House of Hope – San Bernardino

 I remember as a young boy awaking one morning to a disagreement between Grandma and my brother who was then in the first grade.  It seems she had been going over some of his science notes with him and he was attempting to tell her that the sun went around the earth.

When she insisted that, absolutely, the earth went around the sun, he argued back, “No, it’s in my notes.  The teacher said that the sun goes around the earth.  It’s right here in my notes.”

There was nothing she could say that would disabuse him of this notion.  Being in the third grade, I knew that Grandma was correct.  The earth goes around the sun. Tom insisted that they go show Mom.  She would know that he was right.

What I learned that morning was not an astronomy lesson, but a psychology lesson.  Once people get a notion in their minds, it’s very difficult to convince them otherwise.

Will Rogers spoke this truth when he said that it’s awfully hard to convince a man of something when his getting a paycheck depends upon him believing exactly the opposite.  Logic in many cases only goes so far.  Maybe, in most cases, doesn’t count at all.

The mind is a strange habitation of all sorts of stuff.  What is really real?

Who would have ever thought that our 2020 election could turn on a conspiracy theory that Hillary, and later, Joe Biden, were part of an international child sex trafficking ring, holding kids in the basement of a pizza parlor?  These QAnon fever dreams have infected an entire national political party.

It seems that such bazar conspiracy theories are now a national past time.   Like baseball or the NFL.  I was astounded as I watched Trump’s former national security advisor General Flynn and his entire family, take the QAnon pledge, “Where we go one, we go all.”  Go figure.  This lunacy has reached the highest levels of national life.

Now, one could say that such notions are harmless.  We can dismiss their adherents as kooks.  Pay no attention.  Harmless.  Until they aren’t.

Americans were horrified to watch thousands of rioters breaking into the halls of Congress, filled with the notion that the past national election had been stolen.  “Stop the steal,” was the chant of those surging down the passageway.

All to show that much of life is not rational, but emotional space filled with need, desire, and fear.  All highly irrational.  And that is the case of this strange call of the disciple Nathanael.

When Philip finds Nathanael, he implores him to come and meet Jesus, the one of which the prophets and Moses wrote — Jesus from Nazareth.  With a shrug, Nathanael dismisses the summons, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” “Look, man, you’ve gotta to be kidding.  Nazareth?   Really?”  

“No, really.  Come and see.”

When Jesus sees Nathanael approaching him, he exclaims, “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.”  Nathanael is astonished.

“How is it you know me?”

“I saw you sitting under a fig tree,” Jesus answers.

“Say what?”  Nathanael incredulously responds.  This is crazy stuff.  “You think I’m reliable just because you saw me under a fig tree??”

“Philip, where did you meet this dude?  I don’t think he’s all there.  He’s off his meds.  Let’s get going, I’ve got work to do.  No time for this nonsense.”

This is WHAT Nathanael should have said.  What you or I would have said.  Or at least thought.

But, no.  Nathanael exclaims in wonder, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God!   You are the King of Israel.” 

Now, it’s Jesus’ turn to be astonished.  “You believe because I told you that I saw you sitting under a fig tree?” 

This has to be the weirdest recruitment call in history.  Can you imagine Human Resources bringing on a new employee in such a fashion?  Can you imagine this interchange at a Diocesan Commission on Ministry interview?

“Do you believe because I said I saw you sitting under a fig tree?”

The candidate and the members of the commission would all have been referred to an appointment with the shrink.  This is totally bonkers.

STOP.  STOP RIGHT THERE.

Think about it.  Isn’t this the basis on which we make most of our important decisions? 

How did our oldest son meet his wife?  He was late to a concert in Portland and when he got there the doors had closed.  So, what to do?  He wonders into a video game parlor down the street.  While he’s zapping space aliens or whatever, he looks at the women at the game next to him.  They get to talking, and the rest is history.

I met Jai on a bus trip to Lincoln, Nebraska.  Our younger son Christopher, probably went about the relationship thing more systematically, more logically. He met Alexis through some online relationship web site.

And how did each of us come to faith?  How did each of us come to such matters of the heart?  It wasn’t through the logic of some syllogism; I can tell you that.

We were immersed, at least in America, in a culture saturated with Jesus.  It may have been what we grew up with.  It may have been a friend who said, why don’t you come to church with me.  It may have been through despair, the “dark night of the soul,” when everything else we had tried had fallen apart or seemed empty.  But, as a mature person, we made a decision that Jesus had something for us.  He was important.

To finish the dialogue between Jesus and Nathanael, let’s re-enter that story.

“You believe because I told you that I saw you under the fig tree?  You will see greater things than these.”  

“Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”

Whatever this means, I take it to be saying that in Jesus, we will encounter all that brings vitality and meaning to life.  Its “On-earth-as-in Heaven” time.  A way of living scripture calls “eternal life.” Kairos Time – the fitting season when everything hangs together.  It’s about our hearts’ deepest desires – something that causes all the busyness of our days, and the nothingness of our days to hold together.  In short, it’s about a heavenly banquet here on earth.

We taste smidgens of those brief moments – your child’s first word.  A lover’s embrace, overhearing your boss praise you to another employee.  A concert that stirs the soul.  The face of a dear one at church.  The enthusiastic welcome home by a beloved and faithful dog.  Watching the line of faithful receiving communion at the altar rail.  We’ve all know those moments.

It’s about stepping outside the bounds of logic into a space where there are no guaranteed answers.  “Come and see.”

