.; Williams, William H. O Freedom! Afro-American Emancipation Celebrations. Knoxville, TN: University of Tennessee Press, 1987.; Franklin, John Hope. The Emancipation Proclamation. Garden City, NY: Doubleday & Company, Inc. 1963; reprint edition, IL: Harlan Davidson, 1995. Also see the Cultural Resource unit for Watch Night 2011 in Brandon Thomas Crowley, guest lectionary commentator, The African American Lectionary, http://www.theafricanamericanlectionary.org/PopupLectionaryReading.asp?LRID=246
[5] Adam Schiff, Midnight in Washington (New York: Random House, 2021), 421.
[6] Op.cit., 422.
[7] Joseph R. Biden, quoted in Jackson Richman. “Biden Challenges Republicans in Fiery Speech: ‘Do You Want to be on the Side of Dr. King or George Wallace?’”, ’Mediaite+, Jan 11th, 2022,
January 16, 2022, Epiphany 2
“The Life of the Party”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Isaiah 62:1-6; Psalm 36:5-10; “Letter from a Birmingham Jail”;
John 2:1-11
When Through the Deep Waters
Water, the stuff of life or dangerous, and swift the river. The staff of life or chaos and death.
It is the stuff of our baptism into a new life – a new life offering companionship and also the danger of where that life might lead.
I find it fitting, and intriguing, that the story of Jesus baptism is paired in our lectionary readings with the creation of Israel as it passes through the River Jordan to become a new people.
“When you pass through the waters, I will be with you; and through the rivers, they shall not overwhelm you;”
But let me get there with a story from my early childhood.
As a young boy, one of my favorite stories was about a little tug boat, “Little Toot.” Little Toot was the most rambunctious screw-up in New York harbor. Up to mischief of one sort or another. He had no sense of propriety. Just like boys my age. His father’s constant refrain, “Won’t you ever grow up?” Sounds like a parent, doesn’t it?
Well, the little boat finally goes one prank too far and is escorted by stern police boats out of the harbor and banished. Out there alone at night, out on the high seas as a storm gathers itself. Soon waves are crashing all around. Lightening streaks through the skies. Thunder deafens the ear.
Amidst mountainous waves, completely dwarfing the small tug, Little Toot spies a S.O.S. flare high up in the sky. The story ends most satisfactorily as Little Toot rescues a distressed ocean liner and, as clouds part to sunshine, brings the ship safely into harbor to his father’s praise.
I had been given a record of this story. With all the terrifying sound effects of the raging storm and towering waves, that’s where my mind froze. In my imagination I can still hear the fog horn, the music swelling as Little Toot was lifted on one gigantic wave, only to plummet down the other side.
It may be that I identified our family’s dysfunction with Little Toot’s predicament. My father’s volatile moods and temper were that storm that crashed around helpless Little Toot. At most any evening meal, the tension in our family was like waiting for the first thunder clap of that story.
In the second-grade room of our Sunday school, one morning a fellow came in asking for me. I was to follow him into the church. My teacher said it was okay and there I met my brother and another adult from his class and we were led up the aisle of this huge sanctuary of the Methodist church our family attended in Compton, California.
I remember the minister in a black robe saying some things, then sprinkling water on my head. Afterwards, I was led back to my Sunday School room.
That might have been the end of it except our family continued to attend church up until I was in junior high school.
Over the years, I now realize that no matter the storm, my baptism has always pointed my small boat towards a safe harbor where there is welcome.
After we stopped attending church as a family, I continued because my girlfriend went. Church was a short walk about six blocks up the main street behind our house. She lived across the street from me and we’d walk up together holding hands.
Later, I would be invited to the college group on campus by my roommate – Wesley Foundation. At that point I had pretty much dropped out of church. Our new pastor was so conservative he opposed fair housing, equal rights for Black people. Women’s rights hadn’t even appeared on the scene yet, but he would have been against that, too.
It was plain to me that either Jesus loved all people – and we should as well – or he didn’t matter much at all. I was on the didn’t-matter-much-at-all end of that argument. Our church affirmed the upper crust, not so much others. Jesus seemed irrelevant to their plight. Of course, our family didn’t know any of these in the Willowbrook section of town.
Our college group had chartered, along with other college Wesley Foundations in Southern California, a bus to the quadrennial national conference of Methodist college students to Lincoln, Nebraska. We had been talking up this event for some time in our group. It was the in-thing to do.
