Touch me, Heal me
Anyone familiar with the 12-step recovery movement would recognize this introduction: “Hi, my name is Joe, and I’m a recovering QAnoner.”
I case you’re wondering about QAnon; it is a loose collection of conspiracy beliefs centered around Donald Trump and the Republican Party and the BIG LIE that he had in fact won the election – an election that has been stolen by a secret cabal of bad actors. The core assertion is that a secret, “deep state,” coterie of Satan-worshiping pedophiles is festering among our elites. They are conspiring to take over the government, Hollywood, and big business. They could certainly have the mess on my desk if they want to take something over. If this conspiracy theory weren’t so dangerous, it would be laughable.
The QAnon conspiracy theory grew up on the fringes of the internet. The origin hinges on one person, “Q,” with supposed inside government information, who began posting pieces about this plot, His assertion is that Trump is waging a secret war against it. Trump is the new messiah who will lead us all out of the darkness of this conspiracy. QAnon has grown from a handful of deluded souls to a mass movement within the Republican Party, with almost sixty percent of Trump supporters claiming allegiance.
Beyond lending credence to the belief that it was necessary to storm the Capitol last January 6th – beyond the death and destruction that the bizarro myth legitimated – is the damage it is doing to its adherents.
Those who have gone down the QAnon rabbit hole are discovering that this cult is as dangerous and as life-destroying as any other. Those lies spawned by Jim Jones, Ruby Ridge, Scientology, David Koresh, Birtherism…you name it…they’ll kill your soul. They consume every waking moment. The Bible calls it idolatry. And getting out is nigh on impossible.
Those ensnared are often loners looking for answers to the insurmountable problems assaulting them over the airwaves and on the internet. For some, life has simply become too difficult. These convoluted ideas provide easy answers to complexities that at the same time, assure them that whatever they are experiencing, it is not their fault.
Deep, mysterious, dark forces are at work beyond our feeble powers to influence. Do your “research.” “The TRUTH is out there.” “Q sent me.” The unfortunate adherents of QAnon languish in a fever-dream of half-baked reality. Life is slowly sucked out of them. Just like with any addiction.
After Trump left the White House, shattering the hopes that He Would be the new Messiah to lead America out of the “deep state” wilderness, even more elaborate stories were needed to shore up belief.
Many evangelical Christians bought into this fantasy, believing that Trump indeed wore the mantle of heaven. He was God’s anointed to save America. All that was tawdry, the lies, the women, the cheating – it was all overlooked. Explained away. Of no real consequence.
Trump had secretly won the election, and on the original date for the Inauguration, March 4th, he would reveal himself in all his electoral splendor as our REAL PRESIDENT — to wage war against the satanic imposters – read Democrats (socialists) , Muslims, Jews, scientists, the media, and non-believers.
Friends, this is a fever dream. A sickness of the soul and of the mind. Difficult as it is, there is an exit ramp.
This is every bit as much a fever as we read of in the Gospel story this morning of Simon’s mother-in-law.
“When Jesus and his disciples left the synagogue, they entered the house of Simon and Andrew, with James and John. Now Simon’s mother-in-law was in bed with a fever, and they told him about her at once. He came and took her by the hand and lifted her up. Then the fever left her, and she began to serve them.” [1]
I wonder what Gloria Steinem would have made of this story. I’m sure that I know what my friend Marilyn Reynolds would have made of it. “Only a man could have written it. What is this anyway? Jesus healed the woman just so she could go make lunch? Indeed, only a man could have written this.
The point here is not a discussion about sexism and the marginalization of women. The point is that she was restored to usefulness — as limited as that might have been in a patriarchal society.
That is the point of healing, restoration to agency and purpose. That’s why at House of Hope we insist, “There is no recovery without a job.” A job provides a source of inner satisfaction, a network of relationships, a means of making a way in the world. In short, community and purpose. A reason to get up every morning.
“Touch me. Heal me,” might have been her silent prayer. And at the touch of One who cares, is healing. Every bit as much as in that closing song of the 1960s rock opera, “Tommy,” by The WHO.
Here’s the take-away from this lesson. In and through touch, love is communicated. Touch as vivid as Michelangelo’s painting of God reaching to touch Adam amidst celestial splendor.
Touch as immediate and healing as the hand on a shoulder of another wracked with loss. Touch as powerful as hands anointing the head of another in prayer.
Touch me. Heal me. And there are the beginnings of wholeness.
In our present day of COVID-19, touch has of necessity taken on an electronic form. I know; this is not near as satisfying and comforting. But, trusting in God’s Spirit, it shall suffice.
Back to those stuck in QAnon Wonderland.
One escapee from the QAnon cult, Ceally Smith, had spent a year chasing QAnon phantoms and mysteries. She was recruited into it by a boyfriend, with whom she has since broken up. It was now destroying her life.
Ceally would spend hours at her computer monitor doing “research,” attempting to validate the web of lies and stories she was discovering at these fringe sites. Until her eyes glazed over, until she could barely keep them open — often until three and four in the morning, chasing one shadow after another. Sleep deprivation had turned her to a zombie. She could no longer be a fit mother to her children. Her work and studies took a nosedive.
Her life destroyed, emotional exhaustion her daily fare, Smith now wanted out. Through the healing touch of those who did not condemn, she was slowly restored to the usefulness of her own life – having a reason to smile at the morning. Restored as a mother with children who loved her and missed her terribly when she had disappeared down that dark hole of the QAnon cult. The warm embrace of those who care is the necessary healing touch. Even if it’s only possible over the internet. Touch me. Heal me.
As in any addiction, these followers soon lose family relationships, are fired from their jobs and sometimes end up homeless on the streets. No different than if the drug were alcohol, a gang, the home shopping channel, gambling, a toxic relationship, or opioids.
For those fleeing the QAnon addiction, restoration of connection to trusted friends and family is essential. Touch me. Heal me.
