The Power of Love
Like many other people, my days are filled with things to do and places to go. Right from the get-go, I’ve got a “to do” list and the internal dialogue between my two ears is the ordering of it.
If there’s a problem, I’ll quickly jump to possible solutions before carefully assessing the nature of it in all its complexity. This is especially true, if the matter brought to my attention involves another person.
How many times have we all been that busy, hostage to the chores of the day?
In our lesson from Mark, Jesus is confronted with a personal problem on his busy journey. He also has places to go and things to do. In the midst of the busyness, he seeks some respite in a private home. He just needs a few moments of peace and quiet for himself. So, an interruption comes as a big annoyance. A thing to be dispatched with quickly. It is the story of the Syrophoenician woman who seeks healing for her demon-possessed daughter.
When the woman makes her request, Jesus abruptly dismisses her with, “’Let the children [of Israel] be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.’ But she answered him, ‘Sir, even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.’”
Her clever response cuts him short. To listen, really hear what the other is saying and be affected by it. That’s the “Power of Love.”
A favorite from the film, “Back to the Future” by Huey Lewis and the News, “The Power of Love,” soared right to the top of the charts.
The Power of Love is deep, down really listening to what’s said and what’s not said.
The chorus nailed it:
You don’t need money, don’t take fame
Don’t need no credit card to ride this train
It’s strong and it’s sudden, and it’s cruel sometimes
But it might just save your life
That’s the power of love
That’s the power of love
The power of Jesus Love was intense, active listening. He let that women get to him. And she WAS RIGHT!
The God spark in him was changed by her plea.
In the midst of his annoyance, Jesus listened. Actively listened.
That was the first lesson of my married life. I had to learn to really listen to Jai, to let her inside and take account of her concerns. To be emotionally available. It’s taken fifty-seven years and I’m still working on it.
Jai gets the first crack at each and every sermon. My first question to her after she’s read it, “Was it interesting?” Second, “Did it give you a better understanding of the scripture lesson?” My writing has profited immensely from simply listening to my wife. Her gift back to me is the Power of Love.
The Church also listened, realizing that its mission is far more comprehensive than to a small, select group of the “chosen”. The Gospel mandate transcended culture, race and gender. We’re still working on that lesson. Indeed, “In Christ there is no east or west, no north or south.”
The broader mission all began with truly hearing the anguished plea of this outsider, this foreigner. In hearing those on the margins, we also may learn to listen to our own lives.
Frederick Buechner points the way, “Listen to your life. See it for the fathomless mystery it is. In the boredom and pain of it, no less than in the excitement and gladness: touch, taste, smell your way to the holy and hidden heart of it, because in the last analysis all moments are key moments, and life itself is grace.” Listen to the lives of those around you and see their lives as sheer grace.
And in listening to those whom we would too quickly dismiss, we stumble upon the amazing grace of who we are – renewal for ourselves and for the world. That’s the Power of Love.
When I was teaching, and had to referee a dispute between two young fellows on the playground, one of the first things I learned was to listen deeply to both sides. The matter was never so simple as it seemed to either of the disputants. My duty was to give both boys voice, let each be heard.
Recently, Nicholas Kristof had some very important advice on listening in his latest op-ed column, “Why We Shouldn’t Demean Trump Voters.” And, yes, I have to plead guilty.
Quoting Bill Clinton, he writes “’I urge you to meet people where they are,’ said Clinton, who knows something about winning votes outside of solid blue states. ‘I urge you not to demean them, but not to pretend you don’t disagree with them if you do. Treat them with respect — just the way you’d like them to treat you.’”[1]
Kristof continues, “It’s more than politically stupid – it’s difficult to win votes from people you’re disparaging.” But it’s more than that.
Kristof adds, “It has also seemed to me morally offensive, particularly when well-educated and successful elites are scorning disadvantaged, working-class Americans who have been left behind economically and socially and in many cases are dying young. They deserve empathy, not insults.”
Good politics begins with deep listening and really hearing the other.
When Kristof shared with some of his colleagues the nature of his forthcoming piece, many were aghast. “Plenty of readers replied hotly: ‘But they deserve to be demeaned!’”
Kristof counsels that we step back and all take a deep breath. He recalls FDR’s radio address, a “Fireside Chat” of April 7, 1932. His talk, “The Forgotten Man,” addressing a nation at the height of the Great Depression, roused a nation to believe in one another.
FDR did not scold, did not cast blame. He heard and empathized. I like to think that this demeanor came deep from what he had learned over the years in his Episcopal congregation. And listening to his Eleanor.
