In the Arena
Many of our presidents have been bigger than life. I suppose that just putting oneself forth in such a contest requires a fairly strong ego. It requires the conviction that you can win and it requires the conviction that you can do the job, that you have something to offer. That you can meet the unknown challenges that will come during the four years of your presidency. A task not for the timid, the indecisive or the uninformed.
Though every now and then a ringer slips through the electoral system. Like now. I dare say that a bland personality like Calvin Cooledge or Warren G. Harding would never make it in this overheated media environment, in this era of blogs and internet barrage of conspiracy and lies. It is true that the Orange Voldemort at 1600 Pennsylvania Ave. is certainly a puffed-up personality uniquely suited to this cutthroat reality show media age.
Looking back, one of the presidents that has always captured my interest is Theodore Roosevelt. No saint he. He was an imperialist from the word go. Sorely misguided in his expansionist vision for America. Yet he brought a moral sense of duty and fairness to his life in the political arena. A sense sorely lacking today.
Here is that famous quote that has inspired resiliency and perseverance from his speech, “Citizenship in a Republic”, delivered at the Sorbonne, in Paris, France on 23 April, 1910. Often referred to “Man in the Arena.” [1]
“It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming; but who does actually strive to do the deeds; who knows great enthusiasms, the great devotions; who spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who at the worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who neither know victory nor defeat.”
Roosevelt, for his many shortcomings on the international stage, was an intrepid leader of the Progressive movement. He was notorious for his late-night prowling through the streets of the City of New York when he was police commissioner. Often, late at night, a sleeping officer would be rudely awakened to find Commissioner Roosevelt in his face.
At the time Roosevelt cleaned up the force, which had been no better than a shake-down operation. When he went after those taking kickbacks from the brothel operators and their patrons, he got a huge amount of blowback. Yet he persisted. He joyfully took his place in the arena of duty and action.
TR was raised in a Presbyterian/Reformed faith. As a young man he taught Sunday school. This faith tradition inculcated in him the sense of purpose and duty. His was an active faith that joyfully engaged the world. He relished his role in whatever political office he held. He genially was “Deeeelighted!” This exclamation was no mere affectation. In his role as public servant, he was genuinely “Deeeelighted!” Whomever he met, he was “Deeelighted!”
Jesus instructs his followers in a similar path of discipleship. They are not to have warm, cozy spiritual feelings. Not to sing kumbaya praise songs. They are not to be an exclusive club. No, their path is into Jerusalem. In the arena. To bear one’s cross, where need meets one’s calling.
“Jesus began to show his disciples that he must go to Jerusalem and undergo great suffering at the hands of the elders and chief priests and scribes, and be killed…And Peter took him aside and began to rebuke him, saying, ‘God forbid it, Lord! This must never happen to you.’ But he turned and said to Peter, ‘Get behind me, Satan!’ You are a stumbling block to me…’” This is definitely a faith lived in the arena. Jesus’ entire ministry was in the arena.
If you wear a shiny cross around your neck or on your lapel, it had better stand for something – an active, sacramental faith grounded in today’s figurative Jerusalem. We should find you in the arena.
Martin Luther, the 16th century church reformer, instructed his followers on the duty of the laity of the church. Their duty was twofold: to their families and to their vocation. Today, I would add, also to the political life of their nation. In a republic, we are entrusted with its care that it provides for all its citizens. We have the stewardship responsibility to correct and reform it when it neglects the will and needs of its citizens. Especially when it gets wrapped up in its own self-aggrandizement.
Having subbed in some special ed classes, I understand the full commitment of those teachers who have chosen that specialty. They are totally in the arena.
This past week my son Christopher has been subbing in a special ed class. He tells this story of one of his first days on the job. Definitely in the arena of our contemporary Jerusalem. He shared this story.[2]
“It was my second day on the job, subbing for a Special Ed aide role. I
had my schedule printed out for the day, and the first class went by
without incident. That was the last normal thing that happened.
I walked into my second class to help a sweet third grader named Theo, but the moment I stepped into the room, the school psychologist, Ms. E, let out a sigh of relief and pulled me into a different problem: Brayden, a big kid, easily six inches and several dozen pounds bigger than his classmates, was refusing every instruction and rampaging around the room, kicking over chairs and flipping tables. Ms. E tried to physically restrain him, and he lost it completely, charging for the door, nearly bowling over several other kids on his way out. For his safety and theirs, we had to stop him. I dropped low into a power position (which I’d last used in high-school football and wrestling) braced for the impact, and wrapped Brayden up. That’s when he started bawling. Once he’d calmed down enough, Ms. E and a second teacher walked him out, one arm each, toward the office.
“I’d barely caught my breath when Roger, a first grader with a
full-time 1-to-1 aide, burst into the room mid-meltdown. His aide, Ms. B, quickly put him in a full-body hold and needed help. I grabbed his top half, she had his legs, and we carried him back to his classroom
together. Once there, the two of us tried to talk him down, and got
middle fingers and “F you” for our trouble, along with a smack across
the face that sent my glasses flying across the room.
