A Glory that Transfigures You and Me
Transfiguration Sunday, in the eyes of many, is a one-off miracle testifying as to just how great Jesus was. That understanding sells Transfiguration Sunday short. Far, far short. Christ bathed in the radiance of the Torah tradition of Love of God and of neighbor. Allowing this Christ to transform us is a life-time adventure. With a bit of rain amidst the sunshine.
Luminosity is in what happens afterward. Same as in the transfiguration of Moses as he bears the radiance of his encounter with God on Mount Sinai. What does he find upon returning? Apostasy and idolatry. Yet his leadership shines forth for the tribes of Israel.
From our ancestor on my mother’s side of the family, Julia Ward Howe, we get the significance of this transfiguration. “…with a glory in his bosom that transfigures you and me.”
Transfiguration in Christ is an ongoing event. Echoing down through the halls of human history, working itself out generation after generation. Down to you and me; and all others who claim the sweet embrace of Our Lord.
It works itself out in the lives expended for others, those who engaged in bitter strife that half my family might be free.
As St. Irenaeus proclaimed, “The Glory of God is a man, a woman fully alive. “As he died to make men holy, let us die to make men free.” That was the price exacted to free one half of those living in abject misery in the South.
One who has never been in combat can grasp the enormity and tragedy of that struggle through Shelby Foote’s novelistic presentation of what was maybe the determining battle of our Civil War, Shiloh.[1] It presents the fruits of historical scholarship and the narrative pace of lively writing.
To those escaping to join the ranks of the approaching Union armies, it was a taste of being fully alive like none other. In appreciation, former enslaved persons would regularly gather in cemeteries where Union soldiers were buried to lay flowers – a simple but moving show of gratitude for freedom won. Transfiguration changing an entire society.
Transfiguration brilliance outshining Jim Crow, outshining this racist and bigoted administration. That same Transfiguration strengthening the souls of today’s Holy Resistance.
If you prefer a more irenic interpretation to the phrase, “…let us die to make men free,” one might understand it as an admonition to fully expend your life as a transfigured person up to the day of death, however that comes. As Oscar Wilde remarked, so I also strive, “When I die, I want to be all used up.” Leaving nothing on life’s field.
As one reflecting the insecurities of having grown up in a rather dysfunctional family, I’ve also experienced the same Transfiguration. Through the course of years and under the influence of the living Christ in my life as presented by the Church, pastors, and just ordinary folks of the Jesus Movement, I, too, have been changed. Certainly more fully alive.
Part of that change was evident on our recent trip to San Francisco to celebrate our 60th wedding anniversary with a good part of my family.
First, I’ve become much more appreciative of those people on this trip who went out of their way to show a little kindness. It was a number of Uber drivers who took care to handle my walker and dialysis bag on those trips at 5:00 in the morning.
It was the kind woman at the United check-in counter at the San Franscisco Airport who saw that Jai and I needed assistance with all our luggage and figuring out the computerized check-in procedure. She arranged extra help with our luggage and ticketing. She was a delight as was her supervisor who assisted Jai with 6 pieces of luggage. (Yes, we don’t travel light with all I need for dialysis and sleep apnea.)
What should have been airport hell was transfigured into a very human and rewarding experience. A little bit of sunshine on a rather daunting ordeal. A Transfiguration of my attitude.
Having Alexis, Christopher, Luther and Denise with us made the trip a delight. Part of my little smidgen of Transfiguration is the increasing value I put on family. This group certainly made this return after 60 years a fantastic San Francisco experience.
Watching little Luther marvel at the delights of Muir Woods, his infectious smile, playing la-la-la-la-la with him at the snack shop. Seeing him with his parents and their loving care and encouragement of his entire being. All a delight – the Glory of God manifest in this natural spender of delight. My heart softened and a bit more aware to the joys of life over the years, under a Divine Guiding Hand. Transfiguration of you, me and the entirety of creation, ever renewing.
Transfiguration through a growing sensitivity to the misery and deprivation witness. No longer wrapped up in my own woes and insecurities but alive to the need around me. And being able to realize my part in it all.
When I see the destruction of Gaza and Lebanon in the daily paper, I now know my culpability. The horrid temperatures in France and Spain and here in America. All part of our climate denialism. Thank God, I notice.
Transfiguration of my self-absorption. Transfiguration through working to be the change I can be. And courage to change the things I can.
Knowing that through my actions I can set a good example for others to follow. Knowing the delight in my soul in being a part of the solution with others. Even if it’s a ten spot and a little conversation with that shopping- cart lady on the corner; or writing a sermon that encourages and gives hope; or in composing a letter to the editor encouraging us all to get out and vote for change. And be the change.
Finally, allow a little humor. While at the checkout counter of one bookstore I spied a little tease, Lessons from Cats for Surviving Fascism.[2] Fascists hate unpredictability, cats are never predictable.
“Cats never let anyone know where they’ll be next, and neither should you. Cats are masters of unpredictability.
“Fascism thrives on predictability; confuse it by unexpectedly launching on to the back side of a chair, then rappelling down the curtains.