“These unhappy times call for the building of plans that rest upon the forgotten, the unorganized but the indispensable units of economic power, for plans like those of 1917 that build from the bottom up and not from the top down, that put their faith once more in the forgotten man at the bottom of the economic pyramid.”[2]
As his funeral train made its way across the nation, a man was found weeping along the route, and was asked if President Roosevelt had been a close friend. “I didn’t know him,” the man replied. “But he knew me.” This was a feeling shared by millions of Americans.
Roosevelt listened. He listened to his former colleagues in congress. He listened to the reports Eleanor brought back from her trips throughout the land. In the grace of his listening our nation was healed. That’s the Power of Love. Gospel Love.
The Power of Love is the willingness to listen, especially when the news is not good of favorable to oneself. And let that message into your soul. To be affected by it at the depths of one’s being. To risk being changed by it.
This past week, on the front cover of The Economist was the headline on Sudan.[3] This is a tragedy that has received far less coverage than the war in Ukraine and Gaza, yet it is deadlier than both combined.
“Africa’s third-largest country is ablaze. Its capital city has been razed, perhaps 150,000 people have been slaughtered and bodies are piling up in makeshift cemeteries visible from space. More than 10 million people, a fifth of the population have been forced to flee from their homes…6 to 10 million people could die from starvation.” Folks, this is not “Morning in America.” And the world stands by as a collection of bad actors – Russia, Iran, Egypt, Saudi Arabia, Turkey have played both sides to their own benefit.
We, in the West, need to impose biting sanctions on those fueling the conflict with money, weapons and soldiers. We need to hear the cries of the ignored. We must heed their call. I wonder how long we would turn our heads if these victims were white. And don’t think that this disaster will not find it’s way to our door.
Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy, Lord have mercy upon us.
We have abandoned this part of the world just as we have abandoned the women of Afghanistan. As far as they are concerned Biden has been no different than Trump. They both conspired to sell these women and girls into a future of misery and abject servitude.
No education beyond the sixth grade is permitted for girls. For women, no employment in virtually any job. Women are not to be allowed in public spaces – parks, gyms, shopping areas. They are virtually restricted to the home, being housewives and having children.
We sold them out. They were not consulted in the negotiations and abandonment that extinguished their hopes. All decided by a bunch of men who cared not a whit about their future or aspirations. Colin Powell once said, “It’s Pottery Barn rules. You break it, you own it.” Apparently, not us.
Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy on us all.
A widow, Ms. Rahmani, who had worked for nonprofit groups for nearly 20 years before the Taliban seized power, cannot now provide for her four children since women were barred from employment.
“’I miss the days when I used to be somebody, when I could work and earn a living and serve my country,’ Ms. Rahmani explained. ‘They have erased our presence from society.’”[4]
This is our doing. We invaded their nation then walked away leaving a complete disaster. The men in charge took no thought for what they left behind for one half of the population, the women and girls.
Can you hear them now? Let us deeply listen to their pain. Listen as Jesus deeply listened to that Syrophoenician woman. As he listened to so many along the fraught road to Jerusalem. This is the first act of love.
Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy. Lord have mercy upon us.
Listen we must. And become aware. Support aid through whatever channel. “Your thoughts and prayers” are insufficient here if not acted upon.
The Power of Love may seem insignificant, but when infinitely multiplied by the Spirit that stimulates creative solutions, empowers our gumption and fortifies courage, who knows what the Almighty can do through those of us willing to listen and to act? For the present, perhaps the best we can do is to immerse ourselves in the spirituality of the Serenity Prayer. Ask and accept forgiveness.
God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference.
Then we’ll see the amazing Power of Love.
May it be so. Amen.
[1] Nicholas Kristof, “Why We Shouldn’t Demean Trump Voters,” New York Times, August 1, 2024.
[2] Franklin D. Roosevelt, “The Forgotten Man,” Fireside Chat, April 7, 1932.
[3] “Why Sudan’s War is the World’s Problem,” The Economist, 9.
[4] Christina Goldbaum and Najim Rahim, “With New Taliban Manifesto, Afghan Women Fear the Worst,” New York Times, September 4, 2024.
September 8, 2024
16 Pentecost, Proper 18
Isaiah 35:4-7a; Psalm 146;James 2:1-10, 14-17; Mark 7:24-37
“The Power of Love”
What Defiles and What Builds Up
More about food this Sunday. Some religious authorities insisted that the dietary law be followed scrumptiously – washing hands. Now, even my mother insisted on that before dinner. Not that we scrupulously followed her directions about hands.
But these ultra-religious leaders insisted that dirty hands, or not sufficiently-washed hands would lead one into the outer darkness and gnashing of teeth, utter doom. You might be defiled for all eternity. Even Mom did not go that far.