Michael Frink is a Mississippi computer engineer who now moderates a QAnon recovery channel on the social media platform Telegram. He said that while mocking the group has never been more popular online, it will only further alienate people. Derision does not promote healing.
As the old telephone commercial put it, “Reach out and touch someone.” Or in the recovery movement, “Make a friend, be a friend.”
That is what Michael Frink does electronically. His digital touch is healing for many who enter his electronic recovery community.
Frink said he never believed in the QAnon theory but sympathizes with those who did.
“I think after the inauguration a lot of them realized they’ve been taken for a ride,” he said. “These are human beings. If you have a loved one who is in it: make sure they know they are loved.”[2]
Healing becomes reality as it’s given away. One ex-believer, Jitarth Jadeja, of Australia, has formed an internet recovery community to help others like him who had been sucked into this death cult. QAnon Casualties offers advice to recovering QAnoners and to the relatives of those still meshed.
Within weeks of Trump’s loss, the membership of QAnon Casualties exploded to now over one hundred thousand. It has grown so fast in the last few weeks; three new moderators have had to be added. In this compassionate work, I would affirm that a greater reality is involved. The One who is the Source of All Healing is offering a warm embrace. Touch me. Heal me.
The approach is empathy through electronic touch: “They are our friends and family,” said Jadeja,. “It’s not about who is right or who is wrong. I’m here to preach empathy, for the normal people, the good people who got brainwashed by this death cult.”[3] That is the offramp for people like Ceally Smith.
His advice to those fleeing QAnon? Get off social media, take deep breaths, and pour that energy and internet time into local volunteering. Give your recovery away. Touch me. Heal me. Heed the desperate cry.
The tragedy of COVID-19 is that for those hospitalized, the touch of friends and family is not possible. Our dear St. Francis sister, Alicia, died this week without the comfort of family to hold her. So often this last ministration to the dying falls to a nurse, doctor or orderly – a complete stranger — to hold a hand in the final fleeting moments of life. We can only grieve that that reality is what we’re forced to endure. The best we can do. And pray.
To touch, to heal, is the vocation of us in the church. As with Simon’s mother-in-law, as with those caught up in the QAnon death cult, as with those is the last hours of life in an ICU ward – we are called to reach out. Touch. Heal. If only online or by phone.
Our nation will heal as disillusioned souls find their way out of the shadows of lies and conspiracy fevers. Even if, for now, virtual touch is the only possible means of healing. Today, let us simply listen to the cry, “Touch me. Heal me.”
For those living alone, as the saying goes, “Reach out and touch someone.” Offer comfort. Encourage them to be vaccinated ASAP. Make that call. Today. Amen.
[1] Mark 1:29-39, New Revised Standard Version.
[2] David Klepper, “Some QAnon Supporters Checked By Reality Seek A Way Out,” AP, January 28, 2001.
[3] Op cit.
“Touch me, Heal me”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
February 7, 2021, Epiphany 5
Isaiah 40:21-31; Psalm 147:1-12, 21c; 1 Corinthians 9:16-23;
Mark 1:29-39
Not Knowing Left from Right
I remember when we lived in downtown Los Angeles, Jai and I were the dorm parents at what had been a boarding house, Dorcas House, next to the church. College-age women who were interns at the summer program and for our tutorial programs we sponsored during the school year lived there. The guys lived in the apartment on the second floor above the church. It was even worse shambles than Dorcas House.
We really had no experience at this, but we were a “mature, older couple” who would make sure these girls were safe and sober. It was an eye-opening experience. As I say, there are no failures, only learning experiences.
We assigned teams responsible for keeping the common areas downstairs picked up and sharing in preparing evening meals.
There was one woman who didn’t even know how to make Jell-O. As I had been cooking for my college roommate and myself, and then for Jai and I, I could not comprehend the ineptitude of these people when it came to the kitchen.
Some of our housemates did not know a spoon from a spatula, didn’t not know their right hand from their left in the kitchen. Interpersonal dynamics were often as chaotic as egos rubbed up against one another.
And cat poop all about, from several of the girls’ cats. Did I mention that? And the plaster of Paris clogged drain in the kitchen because, that seemed the best place to put the leftover remains of an art project? Must have been a good idea at the time.
We now have an entire nation that is about as clueless as those young people in the Dorcas House kitchen. And as clueless as Jai and I had been at being house parents.
We’re like that great city of Nineveh to which Jonah was sent – a large urban population of some hundred twenty thousand souls, a hapless people that “doesn’t know their left hand from their right.”
Nineveh has nothing on us for shambles. We in America these days would give them a run for their money when it comes to folly. This is the most divided we have been since the Civil War. The legacy of grift at the highest levels staggers the conscience. Incompetence is mind-boggling. We’re a clueless people, not knowing our left hand from our right. Wandering in a great darkness of the BIG LIE.
Incompetence of Alex Azar, former Health and Human Services secretary is criminal. He and those placed in charge of the worst health crisis in over a century are a failure at every level. They have over 400,000 dead Americans on their hands to prove it. This need not have been. Is that staggering death toll enough proof of ineptitude for America? Tell me, Alex, tell me, Donald – how is 400,000 dead a great success? By what measure?
As we begin the inauguration of a new administration, the FBI must now vet national guard and police forces, because their commanders cannot guarantee at whom they will be pointing their guns. How many QAnon crazies have infiltrated the ranks? How many white supremacists? One National Guard sniper commented that it was a sad, sad day when he had to worry whom to be scanning as a potential target – someone inside or someone outside the security perimeter.
How was it that the FBI was able to quickly round up so many insurrectionists who trashed our capitol? Easy! They all took selfies and posted them on Facebook. The cops have the videos. They left a trail of breadcrumbs all over the internet. Guys, was that with your left hand or with your right? Not your best thinking.
We’re a nation that doesn’t know its left hand from its right hand. And we’re dying as a result. Every bit like those clueless and disolute Ninevites.
