House of Hope – San Bernardino

Let’s hear it for neutrinos.  No, they are not some new dietary supplement or weight loss pill.  They’re all around you – billions of them, moving through the walls of your house and your body every second – “like moonlight through a screen door.”[1]  Left over from the Big Bang.  They’re the flimsiest of all atomic sub-particles, with a mass of almost less than nothing.

Now, here’s the thing.  In the chaos of the first instant of creation, out of the Big Bang, a quirky thing about these particles may be the reason we’re all here.  Why there’s something rather than nothing.   Scientists in Japan have recently found that in the resultant primordial atomic soup the universe, in those first nanoseconds of existence, we were left with a few more neutrinos than antineutrinos.  Between matter and antimatter, we “wound up with an excess of matter: stars, black holes, oceans and us.”

All due to neutrinos, a particle almost less than nothing.  God works in mysterious ways splendid wonders to perform.

So, I say we ought to have a National Neutrino Week to celebrate.  Certainly, more weighty than National Pickle Week!

“In my Father’s house are many rooms; if it were not so, would I have told you that I go to prepare a place for you.”  Yeah, God seems to have started with neutrinos, almost less than nothing.  Marvelous to behold.

Louis Armstrong nailed it when he crooned, “I see trees of green, red roses too.  I see them bloom for me and you.  And I think to myself what a wonderful world.”  Creation is God’s wonderful mansion, a wonderful world.  Spacious rooms for all of us here.   O\n this earth and beyond.  Room for trees of green, and for you and me.  Room for all in God’s neighborhood.  Each one precious.  Ask Mr. Rogers.  He knows the neighborhood.

Jesus may not have known anything about neutrinos, but in giving last instructions to his followers, he certainly knew the Heart of the Compassionate One.  “I go to prepare a place for you.  And how do we find that place, Thomas asked.   It is a place in the heart of God.  Jesus is the way.  What is his way?  Thomas, it is the way of gentleness, peace, humility, and a generous love for everything that is the gift of God – that is the way to this wonderful gospel dwelling.  That is the way to a bright, blessed day.  The dark sacred night – oh, so many splendid rooms.  And when our race is run, and we’re enfolded into the heart of God, might we sing with Louis Armstrong, “What a Wonderful World.”  I want to be in that choir.  No audition necessary I hear.

Even in the midst of COVID-19, we dwell in a wonderfully crafted house of many rooms.  God bless those sneaky neutrinos.  Hedgehog, robins, jumping spiders, too.  Ferns and even the God-blessed devil grass.  What a wonderful world!

Lately, I suggested that those disrespecting the rest of us by congregating in violation of “shelter-in-place” orders – these disrespectful folks might accept the responsibility for their actions.  As my friend Susan said, “Liberty does not give you the right to shoot a hole in the side of the boat we’re all in.”  Should such come down with COVID-19 as a result of their foolish actions, might they refrain from using our free (socialist???) medical services.  As our hospitals are already overwhelmed and medical staffs are exhausted, might they, perhaps, consider dying quietly at home instead of needlessly using up scarce PPE?  Just saying.

This proposition set off a lively debate that went on for hours on my Facebook page.  Most came down on the side of personal responsibility.  Some, however, thought those who dared to propose such just didn’t like the president and wanted to make him look bad.  Anyway, masks are just for liberals and wimps.  A few were downright nasty.

We arrive at the first room – the Room of the Penalty Box.

In the Lord’s house are many rooms, for many varied opinions.  Yes, we will disagree, but needn’t be disagreeable.  Our Father’s/Mother’s house has rooms for all, and a special room for those when unfit for human consumption. A space known as the Room for Nasty – yes, the Room of the Penalty Box.  It is a place for fearful, angry folks to come to their senses.  Rejoin the human family.  It is that place for all of us to come into the calming embrace of all that is holy and just, as the kids would say, hyper down. 

Some took umbrage at President George W’s call to unity last Sunday.  As photos of medical workers and ordinary Americans wearing masks, elderly and the young flashed before the screen — In a very moving montage to inspirational music in the background, Dear Old W urged us to take hold of what binds us together, our commonality as Americans.