In addition, there were certain foods that might defile one. Now that I could believe. At least liver and onions, rutabagas, parsnips and tomato aspic could come close to leading to eternal damnation. At least that’s what I told Mom (or something like that). She didn’t buy that either.
Now, before we shift all the blame to religious leaders long gone, maybe we should point this passage to our hearts.
Sometimes, we Episcopalians can be just as pompous and self-righteous about our traditions. Our hoity-toity attitudes can get in the way of Gospel love. We can be standoffish and aloft when it comes to working with others in the Christian family.
I remember one of our more Anglo-Catholic priests upbraiding me for having children’s sermons during worship. She asserted, “The Episcopal Church is an adult church.” To which I responded, “Jan, if we really believe that, we soon will be a cadaver church.” Do children’s sermons really defile our traditions? Really???
Some religious big shots confronted Jesus concerning all the nit-picking traditions and superstitions in the practice of their faith. “Why do your disciples not live according to the traditions of the elders, but eat with defiled hands?” To which Jesus responded, “Isaiah prophesied rightly about you hypocrites, as it is written, ‘This people honors me with their lips, but their hearts are far from me…’”[1]
When it comes to “defile,” there are far more serious failings to consider than dietary laws. As in what defiles a nation. As in what defiles the whole community.
A while back, we passed two significant anniversaries – the conviction of Lt. William Calley in the massacre at My Lai and that of Charles Manson and his cult followers’ – “The Manson Family” — murderous rampage in Los Angeles. March 29, 1971 was the day of both convictions.
Lt. Calley gave the orders that resulted in the wanton slaughter of some 450 innocent villagers, men, women and children – many raped and brutally tortured by U.S. troops before being shot and bayonetted.
That day was a moment of complete desecration of this nation, the military and all that we as Americans hold sacred.
That very same day Charles Manson and his followers were convicted of the brutal murders of the La Biancas and those at the home of Sharon Tate. Utter Desecration.
But there’s an alternative. In the midst of our worst, many more are bending their efforts to lift us up.
Most of us will attempt to live lives of decency and compassion for both neighbor and stranger. And as Machele Obama proclaimed last week on the “contagious power of hope,” “America, hope is making a comeback. Big time!
Most of us will be good neighbors. As Oprah Winfrey said that last week’s Democratic Convention, when a house is on fire, we wouldn’t ask who the owner voted for, we don’t ask what party they are a member of, or whether they are black or white. And even if they are a “childless cat lady, we’ll try to get the cat out.”
These efforts range from the minor to the sublime, from those of seemingly no consequence to those of political import.
It’s about standing up for truth and rebutting misinformation and lies. The other day at Vons in the checkout line, I was practicing what Sister Semone Campbell of “Nuns on the Bus” dubbed “checkout line evangelism.”
I had asked the clerk totaling up my bill if he had seen any of Vice President Kamala Harris’ speech. The clerk responded, “She’s anIndian.” “No,” I asserted, “she’s biracial. Her father is a Jamaican black man.” “No, she’s Indian,” he persisted. I challenged him to look it up on the Google machine. “She’s biracial.” Meanwhile, Jai was attempting to shrink into the groceries as others nearby listen in on this exchange.
This little episode might not have convinced him, but it did in some small way rebut the misinformation and ignorance that’s out and about in our political landscape.
In the aftermath of the defilement by the bombing of the 16th Street Baptist Church in Birmingham on September 15,1963, one man stood tall for justice, Doug Jones.[2]
Due to the rampant violence, that city had earned the moniker of “Bombingham.” At the trial of a KKK member, the only person to have been charged with that crime, a young law student, Doug Jones, had skipped classes to sit in on all the proceedings. When a guilty verdict was announced, Doug swore in his heart that he would somehow work to bring the others to justice.
His perseverance and efforts paid off. Amost four decades after that trial, Doug had risen to become a U.S. Attorney based in Birmingham, and that bombing still haunting his days and nights.
Despite the advice of well-meaning friends, he began to dig into that case. “Let it lay. Nothing to be gained by digging all that old stuff up again.”
Doug would not allow our nation to wallow in justice denied. It would not be denied for Addie May Collins, Cynthia Morris Wesley, Carole Robertson, Denise McNair and their families. He would dig and dig.
There was a lot to cover up. The FBI was well aware of the threat the KKK posed to anyone, even their own agents and informants. There were KKK sympathizers within their own ranks.[3]
Bending Toward Justice is Senator Doug Jones’ story of how, in the midst of abject defilement, justice finally triumphed for these girls and their families. He lifted up, he restored faith in our system of laws.