Seeing the chaos of those insurrectionists surging through the halls of Congress and prowling about the Senate chamber – is it any wonder my mind took a road trip down memory lane to Dorcas House at that little downtown church in Los Angeles some fifty years ago?
We’re presently dying like flies in the midst of the worst pandemic in a lifetime, and half of us refuse to wear masks or social distance. It’s all a Democratic hoax, they proclaim. We attend Superspreader events in large crowds and then wonder how it happened that grandma’s stone-cold dead two weeks later.
Now, I ask you. Is it any wonder that Jonah didn’t want to go to Nineveh? Nineveh? Seriously, Lord???
This would not have been on anybody’s top-ten pulpit list. It’s like what one friend early on asked me soon after I had arrived out in the desert for my first church appointment, “Forney, what did you do to the bishop to get sent out here?” When I told him that I had actually requested the desert, he probably thought I was as hopeless as those Ninevites. Not a good career move.
Little did Simon and Andrew know what they were getting into when they left their nets to join up with this itinerant preacher beckoning from the shore. James and John, never would their days be the same. And you and I?
All we can say that, in some inchoate and mysterious way we answered, “Yes.”, This is what we enlisted for when we affirmed that call to join the Jesus Movement, s call from darkness to light, from falsehood to truth, from bondage to freedom, from death to life. Maybe not the best career move in the eyes of the world. Yet,this is our call each and every morning when we awake — given afresh with the rising sun and a cup of java.
This is a journey that none of us takes alone, but in the company of others who challenge and encourage us. It’s in and through this glorious company of the saints of God.
As we move forward as a nation under the leadership of a new president, the call to each of us is similar.
President Biden has received bipartisan support from our former presidents (well, almost all of them). He will need our support and prayers.
Upon President Biden’s address, Bill Clinton said that “everybody needs to get off their high horse and reach out to their friends and neighbors” to try and make unity possible. “You have spoken for us today,” he continued. “Now, you will lead for us. And we’re ready to march with you.”
Obama told Biden that he’s proud of his former vice president. “You and Kamala need to know that you’ve got all of us here rooting for your success, keeping you in our prayers,” he said, with Bush and Clinton in agreement. “And we will be available in any ways we can as citizens to help you guide our country forward. We wish you Godspeed.”
Martin Luther King framed the challenge somewhat differently in his last book. The choice before us is either CHAOS or COMMUNITY.
Will we choose the chaos of climate catastrophic or will we recognize global warming as a problem on our doorstep confronting all of us? Will we choose LIGHT from the lamp of knowledge or will we retreat into infantilism, crying FAKE NEWS, FAKE NEWS.
Little time is left. When those climate tipping points come, they will be sudden and cataclysmic. A mass methane release from that which is frozen at the bottom of the Arctic Ocean and under the northern tundra, will put us on an irreversible path to melting all the planet’s land ice. Does a sea rise in relatively short order of around 90 feet sound cataclysmic enough? It would be enough to impact eighty percent of the world’s population that lives within 200 miles of the ocean.
Choose the LIGHT from the lamp of science. This is not fake news. Even if you didn’t hear it on Fox or didn’t read it on Facebook or in a tweet. Our call to discipleship is to TRUTH. It is to heed the urgent warning. Rejoin the Paris Accords. Push for tough public policy equal to the threat. Our call is to be the biggest, loudest pests our representatives in Congress have ever encountered. Join Citizens’ Climate Lobby – the most effective group addressing global warming with a tax on carbon. Before you poo-poo this, do your own research. Check them out. Whether you join or not, this is your call to follow. Or choose Bill McKibben’s 350.org. God is calling you to be part of the solution.
Our call to discipleship is to put aside egos and find places where we can cooperate to rebuild our economy. Push for economic policies bold enough to address the pain of those who are now entering their eighth month, their twelfth month without a pay check. It is to fight for them with the same fierce urgency as if we were the ones to discover an eviction notice stapled to OUR front door. That is Jesus’ summons to us today. He’s calling to make common cause even with those with whom we disagree to get something done. To find ways to be bold together. It is the call to make trouble. Good trouble. Necessary trouble. This is our call from darkness to LIGHT, from falsehood to TRUTH, from chaos to COMMUNITY, from death to LIFE. Choose LIFE that you and your grandchildren may enjoy the fruits of this wonderful life.
This call to follow is discerned in the pain of those who have lost dear friends and family in COVID-19. Our call is to remember. Remember and mourn those whom we’ve lost. Then recommit yourself do all you can to stem this tide of this pandemic. If your neighbor’s not taking it seriously, your call to discipleship is to be a complete pain in the behind. Get in their face. It is to insist on competency and equity in rolling out vaccines to the most seriously impacted communities. It’s not about you. It’s about us.
No privatized theology of “me and Jesus in the bushes.” You don’t “Come to the Garden Alone.” You come to a feast ladened table prepared for ALL of us. A table sagging under gospel bounty. A privatized spirituality is a perversion of the Gospel of Jesus Christ. Our call is about developing the spiritual resources to sustain the Beloved Community, and to reflect the face of Christ in our midst. Passing the Peace is more than catching up on the latest gossip, though that too. It’s the sacramental expression that we belong to one another. The same for our call as American citizens. I cannot be who I am meant to be unless you are fully who you are meant to be – the theology of Ubuntu.
Look about. The pain you see may be your only call to follow – the only call you are going to get from Our Lord. The pain of the world is your summons. That call is as clear as that clarion call those fishermen heard over two thousand years ago. As clear as the nose on your face. Those who have ears to hear, LET THEM HEAR.
And in that call to heart and mind, to conscience and date book and checkbook – in that call is ETERNAL LIFE. Whether you are Jew or Gentile, Buddhist or Muslin, Christian or None-of-the-Above – in your answer to that summons is BLESSING and ABUNDANCE — the only life worth living.
The choice is yours – are you part of the problem or part of the solution, part of God’s redeeming work, or part of the world’s distraction? Part of chaos or community?
