Star of Wonder, Star of Night
Today is the Epiphany of our Lord. In the Western Christianity we celebrate this event by hailing the arrival of eastern sages who followed the star till it led them to the Holy Family gathered around the manger. That star sits atop many a Christmas tree. It is celebrated in verse and hymn.
And sometimes it’s celebrated in church pageants this time of year. Like the one many, many years ago in a little fishing village in Alaska. The solemnity of the occasion might have been somewhat lacking when the three wisemen fell into a giggling heap upon arriving at the manger.
But the Epiphany of the Lord is far deeper than the hijinks of any bathrobe drama, no matter how cute the cast. The celestial display is to make manifest the glory of God residing in a most ordinary event of a birth to a peasant woman in a nondescript, backwater place. Another child born into poverty was nothing startling or auspicious in and of itself. Yet this most ordinary of events has turned out to be the hinge of history. If you doubt it, look at the effects. In China, of all places! Where are the results of this birth most widely felt? The Protestant Church as represented by unregistered congregations is seeing spectacular growth. Growth that has really rattled its Communist rulers. Why this explosive growth? Because the people who have walked in darkness have seen a true and wondrous Light.
But that Light comes to us in darkest night. As it came to eastern sages in a world torn by imperial rivalries and the rule of the sword. Likewise, it appears to us in our time of deep global darkness.
“A decade wasted,” is how one environmental writer assessed our response to global warming. My friend’s wife, Christine, is presently in Australia. She reports that the entire country seems aflame. Over eight million animals are said to have perished. Entire communities in eastern Australia are now cinders. The loss of human life continues to mount.
Though the sky of Australia is ablaze, it is pitch dark for the planet. And, their prime minister is a climate denier. Just ignore that singed Koala. No need to tie me kangaroo down, Sport. He’s ashes. Nothing to see here, folks. Move along. Move along. But, wait! Now, this is rich — Prime Minister Scott Morrison is seeking to outlaw climate protests in order to protect mining interests. Forget your flipping kangaroo. It’s the economy, stupid.
Temperatures continue to soar elsewhere, 120 degrees Fahrenheit in New Delhi this week. Almost nobody has air conditioning. Wonder how they’re making out!?
O Star of deepest night, reveal some brief sign of hope, we pray. That we may find our way back to our center. Some sign back to sanity.
Chelsea Becker long awaited the birth of a son Zachariah. She would whisper to her youngest, Silas. “Here’s your baby brother,” as Silas would hug her around her stomach.[1] Alone at a friend’s house the twenty-five-year-old Chelsea began to bleed profusely. When her mom arrived, she immediately called 911.
About three hours after arriving at Adventist Hospital, Chelsea gave birth to a stillborn baby. The nurse handed the mom the baby so she could say goodbye. The hospital called the coroner’s office. Two months later Chelsea was arrested for murdering her child. The autopsy had shown toxic levels of methamphetamine in the baby’s blood.
O blindingly radiant Star, pray show forth a little hope, just a smidgen for those hooked on drugs and for their families. Pierce the dreaded night of addiction for those who offer what little solace there is to be had. Show a little love for those with hearts emptied out with grief.
The words of Isaiah seem too facile. Too glib.
“Arise, shine; for your light has come,
And the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.”[2]
“Nations shall come to your light,
And kings to the brightness of your dawn.”
I don’t think so. Proclamations of Hope? National exemplar of moral leadership? The fact is, no nation is capable of such. Israel failed time and again. And when finally winning release from Greek hegemony, their leaders murdered one another in an orgy of mayhem over the following centuries until Rome moved in and conquered what was left.
And what modern nation has bragging rights? Yet God sends the Star of Revelation. Star of Second and Third Chances. “Behold, I make all things new.” Sweet land of liberty, would that it be so!
It always seems to be the little folks who rise to the occasion. Those blessed “nothings” among us who radiate back divine glory and hope.
They are that unnamed nurse who, tears flooding her eyes, handed a dead baby back to its addicted mother for one last touch. They are those neighbors in scorched Australia running before the flames from house to house waking any who might remain. They are those Aussie shelter workers tending to the few rescued animals that made it to their care.
These are the magnificent slivers of light from the Star of Christ’s birth. In and out of fitting season.
“Star of Wonder, Star of Night. Westward leading, still proceeding.”[3] Guide us, guide us we pray for the night is long, the darkness deep and the journey ahead most difficult.
Star of Wonder Star of Light, shine upon the peace makers in America and in Iran. Shine O Star of Light, in skies perilous with drones and bombs — Shine while hearts now rage for revenge. While folly rules by day and ignorance by night — All forethought having taken flight – Shine O Wondrous Star. Shine!
Whisper a word or two of hope to pry open hearts both in America and in Iran. Or shall thou, O Deathstar of Absolute Night, preside over yet more wanton bloodshed in a land already soaked in too much blood? Where does it end? What’s the plan here, O Geniuses of War? Tell us — How does this end?
As always, it falls to the little people, the shepherds in the fields the young too burdened with student debt, to pick up the pieces and carry on with the daily stuff of life. May their hearts be emboldened with a courage not seen from our leaders. Give them arms strong to the task. That’s always how it is, isn’t it?
This Epiphany, we ask for no miracles, no splendid pyrotechnics in the sky. Only barely the light to find our way back home as did those three ancient travelers. The promise, as always, remains — no matter how deep the night or absent familiar landmarks, the residual light from that long-ago Star shall be sufficient. It’s fading glimmer, a true and trustworthy guide.
My wife and I spent part of our New Year’s Eve at All Saints, Pasadena. It has been rumored that on that one night of all nights, when Jesus broke bread and shared the cup, it was bubbly. And so, it is ever Champaign that’s been served at All Saints for Communion on New Year’s Eve in recent memory.
But better than that, however, a former priest on staff at All Saints, Wilma Jacobson, preached the sermon. Wilma was a gift to All Saints by Archbishop Desmond Tutu, who gave her his blessing to leave his staff in South Africa that she might come to America. Of course, the madness in his method was that by sending Wilma Jacobson to the most prominent flagship Episcopal congregation on the West Coast, she would rally American support for the economic boycott against South Africa. That boycott was in fact brought to a successful conclusion and Apartheid finally ended with the election of Nelson Mandela, its first black president. All Saints, Pasadena, ever remains a strong supporter of the Desmond Tutu Foundation’s work.
