House of Hope – Ohio Valley

When families get together, or when we used to get together before COVID-19, it didn’t take long before favorite stories to be shared around the circle. 

In our family, one of the favorites my brother and I regailed the family with was about our mom and the construction of the western village from the back of the Cherios box.  On each box of Cherrios cereal there were one or two houses, maybe a barn, or something like a general store.  You cut these out and followied the directions on which way to fold each portion, or which tab to insert into which slot.  On completion, one had a house, a general store or whatever.  For a quarter and a boxtop or two, one could get a layout for the entire village.

As Mom continued working on one of the structures,  I became increasingly anxious that she was not following the instructions.  Finally, in desperation, worried that she would ruin it, I blurted out, “Mother!  You’re not following the instructions.”  To which she responded, “Only an idiot would need these instructions.”

Within minutes, she began searching around on the floor.  “Where are those instructions?”  I delighted in reminding her, “Mother, you said that only an idiot would need these instrucitons.”  And we’d all have a good laugh.  Then it would be someone elses turn in the barrel.

Family stories are what binds us together and brings to memory the good times.  And sometimes the trying, difficult times.  It broke my heart yesterday to open the paper and see the picture of a forlorn man, downcast, staring at the smoldering ruins of his home.  “We’ve lost everything, he said to the reporter.”   Indeed, it was all gone.  Only the remnants of a fireplace and chimney remained.  Like tens of thousands, he and his family will tell their depressing stories of starting over.  The tarnished trinket found in the ashes, the melted dog dish. the charred mailbox out front.  All that was salvaged.

Scientists and climatologists will tell a more encompassing, less personal story of an erratic climate, drought and spruce bark beetles.  They will piece together the evidence of global warming into stories of coming hardship and disaster for much of the planet.

We tell our stories to bear witness.

When I looked at the editorial pages of the NY Times, there was a picture of a sodden village in Pakistan.[1]  People aimlessly wandered the drenched street where nine inches of monsoon rain had recently fallen.  The highest amount ever for a single day.  Novelist Fatima Bhutto, lays out the ecological and human disaster awaiting her nation as the glaciers in the Himalayas melt and temperatires soar to over 124 degrees F.  With the loss of drinking water for millions, drought and famine stalk the land.  She tells a most sobering story.  And yet many would still deny the reality of her cautionary tale at the highest levels of our government.  Fatima writes her story in sadness and in dread that it may not make a difference.  No hearts will be warmed, no minds changed, no action taken.  Yet, she offers up her story in hope.   To bear witness.  Before it’s too late. 

As humans, all we have left so often are simply our pathetic or sometimes hopeful stories.  Stories that should be warning, or stories capable of inspiring hope and resolve. 

Stories are remembered and told to formulate excuses and lay blame.  To justify myths of superiority and to scapegoat.

Years from now, political commentators will weigh in on those officials who ignored the science and evidence of global warming before their eyes.  Or, on the other hand, belived those stories concocted to give credence to the fake news and the “alternative facts” behind this ginned up, so-called hoax of global warming.   Which story did our generation believe?

By this time the science and any proposed solutions will have become so politicized, so costly, that there will be no hope of consensus.  The truth, as in battle, will have become lost in the “fog of war – partisan warfare.” 

We saw that political combat in vivid and tragic display at the first presidential debate.  What a farce.  And this is our democracy?  God help us all.

The disaster was so discouraging that even I, a political junkie of long standing, couldn’t stay engaged.  The president’s continued interruptions were tiresome.  I, and the millions watching, had never in all our born days seen such a performance.  And Chris Wallace, the moderater, struggled mightily to constrain Mr. Trump and wrest control.  What on earth had we just witnessed?  Joe was also a bit out of order at times, calling the president a “clown.”   Though not without provocation.

Last night we saw a bully on full display who coddled White Supremacists And we saw a decent man who called us to to be our best selves.  A choice between the Proud Boys and their ilk or the legacy of those who fought to preserve freedom on the shores of Iwo Jima.  They are not “suckers” and “losers,” Mr. President.

With elections only weeks away, it remains to be seen how the public will come to a judgement between these two narratives.  However, on November 3^rd we  voters must process this most unusual of campaigns  And make a choice.  It is one for the history books.  And certainly the nail in the coffin of civil discourse.

“And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long,” that’s the snippit of a favorite hymn, “For all the Saints,” that’s floating through my mind this morning.

Why is the fight so fierce?  Whoever shapes the narraitve has the power to determine political outcomes.  The story becomes weaponized.  A cudgel with which to bludgeon the opponent.  To claim the moral high ground.  Is it all just about power?

In Matthew we have an old parable from Isaiah used by the church –weaponized to delegitimize the Jewish tradition.  The new community employed this old story to claim the mantle of God’s favor.   According to that story, the Jews through their treatment of the prophets and Jesus had lost claim to Israel’s salvation history. 

Like the wicked tenants (we all know who they are) of the vineyard, through the murder of the owner’s son, they had the vineyard taken away.  The owner of that vineyard will “…put those wretches to a miserable death, and lease the vineyard to other tenants who will give him the produce at the harvest time.”  Let those with ears to hear, understand what is being said here.

Looking at the disasterous failings of the church over the subsequent centuries, we have absolutely no claim any superior moral authority.  The Holocaust was the final capstone to our pitiful record of failure.  Jim Crow representing the abject failure of Christians to resemble anything like the Beloved Community.  As Mark Twain frequently reminded Jesus’ followers, “It would be a whole lot easier to believe in the possibility of redemption if the redeemed looked a bit more redeemed.”

Row upon row of empty pews in many of our churches are testimony that the Church has lost it’s mandate.  We might not have killed the son, but we sure have too often killed the people with borerdom. 

For our youth, the church is certainly not where the action is.  Except now and then.  Now and then, like those youth pilgrimages to New Orleans after Hurrican Katrina.  Now and then, like those groups doing House Builds for Habitat for Humanity.  Or lately serving at food bank distributon lines.  Every now and then the gospel bites us in the get-go.  And we get a case of Holy Gumption.  And did I mention marching?  And signing up to help at polling stations so the usual crew of seniors won’t be put at risk of COVID-19?

It is said that it is the victors who write the history.  And that is why the stories of history and the overall narrative arc is so important.

Looking back to the time I taught American history in an Oakland public junior high, the source of my failure to reach many of those students was the inability to weave into my students’personal and family histories the story of our nation.  And to keep it real.  I might as well have been talking about creatures on some far-off planet.  Nothing to do with the “hood.”  Nothing to do with the reality of vicious gang leaders and a drug culture.  Nothing to do with empty shelves in the kitchen, distraught parents and rats skittering across the floor at night.