“One minute they’re curled up on the couch, radiating serenity, and the next they’ve perched on top of your fridge, judging you for your life choices. You’ve made terrible choices and cats know it.”[3]
Transfiguration delights in the unexpected as well as in duty. So, go ahead and start a ukulele jam session at three o’clock in the morning. And tell me what cat isn’t fully alive. Humor opens the door.
If you are a part of the Jesus Movement, or even have a tangential relationship to it, you’ve experienced a taste of Christ’s Transfiguration. And in the process become just a little bit more alive.
For those of us Followers of the Way, now and then we know we’ve been touched by the same light, a smidgen of brilliance of that original Transfiguration. And that shall suffice. Transfiguration one day at a time. Transfiguration together. Amen.
[1] Shelby Foote, Shiloh (New York: Barnes & Noble Books, 1992).
[2] Stewart “Brittlestar” Reynolds, Lessons from Cats for Surviving Fascism (New York: Grand Central Publishing, 2024).
[3] Op. cit., 3.
August 2, 2026 – Transfiguration Sunday
“A Glory that Transfigures You and Me”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Exodus 34:29-35; Psalm 99;
2 Peter 1:13-21; Gospel: Luke 9:28-36
Hopey, Changey People
In the 2008 election one candidate seemed to come out of nowhere. A little-known senator from Illinois. And within months after he announced his candidacy for the presidency, he had assembled an entire army of enthusiastic volunteers. A most formidable army.
As background to his political career, he had written several hugely popular books. Unlike most political autobiographies, he had actually written them himself – no ghostwriter. Part of the acclaim for these works was their high literary achievement.
One of his most wildly successful was The Audacity of Hope, an enlargement of his stirring speech to the 2004 Democratic Convention that catapulted Barack Obama to instant fame.
Faced with that unstoppable groundswell of people hungering for change, Obama’s opponent, John McCain and his campaign became more and more desperate. This young star was sucking all the oxygen out of the room. In desperate search for a game changer, he reached out to an unknown governor of Alaska, Sarah Palin.
While at times witty and quick on the rebuttal, her preparation for the national stage was pathetic. When asked what papers she read, she quipped, “I read them all. Whatever they put in front of me.” She couldn’t even think to remember the hometown paper of Anchorage, the Anchorage Daily News.
So, she was left to resort to derision and misrepresentation of Obama’s platform.
On the stump, in terrible economic times when most everyone was suffering, she would often prod her audience, “How’s that hopey-changey thing working out for you.” Her weak attempt to mock a politician who she thought promised too much.
The most delightful and insightful film of that political campaign year was, “Game Change.” An HBO 2012 political drama made for television, later released as a film for a wider audience. It was based on a book by the same name by John Heilmann and Mark Halperin. It was the portrait of a campaign in crisis. Day after day.
Like Obama, I try to stay above the political cynicism of our days. And that’s a tall order, given the audacious conspiracy theories spawned daily by the current administration. I guess I’m sort of a “hopey-changey” kinda guy.
That is the overall arc of the Jesus Movement. To keep hope always at the forefront. To allow it to pull us forward through the knothole of these excruciating times. As it did for Jesus followers.
The lessons for this Sunday urge us, in the words of Jesse Jackson, to “Keep Hope Alive.”
“Through your works you have taught your people that the righteous must be kind, and you have filled your children with good hope, because you give repentance for sins.”[1] Yes! Second and third chances. Even seventy times seventy.
St. Paul in Romans also urges his readers to keep hope alive for all creation awaits with “eager longing” the fulfillment of the promises of God.
“We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. For in hope we were saved…if we hope for what we do not see, we wait for it with patience.”
It has been that same hope for things not seen that has driven people of faith forward. Sometimes pushing; sometimes pulling. Often an alure to a more bountiful future. Though God is going to trouble the waters, yet we will wade in, eyes set on that other shore.
Matthew’s multiple attempts to explicate the Parable of the Sower ends in directing his readers to that future. “Then the righteous will shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Let anyone with ears listen!”
The Jesus Movement at its best has always pointed its followers to the politics of hope, not cynicism. Though there is much even in the most hopey-changey campaigns that give us reasons for despair.
After several years of the Obama administration progressives began to reflect on promises not kept, moments of political naivety, even moments of cowardice. Natural, of course. He was not divine but a mere human prone to the same foibles that bedevil the rest of us.
On health care, union support, his choice of economic advisors, much was lacking. Much of his administration was larded up with CEOs and CFOs from the corporate world. Few if any from Labor.[2] Hodge, in this work on the shortcomings and broken promises of the Obama administration details the corrupt compromises with their corporate backers.
Noam Chomsky on the back cover notes that Hodge exposes the reality of the programs “to ensure that no major stakeholder in his coalition of corporate backers will suffer significant losses, and will enjoy spectacular gains…” Not great but far better than the grift of the current den of thieves residing at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue. We voters always hope for better despite the overwhelming evidence of our mediocre politics.
That is why, though I love the public arena of politics, I put no ultimate trust in the politics of our nation or of my own party. At best, we will muddle through with compromise and missed opportunities.