The keynote speaker was one Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. I’d never really heard of him, but when I actually heard him speak on the closing night, I said to myself, “If this is what the church is about, sign me up.”
At which point, that mysterious journey up the central aisle of my church in Compton became real. I was a part of THAT club, THAT family. I had found a taste of that Beloved Community where ALL did matter. This is what Jesus was talking about.
I met Black students from the South there who told me of their lives. The scales fell from my eyes. I had known nothing of the KKK and night riders, of segregation and lynching. Or separate and unequal, or just lack of opportunity.
All this newfound knowledge was dangerous. My Republican, conservative parents were not ready at all for this Epiphany. This was dangerous, my father told me. I should just let these things be. Fair housing would just run-down property values. Our only responsibility to Black people was “don’t say the N word” and just be “nice.” Whatever that meant. Be “nice.” Obviously, nothing about being just or finding out what they’ve endured. Talk about “deep waters.” My dad was soon convinced that a communist cult had taken me in. Maybe worse, a cabal of Democrats. For a number of years, we didn’t talk.
As I began to read the adult church curriculum of Bultmann, Reinhold Niebuhr, H. Richard Niebuhr, Tillich, Bonhoeffer, and King’s writings, I discovered that my baptism had now led me far beyond simple Sunday school platitudes. Or maybe it was that these writers had put meat on those basic Sunday school bones. My new learning and experiences were definitely an Epiphany. A whole new world of the Spirit opened up. Joe Wesley Matthews of the Ecumenical Institute presented a muscular vision for my newly developing faith. Not for the timid.
Later, as a medic in the army, my education in diversity continued, serving alongside folks of all sorts. Some, their word you could take to the bank, others were best avoided. People are just people; you take them as they come. Race, class, background – seemed to make little difference. I ended up friends with people I never would have imagined encountering. I met my first Buddhist friend. Another Epiphany. God works through all sorts.
I wonder if that’s something of what happened with Jesus as he emerged from the waters, or was it the desert time? Was he baptized with the Holy Spirit and with fire? Did all this happen suddenly like a thunder clap, or smolder in him slowly as he lived into his ministry.
I have had Spirit-filled mentors along the way who enlarged the promise of my baptism. By word and example, they were “Little Christs” to me. They were seeds of hope. By their steadfast persistence and belief in what I could become, they kept that hope alive, even when I had lost it.
Later in Los Angeles, I found a church community that did affirm a generosity of welcome – to ALL. Many a Sunday as we closed worship, me on the string bass, with that raucous song, “Let the Sun Shine In,” from the musical “Hair,” I knew I stood on holy ground.
All the while living amidst the hustle and bustle, sometimes the chaos of life. I figure my baptism is my general orders for living in chaos. In the military, general orders enumerated one’s duties should, in the midst of chaos, you become separated from your unit or from command authority. Or taken prisoner. Such things as render aid to those around you, secure government property, work with others to restore order. By our baptism, we all have holy orders, both lay and clergy – the same – live into the Beloved Community and welcome ALL.
Our nation is presently in CHAOS, with forty-some percent believing that Joe
Biden is not a legitimate president, and a good number in denial about the insurrection on January 6th – just a normal tour group of visitors to the capital.
The mandate of baptism is to continue to work for a nation in which ALL are included, have a say and a chance for sharing in the bounty of America. In Caesar’s time Christians did not have this privilege, but we do.
Baptism is entered into as a life process. Even Jesus was said to have grown in wisdom. He grew to understand that even a Syrophoenician woman was included in God’s embrace.
We work in an imperfect system with imperfect people. I trust the Holy Spirit which descended on Jesus at his baptism to continue to mingle amongst us, bringing out our best. Lincoln referred to this happy outcome as the “better angels of our nature” taking hold.
These days, chaos swirls about us and about our nation as much as it ever did around Little Toot. What we are promised is that there is a welcoming harbor – a place of refuge.
As we are reminded of the chaotic scenes on the one-year anniversary of January 6th insurrection, equally distressing scenes flood in from our nation’s hospital emergency entrances. Images flash across our TV screen of utterly exhausted medical staff as the Omicron variant lays America low. The camera lens catches nurses scrambling to find one more bed. Struggling to resuscitate another patient. Again, gift shops and lunch rooms are repurposed to accommodate the sickest. Hallways are in utter disorder. Staff rushing to critical patients with IV lines and bottles as various monitors beep a cacophony of alarms. Doctors flipping frantically through charts of the newly admitted. Chaos. Exhaustion.