It really is about the “leap of faith.”  That’s the price of the ticket.   Absolutely NO GUARANTEES for this ride.

The call of Samuel, the call of Nathanael?  The call of any the rest of us?  Where’s the guarantee?  The proof of the validity that this is about something real?  There is none.  The only reassurance, if any is to be had, is that of our heart and of those who care for us.

“Come and see.”  “Come and see.”

And many do.

These days, the conspiracy theories that swirl around are probably no more bizarre than those of Nathanael’s day. 

I read that many are heading to Washington this coming week with all sorts of fantastical nonsense filling their minds.  Many are absolutely convinced that the election was stolen by a pedophile, or that the recent insurrection at the Capitol was staged by Antifa just to make Trump look bad.

It’s all a jump shot.  A million distractions vie for our attention.  And yet there’s Philip: “Come and see.”  And he  will reveal all the secrets of your heart’s desire.

The summons to day is still the same, “Come and see.”  Our hearts and good friends will direct us to what gives life.  Scripture, a community of faith are yet good guides.

Those who reside outside this sphere of influence are not exempt from a “Glory Attack,” as my friend Ed Bacon calls it.  Could happen on a lonely night of desperation, the sight of a homeless person asking for some spare change outside her sidewalk tent, or on some dusty road to Damascus.   

“Come and see.”  And it might just be that the heavens are opened with angels ascending and descending.  In a moment of splendor everything is made clear.  Life is full with an overflowing abundance.  Yes, on some days we do experience that goodness.  “Come and see.”

This week we remember one such disciple who not only came and saw, but led many others to “taste and see that the Lord is good.”  Martin Luther King was a beacon for those hungering and thirsting for justice and inclusion.  His way of nonviolence freed oppressed and oppressor. 

In the days to come, we have a lot from which to recover in America. The bonds of affection have been sorely tested. 

For our fellow citizens, the summons is still the same, “Come and see.”  See what gives life and binds us to one another.  The proof is that of the Spirit-filled heart.  Life brim-full and overflowing.  Even on a day in the sun with hundreds of thousands at the Lincoln Memorial.  Or on a day filled with snarling dogs and Billy clubs on the Edmund Pettis Bridge, “Bloody Sunday.” 

Nathanael came.  Martin Luther King came.  Ella Baker came.  John Lewis came.  Rosa Parks came, and so have countless others.  They made it to the mountain top.  Saw the Promised Land.  How good it is when brothers and sisters dwell together in unity.  “Come and see.”

The gladness of your heart will be the only proof, the only guarantee you’ll get that this way of life is the way for you.  “Come and see.”

Amen.

January 17, 2021, Epiphany 2

“Faith and Habitations of the Mind”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

1 Samuel 3:1-10; Psalm 139:1-5,12-17; 1 Corinthians 6:12-20;
John 1:43-51

Water, the stuff of life or dangerous high seas.  The staff of life or chaos and death.

I find it fitting, and intriguing, that the story of Jesus baptism is paired in our lectionary readings with the first creation account of Day One in Genesis.

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 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 the skies.  Thunder deafens the ear.

Amidst mountainous waves, completely dwarfing the small tug, Little Toot spies a S.O.S. flare high in the sky.  The story ends most satisfactorily as Little Toot rescues the 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.

The raging seas of our family were always seeming to swamp me.  Like Little Toot, I was tossed about in a storm of emotions beyond my comprehending.

As we look back on this disastrous past year and the chaos of our nation’s capital, it is no wonder my mind flashed back to this early childhood experience, to Little Toot.

The first act of creation is the construction of order out of the vast ocean of chaos.  It is to set the limits of the sea.  It is to establish the hours of day and of night.

“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep…”

That disordered void, that consuming darkness was often meal times at night.

That disordered void and consuming darkness has been our nation adrift in a sea of disease.  Like that small boat in my children’s story, we have been buffeted about by forces beyond our control. 

Help has never seemed more elusive or far off.  Trump rioters roam the People’s House with flags of insurrection and sedition.  Trashing the place.  Never had our nation’s capital endured such disaster since the British burned the place to the ground in 1812.  This, the doing of the most chaotic presidency in our nation’s history.  CHAOS.

As the chaotic scenes flood in from Washington, D.C. equally distressing scenes flood in from our nation’s hospital emergency entrances.  As President Tweet fulminates against a “rigged” election, his messages egging on the mob, images flash across the TV screen of utterly exhausted medical staff.  The camera lens zooms in on long lines of ambulances in hospital driveways to unload patients for whom there is no room.  Nurses scramble to find one more bed.  Even gift shops and lunch rooms are repurposed to accommodate the sickest.  Outside, beyond exit doors, are morgue trailers stuffed with the bodies of the dead. The hallways are 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 patients.  Long lines out the front doors awaiting triage assessment. Who will live?  Who must die?   CHAOS.

And every Friday night on the PBS Newshour, Judy Woodruff presents a new roll call of those we’ve lost.  Chaos, disorder, all around.  Nurses and doctors in brief breaks cling to one another, shedding tears of exhaustion.  Bereft of hope and comfort. 

The politics of the nation well resemble the chaos of that hospital hallway and the ICU rooms.

The Black Lives Matter movement has devolved into communities of despair, the focus shifting from the rage at police killings of the innocent to hopelessness over the disproportionate toll communities of color have borne as a result of a legacy of our racist health systems of neglect.  Disproportionate numbers of deaths have wracked minority communities and our reservations.  CHAOS.