I put my trust in the One who gave workers the audacity to strive for decent wages and human dignity in work. The One who gave those miners in West Virginia the courage to stand up to the guns and brutality of Big Coal in the years of the 1890s to the 1920s until the prevailed. I put my faith in the One who in the darkness of slavery led many to follow the “Drinking Gourd”[3] to a better life in the North. Despite the dogs, the lash and the possibility of an excruciating death if caught. I put my trust in the One who led the faithful out of the Dust Bowl desolation to seek a future here in California.
It is the same hope grounded in the One who led Moses and his band through the troubled waters of the Red Sea – the same hope that daily sustains those of us working for an addiction rehabilitation center in West Virginia and also here in San Bernardino. Every day hope propels us forward, little by little. Even on those weeks when it seems that there is no forward movement and no one answers our calls.
There’s a wonderful book, All that She Carried[4], that chronicles a Black family’s discovery of a sack of items a mother, Rose, had packed for her daughter Ashley about to be sold off to another owner.
Rose took a few precious items as a token of her love for the girl and packed them in a cotton bag. Tokens of her love for this nine-year-old daughter. Tokens that would fortify memory of her mother when she was taken away to parts unknown, never to see that mother again.
What motivated her to prepare this enduring tie between a mother and a daughter to be sold off to who-knows-where? Was it the groups of the enslaved plodding the dirt roads, the “coffle” gangs, on their way to the auction block? A coffle, sometimes called a platoon or drove, consisted of enslaved people chained together and moved from one location to another by owners or slave traders.
This book tells the story of that frail sack of mementos, passed down through the generations, one family to the next. the vivid testimony to the same hope passed down from one generation to the next.
That cherished sack would keep hope alive for Ashley whatever her future circumstances. The hope in the One who indelibly marked her a person of worth and beloved. Precious in the Lord’s sight.
“Rose would have known this state of instability as the only constant in her life. Yet she found the inner strength to meet a measureless threat with thoughtful action. In this determination to act, Rose represents a population that ‘exercised a degree of courage and will to survive that startles the imagination even now,‘ in the words of the Black feminist theorist Hortense Spillers. Out of the shadows Rose would emerge, bearing the sack as a lifeline and staking a claim for her family’s continuance amid and despite unrelenting change.”[5]
Black mothers lived in a shadowland of constant fear for themselves and their children. And yet, in hope, Rose prepared this visible token of the priceless relationship between a mother and daughter.
This sack is the treasure now passed to the current generation, our generation. Not just to a Black family, but to all of us. It is an American keepsake reminding us of the courage of previous generations, but urging us to be steadfast in keeping the same fire of hope burning. Despite all evidence to the contrary. Will we measure up to the challenge as did Rose? When I consider the fortitude of Rose, I have absolutely no right to give up.
And so we close singing, “There’ll Be Sunshine in the Morning,” God’s Son Shine drenching all our twisted history in Glory. Always propelling us forward towards as the Beloved Community, the hope of the saints down through the corridors of time. Knowing that one day, there’ll be the sunshine of freedom and opportunity, of joy and delight for all God’s children.
That’s my hopey-changey story and I’m sticking to it — for it’s the Gospel Story. Amen.
[1] Wisdom of Solmon 12:19, NRSV.
[2] Roger D. Hodge, The Mendacity of Hope: Barack Obama and the Betrayal of American Liberalism (New York: Harper, 2010).
[3] The Big Dipper, the bowl of which points to the North Star.
[4] Tiya Miles, All That She Carried: The Journey of Ashley’s Sack, a Black Family Keepsake (New York: Ransom House, 2021).
July 19, 2026 – Pentecost 8, Proper 11
“Hopey, Changey People”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Wisdom 12:13, 16-19; Psalm 86:11-17;
Romans 8:12-25; Gospel: Matthew 13:24-30, 36-43
Plenitude
There are just some folks you can count on. Their word is as good as gold. And others? In the building business we have a saying: “Money talks and cow manure (or something like that) walks.
Some subcontractors will be Johnny-on-the-spot on the agreed date and time. Others, you might as well take off your speed-dial.
As we conclude the celebrations of our 250th birthday this Fourth, too many are left holding a bad check, marked “insufficient funds” when they attempted to redeem the promises of our Declaration of Independence.
God’s Word does not return marked “insufficient funds.” Hear the promise from Isaiah:
“As the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there until they have watered the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth, it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I propose, and succeed in the thing for which I sent it.”
And to the best of the ability of the good people of this nation, the promises grounded in that ethic shall not be null and void, but over the generations accomplish the purposes our founders intended.
Yes, they did not comprehend the full ramifications of that promise – for those without property, for the enslaved, for women, for our LGBTQ community. They had absolutely no idea what they were setting forth. What they opened to future generations was a nation of expansive opportunity.
Now, we haven’t gotten there. We’re still on the journey. But as the clouds break and brilliant sun shines through, the dreams of unlimited possibility become reality. Plenitude.
Ignatius reminds us that the Glory of God is a man fully alive, a woman fully alive. We’re talking here about a theology of abundance – plenitude. Too many, even in our churches, have a theology of scarcity.
In my church budgets I would always insist on an income category labeled “faith.” Faith because I believed we were always capable of stretching beyond what we thought possible. In Anchorage I had a hard-nosed, green-eyeshade treasurer who worked to keep us within the budget. Chuck would always insist on knowing the specifics of each and every budget item.