As South Africa is presently racked by unemployment, crime, and corruption, Wilma heads back. As a white South Afrikaner, she is aware she has little leverage to do much to be of help. But what she can do, she will. That’s the Wilma of generous heart that I have always known. I will very much miss the lilt of her English accent when she leaves us.
In her sermon, Wilma mentioned a web site dedicated to those white South Afrikaners who have committed to remain and do whatever they can to heal the dysfunction of their great nation. The site’s tag is called: #ImStaying You can find it also on Facebook.
Here is the story of one of the faithful, generous souls who have screwed up their fortitude and have pledged their lot with their fellow countrymen and women. It is the story of one white South Afrikaner who’s staying put. These beautiful citizens of that fabled country brightly reflect glimmers of the Christ Star. And what they reveal is hope for the planet – the hope of some simple, decent humanity.
The narrator says that on her drive home she saw a man lugging a suitcase on wheels with crutches. Crossing a bridge, he was struggling mightily as he finally got to the other side. He was tired and obviously ill. She told her kids that she was going to stop and help him.
She rolled down the window and asked the man if she could give him a lift somewhere. His distorted face indicated to her that he was in some real difficulty. He seemed somewhat confused. He handed her a piece of paper saying he was deaf and dumb. She began to speak very slowly and offered him a lift to where he needed to go. He wrote on his paper on a board he pulled from his backpack his destination. She had her son get out of the car and help with his bags. Then she had the man sit next to her with his crutches.
As she drove along, the man kept writing messages to say thank you on his board, and she used the little sign language she knew to say that it was her pleasure. She stopped along the way and got him something to drink and withdrew some money at her bank.
When they got to the taxi station that was his destination, her son carried his suitcase to the cab. As he left, she had tears streaming down her face. She handed him a 400 Rand note in South African money and hoped he would make it home safely.
She later told her kids that there was no way that many people would help a man like this, walking with crutches, with a distorted grimace on his face. Speaking to her children as much to us, she continues:
People need help! We can only do what we can with what we’ve got. I’m just happy that being kind costs nothing and we have the potential to do so much good.
I know that [they] will remember that day in particular for the rest of their lives and I hope it will encourage them to be good to other people. We need to role model this behavior for our kids.[4]
The woman concluded that she again had tears in her eyes as she typed up her story. She thanked #ImStaying for all the positive posts on the site, concluding with the prayer, “May God bless Africa.”
As my friend Jim Strathdee has so marvelously turned a Howard Thurman poem to song!
When the song of
the angels is stilled.
When the star in the sky is gone.
When the kings and the shepherds have found
their way home.
The work of Christmas is begun!
The work of Christmas has begun. Our work.
The work of all the little people, the nobodies, the “least of these” –
in whom Christ continues to daily preform the most astounding miracles. Let it ever be so, even here at St. Francis. Amen.
[1] Alex Wigglesworth, “Addicted Moms, Stillborn Babies,” Los Angeles Times, December 2, 2019.
[2] Isaiah 60:1 ff.
[3] John Henry Hopkins, Jr., “We Three Kings of Orient,” The Hymnal 1982 (New York: The Church Hymnal Corporation, 1983) 128.
[4] Anonymous, #imstaying.
Preached at St. Francis Episcopal Mission, San Bernardino
January 5, 2020
Isaiah 60:1-6; Psalm 72:1-7, 10-14; Ephesians 3:1-12;
Matthew 2:1-12
Celebration of the Epiphany
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Herod in His Raging
It was a real surprise to pick up the Los Angeles Times the other morning in my driveway. Right there on the front page, above the fold was NOT the traditional Christmas tableau of the Holy Family surrounded by adoring wisemen, camels and the like. NO. Each figure — Mary, Joseph and Jesus – was surrounded by a chain-link wire cage. And Jesus lying separately in a manger wrapped NOT in swaddling clothes, but in an aluminum space blanket.
My friends down the street at the United Methodist Church had made headlines again with another provocative theological statement. No Pat Boone crooning “Silent Night” or Frank Sinatra softly singing “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” NO! Just the graphic portrayal of the stark realities into which Christ is ever born. Into every Christmas does Herod rage. Babies are snatched from mother’s arms at borders around the world.
And as one might expect, did it ever catch the public’s attention! Police Chief, Shelly Vander Veen has said that she will station two officers on the street near this nativity scene over Christmas Eve and Day to guard against vandalism. Yes, there are some who can’t handle prophetic gospel truth.
Jesus was born into a hostile world. And Christ continues to seek entry into our most resistant world. Folks, delve into scripture very deeply, and you will encounter a most political document. Christ was crucified between two insurrectionists NOT because he preached pablum. His words and actions were a direct threat to the Roman empire. As much a threat as the church is to autocracies today. Herod understood completely the gospel message, and does today as well. The ethic of Christ IS NOT the ethic of Caesar![1]
It is no accident that the Feast of Holy Innocents follows directly upon the angelic hymns of Christmas morn. As the hymn, Coventry Carol, proclaims, “Herod the King, in his raging charged he hath this day, his men of might, in his own sight, all young children to slay.”[2] In Syria, in China, Brazil, and at the U.S border with Mexico – Herod would have his day.
So, outrage? You bet. The message of the United Methodists has reached unconverted hearts. One woman indignantly responded, “I’m never going to attend Claremont UCC again.” Obviously, she hadn’t been there in some while as she was crediting the wrong congregation. United Methodist pastor Karen Clark Ristine, explained in Facebook, that this scene of the Holy Family “takes the place of thousands of nameless families separated at our borders.”
The ethic of those holding power in Herod’s name, that ethic always stands opposed to the teachings of Jesus Christ. The ethic of slaveholding society stands over against that of Christ of the Abolitionists and the Freedman’s Aid Society. Against Caesar Chavez’s struggle for decent wages, deeply rooted in the Christian faith. Against workers standing shoulder to shoulder against the grower intimidation and the use of state sanctioned violence.
I don’t want to destroy any Christmas sentimentalities – well, yes, I do. But only to deepen what t sentiments we might rightly have concerning this most holy day. Christmas is solely about God’s saving action breaking into our torn and destructive world. It is definitely not about Grinches and mistletoe, Alvin and the Chipmunks. Frankly, if I hear “Little Drummer Boy” one more time, I’m going to barf. Give me any day “The Festival of Lessons and Carols” from the BBC – mainlined straight from Kings College, Cambridge, England. PBS will rebroadcast this delight. Give me fresh Christmas tamales. Something real!