Our government seems incompetent to manage.  Like that little boat in my story, we are buffeted about with no rudder.  The great ship of state, America, has lost steam.

One woman, Kathy H., reflecting on the gross mismanagement of this disease, in desperation begs, “How can he have this much power to kill thousands upon thousands of Americans and not be removed or held accountable?”  Another, “They have unleashed a Frankenstein monster on us.”  The pandemic sea rages.  Darkness engulfs patients and survivors alike.

And there is no leadership from Congress.  “I object,” are the only words Senate leader Mitch McConnell can utter when considering a mere $2000 economic life saver of a stimulus package.  “I object,” with those two words, millions more jobs are lost and hundreds more businesses closed.  “I object,” the lines at food banks and soup kitchens lengthen.  “I object,” and hope dies.

Yes, we had an election.  But forty percent of all Americans refuse to accept the results.  The federal prosecutor who filled the president’s mind with fantasy notions of fraud now now resigns in disgrace.   The damage incalculable.  His conspiracy fiction is the diet the mob storming the halls of Congress has feasted on.  Too late for “sorry.”

In last-minute desperation Trump’s toadies concoct one scheme after another to overturn the election.  Even at the late date of the counting of electoral votes in the combined House/Senate session.  Legal desperation concocted out of thin air to force the vice president presiding over the session to toss the will of the voters.  Is nothing sacred?   CHAOS. 

Chaos on a national scale as the waters of disorder threaten to drag our democracy in to the dark void of partisan rancor and mob rule.  Militias descend on Washington, arming themselves to “protect” an election they consider stolen.  Many throw up their hands in disgust, and switch the channel to reruns of “MASH” or “I Love Lucy,” as the mob ransacks our capital. 

It is into these roiling waters, that, BY THE GRACE OF GOD, we are pulled to the surface, sputtering and coughing through our baptism.  BY THE GRACE OF GOD, we are raised up into a community of healing, possibility and solidarity.  This is not a private event.  It is a joyous celebration of the entire Blessed Community of Life.  Over the nurture of a lifetime, we grow into the promise of this sacrament.

Out of the darkness, LIGHT.  Out of chaos, order and grace.  And we hear the firm, strong voice Jesus heard, “You are my Son, my Daughter, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.”  Yes, you are beloved of all that is holy.

This is the same summons to each of us at our baptism as we are welcomed into the company of the faithful: “You, Jane – You, Louise – You, Jesse – You, Judeo – You, Barbara.  You — Hayden….  Yes, all – beloved daughters and sons, with each and every one of you — am I well pleased.  Continue to grow into your baptism.  No matter your age, the journey’s not over.

As a young boy, I remember being taken from our Sunday school class one morning and solemnly walked up the center aisle of this huge sanctuary with my brother.  There the minister in a black robe said something and water was sprinkled on my head.  I didn’t understand what it was all about at the time.

But as I grew into the community of faith, I began to know I had sort of a second family.  This was a family grounded in peace and constancy, caring and dependability.  Baptism is not some act of magic conjuring.  It is not a spell cast out of the world of Harry Potter.  Baptism is an act of incorporation into a spiritual reality, the outward manifestations are those same verities that build the Beloved Community of Dr. Martin Luther King.   Water, Spirit, incorporation in the name of the Holy Trinity, it’s all a mystery beyond logical comprehension – a mystery one grows into over a lifetime.  It is a recognition of a spiritual reality working as a peculiar treasure over generations of the faithful, and not-so-faithful.

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.

“Weeping may endure the night, but joy comes in the morning.”  And the light of that joy cannot be overcome by the darkness. 

In the midst of the chaos of these last days and months, we have held on to each other.  We have held on to the promise of America, as have faithful communities all across this nation – And we hold on until this land becomes “sweet land of liberty” for ALL our people.

We continue the work to strengthen and uphold one another.  The House of Hope in both the Ohio Valley and San Bernardino continue paths forward as funding begins to materialize and a competent and loyal staff is recruited.

This great republic shall endure the chaos of the night. True and authentic patriots of both our parties will perform their duty to the Constitution of this nation.  Republicans and Democrats stood fast against conspiracy theories and threats from a seditious president.  They did their job to ensure that the will of voters prevailed.  They barred the door against the raging mob.

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

As we reaffirm our baptismal vows today, the bottom line is our pledge to respect the dignity of all persons.  In that dignity we behold the Face of the Divine.  This pledge is colorblind, non-partisan, transcending all artificially constructed boundaries.  It is true for the native born and the immigrant alike – yes, even those without proper papers.  It is true for young and old, abled and disabled, stretching across all religious boundaries, to include those who claim no creed as well.

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

When this promise is fulfilled in actuality, when it is true for the “least of these,” we will have come as close as humanly possible to that Blessed Community, we will have seen in the face of Jesus.   Amen.

January 10, 2021, The Baptism of our Lord

“Out of Chaos”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Genesis 1:1-5; Psalm 29; Acts 19:1-7;
Mark 1:4-11

There’s a story of two small Baptist churches at an isolated Midwest crossroads.  Both across the street from one another.

This is the story.  Somewhere along the line in the mid-fifties one of the pillars of the one of the churches died – and left, what was for that poor congregation, a significant bequest.  Within what was judged to be an appropriate time after they had put him in the ground, the Board of Deacons set about discussing what they should do with this handsome sum.

It was obvious to everyone that needed repairs on the roof had first claim.  And right after that came a new furnace.  And maybe even A/C.