“Let us remember how small our differences are in the face of this shared threat. In the final analysis, we are not partisan combatants. We are human beings, equally vulnerable and equally wonderful in the sight of God. We rise or fall together and we are determined to rise.”[2]

One curmudgeon, reading this, referred to the President W. as “satanic.”  No, this wasn’t an angry Democrat.  The writer also used the same epithet for Clinton – not sure which one he was lambasting.  I was afraid to ask.

All of us wondrous people with a room for each – it all began with those blessed neutrinos.  In this time of COVID-19 there is a room for us when we are completely out of sorts – the Room of the Penalty Box where we might contemplate our place among God’s neutrinos as they stream through our bodies and practice gratitude.

Yes, let them, sometimes all of us, froth at the mouth and distort the truth.  Let all canons of reason be tossed aside.  Maybe call this essential space of time out the Room of the Penalty Box.  Cry.  Curse.  Jump up and down.  Stamp our foot.  And when done, satiated and exhausted, come to our senses.  There’s a room in the Lord’s house to calm ourselves.  This niche also known as the Calming Room. There our Lord awaits us with the salve of peace and sweet reason.  He awaits to enfold us in his arms and assure us that we are loved and accepted just as we are.  It will all be okay.  In the words of Julian of Norwich, “And all shall be well, all manner of things shall be well.” 

The Room of Gratitude awaits for those of thankful heart.  It’s a room of warm embrace for those who reach out in gratitude.  An attitude of gratitude goes a long, long way to brighten up God’s Wonderful World.

This last week we had a “Social Distancing Parade of Love and Support” of students who wanted to let their teachers know how much they were loved and appreciated in Claremont.  Students, with their families, piled into cars and showed up at one of the local elementary schools.  It was the first time in months that teachers and students had seen one another face to face.   Teachers stood in front of their school, spaced six feet apart, as a line of cars stretching half a mile drove by honking with students at the windows waving and shouting appreciation.  This parade of love and affection went on for over half an hour.  There is in God’s house a very special room for those who give encouragement and lift up.  President George W, that is your room.  Just down the hall to the right.

There is a room for all who lend their shoulder to the task.  Doctors, nurses, therapists we know.  I’m also thinking of the grocery store worker who at night stocks the shelves and those who check us out.. 

There’s a special place in God’s heart for a farmer who is saddened at the sight of a mountainous pile of unsold potatoes in his field.  Then comes a flash of Gospel brilliance, sacred inspiration.  Hours after a call to the local food bank, a smile crosses his face.  He stares at the place where before, there had been a huge pile of disappointment.  All that is left and was the scattered  remains of the few spuds no one had grabbed.  Well done, Farmer Brown.  Well done, Farmer Elaine.

There is a Room for those who Hunger.  Hunger never went away in America, that demon yet abounds, now more rampant than ever.  It is reported that, with millions now struggling to provide food for their families, there are those who would strangle the food stamp program.  What?  Let them eat dirt?  In the Great Recession, even the most tight-fisted agreed to a raise of fifteen percent for food stamp recipients.  But now?  Not so much.  There’s a room in God’s heart where the hunger pangs of children with empty bellies are acknowledged.  A room where some of our political leaders and food bank volunteers rush to meet the need.  They step up, while others slink shamefully away saying, “Not my problem.”  Yes, for those unwilling to help, go back a few paragraphs to the Penalty Box Room.  Those with a few hours to spare, a few dollars to spare, enter into the delight of God and these families.  Jesus heads up the serving line.  Welcome, all God’s children and their anxious, frazzled parents.  For those who hunger, yes, they shall be fed.  We are God’s hands and wallet at service.

There’s the Room of Education and Enlightenment for the Stupid and Dull of Heart.  A place for all of us who, from time to time, make dumb choices, and sometimes make a career of dumb choices.  A special room for those who refuse to see what is going on about us – who haven’t a clue.

 It’s the room for the quack doctor who thinks we might cure this disease by injecting Lysol or Clorox.  It’s for the ill-informed who think COVID-19 might be eliminated by inserting ultraviolet lights into our bodies in places where the sun tends not to shine.

This is the room for national healing.  Justice John Paul Stevens admonished: “A democracy cannot function effectively when its constituent members believe laws are being bought and sold.”  Needed, a room for those too blinded to understand what they inflict on our precious democracy.  Lord, do we ever need some enlightenment!