As stories from the daily papers flood my mind, as the larger story of America and the group of companions that gathered about Jesus intrude, I discover the saving grace as I allow my heart to be touched.  For isn’t that finally the aim of all stories.  It’s about what we bring to them.

Today, my small parish celebrates it’s patronal feast day, St. Francis Day.  The enduring blessing of this favorite saint, the real take-away is that everything is connected.  Joined together in the abiding love of God. 

As I remain in lockdown, Deacon Pat will bless the animals in Franciscan tradition as they and their keepers drive by in the parking lot of the church.  She will sprinkle them and their owners with holy water, enjoining the drivers to “remember your baptism and be thankful.”  She will slip into a back window a suitable treat for a dog or cat and a copy of this sermon.

The larger story we are acting out today is that no matter what hash we make out of it all – personal relationships, our nation or this planet – redemption is at hand.  The only question before us is the one Jesus asked the crippled man at the Pool of Bethesda, “Do you want to be well.” 

Eddie Glaude in his book, “Begin Again,”[2] holds out hope that, deep down, we will claim healing.  That, this late in the day, we might be willing to forsake the foundational lie at the heart of our nation.  That we will come to terms with the “original sin” of America.  The most pernicious lie being that a white life is of more worth than a black life.  This is that perennial “lie” at the root so much hate and distrust.     This is “lie” that has from the beginning poisoned any promise of what America might have been.  So, now to Begin Again.  There is Grace for nations and whole peoples.  Ask Germany.  Ask Japan. Ask South Africa.  America is at a transitional moment.

Healing begins when we acknowledge the falsehood of those tired, old stories concocted to demean others.  Jim Crow.

I found most hopeful a story in the L.A. Times of the Latino and Latina staff at the paper there.  “Revisiting an anti-Latino past,” was written to celebrate the promise of change.[3]  A paper that routinely refered to Mexicans as “greasers,” “wetbacks, “border jumpers” and only employed such as janitors and in other low-level positions, now celebrates them as staff writers, editors, and columnists. 

The Times Latinx writers have won Pulitzers for their work on local L.A. politics and California exposés.  Courage and anger wore down racist barriers.  The ownership of the Times, over the years, had hearts changed.  A new, more inclusive story, told the heritage of this paper and it’s mission to it’s reading public.  And to themselves. 

That is why we celebrate St. Francis today.  His story is paradigmatic of the larger story of God’s love.   It is a more inclusive story.  In Christ Jesus all are invited to God’s bountiful table.  “Whoever you are and wherever you find yourself on the journey of faith, you are invited to this table.”  We in the Church are called to ever renew that story that it take wings in minds young and old.

In Sunday school we used to sing a favorite, “I Love to tell the Story.”  What I learned there was a expansive story of joyful generosity.  A story of changed hearts and minds.  The lost are found.  Enemies reconcilled.  It’s the story of a God reaching deep into us and pulling out the very best.  As persons.  As a nation.  As a world.   Glory abounding!

Tell me the old, old story.  But don’t just tell me.  Make it real.  Make it come alive.  I want to see this Jesus story in action, how it plays out in real life.  How it might play out in my life.

“And when the strife is fierce, the warfare long, steals on the ear the distant triumph song, and hearts are brave again and arms are strong.  Alleluia, alleluia!”

“The golden evening brightens in the west…”  Yes it does.  Alleluia!  Alleluia!

Amen.

---

[1] Fatima Bhutto, “Pakistan’s Terrifying Battle with Climate Change,” New York Times, September 29, 2020.

[2] Eddie Glaude, Begin Again: James Baldwin’s America and its Urgent Lessons for our Own (New York: Crown, 2020).

[3] Gustavo Arellano, “Revisiting an Anti-Latino Past,” Los Angeles Times, September 29, 2020.

Dear friends in Christ

October 4, 2020, Pentecost 18, Proper 22

The Rev. John C. Forney

Isaiah 5:1-7; Philippians 3:4b-14; Matthew 21:33-46

“Tell Me A Story”

As if there were not enough to worry about with coronavirus, elections, the economy in the tank – now this.  NASA warns us that an asteroid is approaching Earth the day before Election Day, November 2nd.  All the more reason to vote early.  Remember what happened to the dinosaurs.  Okay, it’s only a small one that has only an infinitesimal chance of hitting us.

While this is only a long shot, and while some may yearn for such a scenario as to escape real difficulties – we indeed do have much distressing news to worry about.

Our society is polarized around race, income, opportunity, and politics.  And so much more.  Our common life now could be described as a culture of grievance.  Don’t get me wrong.  There is much to grieve.

The new revelations on Bob Woodward’s reporting are explosive.  All the while we were being told that this pandemic is nothing much more than the “sniffles,” just sort of like the flu.  It is one case coming from China, the “kung flu,” and would soon “magically disappear.”  “And again, when you have 15 people, and the 15 within a couple of days is going to be down to close to zero, that’s a pretty good job we’ve done.”  Actually, Brownie, it’s NOT a heck of a job.

As we were being told this nonsense, all the while our president knew that he has something much more dangerous on his hands.

National security advisor Robert C. O’Brien told Trump, “This is going to be the toughest thing you face.”   It “will be the biggest national security threat you face in your presidency.”

In Rage,[1] the president is quoted as telling Bob Woodward on February 7^th, “This is more deadly.  This is five per- you know, this is five percent versus one percent, and less than one percent.  You know?  So, this is deadly stuff.”

You remember the pain of the young woman, Kristin Urquiza, who told us of the last agonizing days of her father’s life.  “My father’s only pre-existing condition was trusting Donald Trump — and for that he paid with his life.”  Mark Anthony Urquiza was a healthy 65-year-old man with many more good years ahead of him.

Is there forgiveness for so much pain, so much loss.  There’s no alternative.  Eventually.  The early church knew our failings and the damage we do to one another.  Sometimes, so much pain.  Hear this teaching on forgiveness. 

Upon hearing Jesus’ teaching on forgiveness, Peter approached him with a question.  This was an inquiry based upon the teachings of the Torah – “Lord, if another member of the church sins against me, how often should I forgive?  As many as seven times?”  This was the standard proscribed. Jesus said to him, “Not seven times, but I tell you seventy-seven times.”

