On Being Presbyterian

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Matthew 23: 1-12


It is Reformation Sunday—the last Sunday in October—an occasion offered to us every year in our church calendar to take special time in our worship and preaching to remember our heritage as Presbyterians and consider what pieces of our heritage maintain a lasting relevance in our current era.

We are, after all, a denomination that claims its origins in the Protestant Reformation of sixteenth century Europe. We are a denomination whose roots are in resisting what our forbears believed to be the corrupted power and influence of a class of clergy that separated themselves from the people. A denomination whose roots are in recovering the original source of the teachings of Jesus and stripping away the trappings of cultural excess that co-opt the gospel for its own purposes. A denomination whose roots are in the radical truth that God’s grace alone is all we can ever depend on, that God alone is all we can ever depend on, that God alone is the lord of our conscience.

We are, in fact, a denomination whose roots are in the teaching of Matthew’s Gospel lesson for us today. Don’t be like the Pharisees, Jesus tells his disciplies and the crowds surrounding them. Yes, they “sit on Moses’ seat,” and they are good and qualified teachers of the tradition. You should listen to what they say. But “they tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others.” They turn the gift of Sabbath, the gift of the community, the gift of releasing one’s burdens through public rituals into even greater burdens, when they are supposed to be blessings. Even worse, the Pharisees have given themselves over to the perks of their position, propping up their image instead of truly caring for the needs of the people. Every one of these being a fault that the sixteenth century Reformers saw mirrored in the Roman clergy they found themselves resisting. And because those reformers took the gospel lesson seriously, here we are five hundred years later with an entirely new denomination on a new continent with a rich legacy of our own to resist and reclaim.

Part of our rich legacy as a denomination lies in the enormous role Presbyterians played in the early formation of this country that is our home. The United States Constitution, for example—and the general principle of representative democracy, where power is shared and no one person has ultimate authority—is directly related to the Presbyterian form of government. Presbyterians, by and large, supported the American Revolution, as well. A large number of the signers of the Declaration of Independence were Presbyterian. John Witherspoon, the only member of the clergy who signed the Declaration, was a Presbyterian minister.

And just to give us some perspective on the more contemporary influence of Presbyterianism in our common life, I offer you the following sample of noted Presbyterians: Fred Rogers, of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood was a Presbyterian minister; Mark Twain was a Presbyterian; David Brinkely was a Presbyterian; Sally Ride grew up Presbyterian (and her sister is an ordained minister in California); Presidents Dwight Eisenhower and Ronald Reagan, as well as Vice President Walter Mondale were all Presbyterian; and just to put things in really important perspective Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, and Shirley Temple were Presbyterian, too. How could we ever have gotten along without these Presbyterians! Surely we are part of a rich, long legacy of faithful people who lived good and decent lives and made a significant contribution to the world at large. Life as we know it would not exist without the Presbyterian tradition. We have every right to hold some small measure of pride in the rich heritage that is ours to claim today.

But while there are many lifelong Presbyterians among us who may already be well aware of our heritage and our famous sisters and brothers in the faith, many of us united with a congregation of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) in our adulthood, including yours truly. It used to be that when people of one denomination moved to another town or state, they would look up the nearest church in that denomination and transfer their membership there. This is no longer the case. Some of us intentionally align with the values and teachings and history (and perhaps even the famous people) of our particular denomination, but most of us simply stumble upon a church that we like, or a pastor we like, or a music program we like, and take on the Presbyterian label as just one more piece of the package. Am I right?

In fact, most sociologists who study American religion in its current trajectory are warning those of us who cling tightly to a particular denominational heritage that we are out of step with the majority of our parishioners and with the population at large. American religion has entered a new era of “post-denominationalism,” these scholars say, where most of us hop from one denomination to another—or even from one distinct religious tradition to another—depending on our particular needs at particular moments of our lives, and depending on what options are available in a new location for a highly transient population.

And all of this is just fine, in my opinion. Because the very Gospel Lesson that the 16th Century Reformers used to justify their resistance to Roman rule warns all of us who follow in their footsteps of the dangers of placing too much authority in any human institution—or any human being representing that institution—including, and perhaps especially, our own.

The Pharisees, after all, are not such a different group of people from modern day Presbyterians. They, like all Jews living under Roman occupation in first century Judea, are trying to figure out how to be faithful to the tradition of their ancestors while at the same time resisting the occupation of the Roman empire. At least one first century historian—by the name of Josephus—describes the Pharisees as a group that lives simply and protects what is worth fighting for, as people who “love one another and practice consensus in their community.” And they have—by far—the most popular support among first century Judeans.

The Sadducees, on the other hand, as priestly aristocrats who are caught up in Temple sacrifices, are perceived by the people to be overly friendly with Rome. The Essenes, who live in austere, celibate community in the desert of Qumran, are perceived by the people to be escapists. The Zealots, who seek to overthrow Rome with military might and have already provoked a violent retaliation, are perceived by the people to be far too dangerous.