When through the deep waters…we will hold on to one another. We will keep faith. Our baptismal holy orders.
“Weeping may endure the night, but joy comes in the morning.” Though a deep darkness has settled over our nation, as Tony Judt put it, though “Ill fares the land,” there remains yet another, a newer chapter, to be written in the history books. The content of that chapter is up to us.
We continue the work to strengthen and uphold one another. All working on the House of Hope in both the Ohio Valley and in San Bernardino, we press forward towards the goal. Funding is now in sight.
WE HAVE SO MUCH MORE WORK awaiting us in the days ahead. The problems we face are legion: racism, voter suppression, the unleashed forces of sedition, a right-wing disinformation media complex, addiction, apathy, hunger and homelessness in our streets. AND, not the least, a still-raging pandemic.
It’s like housework – it’s never done. But as St. Paul proclaims, “Here we are. Alive.”
That is the full meaning of our baptism into the Jesus Movement, the Beloved Community. Yet, in Christ, here we are, ALIVE! Amen.
January 9, 2022, The Baptism of our Lord
“When Through the Deep Waters”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Isaiah 43:1-7; Psalm 29; Acts 8:14-17;
Luke 3:15-17; 21-22
The Way, the Truth, and the Light
There’s a story told of a Hindu speaker invited to give a presentation at an interfaith gathering. Unfortunately, the host pastor preceding him, who was to give opening remarks, was from a very conservative church. His agenda was not interfaith understanding. He was there to prove the supremacy of his Christian faith. He was solely bent on demeaning the other’s faith, proving the superiority of his own, rather than entering into any interfaith dialogue. He cared not a wit about the sensitivities of those in the room who were not Christians.
He addressed the crowd reading from one of the most exclusivist passages of the John’s gospel. “I am the way, the truth and the life, no one comes to the Father but by me.”
What a jerk, many thought. Way to make our guest feel welcome!
Most in the audience were embarrassed by this lack of charity, by this lack of basic manners. Folks sat in their seats in stony silence, glued to their places as interfaith relations were possibly set back hundreds of years. As the guest speaker approached the podium, all wondered how he would respond.
The speaker stepped up and beneficently smiled at his audience. After a pause, he proclaimed, “The pastor is absolutely correct.”
“For, what is the way of Jesus, but the way of peace, humility, truth and respect. That is the only way one can approach God, enter into the Holy.”
This Hindu man had seen in Jesus that which this pastor failed to register: the Inner Light of God. The speaker had seen the same spiritual luminosity that those Wise Sages saw in that baby’s eyes, lying in the poverty of a manger.
Now my wife avers that had those travelers from afar been women, they would have brought more practical gifts: Pampers, Wet Wipes and a copy of Dr. Benjamin Spock’s book, Baby and Child Care.
I can still vividly see in my mind’s eye a Christmas pageant — read bathrobe drama — of a former church wherein the three Wise Men ended up in a giggling heap at the manger. I won’t mention who two of those boys were. Those three, afterwards, were known as the Three Wiseguys. But we all remembered the story, to be sure.
Epiphany is all about the Inner Light so luminous that it shines forth in the lives of all who take it in. Shines forth in the lives of all who have been transformed by it. It is also about two forces. Some saw the beauty of holiness and blessing in that child’s eyes. Others wanted to snuff that light out. Those two forces are still arrayed against each other to this day.
“Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the lord has risen upon you. For darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness will appear over you.”
“In the time of King Herod, after Jesus was born to Bethlehem of Judea, wise men from the East came to Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the child who has been born king of the Jews? For we observed his star at its rising, and have come to pay him homage.”
We celebrate the Day of Epiphany this Sunday. Yes, I know the real date is January 6th on the Western Calendar. It is the day we celebration the radical manifestation of the Divine in Jesus. We celebrate a Way that leads into all that is holy and wholesome – Truth, Peace, Generosity, Equity – in short, Holy Spirit Light. That is the gleaming those mystic sages saw in his eyes as they knelt in homage.
Herod and his minions perceived such generosity of spirit as a threat to their power and wanted to extinguish it. We remember the slaughter of the Holy Innocents on December 29th – a slaughter that continues yet to this day in the Middle East, in China and Myanmar. And in the streets of too many American cities.