This is the room for those a DJ referenced when he quipped, “The man on the news said at the end of the day what’s going to keep you safe is common sense.   Some of y’all in trouble…”  Or those of whom Mark Twain spoke, “No amount of evidence will ever persuade an idiot.”  For these, God has the Room of Remediation.  Don’t shove, don’t crowd in, folks.  It’s a mighty big room, more space than you can ever imagine.  It had to be.  Make sure you have your mask secured and keep your social distancing.

“In my Father’s house are many rooms.”  It may all have been through the miracle of those infinitesimally tiny neutrinos and how they sorted themselves out that were here.  All in the blink of an eye, that God fashioned this marvelous mansion of many rooms.  A room for all, no matter our disposition.  It’s a Wonderful World, blue skies, green trees, starry night and all.  It’s the very first gift of God’s grace – the gift of creation itself.  Something rather than nothing.  You and I.  And rutabagas.

As we move through these days of COVID-19, as researchers mightily strive for a vaccine, as nurses and doctors comfort the dying, I offer a smidgen of a prayer an anonymous someone offered up – thoughts that came from the Room of Gospel Heart.  Thomas, this prayer will get you close along The Way.

May we who are merely inconvenienced

remember those whose lives are at stake.

May we who have no risk factors

remember those who are vulnerable.

May we who have the luxury of working from home

remember those who must choose between their health or paying their rent.

May we who have the flexibility to care for our children when their schools close

remember those who have no options.

May we who have to cancel our trips

remember those who have no safe place to go.

May we who are losing our margin money in the tumult of the economic market

remember those who have no margin at all.

May we who settle in for quarantine at home

remember those who have no home.

As fear grips our country

let us choose love.

During this time when we cannot physically wrap our arms around each other let us find ways to be the loving embrace of God to our neighbors.

Now, let’s all safely celebrate National Neutrino week.  Safely socially distanced, of course.   Amen.

---

[1] Dennis Overbye, “Neutrinos At Heart of Matter?”, New York Times, Science Times section, April 28, 2020.

[2] President George W. Bush@TheCalltoUnite

May 10, 2020
5 Easter

The Rev. John C. Forney
John 14:1-14

“National Neutrino Week”

Life is an incredible road trip.  Look through the milestones of your life.  Who would have imagined some of them.  In retrospect, it’s been quite a journey filled to the brim with chance, sadness, friends, surprises and glory.  As the protagonist reminisces in the final act of Eugene O’Neil’s play, Long Day’s Journey into Night, “It’s a late day for regrets...”  In the meantime: It’s on the Road Again.” – loved that song!

I think my awakening, real awakening to the larger world around me came in junior high.  From the seminal events of that time I can say I became aware of the larger journey on which I, my family, and our society had embarked.

The Yankees were at the top of the American League and almost always a shoo-in to make the World Series.  Back in the 50s I knew most of the lineup.  Those of us who were fans couldn’t wait for the power to come to bat – Mickey Mantle, Yogi Berra, Roger Maris.  We devoted fans knew that Casey Stengel had put together one of the best lineups in baseball history.  Add into that, with Whitey Ford on the mound and our team was invincible. 

The Broadway musical later made as a film, “Damn Yankees,” added a bit of titillation to fandom for prepubescent boys as Gwen Verdon shimmied across the stage belting out the torch song, “Whatever Lola Wants Lola Gets.”  We knew that Tad Hunter was a goner.  I sure was.

With President Eisenhower in the White House and prosperity right around the corner, everybody I knew at my school liked Ike.  I still have my “I Like Ike” buttons. My dad, being a successful dentist, you bet we liked Ike a whole bunch.  Our family would watch both national conventions from gavel to gavel.  And with the Interstate Highway under construction, one could soon drive from one end of the country to the other. However, I did think it a great loss when the town of Hell, California, out in the Mojave Desert, was wiped out by the freeway bulldozers.

But there were hidden fault lines that we as children knew little of.  Oh, there were a few boys we were not to play with.  They were the wrong color, lived in the “projects,” or were “dirty.”  Our family had moved from Compton because there were beginning to be too many of this sort of people coming in.  Blockbusters, my dad called them.