We, who are twenty-first century American Christians know the Pharisees predominantly as the legalistic opponents of Jesus. The Protestant Reformers of 16th century Europe know the Pharisees as the prototype of all that is wrong with the religion they are seeking to reform. But in comparison with the other sects of first century Judaism, the Pharisees are not really so bad. In fact, they are good. They are really, really good. They are the scholars and the teachers—and, I might add, the preachers!—who have taken on the job of educating the masses regarding the best ways to adapt Mosaic Law to their entire lives. The Pharisees, by and large, believe the best way to be delivered from Rome is to live as faithfully as possible in accordance with the Law of Moses. And they believe God has commissioned them, by and large, to instruct others into the same fidelity.

Some might say this is a good working job description for a twenty-first century Christian pastor, the “teaching elder,” as the new Presbyterian Form of Government calls us. We are supposed to “be committed to teaching the faith and equipping the saints for the work of ministry . . . so that they people are shaped by the pattern of the gospel and strengthened for witness and service.” Concerned about, as our tradition calls it, “rightly preaching the Word and rightly administering the Sacraments.” Concerned about offering the people a chance to relinquish their burdens of sin and oppression and receiving the grace of God in response. Concerned with cultivating a community that is well-educated about the tradition and its modern-day application to our lives. We are . . . I can’t believe it . . . supposed to be Pharisees! What would the Reformers say?!

How about something like this?

On this Reformation Sunday—which can far too easily succumb to a state of “Presbyterian Pride”—the message is fairly straightforward: don’t do it! Just don’t do it. And the reason is this: the tradition, in the end, is not about you. It’s not about your country. It’s not about your movies and your television shows. It’s about God! And God is doing amazing things in your life and in the world, and we in the church want to be part of it. Plain and simple. Nothing else matters.

Many of us who land in this particular congregation at Madison Square have a story to tell about the Pharisees from whom we are fleeing, of the “church hurt” that has led us to a new home. But really, in the end, every one of us fits the description of the Pharisees in Matthew’s Gospel. Those who crave public approval, who fails to practice what we preach, who think we are passing on a blessing when in fact it can become a curse. Presbyterian ministers just as much as everyone else, and in fact sometimes more. That is the nature of religious institutions, and we are just plain stuck with it. When I was a senior in college lamenting this reality to my grandmother, she shared her own struggles with this truth. Yes, “the church wants to put chains on my soul,” she told me she had felt throughout her life. “But,” she said, “I don’t have to let it.” And neither do we.

The good news of the gospel really is this: God’s grace works through even us, even these inadequate, far too human, far too “Pharisaic” institutions, to bless the entire world. Even through you. Even through me. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to do anything. It’s simply here . . . ready, in this font of identity, in this table of sustenance, in this book of memory and promise, any time you want to come home. So welcome home.

This is what it means to be Presbyterian, after all. That God has welcomed you home, just the way you are. Not asking for fancy dress or public displays of piety. Just as you are. Whether you are John Wayne or our newest member to be received by the session after worship today or anyone else in between.

So I invite you in these next few moments of worship simply to rest in the goodness of who God is, and who God created you to be, and who God created this church to be. Knowing that God’s grace is sufficient to carry you through whatever burdens you bear and whatever burdens our tradition may unfairly place upon you. Trusting that Christ’s burden is easy and Christ’s yoke is light. And that the one God who claims us all is always leading us home.

I pray it may be so. Amen.

The Bible Tells Me So

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Deuteronomy 6:4-7

Leviticus 19:18

Matthew 22:34-30

Shema Yisrael, Adonai Elohaynu, Adonai Echad. Every day observant Jews across the globe chant this Scripture from Deuteronomy 6:5. Twice daily, in fact. It is called, as is traditional in Jewish custom, by the first word of the sentence as it is written in the Hebrew language: “Shema,” which means “to hear.” Observant Jews across the globe teach this Scripture to their children from generation to generation. They say it together as a bedtime prayer, reciting regularly what is—for all of us—the greatest command, which I translate from the Hebrew in the following manner:

Listen! Pay Attention! You are the people with whom God has chosen to persevere!

Don’t ever forget how special you are. Don’t ever forget the great lengths God has gone to in order to claim you as God’s own. Don’t ever forget that God is with you, always, even until the end of the age.

The Holy One is your God. The Holy One alone.

Meaning that the unnamable, unpronounceable, invisible God who created you from the waters of chaos, and redeemed you through the waters of the Red Sea, and sustains you through the waters of the mikvah (the ritual baths of purification) or the baptismal font is all that matters, ever! No matter what lesser god would demand your allegiance. No matter what lesser god would claim your very life. So, in response, you shall:

love the Holy One your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your strength.

And there is nothing you can do that is more important than this!

Now let’s be honest. How many of us walk around with a working knowledge of Deuteronomy fresh on our minds? Not many. We who are Christian have inherited an unfortunate Pauline distaste for the Law of Moses. We write off the so-called “God of the Old Testament” as vengeful and violent and vindictive. We even go so far as to mistake the origin of this “Great Commandment”—the Shema—with Jesus, himself. For we who are Christians, the command to love God with all our heart, soul, and mind comes directly from Christ in the Gospel Lesson from Matthew that is before us today, in response to a testing from the Pharisees, on the last Tuesday of his earthly existence, in a Temple showdown over the heart and soul of what it means to be faithful in the midst of empire.