So, he was quite skeptical when I showed up and stuck this new category into the income side of the church budget. “Just how much is this going to bring in to pay the bills, Pastor Forney?” I’d ballpark it with a figure that while not completely beyond reality, would cause us to stretch. Faith, if you will.
And every year I was there we exceeded the budget total. Yes, with “faith” thrown into the match. That is because God’s Word does not return empty.
Like the story of the seeds cast in faith, I always believed that enough seeds would fall on good soil. There might be rocks, gophers, brambles and roly-poly bugs. But enough seeds would fall on good soil without pests.
I’m learning that this seed business is very tricky. When my family took me to the California Botanic Garden, I saw a plant that was about six feet high covered with white blossoms that the bees absolutely loved. Looking around, I saw a sign that said California White Sage.
When I went to their store, they had many seeds of California natives for sale, including California White Sage. So, I bought one packet of them. It said it contained over 100 seeds and told me how to plant them. It also warned that the seeds of this plant had a low germination rate. I figured that with 100 or so seeds, I couldn’t miss. Wrong.
I planted several in each little planter space of this large group of spaces all connected together. It said to wait 4 or 5 weeks. I did. Nothing.
Then I got serious and ordered a heat mat for starting plants from seed. Replanted all the sections again. Our garage is perfect for what the seed packet said was required – warmth, my grow-lights and heat-mat. So far in only one tiny section two small seedlings have sprouted. Out of some 40 or 50 seeds sown, only two tiny sprouts? And I discovered Saturday morning that they had died. Not over an eighth of an inch tall. That’s why Miguel runs the Garden of Hope and not I.
Yes, this seed business is very tricky.
Jesus knew that when he told the Parable of the Sower. But in hope, he had faith that enough of the seeds would land on good soil with the right amount on sun and rain.
My favorite science fiction writer Octavia Butler, in her wildly popular work, Parable of the Sower, nails it.[1] In this dystopian tale we are the seeds.
A recent book I am reading in dialysis, Mattering. It speaks to one of our deepest needs, to feel that we matter.[2] We matter to ourselves. We matter to others. That the contribution we offer to the public good matters. We sow mattering in how we treat people.
To sow the seeds of Grace, is to nurture this need in others. And as we do, we also nurture it in ourselves. Where others feel they matter, God’s Word has found fertile ground. Good soil.
Let me tell you a couple stories of how this transpires.
The author, Jennifer Breheny Wallace, opens her book, “It all began with a clementine.” I didn’t know what that was so Googled it. A clementine is a hybrid of mandarin and sweet oranges.
Jennifer arrived at the Harlem train station early one morning. The hustle of the crowds filled the senses as did the odors drifting from the various shops selling bread, breakfast items, coffee. The screech of arriving trains on the platform above and the fumes were almost overpowering.
She noticed a small bodega, brightly lit, on a corner of the station. She stopped in to browse and overheard the following conversation.
“A man with gray hair called to me from behind the counter. ‘Ah, welcome,’ he said. “It’s wonderful to see you.’ He spoke with the warmth of someone greeting a regular, though I wasn’t. As I browsed, I overheard his conversation with another customer, someone who clearly was a regular, about the clementines he had picked up at the market that morning. ‘I remembered how much you liked them last time,’ the shopkeeper said. ‘When I saw them, I knew I had to bring them in again for you.’ The customer thanked him for always being so kind and thoughtful.”[3]
The author also noticed those clementines, how the bright orange contrasted with the drab gray of the station. But what stayed with her as her train pulled out of the station was the care in the exchange. The way the shopkeeper’s thoughtfulness did more than provide fruit, but paid attention and remembered – a small matter but it contained a large portion of Grace – you matter.
This shopkeeper was a seed of Grace bringing forth connection. Enhancing worth. God’s Word had deeply taken root in the soil of that man’s soul. And there was flourishing.
In looking through the current issue of Newsweek magazine, one first notices the section, “250 Great American Heroes.” Spread in those opening pages are an array of many who might be accounted heroes. Unfortunately, it is limited to people connected to our military struggles. I’m thinking, what about teachers, what about doctors and inventors? What about those who resisted many of the fruitless, tragic conflicts of our history? My friends who served as conscientious objectors in hospitals and in forestry work? What about those whose witness against senseless wars was their flight to Canada and beyond?
As I was arguing in my mind with this narrowness of this piece, I came across a woman whom I would in fact regard as a true hero, Mary Edwards Walker, April 10, 1854. Yes, the Civil War.
The piece was entitled, “She Crossed to Heal.” It recounted how she had crossed enemy lines numerous times because the Confederate soldiers on the other side were not her enemy – suffering was.
Dr. Walker had a contract with the Union Army of the Cumberland and frequent traversed the front line to treat wounded civilians in northern Georgia who had no access to healthcare. The military refused to grant her a commission. Of course not – she was a woman. She served anyway.