The Hindu speaker grasped the true reality of Jesus – “Light of Light descending from the realms of endless day,” goes one of my favorite hymns — “As the darkness clears away.”
About the darkness. Lately, it has seemed overwhelming.
January 6th is the Day of Epiphany. In America it is also a day of deep darkness over our land. A year ago, malignant forces of sedition brought America to one of its darkest hours in recent history. January 6th was definitely not the dawning of the Age of Aquarius for our nation.
The alarming tragedy of that day was that the efforts to extinguish a government “of the people, by the people, and for the people” continue to this very day. Snuff out the radiance of Lady Liberty’s torch.
The deep darkness of doubt is cast over our elections. Cries of “Stop the Steal” and “Rigged” coarse through recent mass rallies, not unlike those heard in Germany in the 30s.
Over seventy percent of one of our two major political parties do not believe in the results of the 2020 election. No. Joe Biden is NOT the legitimate president of the United States. Most of these folks believe that the hearings to investigate the January 6th insurrection are a sham, or if not – in any case, we should just move on. Some things are better left alone.
We now know that over one hundred representatives in Congress were prepared to overturn the counting of the election. If only there had been no riot and if only Vice President Pence had gone along with the scheme.
Yes, many would snuff out the torch of Lady Liberty, but her Lamp by the harbor door will not be extinguished. The call to patriots is still heard and answered. “Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the lord has risen upon you.”
As Lt. Col. Vindman proclaimed, “Here, Right Matters.” That was the testimony of Fiona Hill and Ambassador Marie Yovanovitch – all who had the courage to stand up, be counted, and testify to the White House corruption they had witnessed.
Despite slurs, lies, death threats and character assassination – all speaking Truth at great risk to their careers and to their very lives. Patriots all. The very Light as shining forth as from that Epiphany Star. This is the luminous manifestation of our democratic heritage still shining across the land.
They’re with Tom Bodett in his commercial for Motel 6, “We’ll leave the light on for you.” In their patriotic service, they’ve “left the light on.” So must we.
It is still the very Light reflected in the eyes of those three Visitors to a lowly birthplace some two thousand years ago. It is the very light which has inspired the best of who we are – those who scribbled down the promise of the Declaration of Independence, those Abolitionists who stubbornly stood against slavery, Conductors on the Underground Railroad, those Suffragettes struggling for the women’s vote, those who marched against senseless and endless wars in the sixties. They are the Light of this nation. The bipartisan January 6th Select Committee is the Light of this nation. Especially the two Republicans, Liz Cheney and Adam Kinzinger; they have paid the highest price.
Epiphany – on January 6th let us celebrate the manifestation of all that is Holy in our Lord Jesus Christ. And the light that yet radiates from that vision of those wise sages. That same force radiates down through the pageant of history. Col. Vindman summed it up in his testimony before congress and in his book, Here Right Matters.[1] Our Epiphany journey is through the morass of lies and deceit. Not for the fainthearted.
Michael Connelly, through his fictional LAPD detective character, Harry Bosch, puts this life value well. Harry is like a dog with a bone when it comes to pursuing a case. When he’s sometimes derided by fellow officers for this stubbornness, his come-back is: “Everybody counts or nobody counts.” Doesn’t make any difference to Harry whether the victim lives on the streets or in a Westwood mansion.[2] Everybody counts or nobody counts – that’s the truth of the Epiphany star, the Jesus ethic.
This, the message of the inner Light, diffused down through the years in the best of us is still, “Everybody counts.” That’s the ethic of the Jesus Movement.
Today those same reactions are at war. Trust the Light of Lady Liberty’s torch and encourage full participation. On the other hand, fearful voices still seek to stifle such notions.
Senator Rand Paul recently put forth the proposition that an election is stolen just because poor and minority voters are encouraged and organized to go to the polls. Straight out of Jim Crow 2.0. That he has not yet been rebuked by his partisan colleagues, is telling. They must be okay with that perversion of democracy. Stomp out that dangerous torch of liberty – the “wrong” people are voting.
The Prince of Peace that we behold is the embodiment of God’s Generous Welcome. And no welcome could be more generous this time of year than Lawrence O’Donnell’s and MSNBC’s K.I.N.D fund project.
That is the spirit behind Lawrence O’Donnell’s efforts to promote education in Malawi through the K.I.N.D. project — Kids in Need of Desks. Lawrence is imbued with Catholic social teaching. He and his partners have changed everything in those classrooms where previously children sat on the floor. Now, many, for the first time, have desks.