But the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Herodians, the disciples, literally everyone around Jesus in first century Judea—including Jesus, himself—would have chanted this beautiful Scripture from Deuteronomy—from the Law of Moses we too regularly disdain—every day of his or her life, from the time of childhood to the present moment. First century Judeans would have experienced the Shema as a deep wisdom dating all the way back from the Exodus, shaping their people through good times and bad for over a thousand years (depending on when you date the Exodus).

And they would have been taught over and over from our Leviticus reading not to exact vengeance against those who have wronged them, but “to love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus is not instituting a new great commandment in this text from Matthew. He is simply reminding the Pharisees what they should already know: that the whole point of the Bible as they know it—the Old Testament—is to teach them how to love God and neighbor. And I would say the whole point of the Bible as we know it, is the same thing. It is not just a book of memory that tells us what people long ago thought about God. It is a present-day book of hope, holding forth the possibility that someway, somehow, if we just repeat these words long enough, maybe someday we will get them right.

Shema Yisrael, Jesus would have chanted over and over and over again throughout his life, as the core teaching of his own sacred Scriptures. Adonai Elohaynu, Adonai Echad. And the meaning of that chant would have seeped into the very fiber of his being, granting him a deep reservoir of courage to remind him who he really was—and to whom he really belonged—no matter what he will face from the chief priests and the Roman guards just a few days after the exchange with the Pharisees that is our Gospel lesson for today. The Shema would have kept Jesus grounded in the love of God for better and for worse throughout the entire ordeal that is to come.

The point I am trying to make here is that the words we say in worship, the songs and prayers we teach our children, the symbols and Sacraments we point to as often as we can, it all really matters! According to scholars who study the impact of ritual on the human psyche, we literally form a “ritual body” in our life together on Sunday mornings. We literally form neurological pathways through our brains that shape our consciousness and train our reflex reactions in moments of stress. Our rituals become integrated into the very fabric of our lives beyond conscious thought. And so we who perform these rituals must be very, very careful in how we enact them, as you are in your presentation of God’s gifts.

For Christians, our rituals focus on gathering around a baptismal font and a communion table and a pulpit and lectern from which we remember the ways in which God has spoken to God’s people throughout the ages and trust God to speak to us again today. And then here, at Madison Square, we also say, “Welcome home.” And I don’t have to tell you how much these rituals really matter, do I?

Esta es la fuente de identidad we say every Sunday, over and over, and we make sure our children are present in worship to hear these words. This is the font of identity, we say. And the sound of water splashing among these stones seeps into the cultural lining of our minds, and the assurance of God’s grace that comes along with it. To the point that whenever we hear splashing water, whenever we touch this miracle of life that forms ¾ of our bodies and ¾ of the earth’s body, whenever we taste the sweet blessing of water on our lips, whenever we bathe, whenever we swim, even whenever we cry we have the chance to float again in the font of our identity, to remember our baptism, to glimpse for one brief moment the grace of the God who has claimed us from the beginning of creation . . . and will not ever . . . ever . . . ever . . . let us go!

The waters of baptism are, I would suggest, the Christian version of the Shema. Because the Sacrament does not end with this particular font and this particular sanctified water and this particular child on this particular Sunday. We may be baptized only once, but we touch water every day. Ad with every touch and taste and even smell of this precious gift we take far too often for granted we have the chance to chant our own daily prayer in the spirit of Shema:

Esta es la fuente de identidad, we could say every time we turn on the faucet. This is the font of identity. I am a child of God’s blessing, we could say every time we bathe ourselves or our children, a child of God’s promise. And so I will love God with all my heart and soul and mind . . . and my neighbor as myself . . . because my neighbor is also a precious child of God’s blessing . . . a precious child of God’s promise . . . swimming in the sacred waters of baptism right along with me . . . and so anything I do or say to my neighbor I also say and do to myself.

If we remember our baptism daily with the simple touch of water, the simple taste of water, the simple sound of water, then we, like Jesus, will have a deep reservoir of courage and hope to remind us who we really are—and to whom we really belong—whatever we may come to face from our version of the chief priests and Roman guards who seek to steal our identity from us.

If we remember our baptism daily with the simple touch of water, then we, like Jesus, will have a deep well of hope for the entire human race to which we have been sealed. If we remember our baptism daily with the simple touch of water, then we, like Jesus, will hand back to God—remit is the word that comes to us from the Latin—every fault and failing, every insecurity and infidelity that would separate us from the covenant commitment we have in Christ.

This is the gift of grace and assurance and protection we have just given Nathan, child of blessing, child of promise, child of God’s covenant with humanity. This is the gift of grace and assurance and protection we claim again for ourselves.

So gather together again in God’s grace, people of God: the ones with whom God will always persevere. Gather at the overflowing fuente de identidad, splashing with delight in these sacred waters that wash over you, chanting forever that God has claimed you as God’s own, and demands nothing in return but to be loved with every part of who we are. And demands nothing in return but to be loved through our love of our neighbor. And demands nothing in return but to be loved through our love of our selves.

This is the font of identity, dear friends. Receive this gift of grace as it comes to you unbidden: with adults who respond gratefully to God’s wholly outstretched arms; with adolescents who are just opening up to God’s eternal grace; and with children whom God claims before we even know how to ask.