Set before each of us in these days of peril is an open door to God’s abundance. Choose LIFE over that which numbs and kills the soul. Choose LIGHT over the dark and despicable. Choose TRUTH over the convenient lie. Choose FREEDOM over bondage to that which is of no consequence.
Enter into that Glorious Company of the Faithful — that Glorious Company of Apostles and Martyrs, seen and unseen, who surround us every Sunday with their witness and prayers as we gather in Christ’s name. Those who run with us. Gracious Lord, may your Church ever sit at the Right Hand of all that is Holy, all that is Beauty, all that is Compassion, of all that is Justice. (with apologies to the lefties out there). Amen.
January 24, 2021, Epiphany 3
“Not Knowing Left from Right”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Jonah 3:1-5, 10; Psalm 62:6-14; 1 Corinthians 7:29-31;
Mark 1:14-20
Faith and Habitations of the Mind
I remember as a young boy awaking one morning to a disagreement between Grandma and my brother who was then in the first grade. It seems she had been going over some of his science notes with him and he was attempting to tell her that the sun went around the earth.
When she insisted that, absolutely, the earth went around the sun, he argued back, “No, it’s in my notes. The teacher said that the sun goes around the earth. It’s right here in my notes.”
There was nothing she could say that would disabuse him of this notion. Being in the third grade, I knew that Grandma was correct. The earth goes around the sun. Tom insisted that they go show Mom. She would know that he was right.
What I learned that morning was not an astronomy lesson, but a psychology lesson. Once people get a notion in their minds, it’s very difficult to convince them otherwise.
Will Rogers spoke this truth when he said that it’s awfully hard to convince a man of something when his getting a paycheck depends upon him believing exactly the opposite. Logic in many cases only goes so far. Maybe, in most cases, doesn’t count at all.
The mind is a strange habitation of all sorts of stuff. What is really real?
Who would have ever thought that our 2020 election could turn on a conspiracy theory that Hillary, and later, Joe Biden, were part of an international child sex trafficking ring, holding kids in the basement of a pizza parlor? These QAnon fever dreams have infected an entire national political party.
It seems that such bazar conspiracy theories are now a national past time. Like baseball or the NFL. I was astounded as I watched Trump’s former national security advisor General Flynn and his entire family, take the QAnon pledge, “Where we go one, we go all.” Go figure. This lunacy has reached the highest levels of national life.
Now, one could say that such notions are harmless. We can dismiss their adherents as kooks. Pay no attention. Harmless. Until they aren’t.
Americans were horrified to watch thousands of rioters breaking into the halls of Congress, filled with the notion that the past national election had been stolen. “Stop the steal,” was the chant of those surging down the passageway.
All to show that much of life is not rational, but emotional space filled with need, desire, and fear. All highly irrational. And that is the case of this strange call of the disciple Nathanael.
When Philip finds Nathanael, he implores him to come and meet Jesus, the one of which the prophets and Moses wrote — Jesus from Nazareth. With a shrug, Nathanael dismisses the summons, “Can anything good come out of Nazareth?” “Look, man, you’ve gotta to be kidding. Nazareth? Really?”
“No, really. Come and see.”
When Jesus sees Nathanael approaching him, he exclaims, “Here is truly an Israelite in whom there is no deceit.” Nathanael is astonished.
“How is it you know me?”
“I saw you sitting under a fig tree,” Jesus answers.
“Say what?” Nathanael incredulously responds. This is crazy stuff. “You think I’m reliable just because you saw me under a fig tree??”
“Philip, where did you meet this dude? I don’t think he’s all there. He’s off his meds. Let’s get going, I’ve got work to do. No time for this nonsense.”
This is WHAT Nathanael should have said. What you or I would have said. Or at least thought.
But, no. Nathanael exclaims in wonder, “Rabbi, you are the Son of God! You are the King of Israel.”
Now, it’s Jesus’ turn to be astonished. “You believe because I told you that I saw you sitting under a fig tree?”
This has to be the weirdest recruitment call in history. Can you imagine Human Resources bringing on a new employee in such a fashion? Can you imagine this interchange at a Diocesan Commission on Ministry interview?
“Do you believe because I said I saw you sitting under a fig tree?”
The candidate and the members of the commission would all have been referred to an appointment with the shrink. This is totally bonkers.
STOP. STOP RIGHT THERE.
Think about it. Isn’t this the basis on which we make most of our important decisions?
How did our oldest son meet his wife? He was late to a concert in Portland and when he got there the doors had closed. So, what to do? He wonders into a video game parlor down the street. While he’s zapping space aliens or whatever, he looks at the women at the game next to him. They get to talking, and the rest is history.
I met Jai on a bus trip to Lincoln, Nebraska. Our younger son Christopher, probably went about the relationship thing more systematically, more logically. He met Alexis through some online relationship web site.
And how did each of us come to faith? How did each of us come to such matters of the heart? It wasn’t through the logic of some syllogism; I can tell you that.
We were immersed, at least in America, in a culture saturated with Jesus. It may have been what we grew up with. It may have been a friend who said, why don’t you come to church with me. It may have been through despair, the “dark night of the soul,” when everything else we had tried had fallen apart or seemed empty. But, as a mature person, we made a decision that Jesus had something for us. He was important.
To finish the dialogue between Jesus and Nathanael, let’s re-enter that story.
“You believe because I told you that I saw you under the fig tree? You will see greater things than these.”
“Very truly, I tell you, you will see heaven opened and the angels of God ascending and descending upon the Son of Man.”
Whatever this means, I take it to be saying that in Jesus, we will encounter all that brings vitality and meaning to life. Its “On-earth-as-in Heaven” time. A way of living scripture calls “eternal life.” Kairos Time – the fitting season when everything hangs together. It’s about our hearts’ deepest desires – something that causes all the busyness of our days, and the nothingness of our days to hold together. In short, it’s about a heavenly banquet here on earth.