With a cobbled together outfit of trousers and a modified coat, she went about her mission, no matter the politics or allegiances. She was eventually captured deep in enemy territory after assisting a Confederate surgeon in preforming an amputation. She was finally exchanged for a captured Confederate surgeon. Though never given the respect of rank, she was the only woman of that war to receive the Medal of Honor, which she wore every day until she died in 1919. In Dr. Walker, God’s Word did not return empty. Good soil she was.
Her message to those she healed and attended to was, you matter. Dr. Walker was God’s good seed planted in one of our most excruciating conflicts.
To instill mattering was one of the most important items in Dr. Walker’s little black doctor’s bag. Mattering is “so deeply ingrained in us that after basic survival needs like food and shelter are met, it is the need to matter that drives human behavior.”[4]
That was the divine touch of Jesus. “You matter” — to the leper, to the dunderhead disciples to whom he showed infinite patience. To the woman of ill repute at a well in Samaria.
To you and me when down and out of sorts.
It is the message to those who receive our fresh produce every week at the food banks that St. Francis Garden of Hope serves. It may even be the small act of kindness to the driver in front of us attempting to change lanes. You matter. Go on ahead of me, and have a nice day. In all such acts, large and small, there is the plenitude of Mercy. An overflowing fountain. God’s “faith” budget item.
Such a life of generosity is the indwelling of eternity. God’s sign that we matter. As my fictional hero Detective Harry Bosch notes, “Unless everyone counts, no one counts.” That’s our mission in the Jesus Movement, to instill and foster mattering. In God’s big picture I count. You count. We all count. And can I get an Amen for that?
[1] Octavia Butler, Parable of the Sower (New York: Seven Stories Press, 2016). This edition includes a marvelous introduction by Gloria Steinem.
[2] Jennifer Breheny Wallace, Mattering (New York: Portfolio/Penguin, 2026), 1 ff.
[3] Op. Cit., 1-2.
[4] Op. cit., 5.
July 12, 2026 – Pentecost 7, Proper 10
“Plenitude”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Isaiah 55:10-13; Psalm 65:1-14;
Romans 8:1-11; Gospel: Matthew 13:1-9, 18-23
Higher Ground
As we pass another landmark milestone for this republic, many are sincerely wondering, where are we heading? What is left of worth? What is our duty as citizens in the present moment?
No, the Forneys are not going to Canada, though having ancestors from that wonderful maple leaf land, we are now eligible for citizenship. No, we’re staying put. The work to be done is here.
So, what might we celebrate this Fourth? My mind goes to the natural beauty of the land.
When in college two friends and I would head to Yosemite as soon as summer began. One of us, Bill, would usually have a job lined up at the lodge washing dishes. The deal with his supervisor, if the other two of us pitched in, Bill could get released early by midmorning.
John Muir in his nature writings has a marvelous piece on how to spend one day in Yosemite, if all you have is only one day. Yes, head for the Vernal Falls.[1] Give yourself an hour there to take it all in.
We’d soon be hitting the trail to Vernal Falls and beyond. One summer we went rock climbing up the Thumb of Mount Hoffman. Bill was the expert and had all the equipment – ropes, carabiners, pitons – the whole kit.
Earlier the day before, we newcomers to the sport, Ron and I practiced rappelling down some steep cliff faces. We learned the correct way to tighten our harnesses, hook in the rope so we could gently lower ourselves down a 150-foot cliff. I soon got the hang of it, or thought I had until we got to the real thing the next day.
The Thumb is the highest rock spire on the peak of that mountain. It offers spectacular views in all 360 directions. And it is only accessible by circling around from the path leading to it to the 1500-foot cliff on the other side. Yes, it was a long, long, very long way straight down. Vertigo was a real possibility.
We pounded pitons into the cracks of that sheer face, hooked in our carabiners and our ropes with loops tied in for our feet to begin the climb straight up. No, don’t look down. Definitely, don’t look down.
Well, I finally made it to the top with Bill giving me some extra pull at the end of the ordeal – he was the belay man. And, yes, the view was spectacular. To celebrate, we had taken a flask of Wild Turkey whiskey. Just a few sips – we wanted to be stone-cold sober for the climb down. I made it down okay, which was quite a bit easier, made it safely down. I’m still here, am I not?
That venture was definitely to “higher ground.” And spiritually, it was. The majesty filled the soul.
That is the grandeur I celebrate this Fourth, as other memories come flooding back – Grand Canyon at sunrise, the Aurora Borealis at night in the wilds of Alaska, that immense golden eagle soaring only a couple feet over my head when on a float trip down one of Alaska’s wild rivers.
I will celebrate the grandeur of our heritage through the words and legacy of those who are part of the warp and woof of the fabric of this republic. I am brought to those like Frederick Douglass and Sandra Cisneros[2] who through adversity and persistent witness kept the hope of America alive. I celebrate those who speak to our generous spirit. Those abolitionists and suffragists like my great ancestor Julia Ward Howe. Yes, she made it onto the cover of this July issue of the Atlantic magazine – “The Battle Hymn of the Republic.”
The Spirit moving through countless witness to our common humanity is derivative from the one same Spirit flowing through our lessons for this morning.