I pray it may be so.

Amen.

Seeing the Face of God

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Exodus 33: 12-23
Matthew 22: 15-22

Moses and the Hebrews have been at Mount Sinai for an entire year. They thought by now they would have arrived in the Land of Promise and Plenty, stable and settled, with all of the problems of Egypt behind them.

They are not.

At least not the way they thought they would be. They are still at Mount Sinai, still practicing the Ten Commandments, still figuring out how to live together away from the court of Pharoah in Egypt. Still figuring out how to worship a god whose face they cannot see and whose name they cannot pronounce. Because YHWH, the one who leads the Hebrews to Sinai, refuses to be pinned down in a graven image of wood or stone. “I am who I Am,” this god says. “I will be who I Will Be.” Not always terribly comforting for those of us who want God to “make sense,” stay the same, be whomever we want God to be.

And so the Hebrews are still at Mount Sinai, stuck in a holding pattern with God: worshiping a calf of gold (choosing an image of wealth they can see over a god who refuses to be rendered in an image), jockeying with one another for control of the community when Moses is away, and just generally missing the point of the honeymoon we are supposed to be celebrating after the holy union we celebrated last Sunday.

They are frustrated. With God, with Moses, with one another, with themselves. And, let’s face it, we can relate. Because which one of us has not—at least at some point in our lives—gotten stuck in a holding pattern with the Almighty? And maybe even—shall we be really honest?—with the people the Almighty has given us to love?

The presbytery, for example. Or the Presbyterian Church of Mexico, which has severed its official ties with us over our new inclusive ordination standards. Or even our own families where the commitment may be strong, but the compassion may be waning. We get stuck in a holding pattern, just when we think we have re-committed to this holy union with God and with one another and the new life that awaits on the other side of the wilderness. And we can easily spend the better part of a year—or two—or ten—watching and waiting for some word from God that will “fix it” and guide us on our holy way once more. Just like the Hebrews at Mount Sinai did.

As we come to our lesson from Exodus this morning, Moses has finally received that much-awaited word from God: It is time to move on. It is time to let go. It is time to embrace an unknown path to an unknown land . . . following with full trust this god whose face we cannot see. But before we pack up our tents and gather extra food for the journey, Moses wants comfort and assurance on this pilgrim journey toward wholeness. And surely this is also something we can all understand. Will you really be with us God, he asks? Can we see you somehow along this path that lies ahead? Being who you are? Being who you will be?

And God responds with grace and mercy, as God is sure to do: ‘I will make all my goodness pass before you,’ God says. Just lift up your eyes to the hills, just trust that I will lead you. My face hidden from you, yes, but my glory ever before you. Just trust that I will help you, because I have called you by name, and you are precious in my sight.

The invisible, unnamable god of the Hebrews does, finally, lead the people to a Land of Promise and Plenty. The same land Jesus roams as an itinerant preacher. The same land in which a temple has been constructed as the central place of worship for God. The same temple to which Jewish pilgrims from across the Mediterranean travel for the annual Passover Festival, which is where we find our Gospel Lesson. Tuesday of Holy Week. With Jesus and his disciples joining the pilgrimage. The Passover Festival recalling, of course, the same pilgrimage of Moses and the ancient Hebrews we have been ourselves remembering these past many weeks in our worship life together.

Along the way to Jerusalem, Jewish pilgrims from across the Mediterranean sing hymns from the Psalter . . . special hymns designed specifically as pilgrimage songs, including the one that our choir just sang. ‘I lift up my eyes to the hills,’ Jesus sings, his disciples singing with him. ‘From whence will my help come?’ we pray together. ‘My help comes from the Holy One . . . the maker of heaven and earth,’ we assure ourselves along the pilgrim path. ‘The Holy One will keep you from evil. The Holy One will guard your life.’

The words of this psalm are near to Jesus’ lips as he rides into Jerusalem on a donkey to shouts of ‘Hosannah!’ Near to his lips as he enters the temple that fateful first time. Near to his lips as he lashes out in horror at the money-changing operation that leads him to turn the tables. Near to his lips, as he lights into the Pharisees for their failure to see the madness all around them perpetuated in the name of God. Near to his lips, as the Pharisees and the Herodians approach him in the famous text from Matthew that is our Gospel Lesson today.

Because the difference, in the time of Jesus, is that the hills to which Jesus lifts his eyes belong to the Romans. The Romans own the roads; the Romans own the [Jewish] kings, who are in cahoots with the empire for their own political gain; the Romans own the coins; the Romans own everything. And, of course, they pay for what they own by taxing the peasants mightily.

All harvests, all personal property, everything is subject to Roman taxation. And if you think our tax rates are too high, think again. We are talking subsistence living, we are talking about perpetual grinding debt. We are talking about Jewish authorities doing the Romans’ dirty work as hated tax collectors. We are talking about the perfect storm for inciting an armed rebellion, which happened at least three times in the first two centuries of the Common Era.

In response to this threat of rebellion, Roman guards line the streets to “keep the peace” over everything they own. Meaning you cannot take a pilgrimage, you cannot lift your eyes to the hills, you cannot seek the face of God—or even just the Temple of God—without running smack into the face of the Romans. Especially during the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for the Passover Festival, the festival that reminds the people every year of the unnamable, faceless God who brought them out of oppression in Egypt and into the land that the Romans currently occupy. Into the land they believe should really belong to them.