We taste smidgens of those brief moments – your child’s first word. A lover’s embrace, overhearing your boss praise you to another employee. A concert that stirs the soul. The face of a dear one at church. The enthusiastic welcome home by a beloved and faithful dog. Watching the line of faithful receiving communion at the altar rail. We’ve all know those moments.
It’s about stepping outside the bounds of logic into a space where there are no guaranteed answers. “Come and see.”
It really is about the “leap of faith.” That’s the price of the ticket. Absolutely NO GUARANTEES for this ride.
The call of Samuel, the call of Nathanael? The call of any the rest of us? Where’s the guarantee? The proof of the validity that this is about something real? There is none. The only reassurance, if any is to be had, is that of our heart and of those who care for us.
“Come and see.” “Come and see.”
And many do.
These days, the conspiracy theories that swirl around are probably no more bizarre than those of Nathanael’s day.
I read that many are heading to Washington this coming week with all sorts of fantastical nonsense filling their minds. Many are absolutely convinced that the election was stolen by a pedophile, or that the recent insurrection at the Capitol was staged by Antifa just to make Trump look bad.
It’s all a jump shot. A million distractions vie for our attention. And yet there’s Philip: “Come and see.” And he will reveal all the secrets of your heart’s desire.
The summons to day is still the same, “Come and see.” Our hearts and good friends will direct us to what gives life. Scripture, a community of faith are yet good guides.
Those who reside outside this sphere of influence are not exempt from a “Glory Attack,” as my friend Ed Bacon calls it. Could happen on a lonely night of desperation, the sight of a homeless person asking for some spare change outside her sidewalk tent, or on some dusty road to Damascus.
“Come and see.” And it might just be that the heavens are opened with angels ascending and descending. In a moment of splendor everything is made clear. Life is full with an overflowing abundance. Yes, on some days we do experience that goodness. “Come and see.”
This week we remember one such disciple who not only came and saw, but led many others to “taste and see that the Lord is good.” Martin Luther King was a beacon for those hungering and thirsting for justice and inclusion. His way of nonviolence freed oppressed and oppressor.
In the days to come, we have a lot from which to recover in America. The bonds of affection have been sorely tested.
For our fellow citizens, the summons is still the same, “Come and see.” See what gives life and binds us to one another. The proof is that of the Spirit-filled heart. Life brim-full and overflowing. Even on a day in the sun with hundreds of thousands at the Lincoln Memorial. Or on a day filled with snarling dogs and Billy clubs on the Edmund Pettis Bridge, “Bloody Sunday.”
Nathanael came. Martin Luther King came. Ella Baker came. John Lewis came. Rosa Parks came, and so have countless others. They made it to the mountain top. Saw the Promised Land. How good it is when brothers and sisters dwell together in unity. “Come and see.”
The gladness of your heart will be the only proof, the only guarantee you’ll get that this way of life is the way for you. “Come and see.”
Amen.
January 17, 2021, Epiphany 2
“Faith and Habitations of the Mind”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
1 Samuel 3:1-10; Psalm 139:1-5,12-17; 1 Corinthians 6:12-20;
John 1:43-51
Out of Chaos
Water, the stuff of life or dangerous high seas. The staff of life or chaos and death.
I find it fitting, and intriguing, that the story of Jesus baptism is paired in our lectionary readings with the first creation account of Day One in Genesis.
But let me get there with a story from my early childhood.
As a young boy, one of my favorite stories was about a little tug boat, “Little Toot.” Little Toot was the most rambunctious screw-up in New York harbor. Up to mischief of one sort or another. He had no sense of propriety. Just like boys my age. His father’s constant refrain, “Won’t you ever grow up?” Sounds like a parent, doesn’t it?
Well, the little boat finally goes one prank too far and is escorted by police boats out of the harbor and banished. Out there alone at night out on the high seas as a storm gathers itself. Soon waves are crashing all around. Lightening streaks the skies. Thunder deafens the ear.
Amidst mountainous waves, completely dwarfing the small tug, Little Toot spies a S.O.S. flare high in the sky. The story ends most satisfactorily as Little Toot rescues the distressed ocean liner and, as clouds part to sunshine, brings the ship safely into harbor to his father’s praise.
I had been given a record of this story. With all the terrifying sound effects of the raging storm and towering waves, that’s where my mind froze. In my imagination I can still hear the fog horn, the music swelling as Little Toot was lifted on one gigantic wave, only to plummet down the other side.
It may be that I identified our family’s dysfunction with Little Toot’s predicament. My father’s volatile moods and temper were that storm that crashed around helpless Little Toot. At most any evening meal, the tension in our family was like waiting for the first thunder clap of that story.
The raging seas of our family were always seeming to swamp me. Like Little Toot, I was tossed about in a storm of emotions beyond my comprehending.
As we look back on this disastrous past year and the chaos of our nation’s capital, it is no wonder my mind flashed back to this early childhood experience, to Little Toot.
The first act of creation is the construction of order out of the vast ocean of chaos. It is to set the limits of the sea. It is to establish the hours of day and of night.
“In the beginning when God created the heavens and the earth, the earth was a formless void and darkness covered the face of the deep…”
That disordered void, that consuming darkness was often meal times at night.
That disordered void and consuming darkness has been our nation adrift in a sea of disease. Like that small boat in my children’s story, we have been buffeted about by forces beyond our control.
Help has never seemed more elusive or far off. Trump rioters roam the People’s House with flags of insurrection and sedition. Trashing the place. Never had our nation’s capital endured such disaster since the British burned the place to the ground in 1812. This, the doing of the most chaotic presidency in our nation’s history. CHAOS.