On the other end of the spectrum, I came across a story of a family working to restore what is broken.
In the Los Angeles Times I read this article on the little Mojave Desert town of Amboy. I suspect many of you have never heard of the place.[4]
I knew it as a geology major. There’s an extinct volcano right outside the town. We would take trips out there to climb it and collect “bombs.” These were rocks ejected from the volcano. As they fell back to earth, the mouton lava solidified in a round form with a tail on both ends, thus a “bomb.”
The town of Amboy dried up and was abandoned when bypassed by the interstate highway. Finally, an immigrant named Albert Okura enamored by the cultural heritage and mystique of the place, purchased the entire town. Albert’s son, Kyle, upon inheriting it, has labored to restore the small café, Roy’s Motel and gas station in hopes of having a portion of Route 66 named in honor of his father, Albert Okura.
Albert, the “Chicken Man,” founder of the Juan Pollo restaurant chain, had originally purchased Amboy some twenty years ago. As a former geology major and a bit of a “desert rat,” I am overjoyed to see the restoration of Amboy and some of its iconic buildings.
Yes, “Get your kicks on Route 66,” and explore wonderful places like Amboy. Just a minor tribute to one man building up America. As Kyle, now the owner of Amboy, proclaims, “It’s unlike any other place you can visit. There’s nothing like it and no way you can replicate something like Amboy.”[5]
It is folks like Doug Jones and the Okura Family; it’s teachers and attorneys, farmers and students, all working to lift up and perfect this nation. We don’t have to deny the worst of the desecration that has been perpetrated on the body politic and our citizens, especially those on the margins – but we can accept these truths and move beyond the worst in our history. We don’t banish that part of our history but allow the better angels of our nature to lead us into greater light.
That is what most of us believe and work for – restoration, perfecting, aligning our efforts with our best vision and values. That is what will be on the ballot this November.
Again, I close with my favorite James Baldwin passage from his book of essays, The Price of the Ticket.
“For nothing is fixed, forever and forever and forever, it is not fixed; The earth is always shifting, the light is always changing, the sea does not cease to grind down rock. Generations do not cease to be born, and we are responsible to them because we are the only witnesses they have. The sea rises, the light fails, lovers cling to each other, and children cling to us. The moment we cease to hold each other, the moment we break faith with one another, the sea engulfs us and the light goes out.”[6]
Amen.
[1] Mark 7:5-6, NRSV.
[2] Doug Jones, Bending Toward Justice (New York: All Points Books, 2019).
[3] Op. cit., 49.
[4] Alex Wigglesworth, “Saving a Patch of Americana,” Los Angeles Times, June 16, 2024.
[5] Wigglesworth, op cit.
[6] James Baldwin, The Price of the Ticket (New York: St. Martin’s Press, 1985), 393.
September 1, 2024
15 Pentecost, Proper 17
Deuteronomy 4:1-2, 6-9; Psalm 15James 1:17-27; Mark 7:1-8, 14-15, 21-23
“What Defiles and What Builds Up”
The Sacramental Dinner Bell
Food is basic – necessary for survival. Call me whatever you want but don’t call me late for dinner.
It is unconscionable that the civilized world stands by as famine stalks Gaza and Sudan – where just in Sudan three fourths of a million are on the verge of starvation. And the world sits idly by. Especially, when virtually all food shortage is the result of wars, mismanagement and government indifference.
Food is one of those areas in life where we can be most critical. At Pilgrim Place, our retirement community, if the string beans are undercooked there will be a flood of comments from the residents – at least one from me!
Some foods do not please and there’s no getting around it. My brother Tom could not abide Brussels sprouts. With me it was liver and onions. If I was quiet, when my parents’ attention was directed elsewhere, I could slip most of that in small pieces to our dog Skippy who waited expectantly at my seat.
One night as dinner was concluded, Tom still had five or six Brussels sprouts on his plate. He placed a napkin over them and proceeded to take his plate off the table, something he never did. As Dad looked up from the evening paper, he reached over a hand and whisked that napkin off Tom’s plate.
“Sit down,” he commanded. “You’re going to finish those.”
As Dad went back to his paper Tom mulled his options. Then a flash of inspiration. Maybe these horrible things might taste better if he put them in his glass of lemonade. Nah, that didn’t improve them. Well, what about some ketchup. That always made food taste better. By this time, Dad had lost his patience. “Tom, you’re going to eat those…NOW!”
Tom tried to choak one down, gagging and sputtering lemonade all over. He was soon in tears when Mom, the peacemaker, came over. She got Dad to agree to let him dump the concoction if he would eat just one. And promise to never do that again. I was sure glad that I didn’t mind eating my Brussels sprouts.