But there was a great desire to make the place more attractive.  Face it, nobody is going to see the roof or even the furnace.  Paint was in order.  Inside and out.  And since they were painting, shouldn’t they also replace that threadbare carpet down the center aisle.  Mary Jane going down the aisle on her father’s arm almost tripped.  Can you imagine a new bride on her honeymoon in a leg cast? 

What color?  The interior decorating committee began to realize that this was a most thorny issue.  Some wanted a burgundy red and others opted for blue.  Red is nice it matches the color of the hymnals.  It’s bright and cheerful, especially on a drab, snowy day.  The blue faction argued that it should be blue because Mary wore blue.  Well, we’re a Baptist church, what does Mary have to do with anything? 

Round and round they went.  And went.  To exhaustion.

And today, there are two very handsome churches, one across the street from the other.  One with red carpet.  The other with blue.

Amongst my tribe, Mary is also problematic.  When the subject arises, the Anglo-Catholic faction clutches their roseries just a bit tighter to their breasts, as they gaze over to the statue of Mary in powder blue pastels behind the altar.  The Protestant crowd begins to hum “A Mighty Fortress” and wistfully recalls Luther’s “Ninety-five Theses” nailed to the church door.  A polemic against all the Roman accretions to church tradition and dogma.  They think that Cromwell got it right when he striped the churches of statues and all the froufrou on the altars.  Gone are the candles.  Gone is the cross.  Gone are fine vestments.  This, after he deposed King Charles and chopped off his head.  This austere Protestantism was an anti-Roman screed if ever there was one.  Mary’s nice but we’re not gong to pray to her.  Reformation is the not-so-secret word of the day.  And by the way, it’s NOT an altar.  It’s a TABLE.  The High Church vs. Low Church argument, now, has mostly subsided, eclipsed by far more weighty concerns. Now, maybe it’s either one or the other, depending on one’s theology.  Says he who is snake-belly low.

So, what is the truth about Mary?  And how do we understand her place in current thinking?  The actuality of Mary is lost in the mists of time.  At best, we can say she was a young, impoverished, peasant girl.

Several years ago, I heard Mike Kinman place Mary in her rightful place.

“The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God.  And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus, for he will save his people.” 

Here is this terrified, impoverished peasant girl, pregnant, with no husband.  In that society, her grim situation is virtually a death sentence.  She will be shunned and cast out.  And, to boot, she had absolutely no choice in the matter.  No agency.

Like many young girls today, being pregnant, out on your own with minimal education is almost a death sentence.  How many will end up in dead-end jobs, or, worse yet, walking the streets, addicted, homeless and battling bouts of depression?

Not a much brighter future now than two thousand years ago.   But our Mary is no shrinking violet.

“God, if this is your plan, then let’s play it out all the way.”  Mary takes two steps back and says to the angel, “Hold my beer and watch this!”

With a fierce love bursting from her heart, Mary launches into one of the most radical songs in all human history, the “Magnificat.”  Hold my beer and watch this, indeed.  This action is going to turn the world upside down.  I might be a poor peasant girl in rags.  I may not make the cover of Vogue magazine, but through me, God is going to start shaking the pillars.  Some serious shaking:

“The high and mighty will be thrown off their thrones.  The humble and meek lifted up and the self-satisfied hot shots sent empty away.  The hungry will be fed and the rich will exit stage right empty handed.” 

With the last notes of Mary’s song dying in the distance, the angel Gabriel slinks away muttering, “Nasty woman.”

Here is the real miracle.  Out of those society regards as of no account; Out of Mary’s burning love, God pulls off one of the greatest social justice movements of all time.  And today, God still does.  God still remembers that mercy and justice are at the heart of anything that matters. 

So, just who is this Mary?  Through the centuries many images abound.

The picture that wells up in my mind is of a strong woman of agency.  Not quite Zena, Warrior, but also no wallflower.  My Mary looks more like “Rosie the Riveter.”  A face set in determination.  Muscular.  No nonsense.

I’ve had teachers like that.  Teachers who were going to pull us through the knothole of long division, no matter what they had to do.  And they weren’t about to take any crap from us wiseguys in the back row dinking around.  And learn long division we would, by God.  And, by Mrs. Tomkinson.

I’m sure we muttered under our breath, “Nasty Woman.”  Or something similar. Nasty Woman — my sixth-grade teacher was.  Mrs. Tomkinson had deadly aim with a chalkboard eraser.  Those of us who talked during worktime, knew the power and accuracy of her arm.  I speak from experience.

Those who follow in the prophetic tradition of Mary’s Fierce Love continue to raise up a mighty ruckus on behalf of the left out, the locked out the discarded. In this same tradition of NASTY WOMEN down through the ages.  They raise up a ruckus to fight for their students and pull them through long division.  Mrs. Tomkinson loved us enough to not let us make a career out of being screw-ups.

A long line of God’s cherished “Nasty Women” has sprung forth from the instant Mary refuses to be that self-effacing, passive, demure peasant girl of the patriarchy’s conjuring.  Here is a strong woman of agency.  If Mary was given the power of divine revelation, she, by God, was going to use it.  Mary, in the instant of revelation, understood the full potential of what God was doing in that moment.  “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my Savior; for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant…He has shown the strength of his arm, he has scattered the proud in their conceit.”

The prophetic lineage flowing through Mary has stretched down the ages to women to great effect.  Wonderful, strongly compassionate women.  Nasty Women.