But for an upwardly mobile middle-class family, we were doing okay.  My mom got a new Chrysler 300 D.  A turquoise convertible that could really haul when Dad punched it.  Our nation had a sense of purpose – to keep those Commie (you-know-what) from taking over the world.  And pumping fluoride into our drinking water to poison America.  Yeah, there was a big billboard about that plot on the vacant field at Atlantic and Willow.  My dad said it was put up by a bunch of Kooks.  Being a dentist, he heartily approved of fluoride.

Fault lines began to appear.  I knew nothing of the rural poverty in West Virginia that my father had escaped during the Great Depression.  I knew nothing of the poverty-stricken ghetto in Willowbrook just to the south.  I had never even seen a black person.  I did know something of the poor white kids from the projects in North Long Beach.  And the kids from the blue-collar families on the other side of Orange Avenue whose fathers worked at Douglas Aircraft.  Hidden fault lines.

Those fault lines have now grown to a great chasm of unrelenting hostility and suspicion.  Yes, most everybody in our neighborhood went to church.  The Methodist Church or Catholic Church by our school.  Or the Presbyterian Church over by the new shopping area.  And virtually everybody in my church was just like me and my family.  White.  Prosperous.  And Republican.

Then came the Fair Housing initiative.  People began choosing up sides.  A black dentist and his family were flooded out of their home by our white neighbors while off on vacation.  I was aghast that some of my neighbors would do something like this. 

Soon thereafter,r in the 60s, came the Vietnam War.  In college I was beginning to learn more of the world.  There were the Beatniks.  My dad was terrified that I would be politically seduced by these no-account Commie bums.  Little did he know!  Gospel verities were beginning to seep into my spirit.  My journey began to take a spiritual flavor.  “What’s It All About, Alfie,” became my theme song.  In all the social ferment my road brightened.

I had discovered the Social Gospel – our aim being not so much to get to heaven, but to bring a piece of heaven down to earth.  “On earth as in heaven,” the prayer went.  Social justice.  Racial harmony.  Labor’s right to organize.  Yes, and Fair Housing.  The road I was on with my family was becoming very bumpy.  Full of potholes. 

In the meantime, I was discovering this Jesus and his friends who were constantly on the road.  Their journey was an overflowing blessing, a bit of eternity.  My faith journey began to take shape and substance.  It was about unmerited grace, life brimful and overflowing.  It was about peace and justice for the “least of these.”  It was about the gift of community.

Now, in the midst of this greatest challenge, we seem to have lost any sense of national purpose.  No Walter Cronkite to tell it like it is.  We have a hundred channels, each with their own version of reality.  Their “alternative facts.”  We aren’t going to the moon.  Until a few weeks ago, we weren’t going much of anywhere on L.A. freeways, mostly turned parking lots.   Now they’re empty and we still aren’t going anywhere. 

We’re sealed off, one from another behind different versions of reality.  There’s no wider prosperity to be had.  Even the last federal stimulus for small businesses went to only a small percentage of the larger firms at the top.  Shop keepers and the owners of the Mexican and El Salvadorian restaurants of my old Pico-Union neighborhood, those up and down Broadway in East Los Angeles – they’re still waiting.  The small boutique shops in Claremont?  For most – Nada.

In the midst of all of it is that luminous journey yet beckoning seekers.  Its riches and mystery can be found in many of our communities of faith.  This journey, the same that Jesus daily traveled with his friends, is still the true North Star.

On the road again, after that first Easter, a couple of dejected followers glumly made their journey to a little village called Emmaus.  As they walked, another joined them.

“Why the long faces, fellows,” he asked.  They couldn’t believe this.  Didn’t this guy know what had happened these last few days?  How could anyone be so dense?  “Don’t you know — the things that have taken place?”  “What things?” he asked.  They proceeded to explain to him the recent events concerning Jesus – how he was a great prophet of God, how he healed and was mighty in deed and word.  How he was condemned by the authorities and was crucified.  “You don’t know these things?  You haven’t heard?” incredulously they asked.  “Where have you been?  You must be the only one who doesn’t know!”

At that point, the stranger interrupted them.  “Oh, you foolish men, slow of heart to believe the testimony of the prophets.”  He explained the scriptures concerning himself but they did not recognize him.