Lawrence and his partners on MSNBC and in UNICEF have gone beyond that simple need to also promote girl’s education by providing girls with high school scholarships.[3] Education is in fact the Christ Light, opening full potential in these young women. Educate women and you build up a nation.
Each year Lawrence introduces one or two of the girls whose lives have been transformed by this gift of education. This year, featured has been Joyce Chisale, who is not only an aspiring poet, but is now a first-year student in a medical school. All because of the K.I.N.D Fund and the hundreds of thousands who have contributed – they are the living radiance of the Epiphany Star.
This year Joyce Chisale read a poem she had penned in 2017, “Little by Little.” Young as she is, here’s one woman the darkness has not overcome. In the years to come, we’re going to hear a lot more from her. Joyce Chisale gets the Last Word
Little by Little
Little by little we’ll go
no matter how far the distance is
we’re not shaken
Little by little we’ll go
and reach our destination
Little by little we’ll go
no matter how bumpy or rocky the road is
we’re not going to turn back
little by little we’ll go
and stay true to our dreams
Little by little we’ll go
no matter how narrow the path is
we are going to force ourselves to pass
and little by little we’ll go
and reach the promised land
Don’t be shaken
don’t turn back
little by little we’ll go
and reach our destination. Little by little is how those three wise men happened upon Bethlehem. In this same manor Joyce Chisale arrived at a medical school in Malawi. Little by little, we’ll preserve our democracy. Little by little, a light shows the path – and little by little is how we’ll reach our “Star of Wonder, Beauty Bright.” Amen.
[1] Alexander S. Vindman, Here, Right Matters: An American Story (New York: Harper, 2021).
[2] Michael Connelly, The Darkest Hour (New Your: Little Brown, 2021).
[3] Andrew Brown, “Little by Little a Malawian Girl Follows Her Dreams”, UNICEF Malawi, 2017
St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
The Epiphany
January 2, 2022
The Way, the Truth, and the Light
Isaiah 60:1-6; Psalm 72:1-7, 10-14
Ephesians 3:1-12; Matthew 2:1-12
Out of the Least of All
Last week, when I opened my e-mail, this ad came in over the transom.
This promo easily could have been an exhibit in our seminary’s annual show of Tacky Religious Art — another commercial desecration of Christmas.
For us Episcopalians, “tacky” is one of the worst offenses, a venial sin for sure.
Excuse a minor digression. BUT…This is why I so love All Saints Day. They haven’t figured out yet how to monetize it. How much All-Saints schlock have you seen on TV with dancing chipmunks and harmonizing toilet bowl scrubbers?
In any case, here is — the Christmas promo. A Hot Deal Directly from the North Pole. Yes, folks there actually is a North Pole…in Alaska, near Fairbanks. And those fine citizens milk it for all it’s worth this time of year. Actually, Christmas 365 days a year up there.
Well, here’s the special. You can order up your Certified Letters from Santa. Each piece printed out on Fine Linen Paper. Use the special code, “Jolly15,” and you’ll save 15% right now!
Now you see why I so like All Saints Day. No special letters from St. Francis or St. Peter to purchase from God knows where.
But if you want the real message of Christmas and not a bunch of Santa hoo-ha, let’s turn to Mary and her message instead. Her song, we call the Magnificat. Magnificat, because God often magnifies the least to produce the most glorious results. Magnifies us when we feel ourselves to be the least, to be of no account.
Magnificat – now here’s a promo.
Mary, a woman accounted for nothing in her society. Most men have no idea what that feels like. Though I did get a smidgen of insight into personal nothingness the other day.
I went to the auto dealer for a recall issue. It was early in the morning, cold and breezy. A fellow came up to my car, asked a few questions and put a big number on my windshield. Then I stood by my car as I was asked to do. In the cold. In the wind. And stood. And stood. And stood.
Meanwhile, a number of agency personnel walked by. And walked by. And walked by. It was as if I was invisible. I finally stopped one. As he began to walk away without away listening to me, I asked him, “What am I? A customer or an inconvenience?” It was a little taste of invisibility. In that moment I felt like the “Least of All.” Welcome to Mary’s club.
Mary, frightened, expecting a child and on her own. Shunned by all in her village. Scared for the child she was expecting. Utterly alone — How on earth does she tell Joseph? Wanting to shrink into anonymity. So much uncertainty.