All those determined, women on a mission who have come to congress in these past few years come to mind.  Let me tell you, these women are not dressed in simpering, pastel blue.  No!  Suffragist White.  Just like those who filled the streets demanding the vote over one hundred years ago.  Like the women of the Seneca Falls Convention of 1848.  Look it up.  It’s in your history book.

Men, to their discredit would demean and marginalize them.  “Let us explain the facts to you.”  “She was warned.  It was explained to her.  But she persisted.” “They’re just the SQUAD.”  If we can put a silly label on them, we can dismiss, demean, ridicule – and ignore their voices.  Pay no attention.  “Nasty Women.”

WE NEED THESE WOMEN.  They are the salvation of this Republic!  They are going to tell us things we don’t want to hear.  Inconvenient truths.  TRUTH.

These women are exposing the rot at the foundations of this republic.  They’re forcing us to face facts.  And to do justice for “the least of these.”   We absolutely CAN NOT have a democracy when forty percent of our citizens live in poverty and near-poverty.  Listen to James Madison!  Listen to Mother Jones.  This is fierce, tough, love.

Powerful men are learning firsthand the strength of moral force behind these women.  Like Mrs. Tomkinson, their aim is true and delivered with great power.  Ask Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon.  Ask Mitch McConnell.  Ask Joe McCarthy after Margaret Chase Smith bit into him with her “Statement of Conscience” speech.

A number, like Rashid Tlaib, represent the poorest districts in our nation.  These are the neighborhoods of dilapidated housing stocks, mind-crushing poverty, crap schools and over-policing.  These are the breeding grounds of the school to prison pipeline.  “You tell us how many kids in the fourth grade are not reading and we’ll know how many prisons to budget for.”  Women of Fierce Love get it.

Several of these neglected districts are now represented by Nasty Women who are raising a ruckus over this immoral and shameful neglect.  “Hold my beer and watch this.”  Indeed!

Congresswoman Tlaib has taken on the obscene profits and rank plundering bby Amazon.  One might raise objections to bringing up such “inconvenient truth.”  One might say it was going to incite “class warfare.”  Ms. Tllaib would reply that we already have class warfare.   And her district lost.  We’ve all lost.

With a Fierce Love every bit as determined as Mary’s who sung Magnificat, Representative Talib joins the fight.

“World leaders have accused Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos, the world’s richest man, of “acting with impunity” by pocketing profits while “dodging and dismissing [his] debts to workers, societies, and the planet” in a recent scathing open letter.[1]

“Rep. Rashida Tlaib is among the signatories to that letter and one of Bezos’ chief critics.

“This pandemic has exposed just how broken and wrong it was to allow a man with this amount of wealth to get away with not paying his fair share.”

“Amazon paid no U.S. federal income taxes in 2017 and 2018 despite posting income of $3.03 billion and $10.07 billion for each of those years respectively. In 2019, Amazon paid roughly 1.2% or $162 million on eleven and a half billion in income.  Tell me, how much did Jeff Bezos walk away with?  His secretary at the front desk paid at a higher rate on her paltry income.  Way to go, big-time spender!

Bezos and his billionaire class fight tooth and nail to keep it all.  The latest one and a half trillion in tax cuts benefited mostly those at the top five percent.  Not so much, that distraught mother or father facing an eviction notice.  Not so much, that owner of a corner deli, heartsick about laying off his last worker.  Not so much, that teacher wondering how to scrape together a few dollars to buy her own supplies because her school ran out months ago.  Probably, years ago.

Reporter Sibile Marcellus is the blessed Nasty Woman who spilled the beans on Bezos.  Cut from the same cloth as Mary and Mrs. Tomkinson.

These strong, determined women of The Squad fighting for the survival of their people – they are Mary of the Magnificat.  They’re coming after these guys in their gated mansions who give the rest of us male chauvinist piggies a bad name.

The mighty will indeed be cast from their seats.  Many of these newly elected women, Republican and Democratic alike, wrested seats from dinosaurs who have done nothing for years.  Most never actually showed at townhall meetings.  They relied on cash, cash and more cash along with name recognition to sail through.  Year after year.   Well, no more. 

There’s a new Nasty Woman in town and she looks a lot like the people of her district:  black, brown, working class white, and feisty.  Blessed Nasty Woman.  And she’s fighting for ALL our own good. 

You dink around, and that eraser’s already airborne.  You stuff your wallet with unpaid taxes, you cheat your workers and expose them to disease, make wagers on how many will get COVID-19 and die — watch out.  Nasty Woman’s hot on your trail, lawsuit in hand.

Today we celebrate Mary, no more a tool of a patriarchal church that would limit and subdue women.  No pastels.  Powerful voices, right out of the prophetic tradition of Amos, Isaiah, Miriam, Rebecca, Hagar, Jeremiah, Jael – running through the pages of prophetic activist voices directly to Jesus.

Light that fourth Advent Candle for LOVE — Mary and her Fierce Love for the “least of these.”  Let us join her song: “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord.”  Our gracious and revolutionary God would magnify all of us to raise a ruckus, a holy ruckus.

Amen

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[1] Sibile Marcellus, “Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos cashing in on pandemic at workers’ expense is ‘immoral,’ says Rep. Tlaib,” Yahoo Finance News, December 17, 2020.

December 20, 2020, Fourth Sunday of Advent

“Mary’s Sunday”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16; Canticle 15, BCP, p. 91; Romans 16:25-27;
Luke 1:26-38

This time of year, unless we’ve got COVID-19 or have been served an eviction notice, our hearts turn to the delights of the season.  It may be our favorite dishes, a fond Christmas memory, a special gift you gave someone.  For me, one cherished holiday favorite is Jai’s persimmon pudding topped with lemon sauce.  More about that later.