As they neared the town, the stranger made as to leave and go his way, but the travelers pressed him to join them for supper, for shadows were lengthening and night was neigh.  That evening, as he broke bread and blessed the cup their eyes were opened.  And he had vanished from their sight.  As they discussed what had just taken place, one spoke truth.  “Didn’t our hearts burn within us as he revealed the meaning of the scriptures?”

On the road again.  That is where we shall ever meet him.  As bread is broken in his name and we join in prayerful study of his Word – he is yet among us.  The mountains may tumble and the sea may dry up.  But, as the old hymn says, “What a Friend We Have….”  A companion on the way.

Into this ragged journey, God continues to send those touched by angelic messengers, whose who announce, “Peace to all of goodwill.”  Fearful neo-Nazis may parade the streets with their torches, and message of hate, but the Jesus message is deeper and shall endure.  We of good will shall endure.

Men and women of Good Will continue to grace our journey through these days of COVID-19.  There is Dr. Peter Hotez, Dean of the School of Tropical Medicine of Baylor College of Medicine.  His daily journey begins sometime around four in the morning.  He’s back again at his lab beginning another twelve-hour day working on a vaccine.  Hoping to beat that eighteen-month window.  Christ is surely on that journey with the good doctor.

We think of those teachers who saddle up their vans and autos to caravan through the neighborhoods of their students.  Honking and waving.  Cheering them on in their studies.  Christ indeed travels the streets with those teachers.

What godly companions now join our journey through this disease ravaged land indeed!  We and they certainly are on the road again – the Glory Road.  And that’s the road I want to travel. 

These days, the cup we bless is full to the brim with tears, those of Dustin’s family and friends in West Virginia while they keep vigil as he struggles for each breath on a ventilator.  Yes, even on that perilous journey – as friends and family join together in prayer – join all across the internet – the Risen Christ is as present to them as he was to two unknown travelers on their way to Emmaus –present as a faithful companion to sanctify and to bless.

We can only do so much in this life, but the Lord in solidarity blesses our hands and minds for the task at hand.  And when it’s done.  It’s done.  No regrets.

The evening prayer from the New Zealand Book of Prayer says all that needs to be said for me each evening.

Lord,
it is night.

The night is for stillness.
Let us be still in the presence of God.

It is night after a long day.
What has been done has been done;
what has not been done has not been done;
let it be.

The night is quiet.
Let the quietness of your peace enfold us,
all dear to us,
and all who have no peace.  

The night heralds the dawn.
Let us look expectantly to a new day,
new joys, new possibilities.

In your name we pray.
Amen. [1]

---

[1] This prayer in “Night Prayer” of the New Zealand Prayer Book, p. 184.

April 26, 2020
 3 Easter

The Rev. John C. Forney
Luke 24:13-35

“On the Road Again”

We are living in most interesting, and terrifying, times.  Isn’t that the ancient curse — May you live in interesting times?

Recently, I placed on my Facebook page a post from my friend Ravi:

“Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be going to a bank with a mask on asking for money.”

To which another friend, Philip, who bills himself as having been a consumer of the State of California Department of Corrections’ services, replied: “Been there – done this before it was socially acceptable. How times have changed.” Yes indeed, how times have changed.

Indeed, times have changed.  One change I’ve noticed is that people, especially our young folks are demanding much more of our institutions.  The church for instance.

You remember that old song mocking easy religion?  “Plastic Jesus?”  “I don’t care if it rains or freezes long as I got my plastic Jesus glued to the dashboard of my car.”  It reminded me of our seminary’s spring show of tacky religious art.

This Sunday, in many churches, is what is known as Thomas Sunday.  Thomas wants to see Jesus before he will believe.  And how will he know that the one he gazes upon is the real McCoy?  By the wounds in his hands and feet.  By the gash in his side where he was pierced by a Roman spear.  He wants the real thing.  By his wounds – and that is exactly how he will know.

We will know the authentic representation of Christ – for the Church is the Body of Christ incarnate – when we see the wounds.  Authentic Christianity enters into the struggle, the heartache, of “the least of these.”  It bears the wounds, the worry, of the homeless, the incarcerated, the addicted and the defeated. 

If it’s only raffles and bingo, it’s something else.  But certainly not the body of Christ.  I love beautiful music and good liturgy as much as any Episcopalian, but all of it is offal and rubbish if doesn’t then lead into the streets and lanes, into the farmlands, into the villages and cities where God’s people are mightily suffering.