So, let’s stick to the story, just as Linus does. Just as Bach does: Yes! “Break Forth O Beauteous, Heavenly Light.” Stick with the story. Yes, a new “light shines and the darkness has not overcome it.”
“Joseph, son of David, do not fear to take Mary your wife, for that which is conceived in her is of the Holy Spirit; she will bear a son, and you shall call his name Jesus for he will save his people from their sins.”[3]
Joseph awoke from his sleep and did as the angel commanded. Might we as well awake from our sleep. For in the dark of night Herod does indeed rage.
“… as the Light of light descendeth from the realms of endless day, that the powers of hell may vanish, as the darkness clears away.”
Let us wake from our sleep. Listen, we are commissioned as radiant sparks of that very same Light. We, that the powers of all that diminishes and destroys, the powers of Hell, may vanish. This is what we celebrate on December, the 25th. I’m talking about nothing less than spiritual warfare. The powers of life arrayed against Herod’s powers of darkness and death. It’s about that old union song, “Which Side are You On?”
John Dominic Crossan notes that Christians have always had two possible responses to Herod: accommodation or resistance – nonviolent resistance as taught by Jesus and his followers down through the ages. As taught by Martin Luther King, Oscar Romero, Nelson Mandela and Desmond Tutu.[4] And just plain folk like you and me who say NO to the operating ethic of “me first, and if anyone else survives, it’s mere coincidence.”
Resistance by simply and humbly exercising our Gospel commission – to give witness in word and deed to the summons to kindle new life into being, to wake the dead — to let the Divine Light shine through daily acts of justice and solidarity. We simply keep on keeping on, reflecting that pure Gospel Light as best we can. And that shall be sufficient.
Resistance has been the message of Koinonia Farm in Americus, Georgia. There, a small group of Christians over the years has lived in inter-racial community, contrary to the Jim Crow ethic of that region. Against KKK threats and violence they have stood in the Light of the Christmas story. By their mere existence, this community has been a rebuke to racism and exclusion. Welcoming all, they continue to be Christ to their neighbors, born this day and every day in Americus, Georgia.
Resistance might be the soft, gentle stand against the mentality of the world that bases one’s worth on usefulness, on wealth,
on status. I tell another story of Pastor Craig Rennebohm, Chaplain to the Homeless in Seattle. He, certainly, in his active ministry, has been Christ of the streets and alleyways to the homeless.[5]
Craig Rennebohm would certainly second the sentiments on Fr. Dean Brackley, S.J., “There is a crucifixion on every corner and a resurrection on every block.” This is definitely the case in any of our large metropolitan areas. Craig Rennebohm has been no small part in many a resurrection on the streets of Seattle.[6]
He tells the story of a fellow who wondered into his downtown Seattle church. A fellow who went by the nickname Breezy. Craig noticed this unfamiliar man in the church lounge one morning at the piano. His clothes were unwashed and a bag of belongings on the floor indicated Breezy was homeless. His hair was disheveled and he, obviously, hadn’t had a shower in a while.
He, actually, wasn’t half bad at the piano. He had a good strong bass rhythm with solid chords. Craig listened for a while then approached the man and introduced himself. Craig had seen Breezy on the streets from time to time. He had a gimpy leg and whenever the sidewalk would become too crowded, he would duck into a doorway. Something was definitely not right with his left leg.
The church would let him come in from time to time and play, and Craig and Breezy began to meet at a close by diner for some eggs, hash browns and coffee. Over the ensuing weeks Craig learned more and more of Breezy’s story. He spoke indirectly of a hospital stay some time ago. He had spent his recent years hitchhiking back and forth across the country.
He spoke of a music contract he had been awaiting to arrive. It was very intricate and most complicated. In Breezy’s mind, this was reality, though it seemed rather grandiose to Craig.
Breezy had been sleeping in one of Seattle’s downtown shelters until it closed — closed even though the weather continued cold and damp. Then he moved around at night from place to place. Craig continued to urge Breezy to have his leg checked out. One day when Breezy could barely walk, he was finally willing to have Craig escort him to a clinic and have a nurse look at it. His problem was diagnosed as cellulitis, a very serious case. With medicines and a prescription for a bed at a shelter, Breezy began to feel better.
In the following days, Craig and Breezy would walk the streets of downtown Seattle talking together. Actually, Craig mostly listened. Craig encouraged Breezy to meet a social worker, Ken, from Health Care for the Homeless. Ken began to join the two of them for breakfast at their favorite diner – and the circle widened by one.
On one morning, shortly after the World Trade Organization met in
Seattle and noisy street protests filled the downtown, the turmoil deeply agitated
Breezy. As some extremists began setting
fire to Dumpsters and smashing windows, Breezy’s fear and anxiety became
palpable. Obviously, all this took
Breezy back to a very distressing time in his life. “They aren’t starting again? The riots?” he questioned.[7] For some time afterwards, Breezy remained at
a heightened state of alert. Fearful of more
of the potential chaos he must have experienced sometime in his past.
As Ken and Craig continued to meet with Breezy in the coming weeks, more and more of Breezy’s story emerged. He began to look upon Craig and Ken as trusted friends. And over the breakfasts a plan was developed. Ken would help Breezy in his applications for various benefits. Though Breezy wouldn’t go to a doctor’s office about his leg, he was okay if a doctor joined the trio at breakfast. After some getting acquainted conversation, Breezy discovered that Doc played a little guitar, more of a hobby than anything else. He invited Breezy to stop by his office when he might be in the neighborhood.
One day, as Craig and Breezy passed Doc’s office, Craig suggested they go in and Breezy agreed. Doc was between appointments and the three chatted for a while, and Breezy agreed to an appointment. An appointment that turned into regular visits. Breezy’s circle widened by yet another.
Ken helped Breezy find an apartment and slowly Breezy formed some friendships with the other residents. His circle continued to grow.
He bought a guitar and the church secretary got him several sets of new clothes. Breezy would hunt the alleys for items of use, or that could be repaired, assembling in his small space a computer he had fixed with a monitor and printer that he was still working on.
Breezy loved Christmas. The previous year he and Ken had driven to an elaborate Nativity scene with children and live sheep. He asked if Craig might come by his apartment for a special blessing as Christmas neared. Shortly before the holiday, Craig and Ken stopped by.