I’m wondering how many Americans this past week hearing of our government’s duplicity concerning this disease are so ready to forgive.  The wrong done is beyond the pale.  So much pain.  So much pain.

The enormity of the betrayal staggers the conscience.  A number of epidemiologists have said that had the president even acted two weeks earlier – even two weeks, friends – somewhere around sixty thousand lives could have been saved.  This is more than all the Americans that died during the entire Vietnam War, the greatest disaster of my generation. 

Seventy-seven times?  The scale of this failure staggers thought.  And he knew all the while.  Said he didn’t want to panic people.  That’s rich for one who’s entire campaign is based on fear.  Fear that someone who looks like Cory Booker might move into your pristine (read white) suburb.  Fear that hordes of rapists and drug dealers from Mexico will destroy your American Dream.

Forgive seventy-seven times?  The natural man, the natural woman, says, “I don’t think so.”  Yet there is this implacable demand: “Seventy-seven times.”

To back it up, Jesus tells the parable of a man forgiven a great debt by a generous king who receives most distressing news.  The slave recently forgiven an enormous debt is shaking down his fellows for what they owed him.  Seizing one debtor by the throat, the slave demanded, “Pay what you owe.”  This is a debtor who was owed only a fraction of what had been forgiven him by the king.”  Hearing this news, the king was enraged.  He had that slave tortured until he should pay his entire debt — hundreds of thousands of dollars owed the king.  As the slave was led away, the king raged, “Should you not have had mercy on your fellow slave, as I had mercy on you?”

So much pain.  Forgiveness seventy-seven times?  Our bruised feelings, our bruised sense of justice murmurs, “I don’t think so.”

As I considered such dilemmas, a couple of things came to my mind.  The first from a Facebook discussant.  If you know me, I can be pretty partisan.  Yeah, ask my wife.  My kids.  In the midst of a heated back and forth series of pretty hot posts, one fellow said, “We’ve all screwed up, haven’t we.  Don’t we set it aside and just move on?”

Well, I know that I sure have.  I’ve harmed my wife and those who’ve trusted me.  If there is no forgiveness, how could I have gone on? 

The same with societies.  Desmond Tutu headed up the “Truth and Reconciliation Commission in South Africa at the end of Apartheid.  How else could a new society have been constructed out of the most horrific wrongs?  Torture, summary execution, rape – mostly inflected, but not entirely, by the white Afrikaners against the majority black and mixed-race population? 

Had it not been for the willingness of Nelson Mandela to forgive his jailers and reconcile with the white government of Peter Botha, then President, South Africa would have been doomed to a devastating civil war.  Here is a society that managed seventy-five times, even seventy times seventy times!

This last year, Agenda for a Prophetic Faith sponsored a symposium on forgiveness and renewal.   We called it Pomona Reawakening.  Pomona, a suburban community in decline on the far eastern edge of Los Angeles County had a new mayor and several new council members.  After what was years of stagnation and, let’s say “shady politics,” this leadership wished to rejuvenate their city.  To begin again.

Two incredible speakers were the spark.  The first was Mayor Tim himself.  He told the very personal story of how tragedy had struck his family in Pacoima, a bedroom city of Los Angeles.  His younger brother ended up on drugs and had a bad run-in with the police.  This experience tore up Tim’s family and left him with much bitterness towards his brother who had put the family through absolute hell with drugs and violence.  Tim, was able in time to move beyond that tragedy, to reconcile, and now is providing strong leadership to move Pomona forward.  

Azim Khamisa is a father awakened to the news that his only son Tariq had been shot by a 14-year-old gang member, Tony Hicks, over a slice of pizza.  In the bitter days that followed it would have been natural for Azim to have been consumed by anger.  That would have been the end of Khamisa’s life.  Bitterness ending only at the grave. 

But something happened to intervene.  After a number of weeks when bitterness subsided, Azim begin to think, his son was surely a victim as was he.  But in reality, there were two victims.  There was the family of the gang member who had shot his son.  After a while Azim was prompted by all that is Holy and all that is Reconciliation to reach out to the killer’s family.  It was a grandfather. 

That two families not be devastated, the two men, Azim and Ples Felix, Tony’s grandfather and guardian, began meeting.  Azim finally went to visit Tony in jail, serving a 25 to life sentence.[2]

Then Azim looked deeply into Tony’s eyes, he didn’t see a killer.  He say a very wounded human being, pretty much like himself.  Wounded.  Through the efforts of Azim Tony is now out of prison and has a job at the Tariq Khamisa Foundation. 

“Since the beginning of this tragedy, Tony confessed to his crime and has continuously sought to better his life.  He has apologized to the Khamisa family, shares his remorse, and plans to join Mr. Khamisa and his grandfather, Mr. Felix, in their efforts to teach children accountability, compassion, forgiveness, and peacemaking.”[3]

“From prison, Tony has written numerous blogs responding to questions from youth participating in the TKF programs.  He has also earned his GED and is working towards his AA degree in Social Work.  Tony participates in Gang members Anonymous, Alcoholics Anonymous, Toastmasters, and has done rigorous self-inventories to identify his character defects.”[4]

Through the efforts of Azim, Tony is now out of prison and has a job at the Tariq Khamisa Foundation. 

On the foundation’s web site are many stories of forgiveness.  From perusing them, it became clear to me that there’s no automatic formula.  Nothing’s more unrealistic than the teacher demanding of two boys wo had been in a knockdown-dragout fight than to say, “All right, you boys shake hands now and be friends.”  The muttered response of one would be, “See you after school.”

Forgiveness is a spiritual gift as much as anything,  It is born of calmness and a softening of the heart.  It is nothing to be demanded.  It is at best an endeavor by both parties.  It can’t be compelled in the heat of the matter.  Perhaps, later, much later those harmed by the coverup of COVID-19 will be able to let it go.  To “let go and let God.”  But probably not today.

One more story from the Azim’s foundation from the “Forgiveness Project.”  This is the story of two fathers, one Israeli and the other Palestinian.  The conflict that has endured for generations.  I share the story of the Palestinian father.

“I was on my way to the airport when my wife called and told me Smadar was missing. When something like this happens, a cold hand grabs your heart. You rush between friends’ houses and hospitals, then eventually you find yourself in the morgue and you see a sight you’ll never forget for the rest of your life. From that moment you are a new person. Everything is different.

“At first, I was tormented with anger and grief; I wanted revenge, to get even. But we are people – not animals! I asked myself, “Will killing someone else release my pain?” Of course not. It was clear to my wife and me that the blame rests with the occupation. The suicide bomber was a victim just like my daughter, grown crazy out of anger and shame.