That is the question of the skeptic inside and  outside the community of faith.  How will I recognize the authentic Body of Christ in this time of COVID19?  Does the Church have anything at all to say?  

Saccharine sweetness of Easter lilies and scented candles is certainly not what I’ve been seeing lately on the evening 6:00 O’clock News.  What I’ve been seeing is my wounded Lord.  He is the face of thousands.  You know him.  His face is that of your neighbor, maybe a family member.  Mary Ellen, who always sits on the other side of the pew from you Sunday after Sunday.  It’s Fred, your insurance agent.  It’s Dorothy and Ramon who clean the office after you’ve left at five O’clock. All, whose lives have now been turned upside down.

On Holy Saturday I posted on my Facebook page a rendition of the Wounded Christ of the Coronavirus Ward. In this portrayal, his virus-ravaged body is being lowered from a gurney by doctors, nurses and paramedics.  Attached to his chest are still the leads of a heart monitor.  He wears a face mask and little else to hide his nakedness.  This modern Pieta is not a pleasant picture.  Not what you’d want for your living room décor.

One woman wrote back, not so much in disgust or indignation – but what seemed an honest question, “Why did you post this?”  I explained that as a follower of Jesus, I felt we need to be aware – I need to be aware –of the wounded humanity Christ serves yet today.  He took upon himself their exhaustion.  Their helplessness. Their sorrow. He bore it all.  And does today.

This portrayal of suffering is reminiscent of the sixteenth century Isenheim altar piece by Grunewald.  On it, Christ bears not only the agony of crucifixion but also the suppurating sores of the Black Plague which had killed almost one half of Europe’s population.  That work of art is the answer to Thomas’s demand to see.

The true and authentic sign of the Jesus Movement is those places where his followers are to be found.  Not sitting on comfortable pews, but on the streets passing out food.  In the hospital corridors with the sickest of the sick.  In the halls of Congress lobbying for more funding.   Christ’s followers will bear the exhaustion of spent ambulance drivers and nurses in their own psyches.  The faces of the dying will haunt nightly dreams after they’ve fallen exhausted into bed.  Christ’s followers will admit Our Lord’s pain into their being. 

Unless I see the wounds…  There is your answer, dear Thomas.  It is an answer to be found in devastated nursing homes and ICU wards.  It is to be found in our prisons where we warehouse so many whose only crime was the inability to afford a decent lawyer or to make bail.   

One of the questions in the baptismal covenant of my church is: “Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?”  This is now put-up-or-shut-up time.  There’s virtually something that each one of us is called do.  No plastic Jesus beckons, but the real McCoy. 

I can’t believe the text message I received the other day from a group called California Volunteers.  They were summoning retired nurses, doctors, respiratory therapists – anybody but anybody who might lend a hand to tend the sick.  Even an old, very old, Army Medic whose skills are now some fifty years out of date.  I responded that I was engaged in this effort in other ways – and I prayed that that was true.  But thanked the caller for thinking of me.  I so wish I had had the health and youth to have said yes.  My heart said yes.  But my mind told me that I would be more of a liability than help.  And my wife would have thought I was crazy.  She’d have me in the Memory Care Unit before I could hitch up my pants..

Our streets now throng with thousands upon thousands who bear the wounds of Christ. Fear and want distort their visage.  Can I be tested?  Where’s the money to pay the rent?  To buy food for my family?  I think I have symptoms, am I dying?  What will happen to my kids?  I’ve just finished three eighteen-hour shifts in a row.  How do I go on? 

Not all wounds are visible to the naked eye.  One of my trusted columnists, David Brooks, asked his readers how their mental health was holding up in this time of disease, job loss and isolation.  He asked them to send in anything they wanted to share with David’s readership.  Thousands of letters poured in bearing grievous testimony to the wounds of Christ in our land.

Hear the heartfelt anguish of one senior, a woman living in Fresno, California:

“I am normally a very positive person, outgoing, happy, energetic. Definitely a glass half-full. However, lately I cannot get through a day without tears, often sobs. I am terrified for myself and my family and everyone in the world. All the things I love to do, I’m now afraid to do. …”[1]

Here’s the letter from a college student at Pennsylvania State College.  At first this young man thought the quarantine would be a “lark.” He would be relieved of some onerous responsibilities.  But now it’s a gray, washed-out living hell:

“I’ve been gripped by a deep depression. My appetite is very low. I’m sleeping far too much to feel as lethargic as I do.”