To make things more scandalous, part of the practice of Roman domination is to force Roman imperial theology upon the people of the lands they conquer. They must worship the Roman emperor: the one they call, ironically, ‘Prince of Peace,’ ‘Lord and Savior,’ ‘Son of God,’ ‘Divine.’ The denarius—the Roman coin referred to in Matthew’s Gospel—has a picture of Tiberius Caesar on one side and the following caption on the other: ‘Tiberius Caesar, august and divine son of Augustus, high priest.’ It is literally brainwashing. A master stroke of social control. And it worked for a very long time. Except for the province of Judea. Because they have come to be monotheistic by the first century of the Common Era, because they absolutely must not make God into a graven image, the worship of the emperor is flat-out idolatry to them. And the coin that proclaims the divine son-ship of the emperor is the hated symbol of that idolatry.

That is why money-changers line the Temple, taking the Roman denarius and trading it for a Temple coin more fitting for the worship of God. But their exploitation of this transaction for profit at the expense of the poor stokes the ire of Jesus just two days before the encounter that is our text for this morning. And so the Pharisees and the Herodians think they have designed the perfect trap to catch Jesus in either treason or heresy. Because Jesus has already made clear his disdain for both the system of Roman taxation and the Temple collusion with that system.

But Jesus is lifting his eyes to the hills. Jesus knows from whence his help comes! Jesus trusts the Holy One to guard his life—and eventually even his death—and Jesus turns their trap right back on themselves. ‘Render unto the emperor the things that are the emperor’s,’ Jesus says. ‘And to God the things that are God’s.’

And lest we delude ourselves into thinking this is the first century version of the separation of church and state, let us remember that—to Jesus—everything belongs to God. Everything! To Jesus, the Pharisees and the Herodians reveal their idolatry, simply by asking the question.

Everything belongs to God, Madison Square Presbyterian Church. Two thousands years later, on this Sunday, October 16, 2011, everything still belongs to God. Two days after a global protest of a fractured financial system, one week before our own stewardship season begins in earnest, one and a half months into this pilgrim journey that will be our interim ministry together. The bottom line truth of our existence is that everything, everything, everything belongs to God. Everything reveals God’s face.

The validity of our own pilgrimage journey on this planet boils down to this: whose image do we see—and whose image do we seek—when we journey together as the people of God? Is it the face of whatever Caesar would demand our allegiance at the expense of the poor? Or is it the face of God—who cannot ever be fully known—but who claims every part of our lives for the good of God’s most vulnerable people?

I hope it is the latter. I think it is the latter. But we have some decisions to make if our allegiance truly is to the face of God in our midst. Because Jesus put his body on the line, he put his life on the line, he put his very faith in God on the line to say to anyone who would listen that it did not matter how much they resisted Rome if they did not care about the person sitting right next to them. That it did not matter how faithfully they paid their taxes if they did not give alms to the Lazarus begging at the gate. That it did not matter how much they prayed psalm 121 if they had bread they did not share with the hungry. That it did not matter how much they worshiped at God’s holy Temple if they did not make room for the ones they feared.

This is what the prophets have always said: if you want to see the face of God, just look around you. Just pay attention. The face of God is in every creature you meet.

Our Deacons have responded to this prophetic challenge in their commitment to respond to our neighbors in this downtown location when they ask for our help on Sunday mornings, and I hope you will support them in their endeavor. Our Session has responded to this prophetic challenge in their support of the children and their teachers at our Child Development Center next door, and I hope you will support their endeavor as well. Even our Buildings and Grounds committee has responded to this prophetic challenge in their rapid response to the overheating of our Alcoholics Anonymous guests who use the third floor for their meetings. And each one of us can respond to this prophetic challenge in whatever way God’s face is revealed in our lives. We just have to pay attention.

So take one step forward, dear friends, in the footsteps of Moses, seeking the face of God in this pilgrim journey we are on. And know that God is still your help, still your strength, still your guardian and your shield, for this life and for the next.

In the name of the One who saw the face of God in everyone he met . . .

I pray it may be so.

Amen.

This Holy Union

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Exodus 20: 1-4, 7-9, 12-20

Matthew 22:1-14

The “unity candle” is before us, on the table where we shared our common feast last Sunday. Where we came from north and south and east and west to celebrate a meal of abundant life. Where we came to confess we are sick with the sin and the suffering and the violence of our world—including the violence attributed to the king in the Gospel of Matthew. And we want to be made well, we want to be made whole, we want to be made one with our broken yet resurrected Christ. We want to be made one with God.

The “unity candle” is before us as a reminder of the values we share at the core of our covenant with Christ and, in turn, our covenant with one another. A covenant that is not so very different from the vows two people make when they stand “before God and these witnesses” to unite their lives “in plenty and in want; in joy and in sorrow; in sickness and in health; for as long as we both shall live.” Values of partnership and commitment, of fidelity and trust, of intimacy and shared purpose, of perseverance and hope. Values of faith.