I don’t forgive and I don’t forget, but when this happened to my daughter I had t
to ask myself whether I’d contributed in any way.

The answer was that I had – my people had, for ruling, dominating and oppressing three-and-a-half million Palestinians for 35 years. It is a sin and you pay for sins.[5]

Getting back to my Facebook political posts, the other day two of us had sharp disagreement and some harsh words over how our president has handled his responsibilities.  Commenting on my rant about calling our fallen, “losers” and “Suckers,” he responded  that I didn’t know who I was talking to.

In his next post, seconds later, he announced that he was a vet and had twenty years service.  At that moment my heart softened a bit and thanked him for his service, letting him know that I also had served.  Two years as an Army medic. 

Surprise, he also had been an Army medic in Afghanistan. And thanked me as well for my service. 

Then he let me know that the main reason he had voted for Trump was that he was fed up with elite politicians who just talked and had done nothing for people like him.  I said I understood.  That’s why I had supported Bernie. 

We ended in agreement that the politics of this nation are pretty screwed up and agreed to a virtual toast no matter how things turned out on November 3rd, “To the Constitution and to the Declaration of Independence.’  We bid each other, “Good night.”

Whatever happened yesterday, it looks something like forgiveness.  We will not agree on much else, but parted without animosity or bitterness.  I don’t know I’d say “friends,” but certainly “respect” is an appropriate word.

We have all screwed up.  Some of us, royally.

How many times, Lord?  Seventy?  Seventy-seven? 

Forgiveness is a spiritual gift.  Like all such gifts there’s a mystery at the heart of it beyond human understanding.  Such softening of the heart is sheer undeserved grace.

Today, John Donne, sometime priest at St. Paul’s, London,1573-1631 – Fr. John Donne gets the “Last Word.”

Wilt thou forgive that sin, where I begun,
     Which is my sin, though it were done before?
Wilt thou forgive those sins through which I run,
     and do run still, though still I do deplore?
          When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
               for I have more.

Wilt thou forgive that sin, for which I won
     others to sin, and made my sin their door?
Wilt thou forgive that sin which I did shun
     a year or two, but walled in a score?
          When thou hast done, thou hast not done,
               for I have more.

I have a sin of fear that when I’ve spun
     my last thread, I shall perish on the shore;
swear by thyself, that at my death thy Son
     shall shine as he shines now, and heretofore.
          And having done that, thou hast done,
               I fear no more.[6]

Amen.

---

[1] Bob Woodward, Rage (New York: Simon Schuster, 2020),  Will be released on September 15, 2020.

[2] https://www.virtuesforlife.com/father-forgives-sons-killer/

[3] https://tkf.org/tony-hicks/

[4] Ibid.

[5] Rami Elhanan, “The Forgiveness Project,” Stories of the Tariq Khamisa Foundation

[6] John Donne, “Wilt Thou Forgive,” 1982 Hymnal (New York, Church Publishing House, 1982), p. 140.

Dear friends in Christ

September 14, 2020, Pentecost 15, Proper 19

The Rev. John C. Forney

Genesis 50:15-21; Romans 14:1-12; Matthew 18:21-35

“So Much Pain”

When I was a young boy our family would take trips from Compton into Los Angeles.  Driving up Alameda Blvd., as we neared the downtown area the railroad tracks for all the industrial spurs would enter the street and run right up the center of the street. 

For a young child, it was both fascinating and scary.  As a boy who loved trains, it was exciting to see them up close.  It was also scary to see them so up close, right out the car window.  They dwarfed us and the screeching of the wheels on the tracks was frightening. 

I remember seeing these signs with two cross arms on the street where the tracks entered the roadway.  Stop, Look, Listen.  When I asked Dad what this meant, his voice got very serious.  He told me that if we didn’t follow what the sign said, we could be run over by a train.  And if I was ever walking along the sidewalk and came to one of those signs, I should do exactly what it said if I didn’t want to be killed.

Well, you can imagine my dreams the next few nights.  It wasn’t the monster under the bed.  It was standing on the tracks where they crossed the sidewalk staring up at a huge switch engine bearing down on me, the metal wheels screeching on the tracks as it got closer and closer.  All the while I was unable to move.  Frozen in place.  Fortunately, I always seemed to wake up before I was run over and squashed like a bug.

As a young child, other warnings had the same effect:  the skull and cross boned on a bottle, toadstools in the grass – do not eat them.  A common nightmare was of waking to find what seemed like hundreds of these toadstools carpeting my blanket.  Finally, I had to go to the bathroom so badly that I really did wake up to find all the mushrooms gone.  The coast was clear.  Hurry, hurry, hurry.

Warnings are essential to survival. 

The passages appointed for this Sunday are all, in one way or another, about warnings.  Ezekiel has been appointed as a sentinel, to give warning to the people of Israel.  “Whenever you hear a word from my mouth, you shall give them warning from me.  If I say to the wicked, “O wicked ones, you shall surely die,” and you do not speak to warn the wicked to turn from their ways, the wicked shall die in their iniquity, but their blood I will require at your hand.”[1]

The warning is given, not to condemn but to prevent condemnation.  God takes no pleasure in wasted lives and violence.  “…turn back, turn back from your evil ways, for why will you die, O house of Israel?”[2]

That’s exactly why my father told me scary stuff about railroad crossings and poison.  It was that I might have a chance to grow up.  The same reason my mother told me not to run out into the street. 

In the same way Paul warns those in his congregation not to let their living be only dissipation, wasted in debauchery and drunkenness and thieving.  And those given to such he held out an alternative, that of life.  “…you know what time it is, how it is now the moment for you to wake from sleep…the night is far gone, the day is near.  Let us then lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light…”[3]

Warnings come in many forms.

As we grow older, we realize the warnings in scripture are not only that we survive but live lives of purpose.  One woman put it recently, what we require is hearts big enough for someone besides ourselves.”

The season of COVID-19 is a season of much pain and difficulty.  And a warning.

Listen to the pain.  Parents, listen to the pain.  The rate of teen suicide and drug use is worse now than ever.  COVID-19 has accelerated everything and made it much worse.   Addiction rates since this pandemic have increased on average over 40 percent.  Stop. Look. Listen, America.

Many evenings at the conclusion of her PBS Newshour broadcast, Judy Woodruff introduces a montage of those we have lost to this pandemic.  These are our neighbors.  Some, our family.  These exemplary lives cut short were led by those who were infused with the values St. Paul lifts up.  They were persons of purpose because they led lives of sobriety, lives of rectitude, lives of generosity.  These are the whole circle of companions who make life worth living.  There are an enticement to generosity and purpose.