“My future, which seemed so bright a few months ago as I anticipated graduating in May, now seems bleak and hopeless: How will I find a job with the economy tanking? How will I pay hundreds of dollars per month when my loan bills kick in during August?”[2]

These are no less the wounds of Christ, just because they can’t be seen.  I salute David Brooks for having the compassion to enter into these searing tales.  David is the sort of Christian I would aim to be.  Thomas, do you yet see our wounded Lord?

And each day, people of faith and no faith, behold the wounded Christ and join with others to apply salve to those wounds.

I think of the taxi cab drivers in one city who have volunteered to deliver thousands of meals to the shut in.  I think of that dedicated public servant who has gone far beyond any reasonable expectation, processing unemployment claims beyond quitting time.  Folks, he is not part of the “deep state.”  He is a dedicated public servant, one who ministers to the Christ of the destitute.  You’ve seen the lines at a San Antonio food bank that stretch beyond what the eye can see.  You’ve seen those volunteers laboring side by side with the National Guard to deliver boxes of groceries to families who never in their wildest dreams thought they’d have to ask for free food. 

I ask the skeptic in all of us – that doubting Thomas – might you, in a blind leap of faith, join these, your fellow Americans, on the distribution line?  At the homeless shelter?  Sewing face masks?  Christ awaits you.  Might now be the time to put aside your niggling hesitations and lend a hand?  We need you. The living Christ needs you.  You are his hands, his heart, his soul.

The blessing to be found is to be beyond measure.  It is to be counted as a smidgen of Life Eternal.  I guarantee it.  Oh, Thomas, see the imprint of the nails, the lance.  Touch. Feel.

Oh, and my friend Philip?

My friend Philip now has many years of long-term sobriety and is a credit to his church and to his community. He’s one of those positive people who daily makes a difference. Recovery is real!  As real as the ever lovin’ Grace of God.   Amen.

---

[1] David Brooks, “The Pandemic of Fear and Agony,” New York Times, April 9, 2020.

[2] Ibid.

Dear friends in Christ

April 19, 2020
 2 Easter

The Rev. John C. Forney
John 20:19-31

“Unless I See …”

“When leaving his surgery on the morning of April 16, Dr. Bernard Rieux felt something soft under his foot.  It was a dead rat lying in the middle of the landing.

On the spur of the moment he kicked it to one side, and without giving it a further thought continued on his way downstairs.”[1]

So, Camus begins his narration of the pestilence that was to shortly overtake a most ordinary town on the Algerian coast in his novel, The Plague.  On the most ordinary of spring days.  Life would soon be completely disrupted, all its daily patterns and conventions. 

This is what COVID-19 has done to America, and to the entire world.

This Holy Week, we remain sealed up in tombs of fear.  It is serendipitous that Passover began this evening at sundown.  Passover celebrates the liberation of the Hebrew people from the land of slavery.  It is often through the scourge of plague and calamity that God frees.  Yes, stuff happens.  But as Rahm Emanuel is fond of saying, “Never let a good crisis go to waste.”  This monumental crisis has laid waste our health care system; it has killed hundreds of thousands, and has devastated economies across the globe.  We turn this tragedy to good as we pull closer together as a nation, as one planet.  As we relearn our commonality with one another and with the natural world.  Might we relearn the wonder of clean air in our cities.  There is no Planet B.

Friends, Easter is not just a rumor.  Easter is now.  This pestilence will subside.  The Angel of Death will pass us by.  The boulder will be rolled away.   

We now catch a few splinters of that glorious Easter morn.  Like the touching letters of thanks from all across our nation – letters thanking the nurses, doctors and other hospital staff who have put their lives at risk to care for the ill. 

One letter read, “I am so grateful for the few hours out of the week we were able to be huddled together as the core of the family — all you did to console my fears and assure me that we’re going to get through this.  Thank you for being the amazing mother and nurse that you are.  I love you, your daughter, Tina.”

And another letter to a doctor. “These shields were made with love and appreciation by myself and my children, ages 10 and 8.  We cannot express our care and concern enough for you.  Keeping you in our hearts and prayers.”