As the chaotic scenes flood in from Washington, D.C. equally distressing scenes flood in from our nation’s hospital emergency entrances. As President Tweet fulminates against a “rigged” election, his messages egging on the mob, images flash across the TV screen of utterly exhausted medical staff. The camera lens zooms in on long lines of ambulances in hospital driveways to unload patients for whom there is no room. Nurses scramble to find one more bed. Even gift shops and lunch rooms are repurposed to accommodate the sickest. Outside, beyond exit doors, are morgue trailers stuffed with the bodies of the dead. The hallways are utter disorder. Staff rushing to critical patients with IV lines and bottles as various monitors beep a cacophony of alarms. Doctors flipping frantically through charts of the newly admitted patients. Long lines out the front doors awaiting triage assessment. Who will live? Who must die? CHAOS.
And every Friday night on the PBS Newshour, Judy Woodruff presents a new roll call of those we’ve lost. Chaos, disorder, all around. Nurses and doctors in brief breaks cling to one another, shedding tears of exhaustion. Bereft of hope and comfort.
The politics of the nation well resemble the chaos of that hospital hallway and the ICU rooms.
The Black Lives Matter movement has devolved into communities of despair, the focus shifting from the rage at police killings of the innocent to hopelessness over the disproportionate toll communities of color have borne as a result of a legacy of our racist health systems of neglect. Disproportionate numbers of deaths have wracked minority communities and our reservations. CHAOS.
Our government seems incompetent to manage. Like that little boat in my story, we are buffeted about with no rudder. The great ship of state, America, has lost steam.
One woman, Kathy H., reflecting on the gross mismanagement of this disease, in desperation begs, “How can he have this much power to kill thousands upon thousands of Americans and not be removed or held accountable?” Another, “They have unleashed a Frankenstein monster on us.” The pandemic sea rages. Darkness engulfs patients and survivors alike.
And there is no leadership from Congress. “I object,” are the only words Senate leader Mitch McConnell can utter when considering a mere $2000 economic life saver of a stimulus package. “I object,” with those two words, millions more jobs are lost and hundreds more businesses closed. “I object,” the lines at food banks and soup kitchens lengthen. “I object,” and hope dies.
Yes, we had an election. But forty percent of all Americans refuse to accept the results. The federal prosecutor who filled the president’s mind with fantasy notions of fraud now now resigns in disgrace. The damage incalculable. His conspiracy fiction is the diet the mob storming the halls of Congress has feasted on. Too late for “sorry.”
In last-minute desperation Trump’s toadies concoct one scheme after another to overturn the election. Even at the late date of the counting of electoral votes in the combined House/Senate session. Legal desperation concocted out of thin air to force the vice president presiding over the session to toss the will of the voters. Is nothing sacred? CHAOS.
Chaos on a national scale as the waters of disorder threaten to drag our democracy in to the dark void of partisan rancor and mob rule. Militias descend on Washington, arming themselves to “protect” an election they consider stolen. Many throw up their hands in disgust, and switch the channel to reruns of “MASH” or “I Love Lucy,” as the mob ransacks our capital.
It is into these roiling waters, that, BY THE GRACE OF GOD, we are pulled to the surface, sputtering and coughing through our baptism. BY THE GRACE OF GOD, we are raised up into a community of healing, possibility and solidarity. This is not a private event. It is a joyous celebration of the entire Blessed Community of Life. Over the nurture of a lifetime, we grow into the promise of this sacrament.
Out of the darkness, LIGHT. Out of chaos, order and grace. And we hear the firm, strong voice Jesus heard, “You are my Son, my Daughter, the Beloved, with you I am well pleased.” Yes, you are beloved of all that is holy.
This is the same summons to each of us at our baptism as we are welcomed into the company of the faithful: “You, Jane – You, Louise – You, Jesse – You, Judeo – You, Barbara. You — Hayden…. Yes, all – beloved daughters and sons, with each and every one of you — am I well pleased. Continue to grow into your baptism. No matter your age, the journey’s not over.
As a young boy, I remember being taken from our Sunday school class one morning and solemnly walked up the center aisle of this huge sanctuary with my brother. There the minister in a black robe said something and water was sprinkled on my head. I didn’t understand what it was all about at the time.
But as I grew into the community of faith, I began to know I had sort of a second family. This was a family grounded in peace and constancy, caring and dependability. Baptism is not some act of magic conjuring. It is not a spell cast out of the world of Harry Potter. Baptism is an act of incorporation into a spiritual reality, the outward manifestations are those same verities that build the Beloved Community of Dr. Martin Luther King. Water, Spirit, incorporation in the name of the Holy Trinity, it’s all a mystery beyond logical comprehension – a mystery one grows into over a lifetime. It is a recognition of a spiritual reality working as a peculiar treasure over generations of the faithful, and not-so-faithful.
I have had Spirit-filled mentors along the way who enlarged the promise of my baptism. By word and example, they were “Little Christs” to me. They were seeds of hope. By their steadfast persistence and belief in what I could become, they kept that hope alive, even when I had lost it.
“Weeping may endure the night, but joy comes in the morning.” And the light of that joy cannot be overcome by the darkness.
In the midst of the chaos of these last days and months, we have held on to each other. We have held on to the promise of America, as have faithful communities all across this nation – And we hold on until this land becomes “sweet land of liberty” for ALL our people.
We continue the work to strengthen and uphold one another. The House of Hope in both the Ohio Valley and San Bernardino continue paths forward as funding begins to materialize and a competent and loyal staff is recruited.
This great republic shall endure the chaos of the night. True and authentic patriots of both our parties will perform their duty to the Constitution of this nation. Republicans and Democrats stood fast against conspiracy theories and threats from a seditious president. They did their job to ensure that the will of voters prevailed. They barred the door against the raging mob.
WE HAVE SO MUCH MORE WORK awaiting us in the days ahead. The problems we face are legion: racism, voter suppression, a right-wing disinformation media complex, apathy, starvation and homelessness in our streets. AND not the least, a raging pandemic.
As we reaffirm our baptismal vows today, the bottom line is our pledge to respect the dignity of all persons. In that dignity we behold the Face of the Divine. This pledge is colorblind, non-partisan, transcending all artificially constructed boundaries. It is true for the native born and the immigrant alike – yes, even those without proper papers. It is true for young and old, abled and disabled, stretching across all religious boundaries, to include those who claim no creed as well.