They were not only a blessing to others, but to themselves and to God. 

CNN reported the pain on one man, “We ain’t got nowhere to go,” was the cry from the heart of one devastated man as the constable came to order his eviction.  As Israel Rodriguez, Sr., stood on the sidewalk, holding his infant son, also named Israel, workers dumped their entire worldly possessions out on to the curbside.

This is the excruciating experience now of thousands of families who lived on the margin until COVID-19 came along.  This family faces the brutality of a cold world with but a little over three hundred fifty dollars in their account.  Just this last week in Harris County over two thousand eviction notices were served, double what might be a so called “normal” week.

The vast majority of these families have lived lives of responsibility.  They cared for their children and their neighbors.  They had been reliable workers and a blessing to their employers.   Stop. Look. Listen, America.

If we let these people sink into despair and homelessness, into depression and addiction.  That’s on us.  We can bail out the mega corporations.  The banks and United Airlines.  Are these, the little people – are they not more precious in the grand dream of America?  They “played by the rules” and now we toss them aside like so much litter.  Stop.  Look. Listen, America.  Do you not hear the sobs of their children.  Do you not see the fearful glance from mother to father?

This is an existential warning that cuts to the bone of who we are as a society.  All the while our legislatures are off enjoying their vacations.  Mitch McConnel and his Senate colleagues have over four hundred bills sitting on their desks awaiting action.  But no worry.  No constable, no sheriff is knocking at their doors with eviction papers.

America, these just average Joes and Janes, these people are the heartland of our nation.  Stop. Look. Listen.  Here is blessing before your eyes.  Hear their pain.  Enter into their joy.

As the COVID-19 death toll climbs to two hundred thousand, the cream of our nation is carried to the grave.  At the end of July, the L.A. Times devoted an entire section to the stories of these most average citizens – citizens who in the ordinary lives that they lived were, in fact,  most extraordinary.  They were mothers and academics, food bank volunteers and a nurse who on the side taught CPR classes as a volunteer.

These are citizens who lived their spiritual values.  With their families and neighbors, they walked the walk.  Pastor Alex, on many mornings made his rounds to pick up groceries for the church’s food bank. “His whole life was serving other people.”  That is how his wife Blanca, wanted him remembered.[4]

So many gone.  So many.  These were people who in ways big and small were living blessings of our most gracious God.  They lived the reality of those who had awakened to the dawning of day.  They put on the armor of light.  Every day.

Stop.  Look. Listen.  Hidden blessings are all about.

You know these people.  They are a delight to be around.  They are the ones who staff the volunteer fire department.  They make the PTA work and do the welfare check on their neighbors.

They go out of their way to do a little kindness for their children.  As Elishia and Bobby were walking home from school, they were surprised to look up and see their mother, Patti, pulling up at the curb besides them.  “How would you like to go to Magic Mountain?”  she called from the open window.  Patti had taken the afternoon off from her administrative position at UCLA just to do something special with her children.  Patti was a troop mom for Boy Scouts and Girl Scouts.  She worked with a foreign student, Lai, from Hong Kong, helping her with English lessons.  Looking back at their friendship, Lai recalled, “She had a heart for everyone.  She and her husband Dan loved long road trips.[5]

So many lost.  So many, and it needn’t have been this way.  America, Stop. Look. Listen.

To friends and family who have lost loved ones who served.  I tell you truly.  They were not losers.  They were not suckers.  They gave their lives for a cause greater than themselves.  Some will not understand because there is no price tag attached to such things as honor and freedom.  The Lady of Liberty cannot be bought with any dollar amount.  She only asks loyalty and duty.  Such things are incomprehensible to one whose heart has no room for any but himself.

If you consider these whom Judy spotlights every evening, friends and neighbors down the street, what you will hear is the beating heart of the Divine.  The beating heart of America.  The Holy is part and parcel of so many of these whom we have lost.  That is St. Paul’s word for us.  That is his message to the Church. “Let us lay aside the works of darkness and put on the armor of light; let us live honorably as in the day…”  That will be your delight. Your family and neighbors will rise up and call you blessed.  For you are.

As we become children of purpose, we grow into the full stature of Christ.  A lifetime journey.

For some reason, must be Labor Day weekend, speaking of folks who have sacrificed for our nation, who are doers, folks with godly agency — my mind has been drawn this week to those who organize for a better America.  I was remembering that old union song, “Bread and Roses.”  It gave voice to the women mill workers who stuck in Lawrence, Massachusetts in 1912.  It is a theme song sung at many union events as well as at several women’s colleges.  Made popular by Judy Collins, among others.  It sings the gospel worth of all workers, but especially of all those who toil as “essential workers” to keep life going for those of us privileged to work from home.

Thank you, James Oppenheim, for this rousing union hymn.

The women of Lawrence, MA — you get the “Last Word.”  They marched in gospel “Light.”

Bread and Roses

As we come marching, marching, in the beauty of the day,
A million darkened kitchens, a thousand mill-lofts gray
Are touched with all the radiance that a sudden sun discloses,
For the people hear us singing, “Bread and Roses, Bread and Roses.”


As we come marching, marching, we battle, too, for men—
For they are women’s children and we mother them again.
Our days shall not be sweated from birth until life closes—
Hearts starve as well as bodies: Give us Bread, but give us Roses.

As we come marching, marching, unnumbered women dead
Go crying through our singing their ancient song of Bread;
Small art and love and beauty their trudging spirits knew—
Yes, it is Bread we fight for—but we fight for Roses, too.

As we come marching, marching, we bring the Greater Days—
The rising of the women means the rising of the race.
No more the drudge and idler—ten that toil where one reposes—
But a sharing of life’s glories: Bread and Roses, Bread and Roses.

— James Oppenheim, 1911.

---

[1] Ezekiel 33:8-9, New RSV, 1989, National Council of Churches of Christ in the U.S.A.

[2] Ibid, 33:11.

[3] Romans 13:11-14, New KJV.

[4] Isaiah Murtaugh, “Alex Bernard,” a part of “The Pandemic’s Toll: Lies list in California,” Los Angeles Times, July 31,, 2020.

[5] Ibid, Tomas Mier, “Patti Breed-Rabitoy.”