Craig asked if Breezy had some ideas for what he might include in his prayer. Breezy asked for a special blessing for his Christmas tree he had scavenged. Decked out in various ornaments Breezy had come across with a string of colored lights, there it stood. Should Craig include anything else in the prayer? “A home,” he said, “is good.”
“We blessed the tree and Breezy’s home, and prayed for his continued wellbeing and healing from all that weighed upon him and caused confusion in his life. We gave thanks for his special gifts: music and a good heart. And we gave thanks that in this world we need not be alone, but have the help and encouragement of others to find our way.[8]
After the prayer, Breezy took Ken and Craig over to a small table, and turned on the computer he had rebuilt. “It did not work perfectly – and might never.” But Breezy tinkered with it every day.
His delighted grin said a lot. It was one of those moments when Breezy’s soul shone forth unmistakably. His Christmas tree, decorated with castaway treasures from the streets that Breezy had carefully collected, evidenced a coming together, a new iteration of life.[9]
The blessed companionship of Craig, Ken, Doc and Breezy is ever the work of Christmas. That small circle of love will forever remain unbroken. It is of God.
This is work Herod in his raging would never understand, certainly not to expend time and treasure for. Yet it is priceless. It is the gift of Mary and Joseph, who many long years ago, gave birth to it in a lowly manger stall.
This is the gift that lives on in hearts of all who still make pilgrimage to the Christ Child with service and gifts. On the streets, in jails, shelters, in offices — wherever there is need. With hands, minds and hearts, pocket books and credit cards honor is bestowed.
Yes, deck the halls. Raise another cup for Auld Lang Syne. Trim the tree. Welcome friends and family. But never forget: Jesus is the reason for the season. Not so much to adore, but as to follow. Follow, as do those who are companions to the homeless on cold, wintry nights.
My friend Jim Strathdee, drawing on a poem by Howard Thurman, put these sentiments into a wonderful song:
When the song of
the angels is stilled.
When the star in the sky is gone.
When the kings and the shepherds have found
their way home.
The work of Christmas is begun!
With Tiny Tim, I say, “And God bless us, everyone.” Amen
[1] John Dominic Crossan, God & Empire: Jesus Against Rome, Then and Now (San Francisco, Harper Collins, 2007).
[2] Coventry Carol, 15th Century, The Hymnal 1982: according to the use of the Episcopal Church (New York, Church Hymnal Corp., 1982), 247.
[3] Matthew 1:21-22, RSV.
[4] Crossan, 89.
[5] Craig Rennebohm, Souls in the Hands of a Tender God: Stories of the Search for Home and Healing on the Streets (Boston: Beacon Press, 2008). 65 ff.
[6] Dean Brackley, The Call to Discernment in Troubled Times (New York: Crossroad Pub. Co., 2004).
[7] Ibid, p 67.
[8] Ibid. p. 68
[9] Ibid.
Preached at St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach, San Bernardino
Isaiah 7:10-16; Psalm 80:1-7, 16-18; Romans 1:1-7; Matthew 1:18-25
Fourth Sunday of Advent, December 22 2019
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Bare Beginnings
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.
On a more serious note, this Sunday, we also turn our attention to Mary, who sang Magnificat. In the Ave Maria, the Mother of God. Highly exalted in song and poetry. Yet, historically, we know almost nothing about her.
Unwed, expecting a child. Poor, of Middle Eastern peasant stock. Illiterate with no formal education. Marginal, to say the least. Of the Creed, the most scandalous assertion concerning Christ was that he was born of a woman – a simple peasant women, pregnant and with no husband. Of course. These things are always the woman’s fault. Out of such simple and lowly beginnings, God turns the world upside down. Gloria. Gloria!
That is the scandal of Mary’s child. To make the point that there was something amiss with this liaison between Mary and Joseph, Matthew in the lineage which introduces his gospel, mentions three other women: Rahab, Ruth, and “the wife of Uriah” – that is Bathsheba — all women of questionable moral character. Only four women mentioned in this long litany of male ancestors proceeding forth from Abraham. Only four, and these four in particular.
Some scholars believe their insertion in this genealogy was Matthew’s rebuttal to rumors being spread about concerning Mary’s unorthodox pregnancy. She was an early victim of the Cable News Slime Machine. And Matthew’s rebuttal was that whatever Mary’s sexual history and whatever her marital status, it makes no difference. God works through all sorts of women – and men. These sorts! Gloria. Gloria!
God, out of all sorts of questionable people, even some pretty scandalous men and women – you and me, sisters and brothers – Right here. Standing in the need of prayer – God carries forth the story of salvation. Yes, Matthew reflected the sexism of his culture. But, that’s not the point in this story. Let’s set that aside for another sermon. The miracle here is that from those accounted as nothing by the movers and shakers, accounted as most lowly, in their very flesh and sad-sack backgrounds, God intrudes into our sorry world – even through people like us here this morning. Yes, we are also to be accounted as part of the Christmas Miracle. Gloria. Gloria! Can you hear the angels warming up over on yonder mountain? Do you hear what I hear?
And why Mary? She said YES. She yielded herself to God’s story of salvation. And might we do no less? Blessed art thou among women, indeed! “Let it be unto me according to thy word.” And blessed might we be as well, we of so little account.
While in West Virginia these past weeks, if one was looking for meager material of humble beginnings, Jim, our director of development for House of Hope – Ohio Valley, and I, visited a rehab center run by the clients themselves. In recovery jargon, it is known as aa peer-to-peer operation. There were no medical or other professional staff. The curriculum is solely The Big Book of AA.
As we were shown the facility and spoke with residents there, it was obvious, one could not get to more humble beginnings. While 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 from 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. It seemed like there were about one hundred living there. 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 chaos.
This visit to Recovery Point was my Christmas Present indeed. As John’s disciples were asked concerning Jesus, what do you see? “Go and tell John what you hear and see: the blind receive their sight and the lame walk, lepers are cleansed and the deaf hear and the dead are raised up, and the poor have good news preached to them.” And did I ever see the dead raised up! 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.
We had a most delightful lunch while in Charleston. Our host cautioned Jim as he was about to get in the back seat, “You’d better sit on the other side. It’s…umm…a…er…a little full on that side…of…um…er… McDonalds wrappers and cartons.” It was landfill size full. We wouldn’t want to rat him out. But he wears a purple shirt and a collar as part of his professional attire. We all had a good laugh.