But as my friend Mike Kinman said several years ago, Mary gathered up her skirts and burst forth with her full agency. If she was to bear this child, she would not be a shrinking violet. She cut loose with the most radical proclamation, straight out of Israel’s prophetic tradition. Pure, unadulterated, terrifying Grace.
She knew in her bones — this child – her child — would turn the world upside down. Mary comes off more like Mother Jones than Mother Teresa. Mother Jones – a union organizer — hell raiser totally in it for her people. As Fr. Mike put it that Sunday, Mary took one step back and said, “Hold my beer and watch this.”
“He has shown the strength of his arm, he has scattered the proud in their conceit. He has cast down the mighty from their thrones, and has lifted up the lowly. He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty.”[1]
These verses are not the namby-pamby platitudes that pass for many of our sermons in the prosperity gospel congregations, or many mainline churches.
This torrent of righteous proclamation is straight out of one considered to be of no account. Don’t give me any portraits of Mary is soft blue pastels, harmless as a cocker spaniel. I want the “Mother Jones” Mary. The “Rosie the Riveter” Mary. The Eleanor Homes Norton Mary!
It is out of this radical option for the poor that every union organizer is born, has breath. It is out of this radical option for the poor that our economics will find rebirth and our planet a future.
You folks who oppress your labor force, your time is up. Either wages rise and everyone gets a fair shake or no one works. You’re shut down. That’s the union hall translation of “the rich are sent empty away.”
The candle business that forced people in Kentucky to keep working as the tornado sirens screamed their warnings – yes, you folks. I’m talking to you. Your workers, at least those who survived your callous indifference – these workers should take you to court until they have wrung every last penny out of you. You considered them of no account, disposable, less than nothing. And many died. It’s ironic that it was a candle business that was an agent of such deep darkness. Don’t you think?
Micah has it right when he proclaims, “You, O Bethlehem of Ephrathah, who are one of the little clans of Judah, from you shall come forth for me one who is to rule.”[2] Out of the Least of All, God’s righteousness springs up. Like the grass that grows through the cracks, though they spread the asphalt over it.
The high and mighty thought they could plan an insurrection on January 6 under the cover of darkness and anonymity. Overthrow our constitutional government. It is the “little people” who have spied them out – reporters and lowly congress critters who have pulled back the curtain. These are the ones of whom Mary sings in her Magnificat. These are the least of Ephrathah, the lowliest of clans.
They will keep the spotlight of the God’s honest truth on those January 6th seditious malefactors until they are marched off to prison for conspiracy. Yes, the fish rots from the head. Thrown down from their thrones these perpetrators will be. Actions have consequences. There will be plenty of time for God’s mercy when you’re in contrition-mode with a few years behind bars to think about your actions.
Again, it will be the Least of All – Hundreds of strong women and their supporters in this very same spirit marching in the streets – for health care rights, for voter’s rights, for a fair economy. Not going to take it anymore. Going to be the drudge and scapegoat no longer. They are here to scatter the proud in their conceit. A Gospel Action if ever there was one.
This, the birth of one destined to turn the world upside down. All who follow in his path are insurrectionists in the cause of a Love beyond all Love. Sometimes the work has a hard edge – of necessity.
Sometimes it’s a gentle soft touch, soft as velvet, as tasty as a ripe peach just off the tree. In all cases, true liberation from what weighs down.
Jai passed along a wonderful such story from Elizabeth Gilbert — a story of one of the “Least of All.” A big-city bus driver at the end of a long afternoon picking up exhausted, cranky commuters heading on home.
Elizabeth Gilbert gets the Last Word:
“Some years ago, I was stuck on a crosstown bus in New York City during rush hour. Traffic was barely moving. The bus was filled with cold, tired people who were deeply irritated with one another, with the world itself. Two men barked at each other about a shove that might or might not have been intentional. A pregnant woman got on, and nobody offered her a seat. Rage was in the air; no mercy would be found here.
But as the bus approached Seventh Avenue, the driver got on the intercom. “Folks,” he said, “I know you have had a rough day and you are frustrated. I can’t do anything about the weather or traffic, but here is what I can do. As each one of you gets off the bus, I will reach out my hand to you. As you walk by, drop your troubles into the palm of my hand, okay? Don’t take your problems home to your families tonight, just leave them with me. My route goes right by the Hudson River, and when I drive by there later, I will open the window and throw your troubles in the water.”