September 6, 2020, Pentecost 14, Proper 18

The Rev. John C. Forney

Ezekiel 33:7-11; Romans 13:8-14; Matthew 18:15-20

“Stop, Look, Listen”

On Sunday morning I woke up with a racing heart and a sense of dread.  I had just come back to consciousness from a terrible dream – a nightmare, really.

In this dream I was seated in my vestments ready to take the pulpit as a visiting preacher in this huge downtown Presbyterian church.  Reflecting back, it looked like the huge sanctuary of Immanuel Presbyterian Church on Wilshire Blvd. in Los Angeles.  When I got to the pulpit, looking over the rows of pews, mostly filled, I realized that I didn’t have my sermon.

I looked around the surface of the pulpit desk but it was nowhere to be seen.  Not even on the floor.  Well, I thought to myself, I ought to be able to remember enough of it to get by.  After all, I had labored over it all week.  But, nothing.  I couldn’t remember what the scripture passage was.  I couldn’t even remember a single story. 

I began with a little patter about how honored I was to have been invited and told a lame joke (the kind my boys say I usually tell), hoping that something might come back to mind as I vamped.  The next thing I knew, there was a woman standing next to me with an offering plate.  This was the signal that I was done.   Yeah, really DONE.  At the same moment, the entire sermon came back to mind.  But it was too late.  Done.  Really Done, as in Toast.

At that moment another thing occurred.  I woke up.

I wonder if it is just Presbyterians that cause so much anxiety.  Starchy Calvinism can mess with the mind.  Or was something deeper going on?

The basic undercurrent of this dream is: Forney, you don’t measure up.  You’re a fraud.  Isn’t that the message we get from so much of society?  You’ve got to measure up.  We’ve got standards and, well…you’re out of your league.

Paul tells the church at Rome that the standards the world beats us over the head with are bogus hogwash.  “Do not conform yourselves to the standards of the world, but let God transform you inwardly by a complete change of your heart.”  Then you’ll be in alignment with God, the power that set the planets in their courses and also cares for even the tiny sparrow. 

The world said that, as a teenage boy, if I ever hoped to attract a girlfriend, I needed to have a souped up, chopped and customized Chevy.  Chrome exhaust pipes, metallic paint job with pin striping that gave off a deep throated VAROOOOM when I stomped on it.  I had a hand-me-down 1950 Studebaker.

I never measured up.  The problem with the “standards of this world” is that none of us can ever measure up.  And in just trying to do so, many of us will be ground to dust. Trying to earn your self-worth is futile.  There’s never enough.  You’ll never be good enough.  That’s just how it is with the world’s standards.

The world’s standards are spiritual death.  Sometimes actual, real, dead death.

Look at the COVID-19 wards across the country.  They’re full of so many of society’s discards.

You want to see the flotsam of the standards of this world?  Look at the recent economic indicators.

In the June business section, when the pandemic in the U.S. was just beginning to kick into high gear, I spied an article on bankruptcy.  Many companies, reeling from massive losses were heading to the  courts for relief.

I read that, while bankruptcy is usually devastating for workers and investors, it often works out just fine for CEOs. 

Here is the true skinny on corporate bankruptcy.  Companies get rid of debt; they stiff their investors and get relieved of burdensome union contracts and healthcare obligations to their workers.  They leave their suppliers and subcontractors high and dry.   AND, AND. The CEO’s walk away with full wallets. 

Whiting Petroleum sought protection from the courts, it’s CEO walked away with $6.4 million in bonuses and perks.  In closing 154 stores across the country, J.C. Penny managed to find enough pocket change to pay their outgoing CEO Jill Soltau $4.5 million.  I wonder how all the store clerks and the cleaning crew made out.  The standards of the world work out pretty well for some.

Chesapeake Energy paid out a raft of bonuses to senior employees right before filing for bankruptcy.  The same with Hertz.  These are the standards of the world.[1]  Do not conform yourselves to them.  They are the path of dehumanization and death.

Tuesday the S&P Dow Jones hit record highs.  And more and more wound up living on the streets.  Our friend in Charleston, WV, told me that city parks are overrun with the homeless and drug addicted.  But the top five percent are doing very well, thank you.  One analyst, looking at the disparity can’t believe the numbers, “This market is nuts,” said Howard Silverblatt.[2]  The “standards of this world,” they’re nuts.

This is the judgement of the world.  These standards are death to the aspirations and dreams of many.  Most of us can never measure up to them.  We will never be rich enough, thin enough, educated enough.  Most of us will not have the right car, the right trophy spouse, the right house or the right attitudes.  So, don’t conform yourself to these standards. They are death.

But be transformed.  Inwardly, by a complete change of your mind.

Transformation begins with opening our eyes, opening our hearts and minds to what is really real within ourselves and the world around us.  It begins with a real assessment.  That’s the beginning of the 12-step journey to recovery.  A moral inventory of who you are. 

It’s like the mess I make in the kitchen.  I look at it and ask myself, now why should I expect someone else to clean this up?  Then I hunt for the sponge and soap.  Why would they have more fun doing it than I?

That’s the beginning of the journey of healing for our nation.  Transformation is listening — listening to those we have harmed and neglected.  Like a formerly enslaved woman, Isabella Gibbons, working as a cook at the University of Virginia.  This is the campus designed by Thomas Jefferson, author of those inspiring words in the Declaration of Independence, “all men equal.”

From this woman, who would later by 1867 become a teacher of a Black elementary school, “Can we forget  the crack of the whip, cowhide, whipping-post, the auction block, the handcuffs, the spaniels, the iron collar, the negro-trader tearing the young child from its mother’s breast as a whelp from the lioness?  Have we forgotten that by these horrible cruelties, hundreds of our race have been killed?  No, we have not, or will.”[3]

God begins that inward transformation in the moment we acknowledge our brokenness.  As with an individual, so also with a nation or institution. In acknowledging untold pain and suffering, in acknowledging the black lives taken advantage of and shamefully used, the University of Virginia has embarked on the journey of inward transformation as an institution.  They are listening to the pain echoing down the centuries of broken black bodies and spirits.

Those who never feel the need for contrition, those who never experience the need to apologize – they will not be healed.  They will remain stuck in frozen attitudes.   All joy sucked out of life.

Transformation is real, but painful.  Like my friend Ed Bacon is fond of saying, “The TRUTH will set you free.  But first it will hurt like hell.”  In the fellowship of God’s Beloved Community, none of us has to take that journey alone.  Transformation is about having a heart big enough for others than just oneself, as a security guard said this week of Joe Biden.  Let “God transform you inwardly by a complete change of your mind.”.  It will enlarge your heart.