Hear the Spirit speaking in Matthew’s Gospel:
“You have heard that it was said, ‘You shall love your neighbor and hate your enemy.’ But I say to you, Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you, so that you may be children of your Father who is in heaven. For he makes the sun rise on the evil and on the good, and sends rain on the just and unjust. For if you love those who love you, what reward do you have? Do not even the tax collectors do the same?”
From time to time this generosity has erupted forth from us, even for our former enemies. Having learned the disastrous lesson of the punitive Treaty of Versailles, (signed on June 28, 1919), we rebuilt West Germany, Italy and Japan. The Marshal Plan even went further to rebuild much of Europe.
After the Cold War, in many ways we bent over backward to assist Russia in recovering from the economic disaster left by the downfall of Communism.
Through USAID and the Peace Corps we have sent emissaries of good will through the world, sometimes in the most dangerous and neglected places with food aid, economic assistance, medicines for HIV and common childhood diseases. That is until the current administration had totally destroyed this signature humanitarian work leaving already over 500,000 children to die. The American spirit enshrined in those past years of benevolent aid. Yes, not always completely altruistic, but then what of our human motives are completely pure? Search your conscience on this.
The nonprofits in America have also reflected the same Spirit. Rotary, begun in America in February 23, 1905 by the businessman Paul Harris, has through its world-wide campaign against polio, virtually wiped out that dreaded disease. Their workers are often the only outsiders accepted in places often unaccepting of westerners – Afghanistan, Pakistan, Myanmar. This campaign of Rotary International has led to a historic, global campaign to eradicate polio since 1985.
As a founding core partner of the Global Polio Eradication Initiative (GPEI), Rotary’s PolioPlus program has helped immunize over 3 billion children and contributed more than $2.9 billion toward global eradication. It has led through international partners to a 99.9% reduction of cases for this dread disease.
This is the America I celebrate this Fourth. An expansive version of Rotary’s motto: “Service beyond self.” This is the volunteerism that Alexis de Tocqueville celebrated in his book, Democracy in America, in 1835. Higher ground indeed! For such I will toss back a cold one this Fourth.
This Fourth I celebrate those liberties and rights enshrined in the Bill of Rights, the first amendments to our Constitution – the right to peaceable assemble in protest especially.
With this current mendacious and corrupt administration, we have not only the right but the duty to be the Gospel Resistance to the evil they do. Yes, we do ask our blessing every Sunday on “those we must resist,” but resist we must with all the soul force at our command.
Resistance is Higher Ground. In the streets, in the editorial pages of our papers, in our daily prayers and charitable and political contributions.
Just as we will join in the effort to assist in Venezuela after this horrendous earthquake. Much of Caracas looks like Gaza after the Israeli genocidal war there. We at St. Francis will play our part. Check out Episcopal Relief and Development or the denominational agencies of your own church. Most denominational agencies get well over 90% of your money to the targeted need. Higher Ground!
For us Episcopalians, the site is www.episcoaplrelief.org. Once you’re there, an immediate popup will direct you to: Earthquake Relief for Venezuela.[3] BTW, I tried it out and found that it works easily. Your receipt will say, directed to International Disaster Fund, the international agency through which we are working for earthquake relief there.
The very same Spirit manifested in your gift is to be found in Torah Righteousness – pure Grace. Hear this witness from our Torah heritage:
“For the Lord your God is God of gods and Lord of lords, the great God, mighty and awesome, who shows no partiality and accepts no bribes. He defends the cause of the fatherless and the widow, and loves the foreigner residing among you, giving them food and clothing. And you are to love those who are foreigners, for you yourselves were foreigners in Egypt.” Higher Ground.
The plan of those who would rule over us, Project 2025, continues to roll over our laws, the Constitution and common human decency. Rolling on, reducing voting rights, cutting off food stamps to 700,000 children as of last week. Throwing folks off their health care. Their toadies on the Supreme Court in rejecting the protection given to Hattians and Syrian migrants opens the door for some 400,000 to be immediately deported to the worst hell-hole places on the planet. Deportations to war-torn places, gang-infested countries. Certain death for many. Resist we must. America is better than this.
We have much Higher ground to celebrate this Fourth. The fact that we can be out in the streets that day, loud and proud, proclaiming with our bodies that America means ALL – gay and straight, black, brown, white and all the other colors of our mélange of this big disparate assemblage we label “e pluribus unum.” A street party welcoming the “huddled masses” still yearning to be free.
That’s a beauty the greedy grifters can’t deny. It will be “Youuuuugggge” as Senator Bernie Sanders would bellow. My prayer that day is for over ten millin in the streets all across this great nation. Yes, our marching feet are our prayers. And those marching feet are the greatness of America we celebrate that day.
I close with the admonition from one whose feet were often weary, that tireless suffragist, Susan B. Anthony
“It was we, the people; not we, the white male citizens; nor yet we, the male citizens; but we, the whole people, who formed the Union. And we formed it not to give the blessings of liberty, but to secure them; not to the half of ourselves and the half of our posterity, but to the whole people – women as well as men.”[4]
Yes, All means All on this Higher Ground. And we’re still struggling to make it a reality for the whole of this republic. Onward to Higher Ground. Can I get an Amen here?
[1] John Muir, Selected Writings (New York: Everyman’s Library, 2017) 461 ff.