And to top it off, the following day back in Charleston at Starbucks, I spied a young woman in a Recovery Point jacket with a friend. I introduced myself and they told me that they were staff on the woman’s center here in Charleston. After they picked up their orders, they came over and set at the table with Jim and me. Thinking back, mine that morning was probably one of the weirdest, unlikely pickup lines that may have ever worked. Anyway, they 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!
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!
To boot, Jim and I have a date to tour their facility on our next trip back in February. I’m sure that when we staff up House of Hope we will be looking to some of the alumni from Recovery Point.
While we were out in West Virginia, in the midst of all the chaos and vituperation of impeachment that was consuming the twenty-four-hour news cycle, the New York Times ran a most sobering front page article on the losses in Appalachia from addiction. Above the fold was a montage of photos of the Minford High School Class of 2000 in Scioto County, Ohio — a small town right across the Ohio River just forty miles from where we were staying in Wellsburg.
Virtually no one in this community has been spared. Everyone knows someone whose life has been touched by opioids. The headline said it all: “We Could Have Been Anything.”[1]
Scioto County led Ohio in drug overdoses, drug-related arrests and babies born with neonatal abstinence syndrome.
Of the stories featured,
here are just a couple of the 110 members of the Class of 2000. The ones whose pictures were in color were
some of the survivors of this epidemic. Here
is the story of Jonathan Whitt.
“I started seeing a lot of pills around 15 years old and I told myself I was never going to do them. But kids were selling Oxys at school for $3 a pill. By the time I was 19, I was looking in every medicine cabinet and bathroom. All my close friends, we all turned into drug addicts.”
Mr. Whitt was on the gold team and became addicted to painkillers when he was 16. At 28 he switched to intravenous opioid use and then heroin. He has been jailed at least 10 times and has done multiple stints in rehab. He has been in recovery for four years.
This is Melissa Kratzenberg’s story.
“I don’t remember a lot of high school because I was messed up on drugs. By senior year, I realized I had a problem. I had one good friend in high school who helped me through it. Once I got cleaned up, other people were getting into it heavy. I kind of stay away from the area, it’s heartbreaking to even go back. For me, once you’re truly recovered you have to fight to stay clean.”
Ms. Kratzenberg was in the honor society, marching band and art club. She started using pain pills as a freshman and stopped after she drank nearly an entire bottle of liquid hydrocodone when she was a senior. Several relatives have struggled with drugs, one of whom died after 20 years of addiction.
The men and women we met from Northpoint – in their reclaimed lives, God is again preforming the Christmas miracle. The dead are brought back. Deserts bloom even in this drug-saturated wilderness. In the stories of these former members of the Class of 2000 of Minford High who volunteered to go public – so that we in America might understand the full-blown disaster devastating our nation, God is doing a mighty work. In these stories of recovery, here is our Christmas Story. Gloria. Gloria!
Each of these people in recovery began with one single decision — the admission that they had a problem, that their lives had become totally unmanageable. That, and a decision to get clean. Like Mary, when offered the hope of a new life, they answered, “Let it be to me, according to thy will.” This spirit of Mary is most vibrant and astounding in the recovery community people I met this week.
Each and every day these people will join millions around the world in the Serenity Prayer:
“God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can and the wisdom to know the difference.”
One day at a time, the men and women I met will “let go and let God.” As my friend Fr. Mike says in his invitation to the Recovery Eucharist, “Come, join us. In this crazy, mixed up and dehumanizing world, we are all recovering from something.”
And Mary answered, “Let it be unto me according to thy word.” Gloria.
Gloria. Amen.
[1] Matthew Sedacca, with Susan Beachy and Jack Begg, “We Could Have Been Anything,” New York Times, December 3, 2019.
Preached at St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach, San Bernardino
Isaiah 35:1-10; Canticle 3 (the Magnificat); James 5:7-10; Matthew 11:2-11
Third Sunday of Advent, December 15, 2019
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Prepare
Today the rain falls softly. Much needed. As a young boy, I remember looking out my parent’s bedroom window which opened to the front yard. Watching the rain fall and hoping that it would fill most of the street. That meant school would be canceled. That meant I could delight in a gentle day of reading, building something with my plastic blocks and listening to the classical records my dad had bought me when the store below his office had gone out of business. A favorite was “Cappriccio Italien” by Tchaikovsky. From time to time I would go back to the window to make sure the street was full. Yes, school will be canceled again tomorrow. This was a most cherished time.
As the rain falls softly, I write. No anticipatory Christmas madness. In this time of Advent preparation, I wonder if we are ready to put aside distraction and enmity. Might we be ready to hear the words from the prophet Isaiah? “…and they shall beat their swords into plowshares, and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation, neither shall they learn war anymore.”
Are we ready for the Prince of Peace? Are we ready for a world turned upside down? That’s what Fred Rodgers did to children’s TV. Yesterday Jai and I went to see the film, “Mr. Rogers” starring Tom Hanks. At first, I was somewhat skeptical that Tom Hanks could pull it off. But, only a little bit into the picture, I was captured. From Mr. Rogers putting on his sweater and changing into sneakers, all of us would be invited into a special time. Everything slows down and we wait with anticipation for Mr. Rogers’ regulars: King Friday XIII, Mr. McFeely, Daniel Tiger or Lady Aberlin. Advent is always a special time. Like watching from my parent’s bedroom window at the soft rain falling on a gray, quiet day when I was a boy.
That is what I wish for every Advent. That soft, gentle time of preparation. Time alone with my own thoughts. Time alone with a message of Hope.
There are endings and beginnings. Yesterday, I learned that my friend in West Virginia huddled with a few friends in a hospital room as her husband was read his last rites. In the days to come there will be sadness and loneliness. There will be friends to comfort and hold her. Family will gather. There will be a service of solemnity in her church. There will be the comfort of ritual and familiar words. A time of loss. A time filled with the mystery of grief. Advent time. Silence. Endings and inchoate beginnings –preparation for a new life to unfold for my friend.
We in the church, like Tom Hanks, need to learn to slow it down if we are going to enter the wonder of this season. Just like Tom Hanks had to slow way down to be Mr. Rogers. Listen to some good music. Read a good book. Go for a walk. Be in silence. Be open for an opportunity for making the world a better place.