It was as if a spell had lifted. Everyone burst out laughing. Faces gleamed with surprised delight. People who had been pretending for the past hour not to notice each other’s existence were suddenly grinning at each other like, is this guy serious?
Oh, he was serious.
At the next stop, just as promised, the driver reached out his hand, palm up, and waited. One by one, all the exiting commuters placed their hand just above his and mimed the gesture of dropping something into his palm. Some people laughed as they did this, some teared up but everyone did it. The driver repeated the same lovely ritual at the next stop, too. And the next. All the way to the river.”
Out of the Least of All, out of you and me, the coming promise of Christmas is arriving to turn our world upside down. Sometimes with a bullhorn on a picket line, sometimes with the soft strains of a holiday song, sometimes by poem. Or a gentle smile. Maybe on a crowded bus.
“He shall feed his flock like a shepherd.” In his stead YOU may be the one on the soup line serving up hearty nourishment.
In our land, as a great darkness descends over our democracy, you may be the Paul Revere, sounding the alarm. Up to “trouble, good trouble, necessary trouble.” Waking folks up.
In the darkness a light has shined. Now, you are that Light. Let it shine.
This is what Mary’s alarming song is all about. Someone of lowly birth coming to kindle the life spark where it had been extinguished, born to set the world on fire. And all of us, of lowly birth — arsonists for Christ.
That’s what this bus driver was, the sheer audacity of Grace, all the way down to the river.
Christ has come. Christ is come. Christ will come again. Light that fourth Advent candle. Amen.
[1] Luke 1:46-55, NRSV.
[2] Micah 5:2, NRSV.
St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Advent 4
December 19, 2021
Out of the Least of All
Micah 5:2-5a; Canticle 3 (the Magnificat);
Hebrews 10:5-10; Luke 1:39-55
Stir Up Your Power
Today we light the pink candle on the Advent wreath. This is Mary’s Sunday. And this is Stir Up Sunday – the clue that it was time for folks to get their Christmas puddings started. Why, you ask? The collect that begins worship for today begins, “Stir up thy power, O Lord, and with great might come among us;” Ladies, get your puddings stirred up. Christmas is coming.
Some of you are probably expecting to see Deacon Pat up here this morning. I got a call early Friday morning that she was having a medical issue. As she spoke, my Army medic mode kicked in and I realized this might be pretty serious. I told her to have her son Will get her to the hospital right away, as in NOW.
That’s how it is, one thing after another. Life sometimes smacks us upside the head. Yes, I know that it’s Joy Sunday. We lit the pink Advent candle, but life intrudes. Stuff happens. Where is the Joy?
The JOY is in the real world. The work and problems given to our hands and minds – there’s the JOY. We have commitments, errands, dishes to wash. I always give thanks at the beginning of each morning while I’m sitting on the side of the bed waiting to make sure I have my balance that once again, I can put on my pants one leg at a time and get to it.
After Pat’s early morning call, I called Barbara to make sure we had follow-up, as she lives much closer to Pat than I. I then went and found the newspapers to see what else God might have on the morning’s agenda. Then I opened up the computer to check the e-mail. Finally, I got to work on a sermon that I hadn’t planned on writing this week.
If God was going to stir up divine power, I realized that I’d better, and quickly, stir up my gumption if I was going to be part of this action.
Like Fr. Malcolm Boyd used to say, “Are you running with me, Jesus?”
Unfortunately, it seems, God has some pretty poor material to work with. I’m talking about us. About me. But with God, we shall be sufficient.
“Sing aloud, O daughter Zion; shout, O Israel! Rejoice and exult with all your heart, O daughter of Jerusalem!”[1]
Sing, we will!
In this time of festive preparations for the birth of our Lord Jesus Christ, out of the blue, my friend Dick called with tickets to the Claremont Chorale Christmas Concert. Indeed, we will sing. What a treat. Sure, we will enjoy the music, but much more than that, the joy is to be surrounded with such a group of kind, thoughtful friends.
As our House of Hope team looks forward to another trip back to West Virginia, funding sources are finally coming together. One of the programs we will borrow from is Recovery Point out of Huntington, West Virginia.
While in West Virginia on our last trip, if one was looking for meager material of humble beginnings, we found them as we visited a rehab center run by the clients themselves. In recovery jargon, it is known as a peer-to-peer operation. There were no medical or other professional staff. The curriculum is solely The Big Book of AA.