Transformed by God – these are the healthy, life-giving people.  Folks you want to be around because they bring out the best in you.  They cheer you on rather than drag you down.  Don Thomas is one of those people. 

I recently received an e-mail from my friend Dr. Don Thomas who works in Malawi providing medical services and raising funds for schools and community organization.  He’s as old as I and yet still makes it back and forth from Pasadena to Africa. 

He shares the most marvelous, life-affirming stories of a village and it’s people.  One young African woman, Ida Puliwa, the founder of Othakarhaka Foundation, was the first female from her village to graduate college.  Her transformed soul has transformed her village.[4]

Even with COVID-19 shutting the school in her village, Ida has organized the older girls to tutor the younger students so their progress is not lost.  “The girls are fulfilling their commitment to “pass on the kindness”, carrying forth Ida’s unique, original goal for Othakarhaka.  Each village volunteer of every age gives of their time each week to ‘pass on the kindness.’”

My friend, Fr. Doug, had a dream one night – no not about forgetting his sermon.  This night visitation was surely an encounter with the divine.  The voice he heard said, “Go help my people in Africa.”  Over the years, he has done that indeed.  He even roped me into the effort.

His work funded through United Charity Endowment for Africa, has developed clean drinking water projects in coastal villages of Ghana and in the interior rain forest at the St. Anselm’s Anglican cathedral at Sunyani.  He, as of late has worked with Ghanaians to rescue young boys sold into slavery for the fishing industry.  Upon rescue the boys are provided social services and education.

From Doug’s transformed heart and mind has come transformation for many others.  That’s how it is with Spirit Transformation.  Can’t help itself. 

This work is the spiritual fruit of one whose life is evidence of inward transformation.  Out of it flows, peace, patience, kindness, forbearance, freedom, sobriety, generosity – all the rest of it.

The world doesn’t understand such.  By the standards of the powerful, such is “weakness, foolishness.”   Such things are beneath them.  The world shouts back, “Loser!”

“But let God transform you, inwardly by a complete change of your mind.  Then you will be able to do the will of God.”  And that will be your delight.

Mother Teresa’s poem, “Anyway,” makes it all so clear – what gives life and what reeks of death.  Her poem speaks to the depth of the transformed heart and mind.  And the freedom of being inner directed  “Let God transform you inwardly by a complete change of your mind.”

---

[1] Peter Eavis, “Bankruptcy?  For the C.E.O.s, It’s a Bonus,” New York Times, Business Section, June 24, 2020.

[2] Matt Phillips, “’This Market is Nuts’: Stocks Defy a Recession,” New York Times, August 19, 2020

[3] Quoted in Holland Cotter, “Where ‘Horrible Cruelties’ Can No Longer Hide,” New York Times, August 17, 2020.

[4] https://www.idemandaccess.org/

August 23, 2020, Pentecost 12, Proper 16

The Rev. John C. Forney

Isaiah 51:1-6; Romans 12:1-8; Matthew 16:13-20

“Do Not Conform – Be Transformed”

We moved to a new neighborhood when I was in my second year of high school.  Now, I must confess that pretty much all through junior high and into my first year of high school, school was a social disaster.  And an academic disaster.  But moving to Lakewood didn’t help matters one bit.

Exclusion was no more apparent than when lunch hour rolled around.  I took my lunch and over by the walkway was a group of tables at the edge of one wing of classrooms where the popular kids ate.  There were the football players and their girlfriends.  The cheerleaders and some popular band kids – an inner circle of popularity all ate there.  To think that any of us mere mortals might sit at one of those tables was to risk abject scorn.  This was the Cool Kids table.  They had the right clothes, the right cars, the right girlfriends and boyfriends.  I was definitely not in the class of the “Cool Kids,” nor were any of the few friends I had.  We sort of hung around on the edges of school.  We definitely did not have the “right stuff.”

I’m not sure when I first heard the story of the unwanted Canaanite woman.  But I had no difficulty in identifying with her.  Matthew tells of this woman who begins following Jesus and his disciples on the road in the district of Tyre and Sidon.  Definitely, the people of this district were outsiders, certainly “not cool.” These outsiders were excluded from the God’s Covenant with the House of Israel.  She implores Jesus for her daughter’s sake.  “Have mercy on me, Lord, Son of David; my daughter is tormented by a demon.”

It’s like that stray dog which began following me home from school one day.  No matter how much I tried to shoo it away into a vacant lot, it wouldn’t leave.   It would back up a few feet and again resume following me as soon as I took a few steps. 

That’s how Jesus and his little band regarded this woman.  The disciples kept urging Jesus to shoo her away.  She was not their kind.  They refused to recognize her humanity.  She was a nuisance, a pest.

She was like that telemarketing phone call.  The caller first asks your name and how are you like they’re juiced on six cups of coffee. Before you can get a word in edgewise, this marketing monster is off on their sales pitch.  Just a big bother and waste of time.  I’m thinking, “If I really needed this as much as you say, I would have already purchased it.”  Get out of here!  Most often, only rudeness will get them get them out of your hair. 

“Send her away,” the disciples urge, keeping her all the time at arm’s length.  She smells.  She talks funny.  They had no time for this ragged, unkempt woman.  “Send her away.”  She definitely does not belong at the Cool Kids table.

But she persists. 

I remember another woman who more recently persisted.  When Elizabeth Warren insisted on interjecting a letter from Coretta Scott King into the proceedings on the Senate floor, Mitch McConnell would have none of it.  In explaining the Senate’s censure of her on the floor, “She was warned.  It was explained to her.  Nevertheless, she persisted.”  Another “Nasty Woman” not knowing her place.  And this ragged woman yelling and carrying on about her daughter does not know her place.

Finally, Jesus, exasperated, wheels on the woman right there in the middle of the road and explains it to her.  “I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”  But again, she persists, “Lord help me.”  Finally, he snaps, “It is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

For most women, for most of us who do not belong at the “Cool Kids” table, the matter would have been dropped.  Embarrassed and dejected, we would have retreated into silence and slunk away. 

That is what happens to too many of those marginalized in our society.  These were the immigrants and foreigners then living in Israel in Jesus’ day.  Presently, these are the families seeking asylum from drug gangs in Mexico and Central America – fleeing ruthless dictators in Honduras and Guatemala (tyrants we quietly prop up with American dollars and troops).  These are the children yanked from their parents and locked in cages at our southern border.  They’re just a nuisance.  So what if they all get COVID-19 and die.  Not our responsibility.  No sign here about the “huddled masses,” or “tempest-tossed.”  “GO AWAY,” the sign reads. 