As I left the supermarket the other day, I heard a faint bell tinkling. High pitched as it grabbed the attention of shoppers to that familiar Salvation Army kettle. It’s that time of the year, a time for giving.
The boys are grown, no need to stock up on toys. You know the line, “some assembly needed.” Yeah, that and an advanced degree in engineering. Oh, yes, patience, too. I’m glad those days are over. Now Heffer International will, in my name, bring a goat or some chickens to a family in rural Tanzania or Kenya, Columbia or some other far-away place. That will be the boys’ present. Though it’s small, it brings a minor measure of joy to my heart as I send off my order.
As I prepare to head out to West Virginia to meet with prospective donors to House of Hope – and with several right here in Southern California — I pray for generous hearts and open billfolds. The tragedy of overdose does not skip Christmas preparations. This, too, is part of my Advent preparation this year. I give thanks that I remain of sound enough body and mind to make the trip and contribute to someone’s recovery. I give thanks for those who have joined in this effort.
Yes, there will be Advent cooking. A bag of Granny Smith apples awaits transformation into homemade apple sauce. Persimmon pudding – Jai’s specialty – it’s to die for. Covered with hot lemon sauce. We anticipate Christopher’s arrival this year with Alexis. In preparation for the twenty-fifth, family and any guests will spend the coming days cooking up a storm. I can still see in my mind’s eye a young Jonathan scrapping the cooked onions into the trash. “Jonathan, what are you doing?” I demand with dismay. “Dad, no one likes onjins,” came the reply.
As I anticipate the opening hymn for this Sunday, “O Come, O Come, Emanuel,” my mind goes to the gift of the awaited Christ Child. As my Christmas coffee cup says, “Jesus is the reason for the season.”
And what is this godly Christmas gift, so long awaited? Yes, “O Come, O Come, Emanuel.” God with us.
Today, it’s still raining, coming down in buckets. Is this the beginning of the great flood of which Matthew speaks? Is this a time of impending disaster we ignore to our peril? As in the days of Noah? When people went about their business oblivious to the darkening clouds and pelting drops? Do not be caught unawares like them.
It looks like we are far into denial. Elizabeth Rush in her book, Rising: Dispatches from the New American Shore, depicts in starkest terms the waters that all around us are rising. If ever there was a planetary Advent warning![1]
Right out of the Bob Dylan song book:
And admit that the waters
Around you have grown
And accept it that soon
You’ll be drenched to the bone[2]
Yet we continue as if nothing were amiss, just as those in Noah’s day. Elizabeth tells the story of one science teacher trying to convey the seriousness of the situation to a classroom of teenagers in South Florida.
Harold Wanless, or Hal, lectures to about sixty students in his geology classroom at the University of Miami on sea level rise.
“Only seven percent of the heat being trapped by greenhouse gasses is stored in the atmosphere,” Hal begins. “Do you know where the other ninety-three percent lives?” One teenager rubs sleep from her eyes while the student behind her roots around in his briefcase for a granola bar. No one raises a hand. “In the ocean,” Hal continues. That heat is expanding the ocean, which is contributing to sea level rise…” [3]
Hal, who is in his seventies, says “the same damn thing” five days a week. No one seems overly concerned that the warmer water is seeping under the ice sheets of Greenland and Antarctica, causing them to melt faster than anyone had predicted. Causing ocean rise to speed up ever more.
Like a thief in the night,
Christ with us in stories of today’s Wise Men and Wise Women still seeking divine inspiration and offering peculiar gifts in his honor. With us, in angelic joy sung from any old mountain top. With us, in wonderful stories full of grace and hope — a story of a waiting father’s welcome back for a wastrel son who’s lost it all in addiction and bad choices. With us, in a story of the joy of a lost coin found, a story of a miraculous cure at a pool in Bethsaida in a far-away land. And Jesus’ only question being, “Do you want to be healed?” The only question asked of each one of us. O Lord, this year especially, we so need to be healed.
This is the gift we wait to open this Advent with the anticipation of the hungriest hearts. The Advent message to each is, in the very same words of Mr. Rogers, “I like you just the way you are.” Jesus’ message to the entire planet. To all. No exceptions.
The power of those very words, the power of God’s gift this Advent – power of the entire message and life of Jesus – it’s enough to turn the world upside down. Power is what love looks like in the public square. Power grown out of solidarity for the common good. That, too, is the shape of Advent hope.
Tonight, at our holiday party, the Democratic Club of Claremont will recognize the work of Gene Boutilier. Gene is steeped in Isaiah’s teaching. He is the embodiment of the Peaceable Kingdom. His whole ministry has been one of turning spears to pruning hooks, shields into plow shears. More accurately, greed into worker security. Gene offers a Master Class in turning the world upside down.
Gene was an original troublemaker, beginning with the sixties. He worked in the fields and in the offices of the United Farm Workers Union. He was organizing in the fields of the San Joaquin Valley during the time Jai and I had grape strike workers from Delano living with us in L.A. Later, Gene worked in Los Angeles to solve the problems of homelessness. He was staff for the Poor People’s Campaign in Washington, D.C. In his spare moments he served several congregations of the United Church of Christ. Gene is the incarnate word of hope, of possibility. For Gene, every day is the day of Christ’s arrival. Hope arriving as alluring as fresh baked bread just out of the oven. Si se puede. Yes, you can!
When St. Paul writes, “Owe no one anything, except to love one another; for who loves his neighbor has fulfilled the law.” It is that divine love we await this Advent season. But more than await, we work for it. As Gene has done all his life. We work for that love with all our being.
My favorite hymn in this season is Bach’s tune to “Wake, Awake, for Night is Flying; the Watchmen on the heights are crying, Awake…” Yes, Christ comes fresh every day, like the beckoning smell of morning coffee, not like a thief to break in and destroy, but as Love incarnate to refresh and renew. Wake up! It’s a happening. Now, in 3D and in living color. No commercial interruptions.
Sometimes Christ looks like a union organizer and now and then, Christ comes to the side of a hospital bed in the form of a surgeon. A surgeon who has done everything possible to save his patient, and yet watches her slowly sink into a coma. At his wits end, in desperation, this doctor took hold of his patient, Helen’s hand. In the words of Dr. Youn:
I pulled a chair next to her bed and, purely by instinct, grabbed her hand … I did the only thing I could think to do. I prayed to God to please help Helen. I didn’t know if God or anyone was listening, but I didn’t know what else to do.[4]
After ten days, Helen was off the ventilator and sitting up in her bed when he dropped by.