In scripture, food is symbolic of the goodness that God intends for all. It is what the end-time feast is all about, a metaphor for God’s bounty that all are invited to share in on the Last Day. “On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples a feast of rich food, well-aged wines, of rich food filled with marrow, of well-aged wines strained clear.”[1] All the stuff I now can’t eat due to my renal diet I’ll be able to indulge in. And…I’ve already notified St. Peter that if there’s no beer, I’m not going.
Again, this week’s passage from John’s gospel brings to mind the Eucharistic feast. I consider this sacrament as Christ’s invitation to all the sit at the Table of God’s Free Bounty when the dinner bell is rung. That wafer is the sacramental token of God’s desire that all are welcome to partake in the riches of creation. “Taste and see that the Lord is good.”
Food is a metaphor of God’s graciousness, the whole shebang – God’s will that all are satiated with the entire goodness of creation. As we, the Church, — Christ’s Body — cooperate with the Spirit to bring this vision to reality, we are Christ present to our neighbors. It might not be much – a few tomatoes, some peaches and apricots – but it shall suffice when offered up with all the other food that’s donated and distributed every Wednesday at St. John’s.
Unfortunately, this is not how the real world works within our economic system. If one examines that word, “economy,” it comes from two Greek words – “oikos,” meaning house and “nemean,” meaning to manage.
In the teachings of Jesus, there is about those left to manage affairs for an owner who is away — just as we are given responsibility to manage our affairs in the physical absence of the Lord. And how are such managers to be judged? – not on the Last Day but now, in the daily grind of our economic system? I like to think the standard to which they are held is how the wealth of the household is distributed equitably to all. Especially the “least of these.”
Now, if we had a manager who was responsible for say, one hundred souls, and say only two of them ended up with 90 percent of all the goodies. And forty of them had virtually nothing, or near nothing — how would we rate that manager? If half of them had untended illnesses and never saw a doctor or health care professional, how long should that manager remain in charge? If sixty percent went to underfunded schools or mostly missed classes, would you keep paying that manager? If ten members of that household actually had to live on the streets, or were sold into servitude because the manager refused to provide for their essential care, would you keep that manager? Does this regime the look like the Beloved Community of the Jesus Movement?
“You’re FIRED!!!” would the end of that operation.
Indeed, you would say that manager ought to be relieved of his or her position and, if not cast into the outer darkness with the mournful whaling and the gnashing of teeth — he or she at least ought to be compelled to live in a tent city on Wilshire Blvd. or some Skid Row among those suffering is the result of the neglect this manager has wrought. And maybe after a bit of eternity, we might hope that this derelict manager would have developed a little compassion for the cast aside.
Is it any wonder that a good number of the younger generation have given up on the capitalist system? Their beef? All it’s done is saddled them with massive amounts of student debt, mainly because the uber rich have refused to support public colleges the way they were previously compelled to under a tax code when they paid their fair share.
When I went to a community college, I think my tuition didn’t amount to much more than $25 a unit – no longer the case. Even at public colleges, our students end up graduating with $30,000 to $40,000 in student loan debt. Hundreds of thousands if they go on to graduate school.
Jorge Reiger, in his book, Christ and Empire,[2] takes the analysis of the disparity further than H. Richard Niebuhr’s Christ and Culture by noting that most theology is done in the context of a comfortable middle-class culture. If we are going to look at the context from a comfortable, highly educated standpoint, that’s not the group Jesus was interested in. The “Least of These” was his focus. We must ask, what does it mean to do theology from the bottom? Yes, Jesus was interested in the well to do, but only in that they might develop a heart for those at the bottom, the dregs of the empire’s economic and political system. How often are we are that rich, young man, woman, sent empty away?
The emphasis on the importance of food enough to satisfy all is a stand-in for God’s will that all have enough of life’s goodies to flourish. Not only are we talking about freedom from hunger, but the freedom for each woman and man to be fully alive, to reach their full potential. It’s about being fed with the freedom to have decent work at a living wage. The freedom to have political agency. The freedom to love whom you love. It’s about the freedom to have decent housing in a safe community. The freedom to learn and go as far as your talent and effort will take you. In short, to thrive. St. Ignatius proclaimed, “The Glory of God is a man [a woman] fully alive.” That means, not only us middle class folks but especially those at the bottom the heap. The heavenly dinner bell is rung for those who hunger, not for the well satiated.
At my favorite bookstore in Charleston, West Virginia, this past week, I came across a new biography of Harriet Tubman by Tiya Miles. In her new work, Night Flyer, Dr. Miles centers her story in the context of Harriet’s spirituality and African traditions. Harriet Tubman rang that heavenly dinner bell loud and clear for those would escape the brutality of their enslavement. Her’s is a theology from the bottom. Freedom was the nourishment she served up.