Not many years ago, that is what the “Chinese Exclusion Act was about – what the restrictive covenants in property deeds were about, what “red-lining” was about.  You don’t belong here at the Cool Kids table.

Recently, in the Science section of the Times, I read how much more subtly we communicate the same message in so-called “polite” society.  It was about the not-so-subtle indignities that minorities in science and medicine daily endure, especially women of color.

The new term for such pernicious and not-so-subtle putdowns is “micro-aggressions.”  These are comments, many unthinking, which communicate to another that they don’t belong.  They are not welcome at the Cool Kids table – any more than was that desperate woman.  She was not suitable material for the Jesus Movement.

Oh yes, we sing “In Christ there is no East of West, in him no North or South.”  But c’mon.  That’s nice in theory. But not when a black dentist moves in down the street as happened in my neighborhood when I was a kid. 

Definitely not cool.  So not cool that some of their neighbors gave that family the message loud and clear when the ran a garden hose through their second-floor window and set it to running while the family was on vacation. That song’s a nice sentiment, but not when property values are at stake.

This is the exclusion that especially women of color face in medicine.  Dr. Onyeka Otugo shares of her experiences when training in emergency medicine in Chicago and Detroit.  As she would enter a patient’s room, the comment was sometimes, “When is the doctor coming in?”  This after she had already introduced herself as a doctor.   None of her white male colleagues ever had to face such indignity. 

Patients would let her know where the trash was so she could take it out, or that the sink needed attending to.  These “put downs” were often “subtle, stunning, often automatic, and non-vocalized exchanges.”  Dr. Chester Pierce, a psychiatrist refers to them as “micro aggressions.”  Not “micro” because of their corrosive impact on the other, but because of their routine frequency. 

Many doctors of color, especially women though, report the high frequency of such derogatory comments.  Or having been addressed as “sweetie” or “honey.”[1]  Even by their male colleagues on the hospital staff.

I can understand the racism behind such behavior.  If you grew up in a largely white society as I did, You may have never encountered any professionals who were not white.  I remember the first time I took our oldest to Kaiser to have his asthma checked out.  We had sat in a small office sometime before the doctor finally appeared. 

When Dr. Pham entered, I had to check my racial stereotypes right there and then.  I wondered, “What kind of training did this doctor from Cambodia have?”  Is he licensed?  Would he be as qualified as another, as a real doctor – read “white” doctor?  As this thought raced through my head, a sense of shame filled me.  Of course, he’s qualified.  He’s had to pass the same exams that all doctors pass – again, read “white” doctors.  Kaiser wouldn’t have hired him otherwise.  Now I’m thinking, “Forney, you jerk.  Get a grip.”

Of course, Dr. Pham was excellent.  He thoroughly explained where our son was with his asthma and which course of treatment would be best.  His manner with Jonathan was kind and thoughtful.  He explained to him in language he could understand what was happening and how they were going to make him well.

Right then and there, I received a master class in race relations.  I left the doctor’s office with some new insights about myself and how easily I, an educated, “enlightened” white liberal, could pigeonhole and dismiss that man.  Dismiss him as Other. I consoled myself with the thought that, at least, I didn’t think he was the janitor!

Dr. Sheryl Heron, a black professor of emergency medicine at Emory, says that these microaggressions can take a terrible toll.  “After the twelve-thousandth time, it starts to impede your ability to be successful…”[2]  The burn-out rate among emergency medical personnel is already extraordinarily high without this crap.  Self-doubt eats at one’s sense of worth and one’s sense of vocation.

Back to the region around Tyre and Sidon.  After having been told that one doesn’t take the children’s food and fling it to the dogs, we pick up the story.  And, yes, we know the term for a female dog – that is what he called her indirectly.  That’s the sort of word that gets your mouth washed out with soap.  So, let’s pick up the story.

This Syro-Phoenician woman — this most original of “nasty women” — had the hutzpah to retort, “Even the dogs gather up the scraps from under the master’s table.”  EVEN THE DOGS!  Say what?

Silence.  Crickets.  More silence.  Shuffling of feet in the dust.

Instantaneously, in a heartbeat, Jesus’ heart grew one size larger. “Woman, great is your faith!  Let it be done for you as you wish.”  And there was healing.  Not only for the daughter but for Jesus and all those around.  Healing reaching down through the ages, in hearts of all touched by the retelling of that exchange.  Surely, on that day another was welcomed into that marvelous, Spirit-filled band, the Jesus Movement. 

Nothing is set in stone.  Even the most hardened hearts can be softened like butter in the microwave. 

I realize that, not all those considered unfit for the Cool Kids table, will be able to speak up for themselves as did this bedraggled women Jesus encountered.  So many have been beat down for so long that all persistence has wrung out of them.  It is up to those of privilege, especially white male privilege, to hold wide the doors of inclusion, of success.  It’s always about a “hand up.”

That’s what we, the Church, are called to be.  A glorious welcome home party. 

I can still remember that cartoon in one of our Anglican magazines depicting folks exiting a church after the service.  One snooty woman with blue hair piled high on her head, dressed in furs and bling, indignantly demanded of the priest as she glared at the church sign board proclaiming “Decade of Evangelism.”  “What is this Decade of Evangelism?” she demanded with haughty distain. “I thought everyone who was supposed to be an Episcopalian already was one!”

What is evangelism?  It’s simply the good news that there’s a place for all at the Cool Kids Table — for, in the end, it is the Lord’s table.  That’s what we proclaim each and every Sunday.  At least back in the old days when we were still able to gather in person for worship.

In Christ we are still learning what it means that all are invited to the Cool Kids table.  And such a feast that is spread.  Taste and see that the Lord is good.

That is the message of the House of Hope.  In God’s Kindom there are do-overs.  Redemption is our business, God willing.  ALL means ALL.  We may lose the patience,  We may lack the strength to persist.  But God doesn’t!

O Lord, give us, your Church, a heart many sizes larger than it would have had if left to our own devices.  Make of us a joyful welcome party for all to the Cool Kids table.  For all are TOTALLY COOL in your sight.  Amen.

---

[1] Emma Goldbert, “It can Cause You to Shrink,” New York Times, Science Section, August 11, 2020

[2] Ibid.

August 16, 2020, Pentecost 11

The Rev. John C. Forney

Isaiah 56:1, 6-8; Romans 11:1-2a, 29-32; Matthew 15:21-28

“The Cool Kids’ Table”