[2] Sandra Cisneros, The House on Mango Street (New York: Knopf, 1984).
[3] ERD mailing address is: P.O. Box 5121, Boone, IA, 50950-0121. Make checks out to Episcopal Relief and Development and in the memo line put Venezuela Earthquake Relief.
[4] Susan B. Anthony, from a speech at New York 1873. From The Patriot’s Bible: A Bicentennial Anthology of Love and Justice, John Eagleson and Philip Scharper, eds. (Maryknoll, New York: Orbis Books, 1975), 76-77.
July 5, 2026 – Pentecost 5
Independence Day Propers
“Higher Ground”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Deuteronomy 10:17-21; Psalm 145:1-9;
A Reading from Baldwin; Gospel: Matthew 5:43-48
We Must Cry Out
As our 250th birthday approaches we are seduced into an orgy of nostalgia and kitsch. The banality of the recent cage fight on the White House lawn being the least of what’s to come.
In preparation for the events around the 4th of July, the racists at 1200 Pennsylvania Ave. in D.C. have released an 85-page document rewriting black history. How “white” of them.[1]
In this sanitized version, “slavery” and “slave” each only appear once. “Racism” not at all. These folks have long failed to reckon with America’s divided history. The journey down nostalgia lane ignores the sordid legacy of slavery and Jim Crow – only one of America’s original sins.
As we celebrate Juneteenth, the date the proclamation of freedom belatedly reached those held in bondage in Galveston, Texas, June 19, 1865.
The Juneteenth celebration marks the delayed arrival of the proclamation of freedom from slavery for those held on bondage when Federal agents arrived in Galveston, Texas, June 19, 1865, after local officials failed to share word of the national end of slavery.
Despite Emancipation, America yet remains mired in this tragic history that blighted the lives of millions – and continues to do so.
Point! Secretary of Defense (War?) Hegseth has twice summarily stripped promotion rolls of black and women senior officers simply because of race and sex. Twice — with no explanation to Congress or the American public.
Point! With the efforts to eliminate programs promoting diversity, equity, and inclusion (DEI), this racist administration has corrupted our civil service, our military, our universities. They blatantly don’t want to include half my family in the dream. Not back to the separate water fountains of the old Jim Crow era, but back to a not-so-subtle newer version of exclusion. Just as covert and pernicious as it was under President Wilson when the KKK virtually ran the Democratic Party.
Point! Growing up in a privileged white family, I remained oblivious to much of this history through my teen years and into young adulthood. Oh, there were a few instances when the curtain was pulled back on this ugly underbelly of our history.
I remember the Mexican American boy in my third-grade class in Compton, California. The only person of color in our class. My parents gave me explicit instructions not to play with him. He was dirty. He would give us a disease. He was not nice. End of story. I don’t think he had many friends in our class because I suspect other white parents gave their children the same message.
What puzzled me was the disparity of what I was learning in my Sunday school class taught by my mom and what my family was teaching. This attitude did not comport with the song we sang about Jesus loving all the little children.
Jesus loves the little children
All the children of the world
Red, brown, yellow
Black and white
They are precious in His sight
Jesus loves the little children
Of the world
This double mindedness of our history on race is a grotesque distortion of the promises of the Declaration of Independence and the guarantees enshrined in the Constitution (as revised by the 14th, 15th, 16th and 19th amendments). The oppression of people of color came into full view when I was in junior high.
A Black dentist and his family had moved into our neighborhood. While they were on vacation our “nice” white Christian neighbors ran a hose into the second story of their house and turned on the water. When they returned a couple weeks later, the house was virtually destroyed, and most of everything in it. What the water didn’t ruin, the mold did.
And my church uttered not a peep. That began my estrangement from my faith, my class, my family. Finally reaching a peak during the Vietnam War when my father and I did not speak to each other for almost 8 years.
Jeremiah, in the face of national corruption and faithlessness, is assaulted by the Word of Justice implanted in his heart. He cannot resist it. Fire in his bones.
“O Lord, you have enticed me, and I was enticed, you have overpowered me, and you have prevailed.”
Given this unpopular prophecy to deliver, he has become a pariah.
“I have become a laughingstock all day long; everyone mocks me. For whenever I speak, I must cry out, I must shout, “Violence and destruction.”
And in these fraught times of societal breakdown and chaos we must cry out. While we mint new trillionaires and scads of new billionaires leaving us common folk in the dust – we must cry out! Only the apostate will remain silent.
You might say we’re sometimes impolite. We violate the norms of decorum. I say, there is no longer any decorum when voting rights of the poor and minorities are fed wholesale into the woodchipper. Politeness does a disservice to the Word of God, to the Gospel of Jesus Christ. What we presently are doing to “the least of these” is most impolite.
Now the disaster that daily befalls our nation is not just a matter of corrupt politics. With the inclusion of a wonderful, new addition of an African-American daughter-in-law and a brand-new biracial grandson Luther it’s existential. No longer an abstract concept of fairness and equity, but a matter of survival, belonging and thriving.
And as it’s said in West Virginia, you mess with one of us and you’re messing with all of us. “All of us,” with the enlargement of my family, has taken on a whole new meaning. Yeah, Trump, you and your GOP apologists — you’re messing with all of us now.