Though Harriet never learned to read, she was deeply immersed in the fabric of the Christian story. In her work, God was a reality providing comfort, assurance and guidance. Immersed in a patriarchal society wed to the institution of slavery and domination, she developed a countercultural belief centered on freedom and liberation.
“God set the North Star in the heavens; He gave me the strength to my limbs; He meant that I should be free.”[3] She followed that North Star, the apogee of the Drinking Gourd,[4] to lead her to her own freedom, and would by it, lead hundreds of others out of the yoke of bondage to their own freedom. This notion of freedom “stemmed from her lived experience, moral intuition, critical inquiry, cultural learning, religious feeling and environmental surroundings.”[5] That call to liberation was Harriet’s dinner bell ringing.
Would that the Church learn from Harriet Tubman and realize that if we are to be faithful to the vision of the Jesus Movement, we too must stand against the norms of a society that leaves far too many in the dust. Ours must be a countercultural stance. As Christ’s option is for the poor, so must ours be as well. As managers in the Jesus Movement our task is clear. The poet spells it out: “We are simply asked to make gentle this bruised world. To be compassionate of all, including one’s self. Then in the time left over to repeat the ancient tale and go the way of God’s foolish ones.”[6] May it be so. Amen.
[1] Isaiah 25: 6, NRSV.
[2] Joerg Rieger, Christ & Empire: From Paul to Postcolonial Times (Minneapolis, MN, Fortress Press, 2007). H. Richard Niebuhr, Christ and Culture (New York: Harper & Row, 1975).
[3] Tiya Miles, Night Flyer: Harriet Tubman and the Faith Dreams of a Free People (New York: Penguin Press, 2024), xviii.
[4] the constellation we now call the Big Dipper.
[5] Ibid.
[6] Peter Byrne, “We are Simply Asked” as set to music by Jim Strathdee, “Light of the World,” Caliche Records, Ridgecrest, CA, 1982. Words copyright 1976 by Peter Byrne, S.J. Music by Jim Strathdee, copyright 1981.
August 18, 2024
13 Pentecost, Proper 15
Proverbs 9:1-6; Psalm 34: 9-14
Ephesians 5:15-20; John 6:51-58
What’s This Stuff?
When I was in the Army, our cook was often a favorite target for scorn and derision – and bad jokes. We knew they believed in hiring the handicapped because we joked that Cookie must have had his taste buds shot off in the Korean War.
But mess hall food was far superior to C-rations. Various items in tin cans we called “mystery food.” I still remember the end of a long day out on bivouac after having marched for miles when we finally sat down to dinner with our various cans of C-rations. I searched through the pile of them and was overjoyed to find a can marked “lima beans and ham.”
We had these small devices to open the cans we carried around in our pockets. I got mine out and could soon smell the odors of my anticipated meal wafting out into the still, late afternoon air. When I finally got the can opened, it was a major disappointment. What’s this stuff? There, I beheld one lima bean floating in a sea of grease. Having nothing else, I managed to choke it down. Enjoy. “Bread of angels…food enough,” our Psalm asserts.
There’s a Passover song that’s traditionally sung, “Dayenu.” It translates as “it would have been enough.” If God had only brought us out of Egypt, and left us at the Red Sea, “It would have been enough.” If God had led Moses’ band to the Red Sea and left them there, “It would have been enough.”
If God had split the sea for us, and had not taken us through it on dry land, it would have been enough. Dayenu.
If God had led them through the desert wilderness and had not given them the Torah, “It would have been enough.” Dayenu.
If God had only provided manna and nothing else, “It would have been enough.” Dayenu.
It’s an exclamation of gratitude for that which is actually provided. Dayenu!
If God had only provided one lima bean floating in a sea of grease that evening, “Dayenu.”
When confronted with this white stuff that arrived in the morning – supposedly food – that’s what the children Moses had asked for – What’s this? Which is the literal translation of manna – “What’s this stuff?” – a variation on the question we soldiers asked of Cookie’s offerings.
It’s the answer to Moses’ band’s complaint about the food.
“In the morning there was a layer of dew around the camp. When the layer of dew lifted, there on the surface of the wilderness was a fine flaky substance, as fine as the frost on the ground. When the Israelites saw it, they said to one another, ‘What is it?’…Moses said to them, “it is the bread that the Lord has given you to eat.” Dayenu!
What’s this stuff? Sometimes you don’t want to know.