That is the full meaning of our baptism into the Jesus Movement.
When this promise is fulfilled in actuality, when it is true for the “least of these,” we will have come as close as humanly possible to that Blessed Community, we will have seen in the face of Jesus. Amen.
January 10, 2021, The Baptism of our Lord
“Out of Chaos”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
Genesis 1:1-5; Psalm 29; Acts 19:1-7;
Mark 1:4-11
Mary’s Sunday
There’s a story of two small Baptist churches at an isolated Midwest crossroads. Both across the street from one another.
This is the story. Somewhere along the line in the mid-fifties one of the pillars of the one of the churches died – and left, what was for that poor congregation, a significant bequest. Within what was judged to be an appropriate time after they had put him in the ground, the Board of Deacons set about discussing what they should do with this handsome sum.
It was obvious to everyone that needed repairs on the roof had first claim. And right after that came a new furnace. And maybe even A/C.
But there was a great desire to make the place more attractive. Face it, nobody is going to see the roof or even the furnace. Paint was in order. Inside and out. And since they were painting, shouldn’t they also replace that threadbare carpet down the center aisle. Mary Jane going down the aisle on her father’s arm almost tripped. Can you imagine a new bride on her honeymoon in a leg cast?
What color? The interior decorating committee began to realize that this was a most thorny issue. Some wanted a burgundy red and others opted for blue. Red is nice it matches the color of the hymnals. It’s bright and cheerful, especially on a drab, snowy day. The blue faction argued that it should be blue because Mary wore blue. Well, we’re a Baptist church, what does Mary have to do with anything?
Round and round they went. And went. To exhaustion.
And today, there are two very handsome churches, one across the street from the other. One with red carpet. The other with blue.
Amongst my tribe, Mary is also problematic. When the subject arises, the Anglo-Catholic faction clutches their roseries just a bit tighter to their breasts, as they gaze over to the statue of Mary in powder blue pastels behind the altar. The Protestant crowd begins to hum “A Mighty Fortress” and wistfully recalls Luther’s “Ninety-five Theses” nailed to the church door. A polemic against all the Roman accretions to church tradition and dogma. They think that Cromwell got it right when he striped the churches of statues and all the froufrou on the altars. Gone are the candles. Gone is the cross. Gone are fine vestments. This, after he deposed King Charles and chopped off his head. This austere Protestantism was an anti-Roman screed if ever there was one. Mary’s nice but we’re not gong to pray to her. Reformation is the not-so-secret word of the day. And by the way, it’s NOT an altar. It’s a TABLE. The High Church vs. Low Church argument, now, has mostly subsided, eclipsed by far more weighty concerns. Now, maybe it’s either one or the other, depending on one’s theology. Says he who is snake-belly low.
So, what is the truth about Mary? And how do we understand her place in current thinking? The actuality of Mary is lost in the mists of time. At best, we can say she was a young, impoverished, peasant girl.
Several years ago, I heard Mike Kinman place Mary in her rightful place.
“The angel said to her, “Do not be afraid, Mary, for you have found favor with God. And now, you will conceive in your womb and bear a son, and you will name him Jesus, for he will save his people.”
Here is this terrified, impoverished peasant girl, pregnant, with no husband. In that society, her grim situation is virtually a death sentence. She will be shunned and cast out. And, to boot, she had absolutely no choice in the matter. No agency.
Like many young girls today, being pregnant, out on your own with minimal education is almost a death sentence. How many will end up in dead-end jobs, or, worse yet, walking the streets, addicted, homeless and battling bouts of depression?
Not a much brighter future now than two thousand years ago. But our Mary is no shrinking violet.
“God, if this is your plan, then let’s play it out all the way.” Mary takes two steps back and says to the angel, “Hold my beer and watch this!”
With a fierce love bursting from her heart, Mary launches into one of the most radical songs in all human history, the “Magnificat.” Hold my beer and watch this, indeed. This action is going to turn the world upside down. I might be a poor peasant girl in rags. I may not make the cover of Vogue magazine, but through me, God is going to start shaking the pillars. Some serious shaking:
“The high and mighty will be thrown off their thrones. The humble and meek lifted up and the self-satisfied hot shots sent empty away. The hungry will be fed and the rich will exit stage right empty handed.”
With the last notes of Mary’s song dying in the distance, the angel Gabriel slinks away muttering, “Nasty woman.”
Here is the real miracle. Out of those society regards as of no account; Out of Mary’s burning love, God pulls off one of the greatest social justice movements of all time. And today, God still does. God still remembers that mercy and justice are at the heart of anything that matters.
So, just who is this Mary? Through the centuries many images abound.
The picture that wells up in my mind is of a strong woman of agency. Not quite Zena, Warrior, but also no wallflower. My Mary looks more like “Rosie the Riveter.” A face set in determination. Muscular. No nonsense.
I’ve had teachers like that. Teachers who were going to pull us through the knothole of long division, no matter what they had to do. And they weren’t about to take any crap from us wiseguys in the back row dinking around. And learn long division we would, by God. And, by Mrs. Tomkinson.
I’m sure we muttered under our breath, “Nasty Woman.” Or something similar. Nasty Woman — my sixth-grade teacher was. Mrs. Tomkinson had deadly aim with a chalkboard eraser. Those of us who talked during worktime, knew the power and accuracy of her arm. I speak from experience.
Those who follow in the prophetic tradition of Mary’s Fierce Love continue to raise up a mighty ruckus on behalf of the left out, the locked out the discarded. In this same tradition of NASTY WOMEN down through the ages. They raise up a ruckus to fight for their students and pull them through long division. Mrs. Tomkinson loved us enough to not let us make a career out of being screw-ups.