This Advent, might we prepare daily with all our being to receive the Holy in our midst, the Christ Child seeking to be born again to expectant hearts – to sanctify our journeys ahead. Born again also to expectant hands and feet, and wallets and credit cards.
Whether it’s on a union picket line or in a hospital ICU room, Jesus again approaches on little cat’s feet. Silently, gently. To turn the world upside down.
And yes, Helen’s Christmas present? How did that work out for her? At eighty, she now has, hopefully, a good number of years remaining to pay Dr. Youn’s loving care forward.
Helen gestured for me to come closer. “I want to tell you something, Dr. Youn,” she said.
“What’s that?”
“I knew.”
I must have looked confused because Helen pushed herself forward a little and said with quiet urgency, “I knew that you came in every day and held my hand. That made a big difference. I looked forward to seeing you every day. I just want to say, thank you.”
“I was just doing my job,” I said.[5]
That could be said as well of our coming Lord. “I was just doing my job.” And so, might we all reply this Advent, “Just
doing my job.” Si se puede. Amen
[1] Elizabeth Rush, Rising: Dispatches from the New American Shore, (Minneapolis, Minnesota: Milkweed Editions, 2018).
[2] Bob Dylan, “The Times They are A-Changing,” Warner Bros., 1963.
[3] Rush, op. cit., p. 73.
[4] Anthony Youn, M.D., “I’m A Surgeon. Here’s What Happened When I Held My Patient’s Hand and Prayed For Her,” Huffpost, November 30, 2019.
[5] Ibid.
Preached at St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach, San Bernardino
Isaiah 2:1-5; Psalm 122; Romans 13:8-14; Matthew 24:36-44
First Sunday of Advent, December 1, 2019
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Endings and Beginnings
Shadows lengthen. It’s now dark at quitting time. Temperatures are dropping, absolutely chilly when our intrepid band of cyclists leaves my house on Wednesday mornings at seven o’clock. I keep saying, “The heat’s in the pedals. Faster, faster.” Who am I fooling? It’s still freezing.
As the year draws to a close, we get those apocalyptic passages of impending doom from Luke on the end-time. A warning about frightened folks, or charlatans, running hither and thither yelling about the end – the Roll-is Called-Up-Yonder END. Tha…tha…that’s ALL, folks. It’s enough to scare the socks right off you.
I met an older couple the other day at Pilgrim Festival, our two-day money raiser we do at my retirement community and they got to talking about all our problems. “These are the end-days,” the woman asserted as her husband nodded. Such terrible times that we can’t go on. God can’t go on. In Luke, Jesus counsels his band of followers not to be fooled.
Do you remember Hal Lindsey, the author of The Late Great Planet Earth? He was an itinerant preacher of the end of days who got his start at UCLA. He even had the arrogance to actually set a date for when God would call the roll up yonder. Such arrogance to usurp the prerogative of God! Yes, you guessed it. The date came and went…and we’re all still here. Nothing happened. No end-time rapture. Poor Hal, he had to move to UC Berkeley to continue his ministry after he was laughed out of Southern California. Listen to Luke. Don’t be fooled by Chicken Little.
“Take heed that you are not led astray; for many will come in my name, saying, ‘I am he!’ and “The time is at hand!” Do not go after them. And when you hear of wars and tumults, do not be terrified…Nation will rise up against nation, and kingdom against kingdom; there will be great earthquakes, and in various paces famines and pestilences; and there will be terrors and great signs from heaven…”[1]
My Mama said there’d be times like this. What has always puzzled me about these radio prophets pushing this theology is, why do they need my money? If the world is ending on very short notice, what could they possibly do with the money? Unless it’s to get even more money? Don’t be fooled!
You remember Flint, Michigan? You remember that great plan by Governor Rick Snyder to save money by changing the source of the town’s drinking water? You remember how this new supply corroded the coating off the lead pipes serving most of the houses in the older part of town? How lead got into the water and poisoned folks, especially growing children? You remember all that, don’t you? And you remember how he and all his partisan toadies covered up that disaster? Covered it up for months as people got sicker and sicker? Nothing to see here, folks. Just move along.
Well, these chickens have come home to roost. The public-school system in Flint is now having to deal with some thirty thousand special needs children who are developmentally impaired. Due to lead poisoning. For those children and their parents, it would seem like the end days. What is the future for these families? “…neurological and behavioral problems – real or feared – among students are threatening to overwhelm the education system.” Thirty thousand children have been “exposed to a neurotoxin known to have detrimental effects on children’s developing brains and nervous systems.”[2] Thirty thousand children permanently brain damaged!
Knowing that your child is going to be permanently impaired – how would that make any parent feel? And who’s going to pay for the life-long care? And who’s going to provide that care once you’re gone? And what do you tell your disabled child? “Well, at least the water bill was lower?” Right! For these families this catastrophe must seem as drastic an end as any the writer of Luke could possibly conjure up. How does a family go on?
God weeps.
For decades, most scientists saw climate change as a distant prospect. We now know that thinking was wrong. This summer, for instance, a heat wave in Europe penetrated the Arctic, pushing temperatures into the 80s across much of the Far North and, according to the Belgian climate scientist Xavier Fettweis, melting some 40 billion tons of Greenland’s ice sheet.[3]
As more ice melts, ice that reflects the sun’s rays back into space, heat-absorbing blue ocean is left, which melts even more ice. And on it goes. Just ignore that burning smell. That’s Australia. That’s California. As more trees burn, more CO2 is emitted, causing yet more warming, more drought, more fires. And so it goes.
God weeps. Those who care for our fragile, blue-green island home — they weep. For those caught up in the maelstrom of flame and smoke, for some it was indeed the end. For them and for their families, we should all weep.
The temptation is to throw up your hands and say, “Why bother?” Turn off the news and cancel the paper. Or “Tune in, turn on and drop out,” as Timothy Leary counsels.
St. Paul writes to a community also beset by such calamity and fear. Apparently, there were those who just plain gave up. They were idlers and lay-abouts. They contributed nothing to the common good. On the other hand, that was not the example of Paul and his companions.