The “unity candle” is before us as a reminder of the covenant union God has already made with us and that we have already made with God, from a time long before our time, from a mountain in a wilderness most of us will never see, where our Old Testament lesson this morning takes place. The covenant vows come from a mountain where a God who has heard the cries of a suffering people has led them out of bondage. From a mountain where a God who has a vision for a new life of promise and plenty together with these people will lead them onward to an old ancestral land. From a mountain where a God who is just beginning to become re-acquainted with this precious community will invite them to rest and simply spend some time together before moving forward with a whole new commitment.

I would go so far as to call it a “holy union,” this covenant that takes place between God and God’s people at this mountain in the wilderness of the Exodus. Even the prophets call it a “marriage”: covenant vows of steadfast love to express the mutual loyalty—the hesed—between God and God’s people—between God and us--“for as long as we both shall live.” Which is, of course, forever.

And so the “unity candle” is before us as a reminder of the promises that were made at Mount Sinai, the covenant vows that were offered in our name—and yes, I mean our name—these ancient words spoken for you and for me—which is what the parable of Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew is really trying to say. That this holy union—this sacred marriage—between God and God’s people is for us, too—for the Gentiles, too—that this “holy union” with God is for all who would come to the feast.

And so we gather around the unity candle at the table of grace as a reminder of our covenant promises—the ones we call “The Ten Commandments.” To renew our first four vows, which focus our fidelity to a God of justice and liberation, and to renew our last six vows, which focus our fidelity to the people with whom we have been bound to God. Because “this holy union” with God must also require a commitment to God’s community: that we respect one another’s families; that we respect one another’s property; that we respect one another’s lives and reputations. That we expect the same respect in return.

We could, of course, paraphrase these Ten Commandments—these “holy vows”—with one Great Commandment, and a second, which is like it, (which is what Jesus did, after all): “to love the Holy One, our God, with all our heart, mind, soul and strength . . . and to love our neighbor as ourself.” And we could throw rice and blow bubbles and decorate our cars and all live happily ever after! Right?

Well . . .

 

The problem is, as everyone who has taken these very human vows knows, we just can’t seem to get it right. At least not all the time. Maybe not even most of the time. With God or with one another.  

How many of us can honestly say we have forsaken all other gods, for example? And no, I’m not talking about honoring the wisdom of other world religions. I’m talking about where we place our loyalty. Where we place our trust. I’m talking about the stock market. Or the Clinique counter. And no, I’m not suggesting we divest of our mutual funds or our makeup, I’m just saying we should be honest about where we find our identity and our security. I’m just saying we should be honest about the ways we make the God we worship into our own image, rather than the other way around.

And how many of us can honestly say we have loved our neighbor as our self? Let’s face it, if you’re like me you covet just about everything your neighbor has. Even Jimmy Carter “lusted in his heart,” after all! And even the easy vow—the one about honoring the Sabbath—the one that actually begs us not to work!—can be the hardest commitment to keep, at least in this global, integrated, double-recession economy.

The truth is, we are not good at honoring our covenant vows, with God or with one another. And God knows it. And Jesus knows it. And in his scathing critique of the chief priests and the Pharisees in Matthew’s Gospel lesson for this morning, Jesus calls them on it, just as much as he did in the parable that was before us last week, and the week before, and the week before that.

And this is a hard parable to swallow, at least on its surface. A king who is throwing a wedding banquet for his son strikes out in violent rage at those who refuse the invitation. And then, just when we think the banquet really is open to everyone, the person who isn’t dressed quite right gets thrown out on his head, as well. On its surface, this parable shakes up everything we want to believe about a loving, committed, steadfast God who will not ever let us go. We could go so far as to wonder if this “holy union” is even worth it at all.

But if we pay close attention to the context of the parable, we will see that all of the parables of judgment against the chief priests and Pharisees between Palm Sunday and Easter ultimately culminate in that famous passage from Matthew 25 about what really matters in the end: that we feed the hungry; welcome the stranger; clothe the naked; care for the sick; visit the prisoner. Each of these acts is a pro-active approach to honoring the commandment to love our neighbor as our self. Which is the same as honoring the last six vows of the Ten Commandments. Which is what it means to live in holy union with God and one another in the first place.

What Jesus is trying to do in this parable is shake up the people who think they have already done just fine by God and by God’s people, thank you very much. Who think they don’t need to be shaken up. Who think they have no need of grace. Who don’t care all that much about the hungry, lonely, naked, or sick. Who really, in the end, don’t care all that much about God. They just want to crash the wedding for a free meal. And if we, too, are shaken up by the parable, shall we confess that maybe, perhaps, we might just need to be?

The apostle Paul puts it a bit more gently: “God has chosen you and made you holy people,” he says to the Colossians, he says to us. “So you should always clothe yourselves with mercy, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Bear with each other, and forgive each other. . . . Even more than all this, clothe yourself in love. Love is what holds you all together in perfect unity” (Col 3:12-14). These are the clothes that are fit for a wedding, after all. These are the clothes we would wear to renew the vows of our holy union. And, in the wedding traditions of the ancient near east, the king would have made sure every one of us was given these clothes if we could not afford them ourselves. So does our God. We just have to decide we want to wear this cloak of grace we have been given at the door. Because let’s face it, every one of us needs it.