A long line of God’s cherished “Nasty Women” has sprung forth from the instant Mary refuses to be that self-effacing, passive, demure peasant girl of the patriarchy’s conjuring. Here is a strong woman of agency. If Mary was given the power of divine revelation, she, by God, was going to use it. Mary, in the instant of revelation, understood the full potential of what God was doing in that moment. “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord, my spirit rejoices in God my Savior; for he has looked with favor on his lowly servant…He has shown the strength of his arm, he has scattered the proud in their conceit.”
The prophetic lineage flowing through Mary has stretched down the ages to women to great effect. Wonderful, strongly compassionate women. Nasty Women.
All those determined, women on a mission who have come to congress in these past few years come to mind. Let me tell you, these women are not dressed in simpering, pastel blue. No! Suffragist White. Just like those who filled the streets demanding the vote over one hundred years ago. Like the women of the Seneca Falls Convention of 1848. Look it up. It’s in your history book.
Men, to their discredit would demean and marginalize them. “Let us explain the facts to you.” “She was warned. It was explained to her. But she persisted.” “They’re just the SQUAD.” If we can put a silly label on them, we can dismiss, demean, ridicule – and ignore their voices. Pay no attention. “Nasty Women.”
WE NEED THESE WOMEN. They are the salvation of this Republic! They are going to tell us things we don’t want to hear. Inconvenient truths. TRUTH.
These women are exposing the rot at the foundations of this republic. They’re forcing us to face facts. And to do justice for “the least of these.” We absolutely CAN NOT have a democracy when forty percent of our citizens live in poverty and near-poverty. Listen to James Madison! Listen to Mother Jones. This is fierce, tough, love.
Powerful men are learning firsthand the strength of moral force behind these women. Like Mrs. Tomkinson, their aim is true and delivered with great power. Ask Jeff Bezos, founder of Amazon. Ask Mitch McConnell. Ask Joe McCarthy after Margaret Chase Smith bit into him with her “Statement of Conscience” speech.
A number, like Rashid Tlaib, represent the poorest districts in our nation. These are the neighborhoods of dilapidated housing stocks, mind-crushing poverty, crap schools and over-policing. These are the breeding grounds of the school to prison pipeline. “You tell us how many kids in the fourth grade are not reading and we’ll know how many prisons to budget for.” Women of Fierce Love get it.
Several of these neglected districts are now represented by Nasty Women who are raising a ruckus over this immoral and shameful neglect. “Hold my beer and watch this.” Indeed!
Congresswoman Tlaib has taken on the obscene profits and rank plundering bby Amazon. One might raise objections to bringing up such “inconvenient truth.” One might say it was going to incite “class warfare.” Ms. Tllaib would reply that we already have class warfare. And her district lost. We’ve all lost.
With a Fierce Love every bit as determined as Mary’s who sung Magnificat, Representative Talib joins the fight.
“World leaders have accused Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos, the world’s richest man, of “acting with impunity” by pocketing profits while “dodging and dismissing [his] debts to workers, societies, and the planet” in a recent scathing open letter.[1]
“Rep. Rashida Tlaib is among the signatories to that letter and one of Bezos’ chief critics.
“This pandemic has exposed just how broken and wrong it was to allow a man with this amount of wealth to get away with not paying his fair share.”
“Amazon paid no U.S. federal income taxes in 2017 and 2018 despite posting income of $3.03 billion and $10.07 billion for each of those years respectively. In 2019, Amazon paid roughly 1.2% or $162 million on eleven and a half billion in income. Tell me, how much did Jeff Bezos walk away with? His secretary at the front desk paid at a higher rate on her paltry income. Way to go, big-time spender!
Bezos and his billionaire class fight tooth and nail to keep it all. The latest one and a half trillion in tax cuts benefited mostly those at the top five percent. Not so much, that distraught mother or father facing an eviction notice. Not so much, that owner of a corner deli, heartsick about laying off his last worker. Not so much, that teacher wondering how to scrape together a few dollars to buy her own supplies because her school ran out months ago. Probably, years ago.
Reporter Sibile Marcellus is the blessed Nasty Woman who spilled the beans on Bezos. Cut from the same cloth as Mary and Mrs. Tomkinson.
These strong, determined women of The Squad fighting for the survival of their people – they are Mary of the Magnificat. They’re coming after these guys in their gated mansions who give the rest of us male chauvinist piggies a bad name.
The mighty will indeed be cast from their seats. Many of these newly elected women, Republican and Democratic alike, wrested seats from dinosaurs who have done nothing for years. Most never actually showed at townhall meetings. They relied on cash, cash and more cash along with name recognition to sail through. Year after year. Well, no more.
There’s a new Nasty Woman in town and she looks a lot like the people of her district: black, brown, working class white, and feisty. Blessed Nasty Woman. And she’s fighting for ALL our own good.
You dink around, and that eraser’s already airborne. You stuff your wallet with unpaid taxes, you cheat your workers and expose them to disease, make wagers on how many will get COVID-19 and die — watch out. Nasty Woman’s hot on your trail, lawsuit in hand.
Today we celebrate Mary, no more a tool of a patriarchal church that would limit and subdue women. No pastels. Powerful voices, right out of the prophetic tradition of Amos, Isaiah, Miriam, Rebecca, Hagar, Jeremiah, Jael – running through the pages of prophetic activist voices directly to Jesus.
Light that fourth Advent Candle for LOVE — Mary and her Fierce Love for the “least of these.” Let us join her song: “My soul proclaims the greatness of the Lord.” Our gracious and revolutionary God would magnify all of us to raise a ruckus, a holy ruckus.
Amen
[1] Sibile Marcellus, “Amazon CEO Jeff Bezos cashing in on pandemic at workers’ expense is ‘immoral,’ says Rep. Tlaib,” Yahoo Finance News, December 17, 2020.
December 20, 2020, Fourth Sunday of Advent
“Mary’s Sunday”
The Rev. Dr. John C. Forney
2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16; Canticle 15, BCP, p. 91; Romans 16:25-27;
Luke 1:26-38