Memories flood in – the good, the bad and the ugly.  We probably won’t have a tree this year for just the two of us, but one memorable tree stands out.

When I was in junior high, my mom got on this artsy-craftsy kick.  We were informed that we would not be having our usual decorations and lights for the tree that year.  From a holiday season designer magazine, she came upon some gaudy monstrosity to replace our cherished family decorations.  Way too froufrou.  I could see Christmas already going down the drain.

What had usurped the place of honor on our tree were these new creations she spent weeks making out of four-inch Styrofoam balls covered with gold netting and glitter.  God-awful is what I called them. I was soon not on her favorite-person list.  She spent weeks on end putting them together – must have been forty or fifty of these suckers. Boxes full.  As we had just moved into a new house with a eighteen foot high ceiling in the entryway, we could have a really huge tree.

This brings me to the second disaster of the season.  My dad was never one to pass up a bargain.  He figured that if we waited until the very last moment to get a tree, we wouldn’t have to overpay for it.  As time grew closer and closer to Christmas Eve, and my mom had finished her growing collection of these wretched glittery balls, my brother and I were increasingly fearful that all the trees were going to be sold out.  Snarkily, I suggested that if we waited until Christmas Day, they’d probably PAY US to haul one away.

It was either Christmas Eve, or maybe the night before, when we drove from empty tree lot to empty tree lot.  My brother and I were about in tears.  This was shaping up to be the WORST CHRISTMAS EVER.

We finally found a lot with lights still on and one or two sales clerks.  Not much of a selection left.  And then my dad spied it.  A tall, fifteen-foot, white, flocked tree.  The price must have been right because Dad snapped it up in an instant.  As we drove home, he went on and on about what a deal he’d gotten.  “Let that be a lesson, boys.”  Yeah, Grinch.  A really memorable lesson on how to ruin Christmas for everybody.

It did have, though, more than enough space for Mom’s creations, and multiple strings of white lights.  I still missed our old-fashioned colored ones.  Especially the ones that bubbled up like little candles. This ersatz tree would have looked most handsome in some bank lobby or maybe a Sears department store.  But I didn’t say that, as we set about distributing presents around it.

Ready or not, the time draws neigh.  Our collect for this morning expresses the urgency.  “STIR UP YOUR POWER, O Lord, and with great might come among us…”  With Isaiah we proclaim, “…the Lord has anointed me; he has sent me to bring good news to the oppressed, to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim liberty to the captives, and release to the prisoners; to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor.”

STIR UP YOUR POWER, INDEED!   In England, this is called “Stir-Up Sunday” – the reminder for the women (I guess men don’t make the puddings)  to stir up their Christmas puddings.

In our family, it’s about persimmon pudding and joy.  We light the third candle.  You notice, it’s pink.  Actually, in your Zoom-isolated home you might not actually have a pink candle.  But pretend.  It’s pink.  Got it? 

It’s pink because the third Sunday in Advent is known as “Gaudete Sunday,” from the Latin first word of the ancient introit, “Gaudete in Domino semper: iterum dico, Gaudete — Rejoice in the Lord always: again, I say, rejoice.” – BE JOYFUL.  Be of good cheer.

When I had asked my friend, Dick, how was it even possible, with our country in such a sad-sack state of affairs:  a pandemic with Americans dying like flies, rampant conspiracy theories, homelessness, hunger, and the flat-out denial of electoral reality – how was it at all possible to have any good word to say this coming Sunday about JOY?  I recalled my preaching professor Dr. K. Morgan Edwards admonishing us students, “In scripture it is said, ‘The word of the Lord was rare in those days,’…BUT you have to preach this Sunday anyway!”

I was beginning to wish it was Deacon Pat’s turn to preach again.  Any word from me was going to sound like the really “FAKE NEWS.”   Plastic Christmas brought to you by Fr. John.

And this is the advice from my friend.  When things are looking pretty crappy — when there’s not much good news – look for the small moments of joy that break into your life.  Look for small moments for gratitude.  Great advice.  I probably owe him a beer for that one.

As I said, Jai makes the most scrumptious persimmon pudding ever.  To die for.  Top that with her lemon sauce and it’s an express ticket straight to the Land of Bliss.  As close that we’ll get in this lifetime to heaven.  Well, maybe I exaggerate.  But it’s really, really, really good.  What wouldn’t be a cause for jumping-up-and-down joy?

Being cooped up has had some very good moments.  There has been some excellent programming on television.  It’s not all a wasteland.

If you can get it, watch “The Children of Windermere,” the story of some three hundred child interns rescued from Hitler’s death camps at the end of WWII.  It follows these children from Czechoslovakia to a new home in Northeast England.  There, under the guidance of enlightened professionals and others these children were restored to wholeness as best as was possible.  By the time they were of high school age they went to live with individual families..  That they found fulfilling work, some entering the professions and academia…that they  married and raised successful children – all of it was heartwarming testimony that sometimes humanity out does itself.  We do the right thing and succeed wondrously well.  That program was enough to bring gallons of joy to my heart.  Advent joy.  Watch it with your children.  They need to know of such goodness that springs froth from the human heart.  Find it on your PBS station.  Or order it for Christmas from the PBS catalogue.