When we had our diocesan convention in the interior of Alaska, an area mostly populated by the original inhabitants, Athabascan peoples, we would have delicacies of the cooking of that region. Minto was spectacular in their hosting of us all from around the state for an entire week.
Among the offerings were fish head soup and moose head soup. Don’t ask what’s in those dishes. Just enjoy and be a polite guest. In the face of such gracious hospitality, no one dared ask, “What’s this stuff?” It was all the largess of God’s free bounty. Enjoy. “Bread of angels…food enough.” Dayenu!
If all we can provide from St. Francis Garden this year is a few tomatoes and some fresh fruit – Dayenu.
As we wander through a wilderness, much of it our own making, we often feel helpless and depressed at the choices. In the darkness of the journey, we are so polarized that many have dropped out, given up hope.
That’s the burden of a democracy where we all have a voice. Sometimes those voices are shrill and racist. They speak revenge and retribution. And do so with millions of dollars.
So, I would say, if only we had two, out-of-touch guys competing for our votes for president, Dayenu.
If we now have a completely different race with a clear choice, and folks still stay home. Dayenu.
If we are still at gridlock but at least can’t pass any harmful legislation, Dayenu.
If Simone Biles had only won the silver and not the gold. Dayenu.
If she had won the gold but not been given a shout-out on the Wheaties cereal box, Dayenu.
This summer fire season started earlier than ever. By July just one fire, the Park Fire, had burned an area comparable to the size of Rhode Island. If we just can’t summon the political will to address global warming, but more folks are engaged in the conversation, Dayenu.
But, every now and then, the odds do break in favor of those who are oppressed, those unjustly imprisoned.
Like, many who witnessed the release of captives unjustly held by Putin in Russia, I was overjoyed to see their arrival back In the good old US of A – and even though we didn’t get them all out, Dayenu.
For the families of those journalists and activists held in Putin’s autocratic regime, we got quite a few released. It was through months and, sometimes years of hard work we freed the ones we got. Dayenu.
In the wilderness of our longing there are no secret cures, no magic, but we have by God’s grace the manna of hope and perseverance. Dayenu.
If sickness assaults us, and there seems no cure, we have the power yet of accompaniment with those who travel that wilderness. Dayenu.
Steady acts of faithfulness, often don’t seem like much but they are enough. Dayenu. An “attitude of gratitude” shall be sufficient by the Grace of God to not only find a path forward and survive, but maybe, just maybe, to thrive.
And yes, we grumbled about mess hall food but Cookie did the best he could, which on occasion was stellar. And if nothing else, quantity made up for quality after a long day’s marching. Dayenu.
On this Sunday, my eighty-second birthday: for what has been, my teachers and family who have brought me thus far; for what is today, friends and family, my business associates and partners who support me now in the opportunities and challenges that lie ahead; and for what the future holds – it’s been one heck of a ride, and I say, DAYENU! Amen.
August 4, 2024
Pentecost 11, Proper 13
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Exodus 16:2-4, 9-15; Psalm 78:23-29;
Ephesians 4:1-16; John 6:24-35 “What’s This Stuff?”
A Generous Extravagance
Nothing signifies abundance like a church potluck. In the downtown United Methodist Congregation I served as a young deacon, we had a wonderfully diverse congregation: black, white, Salvadoran, Asian, Mexican – all of which enriched our culinary experience at our potlucks.
It was Sr. Aguilar who taught me to make authentic Mexican rice. We would have everything from Southern fried chicken, tamales and spring rolls to refritos and Mexican stew. And there was so much, there were always lots of leftovers.
Just as in the story from 2nd Kings we read today – an extravagance of God’s unbounded generosity – as found in this morning’s psalm.
“The eyes of all wait upon you, O Lord, and you give them their food in due season. You open wide your hand and satisfy the needs of every living thing.”[1]
In our gospel reading from the book of John we have a retelling of the miracle of the feeding of the multitudes found in the three synoptic gospels which preceded John’s gospel by well over thirty to forty years (Matthew, Mark, Luke).[2]
John even mentions a seemingly small detail of abundance, “Now there was a great deal of grass in the place…” – another sign of the lushness of God and what was to transpire.
The point here is that God’s abundance was so great, even when beginning with not much of anything – five barley loaves and two fish – like our church potlucks, there was enough from the banquet Jesus served up that the leftovers from the fish and bread were enough to fill twelve baskets!
When I was a little boy, I remember asking Grandma why aren’t there miracles anymore. One commentator’s answer: to see a miracle, just look at what you now have, little or much – that right there is enough to make a miracle.
The gift of creation is the everlasting Kingdom of God. And its abundance is meant for all. Its beauty is all about, even in the tiniest of creatures.