“Before I could even find my glasses, the door flew open again. One of the office staff said they needed me back in the main office
immediately. Brayden was there, alternately crying, screaming, and
kicking Ms. E. Another male teacher and I held him while she worked to calm him down. Somewhere in the middle of trying to settle in for what I figured would be a long wait; Roger was brought into the same office, sobbing, and begging not to be sent home. He’d kicked his aide, Ms. B, in the throat hard enough to knock her off a climbing structure and send her to the hospital. Before too long, the police showed up to have a talk with him.
“So, there I was, in the middle of that — Roger facing a police visit
crying in one corner, Brayden still simmering in another — and I just
sat with Brayden and talked. WWE (that’s World Wrestling Entertainment for those not into such pugilistic delights). Knott’s Berry Farm. Michael Jackson.
“Whatever he wanted to talk about, for about forty minutes, until his
grandmother arrived. By the time she picked him up, we’d established a little bit of a rapport.
“And this was all before lunch.”
Definitely in the arena.
Down into Jerusalem with all its attendant problems and suffering we followers in the Jesus Movement are called to go. In that arena of strife and chaos we will discover who Jesus is for us today. Same with our political responsibilities. Today just voting is not enough. As our nation’s founders, Madison and Jefferson insisted, a democracy depends on an educated citizenry. And in the struggle and the exhausting effort, we will discover the blessing of a peace that passes all our poor understanding. A taste of eternity.
Those in the St. Francis Garden of Hope and serving at St. John’s food bank are definitely in the arena. Especially given these scorching summer days of weeks past.
I close with the wise spiritual counsel of Mother Teresa, a woman definitely in the arena. She writes on our call as Jesus followers when the arena is difficult and painful. When we are assaulted by nagging self-doubts:
Mother Teresa’s Anyway Poem
People are often unreasonable, illogical and self-centered;
Forgive them anyway.
If you are kind, people may accuse you of selfish, ulterior motives;
Be kind anyway.
If you are successful, you will win some false friends and some true enemies;
Succeed anyway.
If you are honest and frank, people may cheat you;
Be honest and frank anyway.
What you spend years building; someone could destroy overnight;
Build anyway.
If you find serenity and happiness, they may be jealous;
Be happy anyway.
The good you do today, people will often forget tomorrow;
Do good anyway.
Give the world the best you have, and it may never be enough;
Give the world the best you’ve got anyway.
You see, in the final analysis, it is between you and your God;
It was never between you and them anyway.
Mother Teresa gets the “Last Word.” She was most definitely in the arena.
Amen.
[1] Often better known as the “Man in the Arena” speech from the line, “It is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena.”
[2] Names of students changed to protect privacy.
August 30, 2026
Pentecost 14, Proper 17
“In the Arena”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Jeremiah 15:15-21; Psalm 26:1-8
Romans 12:9-21; Matthew 16:21-28
What Say You?
I have returned from three marvelous adventures: San Francisco where Jai and I celebrated our 60th wedding anniversary; West Virginia where we held our 9th annual Wounded Warrior event; and the City of New York where Alexis’s aunt Charlene was married. With a great family BBQ, the day afterwards hosted by her Aunt Sojo.
In New York, I also had given myself a number of days to take in the delights of that city. The wedding was a grand family gathering. I was joined by Christopher, Alexis and her mother Denise. Oh yeah, and Luther who’s now walking. Soon after the ceremony folks were on the dance floor. If I had tried to bust a move like some of those young people, call 911. And I would have been in traction for a number of weeks.
I was most impressed with how enterprising New Yorkers are. On the sidewalk, move right along or you’ll end up causing a lot of consternation among the pedestrians. Maybe not so much if you’re an old guy with a walker.
It is a most industrious city. There were hardly any vacant storefronts. Often there were 3 to 4 restaurants or quick food joints. All small businesses – many opened by immigrants bringing their own unique cuisines. A lot of hustle for sure.
The traffic is no less rushed. It would seem that lane markings are only considered suggestions. The traffic weaved in and out like spaghetti. A couple of cab rides would have been rated an “E-coupon ride” in the old days at Disneyland.
And then that poignant reminder of 9/11. I went to the museum which told a most moving story of that day. An ordinary day with a cloudless cobalt blue sky. Folks just arriving at work at what looked to be a most ordinary of days.
Like virtually everyone reading this or hearing it delivered, if we are old enough we remember exactly where we were and what we were doing when we first heard the news.
At the time I was running my family’s construction company. I was just about to head to the office next to the house when I got a call from my oldest son. Jonathan’s urgent voice told me something was wrong. “Dad, do you have the TV on?” “Why, what’s happening?” “Go, turn it on. Someone’s bombed the World Trade Tower in New York.”
He closed with the warning, “Dad, I don’t think we can let this slide.”
My fear was later somewhat different. Yes, we would respond. And probably do something very stupid. Which is what we soon did, the result being two endless wars in Afghanistan and Iraq. And we still had not captured the mastermind, Osama Bin Laden.