Our version of the program will include medical detox. It’s much more humane. And definitely more effective in getting folks through the recovery. To go cold turkey is hell. Just read Dopesick or watch the new documentary based on that work on Hulu.[2]
As we were shown the facility and spoke with residents there, it was obvious, one could not get to more humble beginnings. As we were leaving, a fellow in an orange jump suit and in shackles was being escorted in by a couple of armed deputies.
Behold, this place was, in living color – orange, the Christmas miracle come alive. Out of degradation and desperation, God was including one more person in God’s great plan of salvation history. Yes, from Abraham, Joram, Ruth, and a whole bunch of other people we’ve never heard of – right up to Bathsheba, Solomon, to Joseph and beyond – the story continues until it comes to such as you and me. And a smelly, sorry-ass fellow in an orange jump suit. Gloria. Gloria!
Recovery Point in Huntington is solely a men’s facility; there’s a separate women’s facility in Charleston. It seemed like there were about one hundred men living there, mostly in their twenties and thirties.
I was astounded at the organization and the ethic of recovery I witnessed in those men. Two of the biggest learnings accompanying the journey to sobriety are respect and accountability. All chores are done by those living there from cleaning up and making one’s bed to kitchen duty and mentoring those coming out of detox. The place ran like clockwork. Discipline was strict. Consequences were meted out for screw-ups. And it was all accepted with equanimity by those who knew in their gut that Recovery Point was their last, best chance.
Now, I sure wouldn’t want any of these men seeing the office and desk I came home to. They’d know I’d flunked recovery from the chaos.
In Luke’s telling of Jesus’ baptism, hundreds are flocking to John to be baptized into a righteous life.[3] John tells them that to prepare they must put on a new ethic, the garment of righteousness and humility.
To the tax collectors, “collect no more than the amount prescribed for you.” To the soldiers (and we would say to all policing authorities) “Do not extort money from anyone by threats or false accusation, and be satisfied with your wages.” And Black lives do matter, along with the lives of all our citizens. Decent behavior and compassion will be the sign of your entry into the Kingdom of Salvation.
It would be almost unbearable, what the Baptizer would have said to Wall Street tycoons and bank presidents. “Do not send battalions of lawyers up against union organizers. Do not cheat your depositors by setting up bogus accounts and burying them under enormous fake fees.” Recovery leads to joy, but it’s a hard road.
Like, as with the clients of Recovery Point, recovering capitalists would find new joy in some of the simpler pleasures of life – a warm cup of coffee in the morning and a dazzling sunset at eventide. Yes, a cup of joe and a cup of joy to begin each day.
Right there at Recovery Point, Huntington, West Virginia! Gloria. Gloria! This was far better than any Miracle on 34th Street. This was the real deal. Miracles created every day through newly found sobriety.
And to top it off, the following day back in Charleston at Starbucks, I spied a young woman wearing a Recovery Point jacket with a friend. I introduced myself and mentioned House of Hope. They told me that they were staff at the woman’s center in Charleston.
Thinking back, my pickup line that morning was probably one of the weirdest, most unlikely, that may have ever worked. Anyway, these two women came over and shared some of their stories.
One shared of her seven-year-old boy in an institution. He had been damaged from her neglect when she was stoned. Recovery’s not easy. She will live with that reality the rest of her life. But here she is, picking up the pieces. Here she is – Stayin’ Alive! Stayin’ Alive! All the work of Holy Spirit baptism.
The dead are brought back to life and the blind see with new eyes. She finally has hope for something better. Christmas Miracle in Charleston, West Virginia! Gloria. Gloria!
We know how that story begins – a single step. And Mary answered the angelic messenger, “Let it be unto me according to thy word.” Gloria. Gloria. “Sing aloud, O daughter Zion.”
As we offer up prayers this morning for Deacon Pat, let us with joyful hearts, reflect on all the love she has given over the years to St. Francis — the joy she has brought to so many. And we pray that she will have many more years of ministry in our midst. Now, let us light that pink candle for JOY. It comes each morning, fresh with the sunshine. Amen.
[1] Zephaniah 3:14, NRSV.
[2] Beth Macy, Dopesick (New York: Little, Brown & Co., 2018).
[3] Luke 3:7-18, NRSV.
St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach
Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Advent 3 (Gaudete Sunday)
December 5, 2021
Stir Up Your Power
Zephaniah 3:14-20; Canticle 9 (the First Song of Isaiah);
Philippians 4:4-7; Luke 3:7-18