Like I felt upon hearing of what had happened to our Black neighbors down the street in my early teens, a smoldering fire had begun burning in my bones.
We need clergy enticed and assaulted by this burning Word in their bones. Lay folks also virulently infected with this living Word – for in it is our salvation. In it is the open door to any sort of life worth living – our only alternative to being just a dumb, senseless part on the Darwinian food chain.
And sometimes such impolite outbursts are pure Grace. They open the door to God’s Justice and Peace. Even open the door to repentance.
I remember my friend Charlie Clark, the pastor of a Lutheran church in Temple City when I ran my ecumenical fair-housing project.
When it came to Tough Grace, Charlie was extraordinary.
Pastor Clark used to fulminate against those in his church who had no vision. “Do not quench the Spirit,” he would demand, voice raised. That church had had five pastors in six years before he had arrived.
There was a reason he was well into his seventh year when I knew him. He had no tolerance for cynical nay-sayers, the faithless who had no vision. “Do not quench the Spirit.” He gave as good as he got for Gospel Righteousness’s sake.
I’m still not sure how he kept from being fired, but under his leadership that congregation was a part of our fair housing effort, Project Understanding – though many there absolutely refused to understand that “Good Neighbors Come in All Colors.” God’s demand for Justice was shut up in Charlie’s bones, and he would not be quiet.
I still remember his secretary telling me of one Sunday, when Pastor Clark was putting out our Project Understanding newsletter in the literature rack. One of the nay-sayers of stunted charity passed through the narthex and noticed this: “Pastor, how long do we have to have this crap in our church?” he whined.
Charlie wheeled about on him, bellowing, “Don’t ever let me hear you call the Gospel of Jesus Christ CRAP!” And his contract was renewed for another year. Truly, like Jeremiah, he had committed his cause to the Lord.
Such indomitable strength of character lies as a possibility within each one of us. This Torah decency and sense of justice is shut up in all of us, but that we only excavate our souls to discover it. We each hold the possibility of having the decency and courage to follow its lead.
It’s not just about my immediate family anymore. This malignant administration is messing with all of America. All of us!
Yet, through persistence. Gentle and otherwise, the Word of God finds a way where there was no way. That’s our doing.
The other day at our “beer summit” at Back Abbey my friend told me this story of his family and the growth to Gospel Inclusion.
Dick’s father was a rock-ribbed conservative Presbyterian in Palo Alto. When it came to his church, he was a stalwart participating member. But his understanding of the Gospel of Jesus Christ was somewhat limited when it came to what he saw as his personal prerogatives.
Case in point. A California ballot proposition to repeal our fair housing laws, the Rumsfield Fair Housing Act, was on the ballot one year. Dick and his father were on opposite sides of the issue. Vociferously so. They argued back and forth. “I don’t want the government telling me what to do with MY property,” was the father’s objection. Even on the way to the voting location the disagreement raged.
After each had cast his ballot and they were back in the car, there was absolute silence as they began the drive back home. Finally, Dick’s father spoke. “I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t vote for repeal.”
No, the government hadn’t told him what to do with his property. The guidance of the Gospel of Jesus Christ did. Through the persistence and witness of his son. Now that’s pure, unadulterated Grace in action. Such Grace is our only hope. Only such Tough and Gentle Grace can overcome our divisive history of race, class and partisan politics as we approach our 250th birthday. It is our final and only hope.
Time to scrap the impulse to mesmerizing nostalgia for the “good ol’ days” because, in reality, they weren’t so good for many of us. Time for a reality check.
It’s the witness of courageous Republicans who are true conservatives upholding our Constitution and the ethic of the Declaration. Time for Republicans that value their soul more than their ephemeral jobs. Time for upholding the notion that in America we all have of right to be self-determining and enjoy the benefits of the nation we have created. Republicans who are willing to fight for “All means All.”
It’s the witness of Democrats who refuse to continue their acquiescence to the unconstitutional illegality of this administration. Who will stand up to the worst of the worst of their self-serving policies. Democrats who will welcome into the discussion and join with those on the other side of the aisle of good will.
It’s the witness of average citizens who will be out in the streets all across this republic for the largest “No Kings” demonstration in history. It’s those willing to risk malicious prosecution as conspirators for demonstrating against ICE raids and their cesspool detention centers.
It’s about us of the Jesus Movement boldly proclaiming in word and deed the Gospel Goodness we hold dear – ALL MEANS ALL! This Grace will indeed lead us home.
We must cry out.
Time for Tough Grace, Costly Grace. Time for telling it like it is. Only in such boldness is our hope, is the wide-open door to eternity to be entered. As I’m wont to say, “that’s my story and I’m sticking to it.” Because it’s grounded in the much larger story of God’s love for all of us. Full of Grace and full of Glory. Amen.
[1] Nathalie Baptiste, “Trump is Completely Rewriting Black History – With Devastating Consequences,” Huffpost, June 18, 2026.
June 21, 2026 – Pentecost 4, Proper 7
“We Must Cry Out”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Jeremiah 20:7-13; Psalm 69:8-11, 18-20;
Romans 6:1b-11; Matthew 10:24-39