Another, most joyful event, was Kamilah Forbes’ adaptation of Ta-Nehisi Coates’ book, Between the World and Me, which builds on the 2018 Apollo Theater stage production.  Showing on HBO, Direct TV and Amazon Prime.  It is about “The Talk.”  That’s the instruction that parents of color must give their children around their sixteenth birthday on how to survive an encounter with law enforcement.  It’s that necessary talk that will allow them to survive such an encounter.  It is not a talk that white parents need to give their children.  Therein is the racial divide in this nation.  It’s the talk that our son Christopher and Alexis, should they marry and have children, will need to give theirs – and give our grandchildren.  It’s an existential concern.  It is a moment of quiet joy that white families are presently being brought into this discussion.

What I found to be most joyful about such a depressing topic is that such a crucial national discussion could be held on TV.  You know, that cultural “wasteland.”  That some white parents might get a glimpse of what others with teenagers of color must endure. 

As a white kid, I never received a talk like this from my parents.  It wasn’t necessary.  Being white and middle class, most any officer would have treated me with respect.  And they did.  Never once was I harassed, abused, or in fear for my life.  The worst worry I had was how to explain the speeding ticket to my father.  Sixty, in a thirty-five-mile-an-hour zone???  Never demeaned, even on that traffic stop –though, I did get quite a lecture from the officer.  And the ticket.

What I find to be a cause for joy is that now, for the first time, white parents are learning right there in their living rooms, in their own gut, the racial disparities that so many others must endure.  The film is beautifully done – doesn’t pull any punches – but it, in ANY decent heart, causes a surge of empathy to well up.  Such understanding is the essential ingredient to any racial healing in our land.  And that is a cause for the most profound Advent Joy.  Right there on HBO, I think MSNBC also carried it.  Order it from Amazon.  It will leave you hopeful that, together, we can fix this.  Racism need not have the last word. 

To underscore the need, another black man was shot as he was entering his home in Columbus, Ohio.  Carrying two Subway sandwiches, as his two toddlers and 72-year-old grandmother looked on in horror    Casey Goodson, 23, was killed by a sheriff’s deputy, the shooting ruled a homicide by the coroner.

When hearts and consciences are aroused, even by such tragedy, I’m taken back to our first Advent candle – HOPE and, now, our third, JOY – all part of God’s PEACE, our second Advent candle.  With a new administration committed to ending police violence, committed to dismantling Jim Crow — I choose to be hopeful. 

Tears of grief, as flowing in a New Orleans funeral procession, God can turn to joy.  Out of dirge, ragtime JOY can bust out…IF, AND ONLY IF, WE DO THE WORK.  Only if we sing a new song.  Only if we do the organizing, the voter registration and get the souls to the polls.

We can vote for a decent America – an America where #BlackLivesMatter – an America where all lives matter.

STIR UP YOUR POWER, O Lord and with great might come among us.  We hunger for even the slightest smidgen of JOY.

Now that we’re on a Zoom schedule at St. Francis, the most profound joy these past weeks is just seeing your beautiful faces.  We are Advent Joy to one another – a gift of the Lord. 

Whether it’s small family gatherings, if only by Zoom gathering, or persimmon pudding with lemon sauce, whether it’s a documentary that stirs the soul and quickens the conscience, Advent Joy is creeping in “on little cat’s feet.” In ways big and small.

Let us light that pink candle on this Third Sunday of Advent.  Light it, remembering Casey Goodson.  And light it with hearts thirsting for God’s goodness.  Light it with commitment to BE THE CHANGE you seek. 

The Spirit of the Lord is abounding in the land with Good News to the oppressed, the poor, the hungry…not only those of whom we read of in the papers and see on TV, but also for folks right here, right now. 

Light a candle for JOY.  And stay away from tacky Christmas tree ornaments. 

Amen. 

December 13, 2020, Third Sunday of Advent

“Of Persimmon Pudding and Advent Joy”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11; Canticle 3; 7; 1 Thessalonians 5:16-24;
John 1:6-8, 19-28

Many, many gone.  Over seventeen thousand since election day alone.  So many gone in this Dark Night of Despair.  This Sunday we are summoned to wakefulness.  We light the first Advent candle for HOPE.  We are summoned to wakefulness.  WAKE UP!

When I was in medic training in Fort Sam Houston, San Antonio, we learned all the various aspects of what would be required of us, whether we be out in the field or assigned to a hospital or dispensary stateside.

After lunch, in the hot, humid afternoon, we were marched to our training bungalow and shown old training films produced for the Army of WWII.  No air conditioning.  These were old scratchy, black and white films introduced with the sort of music that you may remember from the newsreels that were shown before the main feature.  If you’re around my age, you remember that music.

One afternoon, the feature of the day was a film on “folding the forty-five-degree corner of the hospital bed sheet.  The lights went off, the projector began grinding away.  The narrator was droning on, “Notice how the corner of the sheet is folded back to make a forty-five-degree fold.  Let’s look that again, this time in sloooow mooootion.” 

The lights went on with no warning and Sarge was bellowing, “Wake that man up.  Wake that man up!”  He was assigned to KP duty for the next two decades and told to stand up against the wall.

The lights went off.  Again, “Let’s see that one more time in sloooow mooootion.” 
The actor in the film hadn’t even gotten the blankets pulled up before we heard a loud crash.  Again, the lights flicked on.  This poor slob against the wall had fallen asleep again – and had fallen to the floor.  He was probably scrubbing pots and pans until Vietnam was over.  Lord have mercy.