  

In our communion last week, we were reminded that the table is open to Judas and Peter and all who fail utterly to live our covenant promises completely. “The great wedding feast,” which the Lord’s Supper is sometimes called, invites us to renew the commitment again and again and again. We just have to decide to say yes.

Right here, right now, God offers the same invitation: I love you; even now. I still want to be your God. Do you still want to be my people? And we get to say, I do.

Pastor:             You shall have no other gods before me.

Leader:            Do you take me as your God, the one on whom you will fully depend, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as we both shall live?

 

Congregation: I do.

Pastor:             You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them. 

Leader:            Do you really take me as your God, the one on whom you will fully depend, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as we both shall live?

Congregation: I do.

Pastor:             You shall not make wrongful use of the name of the Holy One, who is your God.

Leader:            Do you promise to honor me? Who I really am? Because I Am Who I Am, and I Will Be Who I Will Be, and I cannot just be whoever you want me to be in the moment? Do you take me as I am, and not who you think I should be?

Congregation: I do.

Pastor:             Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath unto the Holy One, who is your God. 

Leader:            Do you promise to spend time with me? To stop working so hard for just a few hours . . . just one day a week . . . and get to know me again? To hear me speak to you again? To sing together again? To share our joys and sorrows again? To forgive what needs to be forgiven . . . to stop worrying so much about the future and just enjoy the time we have? To remember how very much we love each other? Do you promise to take time to be with me and our people?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             Honor your father and mother, so that your days may be long in the land that the Holy One, your God, is giving you.

Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to express gratitude for the family of God that gives you life? For the family that supports you and takes you in when you are hurting? For the family of this church that celebrates who you really are, that claims you as one of its children? Do you promise to honor your family?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not murder.

Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to cherish this precious life we have been given? To celebrate life in all its fullness around us? To preserve and protect the image of God in all of creation? Do you promise to love life?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not commit adultery.

Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to honor the commitments that others have made to one

another? To support the families in our midst who have made covenant promises to one another? Do you promise to honor your own covenant commitments?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not steal. 

Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to accept what is rightfully yours, and no more? To be grateful for whatever abundance God has granted you? To share from that abundance with others? To receive the gifts that others offer in your time of need? To ask for help when you need it?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.

 Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to speak only the truth as you know it? To refrain from gossip or rumors or suspicion without genuine cause? Do you promise to listen carefully to what others have said, seeking to understand as much as to be understood, praying for God’s wisdom to clarify good intentions when misunderstandings lead to difficult feelings? Do you promise to speak only the truth as you know it?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not covet anything that belongs to your neighbor.

Leader:            With God’s help, do you really promise to accept what is rightfully yours, and no more? To be grateful for whatever abundance God has granted you? To share from that abundance with others? To receive the gifts that others offer in your time of need? To ask for help when you need it?

Congregation: I do!

 

May we be united in renewed commitment to God and one another on this day and forevermore.

Amen.

Pressing Onward Toward the Goal

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Philippians 3:4b-16
Matthew 21:33-46


It is World Communion Sunday, celebrated by Presbyterians on the first Sunday in October every year since 1936, reminding us on this particular Sunday each year what we know every time we celebrate communion: that the risen Christ bids us come from east and west, north and south, across every border of human design to feast with him in eternal grace. To re-member his broken body through the sharing of bread and the pouring of wine. To continue his commitment to feed all who hunger and sate all who thirst. To proclaim boldly his death and his resurrection and his coming again in glory; to trust the heavenly banquet prepared for evermore.

It is World Communion Sunday, celebrated by Lutherans and Methodists and everyone in between, reminding us on this particular Sunday each year what we know in our hearts every time we celebrate communion: that this table to which we come—begging—does not belong to Madison Square Presbyterian Church, or to the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), or even—I would dare to suggest—to any organized institutional “visible church” at all . . .

The table belongs to Christ. And Christ bids every one of us come.

It is a table to which broken and suffering people have come for centuries, seeking spiritual sustenance and finding it in abundance. It is a table to which hungry and thirsty people have come, seeking literal food and drink and finding it in abundance. It is a table to which self-satisfied and self-righteous people have come, seeking forgiveness of sins and assurance of pardon and finding it in abundance.

It is a table of grace.

It is a table that takes us as we are and transforms us into who we can become. And whenever we come to the table, we quite literally come from across the globe, from across the centuries, from across all time and all space to share a meal with everyone who has come to this table before us and everyone who will come to this table after us and everyone who hungers and thirsts on this planet right now with us. Including Judas, and every one of us who knows betrayal. Including Peter, and every one of us who knows denial. Including the Beloved Disciple, and every one of us who knows what it is to witness suffering to the end. Whoever we are, we come to the table. And we are One Body. And we are at peace.

It is World Communion Sunday. And as we gather across time and space to feast with our Savior, we join with other Presbyterians in offering a tangible response to this peace that passes all understanding when we collect our special offering to the Presbyterian Peacemaking Program. And we say with our gifts of dollars and cents that we want this gift of grace we receive at the table, this gift of peace we receive at the table, to be made real in the world beyond these walls. Because we know we live in a world that is far from the promise of the peace we experience at this table. All we have to do to know that is to read the Sunday paper this morning.