“We did not eat any one’s bread without paying, but with toil and labor we worked night and day, that we might not burden any of you…we hear that some of you are living in idleness, mere busybodies, not doing any work. Brothers and sisters, do not be weary in well-doing.”[4]
Do not be weary in well-doing, indeed! No time to mope about with long faces and cry in our beer, St. Paul would tell us. Yes, we may end up with what Bill McKibben calls a “tough new planet.” We’ll end up with many of our fellow citizens damaged through such unbelievable folly. We’ve got some ‘splaning to do,” to paraphrase Desi Arnaz’s charge to Lucy.
But when the going gets tough, the tough do not go shopping. We “sing to the Lord a new song” through our prayers and our labor. Rolled up sleeves and marching feet are our prayers. It is through our hands and feet, hearts and minds, credit cards and checkbooks we make a “joyful noise unto the Lord.” What’s the alternative? To pout and sulk like a two-year old? St. Paul says we get to work. Do not be weary in well-doing. And in the work is ineffable joy, “joy of heaven to earth come down.” Joy in the morning!
As my friend Ed Bacon would sometimes shout from the pulpit, “Wake up! Get up! Get involved. And don’t be attached to the results.” This is how we turn the Jesus Club into the Jesus Movement. This is how we roll. Jesus doesn’t need simpering, moony-eyed admirers. He needs followers. Remember, as he emerged from the baptismal waters, the charge to all who heard, “This is my beloved Son. Listen to him.” He needs doers, not legalistic partisans arguing over who he is. A service of beauty has its place, but only as it moves us back into the streets and lanes. Only as it returns us to a world in need. Doers! That’s what our Lord needs.
Addiction is hard. It destroys individuals and families, but in the community of recovery there is Hope. And in Hope there is Life. In my reading I came across a very rare high school. Virtually every student in this school is in recovery. The greeting every day is, “Hi. My name is ________, and I’m an alcoholic.” Or “I’m a drug addict.”
There is a new movement for recovery afoot. It is “Recovery High Schools.” These are safe spaces for students who are struggling to acquire sobriety. Seattle Public Schools have designed such a recovery school, a campus wherein along with math, language arts and PE, students may learn to lead lives of sobriety and earn their diploma. There is now a nation-wide organization of recovery schools.
A study by Vanderbilt University professor Andy Finch found that students in such schools were “significantly more likely than those not in such schools to report being off drugs and alcohol six months after they were first surveyed.” Absenteeism declined significantly.
How did Seattle develop this program? The idea and motivation came from a parent whose son had died from a heroin overdose. There was a devastated father who by any rights would not have been blamed for sinking into his grief. Don Keister, however, organized an advocacy group, “Attack Addiction”, and pushed the school district to provide space. The group came up with the $2 million needed to cover staff and other costs. These parents rolled up their sleeves and did a great gospel work.
One student shared his story after being on any drug he could get his hands on – OxyContin, Xanax – it was all for sale on school campuses. He, himself, was finally suspended for selling drugs at his school. Marques Martinez had been sent to an in-patient rehab facility and found his way to this school through an alumnus. He knew it might be his last chance.
What was different about this school? He felt safe here. “It’s the last class period of the day. The students lean back on couches and take turns describing the most important day of their lives: the day they became sober.”[5]
Every day sober is another gift on the journey of new life for these students. It takes a very special teacher to teach at such a school. It takes a special community of recovery to make such a school even possible. It takes special administrators to make space in a school district’s educational program for such a school.
What is it like to teach at such a school? Most teachers might rarely witness a dramatic change in one of their students. Hear the witness of Sonny Sanborn, a social studies teacher, at Archway Academy in Houston, Texas:
Sanborn says he’s taught in other schools where he might have seen one or two students go through a major transformation during a school year.
“Here, I see it almost 30 times a year. I’ve seen so many teenagers come into Archway with such serious issues that earning a diploma is the last thing on their minds. Their parents would tell you—two or three years before they graduate—that their kids have no shot of walking across the stage,”
Sanborn reveals. “I’m often asked why I keep coming back to a tough environment, and I counter with a better question: Why doesn’t everyone else want to teach here?”[6]
I’m reminded of the story of a country preacher encountering a farmer out in his field plowing. The preacher yells over to him, “Farmer, if you knew that the world was ending tonight, what would you do?” Without a pause, the farmer answered, “Finish the row.” No matter what calamity or terrors might await, we are called to finish the row. Sonny Sanborn will persist in finishing his row. Would that we all.
These days are tough, not for sissies, not for the people without an anchor. It is a “tough, new planet.” No escape through instant rapture. We and our children face challenges unlike most any other generation, with perhaps the exception of nuclear annihilation. It’s enough to lead to complacency and resignation. But now is the time God needs us most. Jesus stretches out his hand and bids us, “Come, follow me.” Do not be weary in well-doing.
As shadows lengthen and a blazing orb dips below the western sky, one of my favorite hymns comes to mind, “Come, Labor on.”
Come, labor on.
Who dares stand idle on the harvest plain,
while all around us waves the golden grain?
And to each servant does the Master say,
“Go work today.”
Come, labor on.
No time for rest, till glows the western sky,
till the long shadows o’er our pathway lie,
and a glad sound comes with the setting sun,
“Servants, well done.”[7]
When we contemplate what St. Francis has accomplished these past few months in bringing to birth House of Hope – San Bernardino, the resounding, well deserved echo is indeed, “Servants, well done.”
Amen.
[1] Luke 21:5 ff, RSV.
[2] Erica L. Green, “A Legacy of Poisoned Water: ‘Damaged Kids’ fill Flint’s Schools, New York Times, Thursday, November 7, 2019.
[3] Eugene Linden, “How Scientists Got Climate Change So Wrong,” New York Times, November 8, 2019
[4] II Thessalonians, 3:6 ff, RSV.
[5] Anna Gorman, “Inside the Specialized ‘Recovery’ High Schools Designed Just for Teens With Addiction, Kaiser Health News, January 23, 2019.
[6] Shasha Mclean, “Recovery High School Teachers: Behind the Scenes Recovery,” Project Know, American Addiction Centers,
[7] Jane Laurie Borthwick (words), The Hymnal 1982 according to the use of The Episcopal Church, The Church Hymnal Corporation, New York, 1985. 541.
Preached at St. Francis Episcopal Mission Outreach, San Bernardino
Malachi 3: 13-4: 2a, 5-6; Psalm 98; 2 Thessalonians 3:6-13; Luke 21:5-19
All Saints Sunday, November 17, 2019
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