What wisdom does scripture offer in these chaotic moments? What are the choices?
As Jesus and his disciples were walking through the district of Caesarea called Philippi, he asked his disciples, “Who do people say that the Son of Man is? They replied, “Some say John the Baptist, but other Elijah, and still others Jeremiah or one of the prophets.” But who do you say that I am?” Many engage in idle speculation, but when it comes down to the wire, this Gospel inheritance, What’s it to You?
In the midst of the New York City hustle and bustle, I suspect Jesus’ question to Peter was furthest from folk’s minds. For those of us watching that unfolding disaster on 9/11, it was probably not on our minds. And for those trying to escape those burning towers, probably not on their minds.
Yet, in the midst of the carnage and flames, many heroes responded with an unspoken answer. They answered with their aid. These were the people rushing into those blazing infernos to aid their fellow human beings. The Christ in them propelled them forward through the choking dust. Responding to the distressed Christ in neighbors they never knew. The Living Christ was in full display in the midst of a living hell.
One of the books I purchased at the museum store was Ordinary Heroes: A Memoir of 9/11 by Joseph Pfeifer, the first FDNY chief to arrive on the scene at the World Trade Tower.[1]
Most of those firefighters Chief Pfeifer led had been deeply rooted in their Irish Catholic faith. The Christ inculcated in them as none questioned the duty to run towards that inferno as others fled. As the first commander on the scene, overall responsibility became Pfeifer’s.
After the second plane hit the South Tower, the fire department had the biggest catastrophe in New York history on their hands. More and more units arrived on the scene, including one led by Chief Pfeifer’s younger brother, Kevin. Kevin’s assignment was to take those under his command into the South Tower. The last Joseph would ever see of his brother was as he turned and led a force up the steps of that building as more and more workers were fleeing down the steps from the flames and smoke.
Later, as both buildings collapsed, Joseph found himself sitting on a bench covered with dust, barely able to breathe. He fervently hoped that somehow Kevin had made it out after Joseph had been the command for all fire personnel to leave the buildings.
Then he began to second guess his decision to send his brother up those stairs (of which there is a portion on display at the museum).
Meanwhile, his wife Ginny, a nurse, had planned to take the children to a park with a friend on her day off. As soon as she heard the news she turned on the TV.
Joseph, continues his story:[2]
“She knew I was assigned to Battalion 1 in lower Manhattan and would be the first fire chief to arrive at the WTC, since I was on duty. Ginny was not too concerned since I had twenty years of experience fighting big fires and I had taught about high-rise fires to new chiefs at the academy.
“But when the South Tower collapsed, she went numb.
“’This can’t be happening,’ she told herself. The nightmare Ginny never allowed into her thoughts erupted into anxiety. By the time the North Tower collapsed, she was in full-fledged panic. What if her husband of seventeen years didn’t come home?
“Was she a widow?
Were her children safe? She couldn’t get through to their school. Cell towers were overloaded by desperate callers. She finally got through to her brother, Frankie, a priest. She told him that she thought her husband was dead. She was at her wits end. Consoled in prayer by the same Christ, they devised a plan.
She was soon reunited with her children as they hugged one another through sobs and tears in the entryway.
Throughout that day and in the days to follow, in acts of selfless courage, in moments of consolation many, many that day answered Jesus’ question. “You are the Christ.” And in their actions, heroic and ordinary, was the living sacramental answer. “You are the Christ.” The Christ in me and the Christ in you, the Christ in stranger and coworker and family alike.
When Kevin’s death became apparent, the most difficult task before Chief Pfeifer was to later inform Kevin’s family that he would not be coming home. Christ crucified on the twisted steel beams of those towers.
Later, as firefighters returned to their firehouses and shared stories of what they had experienced that day and the next several days, Chief Joseph learned that Kevin had remained behind, trying to get as many as possible down that staircase. He had literally given his life for people he would never know. And how many are still alive due to his efforts, no one will know. Joseph found much comfort in hearing of Kevin’s selfless actions that dread morning. A Christ for others.
And in the midst of our daily busyness, maybe not as frantic as on the daily streets of New York, What Say You? What is this story of Jesus to you in the rush of your daily priorities? What is the visible witness of your confession of faith?
At that hallowed memorial and the 9/11 Museum, I encountered the living Christ in the sacrifices that so many made that morning when the sun refused to shine through the choking clouds of smoke and dust of that living hell.
May we in times of danger and distress, in moments of perplexity and periods of calm discover and rediscover the living Christ that moves in and through our being. Our life, our courage, our hope. Amen.
[1] Joseph Pfeifer, Ordinary Heroes: A Memoir of 9/11 (New York: Portfolio/Penguin, 2021).
[2] Op cit., 82.
August 23, 2026
Pentecost 13, Proper 16
“What Say You?”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Isaiah 51:1-6; Psalm 138
Romans 12:1-8; Gospel: Matthew 16:13-20
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