I have been thinking much about this table and its gift of peace, as I have studied the Scriptures that are before us this Sunday, both in my own prayerful discernment and with our newly formed Teach the Preacher group who struggled with me to make sense of such a violent parable from Matthew’s gospel on such a Sunday devoted to peace.

If we are going to put the parable of the Wicked Tenants in the context of the table to which we come, we should note that the conversation most likely takes place on Monday or Tuesday of Holy Week in those high stakes days between Palm Sunday and Easter when tensions are high and Jesus is just beginning to draw the kind of attention that will soon have him arrested and crucified on trumped up charges later in the week. This harsh, violent parable about killing and casting out and crushing under the cornerstone is told three days before the Last Supper, four days before the crucifixion, six days before the resurrection (let us never forget that part!), in the earliest part of that Holy—yet terribly violent—Week that forms the foundation of our faith as followers of Christ. That week we re-member every time we come to the table.

In the context of the violence of that horrible—yet Holy—week, we have another vineyard and another landowner. Perhaps he is the same oikodespotes from the parable of two weeks ago, but this time he is an absentee landlord who thinks he has done everything necessary to protect the fruits of his land with a fence and a watchtower and tenants who will take care of things until the plentiful harvest. He thinks he is secure. He thinks he has paid the price for peace.

But the harvest goes terribly wrong. The tenants to whom the landowner entrust his crop decide to hoard the abundance that never belonged to them in the first place, inciting a cycle of violence that leaves multiple people injured or killed, including the beloved son of the landowner, himself. The vineyard is utterly decimated. Blood is flowing where wine should have been poured. The body broken, the blood shed. Exactly what we re-member when we come to the table.

There is too much brokenness. There is too much bloodshed.

The later Christian interpretation of this parable is, of course, that the chief priests and the Pharisees are the wicked tenants and that their “rejection of Jesus” means the kingdom of God has been given exclusively to Christians. That the rejected cornerstone (meaning Christ, himself) will crush those who rejected it. And so the cycle of violence has continued, as Christians throughout the centuries have come to this table identifying ourselves with the “good tenants” to whom the vineyard of God’s kingdom has been given and have then gone from this table vindictively using this parable to justify anti-Judaism—and anti-whateverism—in its most ugly and violent forms.

I don’t think that’s what the table is about. I don’t think that’s what the parable is about.

The chief priests and the Pharisees, to whom the parable is directed, know that what the wicked tenants have done is wrong. They are, in fact, the first to name the injustice, the first to speak the anger that would surely be in the heart of anyone whose servants and sons were all murdered by such wicked tenants. The chief priests and Pharisees will, in fact, identify themselves most closely with the landowner in this parable. Many of them are landowners, themselves, wealthy enough to leave their vineyards in the hands of trusted tenants while they tend to their religious duties in Jerusalem: their own “table of Sacraments,” if you will.

What the chief priests and Pharisees do not see—either by choice or by ignorance—is that the cost of their identification with the average household despot of the Roman Empire perpetuates further economic barriers against the most vulnerable peasants who seek the solace of their God at the Jerusalem Temple. It has been the problem with the Temple hierarchy since its inception, almost since the time of Solomon. The Jerusalem elite builds up the temple at the expense of the poor. And Jesus calls them on it, just like the prophets before him called their chief priests on it—holding up a mirror to the undercurrent of fear and greed and violence that perpetuates this system . . . and that will eventually take his own life. Which, of course, we also re-member at this table.

Two thousand years later, on this World Communion Sunday, as we re-member the stories of that horrible—yet Holy—week, can we honestly claim to be the “good tenants” who replace the religious leaders of Jesus’ day with our own more excellent fruit of the kingdom? Or does the same mirror Jesus held up to the chief priests and the Pharisees of his day reveal our own fear and greed and violence even now?

I would argue that it does. I would argue that we, like the apostle Paul, cannot yet claim to have “reached the goal of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.” Just look at our hoarding. Just look at our wars. Just look at the vineyard we pollute with utter disdain. I would argue that we come to this table clinging, like Paul, to “Christ and the power of his resurrection”—especially on this World Communion Sunday—because we know there is too much suffering in this world, and we know we are too much a part of that suffering, and we know that we do not want to be anymore.

We know that we need healing and wholeness and hope and that we don’t quite have it yet in its fullness. We know that peace on earth begins with us: with our families and with our co-workers and yes, with our own congregation. We know we come to the table broken and suffering, hungry and thirsty, self-righteous and self-satisfied, desperate for a second chance.

And we get it.

Because this is a table of grace. It is a table that takes us as we are and transforms us into who we can become. So come to the table, whoever you are, wherever you are from, whatever you have done, whatever you have left undone. Come to the table. “Forget what lies behind” . . . let it go . . . it is over and done . . . it is in God's redeeming and resurrecting hands. “Strain forward to what lies ahead, as we press on tighter toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.” The future is before us. The future to which Christ calls us. And it truly can be a future of peace. Because peace really is here for us in the bread and in the cup, as we re-member the broken body of Christ, and transform a week of ever-escalating violence into a meal of resurrection life. Let there be peace on earth, we pray as we come to the table; and let it begin with me.

I pray it may be so.

Amen.