After our Friday gathering, “Suds on the Deck,” at our house, I caught out of my peripheral vision some small movement. There on my pant leg was a small jumping spider. Now, you may not know that jumping spiders are among the most intelligent of the arachnid family, with very good eyesight. I carefully brushed it off and returned it to the deck.
I was enthralled to watch her tentatively explore her new surroundings. I say “her” because by this time of year most males would have fulfilled their biological purpose and would have passed on. She, then jumped well over twenty times her quarter of an inch length to the leg of one of the chairs. I must have sat there some twenty minutes mesmerized by this wondrous creature – more evidence of the expansiveness of the unmerited gift of creation. God’s bounty is all about.
When two lovers are drawn together, by chance or fate, the miracle is that they find a way to love each other in this often-tragic world. Christopher and Alexis met on line. Of all the possibilities, one combination in millions, maybe billions. And they are so suited for each other! We absolutely delight in seeing then together. Jai and I met on a bus heading to Lincoln, Nebraska. She was sitting on the seat behind me. What are the odds? The love and long-distance phone calls, letters and all – signs of God’s gracious bounty.
Wonder at it all is certainly in order. So is gratitude and our loving response. We are called to have a theology of abundance, not scarcity.
As we head into November’s election, the American people are presented with two stark visions: one of the expansiveness of the Founder’s vision and one of retribution, vengeance and scarcity. Will we live into the vision of a republic of equality and opportunity, or will we reserve all the goodies for only the “right” people, the “deserving” people. Does America mean “all,” or just some?
To those who have trouble with DEI – diversity, equity and inclusion — you’re cutting out a huge swath of the voting public. You’re cutting out my daughter-in-law and all other women of color. To demean our vice president as simply a DEI hire is beyond the pale. Such racist misogyny is not the “politics of addition” that my favorite commentator Mark Shields always talked about. Not the theology of abundance.
I trust that those who are so cavalierly dismissed will return the favor in November.
Will we cherish the created order and address global warming? Or how hot has it got to get before we wake from our slumber, from our ignorance? Of course, we could call it something else. The wit Andy Borowitz suggested an alternative, “The world’s going to burn to a crisp and then we’re all gonna die.”
God’s faithfulness is seen in the majestic wingspan of a golden eagle. Still fresh in my memory is a float trip I took with friends through the interior of Alaska. To be out there in that wilderness is totally renewing. The bounty is beyond our imagining. One day, as we drifted around a bend in the river, we startled a golden eagle at its lunch. It launched from a branch overhanging the river then silently soared just feet over our heads. I think we let out a collective gasp in amazement at the beauty of it’s majestic eight-foot wing span. Such is the “glory” of God’s wonders – beauty that is fitting praise to the Lord.
On that trip, of course we had packed adequate food, but most of those freeze-dried packages went unopened. We caught so many Dolly Varden, an ocean-going trout, that for every meal we had fresh fish. These were so large, I had to cut them in half to get them to fit in my ten-inch frying pan. They can be huge, with some getting up to twenty-seven pounds. God’s free bounty, indeed!
At night the northern lights would dance over our heads, filling the sky with a splendor beyond belief. Yes, “All your works praise you, O Lord,” and we your servants are transfixed in wide-eyed and open-mouthed amazement.
Certainly, gratitude and respect are in order – as well as care.
Some biblical scholars explain the feeding of the five thousand as a miracle of sharing. Once the loaves and fishes were divided up and passed around, others opened their hearts and shared what they had brought, resulting in enough to go all around with sumptuous leftovers. In our greedy, materialistic, self-centered culture, such sharing alone would be considered a miracle. However it happened, the Gospel of John refers to it as a sign of God’s gracious extravagance. This is how God rolls — enough for all. Sharing can be our only response.
All this is God’s gracious gift of something out of nothing – creation ex nihilo. We didn’t make it. Any heart pumping warm blood can only respond in gratitude.
This November will we vote to revere this gift, or just pave it over? Will it be about our common life together or about whoever-dies-with-the-most-toys wins? As our president said in his Wednesday address to the nation, the idea of America rests with its people, you and me.
What’s your money, time and enthusiasm on?
When it comes to a choice between the politics of greed, vengeance and retribution, or the politics of “God’s free bounty,” my money’s on that soaring golden eagle. Amen.
[1] Psalm 145:16-17.
[2] Matt. 14:13-21; Mk. 6:32-44; Lk. 9:10-17,
July 28, 2024
Pentecost 10, Proper 12
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
2 Kings 4:42-44; Psalm 145: 10-19;
Ephesians 3:14-21; John 6:1-21 “A Generous Extravagance