This Advent a stirring sound is heard.  WAKE THAT MAN UP.  WAKE THAT WOMAN UP.

If we don’t sing “O Come, O Come, Emmanuel,” it would be no First Sunday in Advent at all.  Like a birthday with no cake and candles.  The Fourth of July with no fireworks.  “Rejoice!  Rejoice!  Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel!”  Yes, indeed.  Rejoice!  Something’s happening.

In this dark age of COVID-19 the night is indeed long Yet’ God is ready to bust out doing a new thing.  It’s Jessie Jackson’s chant raised to a cosmic level, “Keep Hope Alive.”

In Mark we get the wake-up call.  No gentle, “Wakie, wakie, wakie.  Here’s your coffee, dear.  Time to rise and shine.”   NO!  It’s earthquakes, thunder, planets and stars falling out of the sky.  All the powers of heaven shaken.

Mark doesn’t want anyone to sleep through the alarm.  No snooze button here.   And why all the ruckus?

“Christ has been strengthened among you—so that you are not lacking in any spiritual gift as you wait for the revealing of our Lord Jesus Christ.  He will strengthen you to the end, so that you may be blameless on the day of the lord Jesus Christ.”

WAKE THAT WOMAN UP!   WAKE THAT MAN UP! 

This IS THE DAY OF THE LORD.  ARISE, SHINE.

He is here in clouds of glory.  His angels have been dispatched and are presently gathering among us.  Folks WE are the angels appointed for this dissolute day.  WE are the power and glory for this hour.  WE are the ones elected.  Called into tender fellowship with the Living God who now appears among us.  Emmanuel.  So…

WAKE UP.  GET UP.  GET ENGAGED.  And don’t be attached to the results.”  This was always the summons from my friend Ed Bacon every first Sunday in Advent.  To whom else did you think the Lord was shouting?

And while the summons is dramatic and abrupt, so often the work seems mundane.  In this time of pandemic, it seems a most modest request.  Wear your mask.  Keep social distance.  Don’t have people over for the Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Don’t sing.  Don’t have indoor worship.  Such common sense, but a great burden on the heart.  Be awake to what will give life, to what will allow us to celebrate a most Merry Christmas together next year.  After the vaccine.

We are summoned to lift up in prayer all essential workers whose health is at risk so we can minimally carry on.  Grocery store clerks, nurses, therapists, tellers, police officers, pharmacy assistants.  We lift up in prayer students struggling to master lessons from afar, across the internet.  Teachers baffled by new technology.  Something they never learned in their ed classes.

We lift up in prayer those who have lost everything:  wives and husbands, homes and incomes.  If you’re in the supermarket parking lot and hear the tinkle of that little bell.  Do drop something in the Salvation Army kettle.  They are Christ’s hands, heart and wallet.  They serve those we probably don’t run across in communities like Claremont or Alamo Heights.

In this darkness drear, STAY AWAKE.  You may be the only light about.  Let it shine.  COVID-19 will not have the last word.  It may get some of us, but it will not subdue the full Body of Christ.  Even in the midst of death, LOVE WILL PREVAIL.  Do not despair.  Hold on to each other and be of good courage.

In the early days of the Jesus Movement, in the midst of plague and death, followers of The Way, nursed the sick and dying.  It was not so among the fearful, those not of the household of faith.  Even their dearest — a child, a husband, a wife or beloved servant who took ill, would be cast out into the street.  Left to die in the gutter.  Not so with those of the Christians.  Those who gave the last ministrations to the dying, were soon, in their turn, the recipients of the same care. 

Even pagan philosophers were astounded and won over by such love.

Knowing much more about the spread of disease, we sophisticates, certainly, would do otherwise.  You think?  Walk down any city street and encounter the many wearing no mask.  Look at last summer’s Sturgis Motorcycle Rally in South Dakota.  Corona virus followed those cyclists home to communities all across the country, spreading the contagion.

Tell me how sophisticated we moderns are.  Look at Trump’s Superspreader Rallies that left behind waves of illness and filled hospital ICU wards fourteen days afterwards.  And morgue trailers.  And now, mass graves.  Speak to me of our modern enlightenment, and I say, “Lord have mercy.”  Tell that to the exhausted medical staffs with nothing left to give.

STAY AWAKE.

Martin Luther King, Jr. reminds us, “It is always the right time to do the right thing.”  Now is the RIGHT TIME.  Today God gives us every good gift and a sound summons:  Heal the sick.  Feed the hungry.  Shelter the homeless.  Wear your mask.  Write that letter to your congress critter.  Demand relief for the destitute, the hungry.  This illness IS a national emergency.  We need to be on a war footing.

In earthquake, in sunset, in the exhausted face of a doctor, in the hopeful smile of a young girl, in the cup of coffee offered a homeless man, we discern the inbreaking of divine illumination, the urgency of the moment. The Call of Advent.  However God gets our attention, it’s wakie, wakie time.

In this fragile body of Christ, yes, we the Church, in we who feebly struggle, Christ is here to shine.  No matter how downcast we might be, Christ is come in our midst with great power and glory.  WAKE UP.

Let us light that first candle for HOPE.  WE are that HOPE.  WE are the Light of the World.   “Signed. Sealed. Delivered.”  Reporting for duty.

Amen.

November 29, 2020, First Sunday of Advent

“Wake Up”

The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney

Isaiah 64:1-9a; Psalm 80:1-7; 1 Corinthians 1:1-9;
Mark 13:24-37