These messages, and so many more, are the truth of Easter this year.  Can’t you feel the growing warmth on your face?  Expressions of thanks to our nurses, doctors, grocery store clerks, sanitation workers – all who are the incarnation of God’s message of hope.  They are God’s Easter glory. 

Friends, the stone of this tomb of darkness is ajar.  It may be many more weeks before we will finally emerge from COVID-19, but Easter is here.  For people of hope, it is always the “FIRST DAY OF THE WEEK!”

Let us wholeheartedly proclaim this Sunday, “Alleluia.  Christ is risen. He is risen indeed.  Alleluia!”

Happy Easter to all.

Fr. John

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[1] Albert Camus, The Plague (New York: The Modern Library, 1948).

Dear friends in Christ

April 12, 2020
Easter Day

The Rev. John C. Forney
John 20:1-18

“On the First Day of the Week”

Today the clergy of the Episcopal Diocese of Los Angeles met together by Zoom with our bishops.  Bishop John has requested that we not distribute palm crosses, as our usual custom for Palm Sunday.  Furthermore, we will not even be gathering as a worshipping community this Palm Sunday!  Folks, we are in ecclesiastical lockdown.  Need I remind you of the church that recently met for worship in Florida against all common sense.  I guess they thought they could “pray away” the virus.  The upshot was disastrous – a new cluster of COVID-19 cases.

We will be missing the Renewal of Vows service at St. John’s Cathedral, Easter music, our floral cross Alicia and her helpers always prepare.  I’ll miss the Stations of the Cross lead by Deacon Pat.  I miss it all, and it sucks!  Gathering gloom.

More than that, what really sucks is the growing number of cases and attendant deaths now consuming our nation and the world.  It is scenes of exhausted nurses and doctors who’ve done all they could to save a COVID victim, only to helplessly witness another tragic death as the result of their frantic efforts.

Governor Cuomo of New York was pained to inform his citizens that that state only has enough ventilators for six more days until their stockpile is exhausted.  No governor should ever have to deliver this sort of news to his or her people.  Hearts across America are breaking. Gathering gloom to be sure.

And yet, in some places we frolic about as if it’s eat-drink-and-be-merry time.  Let’s have a drink, go to the beach.  Many are behaving like the ill-fated passengers aboard that ocean liner in Katherine Anne Porter’s Ship of Fools.[1]

With no national procurement policy, states are bidding up the price of priceless medical equipment, sometimes to over fifteen times the usual.  Price gouging in times of emergency used to be punished with heavy fines.  Even jail time.  I dare not even mention what President Lincoln did to war profiteers.  Now, it’s let the good times roll in our sacred free market. There’s a buck to be made.  Yes, gathering gloom.

Many who danced about and waved palm branches at Jesus’ entry into Jerusalem would shortly be shouting, “Crucify.  Crucify.  Crucify,” at his trial later that week.  The sky would darken and rain beat down on the sodden stragglers.  Gathering gloom, indeed.

And as Bishop John reminded those of us “zoomed in,” God’s resurrecting work is not contingent on our diminished hopes.  God’s resurrecting promise may for a time seclude itself in a tomb of our ephemeral emotions and fears.  Neither life, nor death, height nor depth, coronavirus nor transient despair shall separate us from the love of God and our faith in the Christ Jesus.

There will be an Easter.  Count on it!  When Governor Cuomo put out the call for volunteer doctors and nurses this week, an entire relief battalion, 20,000 strong, answered from all corners of America.  Easter People, indeed!

Though we not be together for joyous Alleluias, yet an Easter will rise up in our hearts.  A spiritual and efficacious Eucharist awaits, though we gaze not upon the elements.  Taste and see that the Lord is good.  We will persevere as the Holy Feast itself.  We are God’s Easter.

May the Lord richly bless you as we move through Holy Week.  We long to hear each other’s voices and clasp familiar hands.  Peace, my sisters and brothers.

With love and affection,

Fr. John

[1] Katherine Anne Porter, Ship of Fools (New York: Harcourt Brace, 1966)

Dear friends in Christ
April 5, 2020, Palm/Passion Sunday

The Rev. John C. Forney
Matthew 21:1-11, 26:36-27:66