Magnification

Sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist 

Luke 1:39-55

Hebrews 10:5-10

 

It was, by all accounts, the President’s best speech to-date.

Even though he was flanked by local clergy caring for their own community in crisis, it was the President who was our pastor-in-chief .

It was a memorial service. And so he quoted the Scriptures. Then he called forth, with clarity and compassion, the names of those who had died. He spoke of overwhelming promise and potential cut short. He spoke of unparalleled heroism in the face of terror.

And he called us to do better. He said we must do better. And together in that moment anyone who has half a heart determined that we would do better, as one nation under God, to keep this terror toward the children of God from ever happening again.

As the stunned silence in response to the President’s speech shifted to emphatic applause, those of us who were sitting high up in the bleachers of the University of Arizona basketball arena—we who had gathered with the rest of Tucson for a word of comfort and hope in our time of trauma—turned our heads to the ushers who had begun walking up and down the aisles. They were passing out these navy blue t-shirts:

Tucson and America the t-shirt says. Together We Thrive.

I shared the shirt with the children in our congregation the next Sunday. Some of them went to school with the girl who was gunned down January 8, 2011. A day that none of us will ever forget. They were scared. We were scared, too. But I told them we were not alone. I told them the whole world was with us. I told them the adults of the world would do everything we could to keep them safe.

And we honestly believed this time would be different. That a sitting U.S. Congresswoman and a federal judge and a nine-year old girl—born on September 11^th—would make this time different. Yes, Arizona has a gun culture. But so do Australia and Canada. And they had responded to the massacre of children with common sense gun legislation. We thought we would, too. We thought this time was different.

But here we are. One year, eleven months, fifteen days, and one hour later. One Colorado movie theater later. One Wisconsin Sikh Temple later. One Sandy Hook Elementary School later. And those are just the ones we remember. And this navy blue t-shirt that once brought comfort and hope to a community in crisis now carries what to me is a lie.

We are not together.

We are not thriving.

We are dying.

American Christians have a choice to make in the face of such death. Will we, from here on out, become Pontius Pilate? Washing our hands of what we condemn but claim we cannot control? Or will we finally hear the voice of our God on this Fourth Sunday of Advent crying out through the cross that looms over the birth Mary sings of today and screams without ceasing, stop sacrificing my children!

Stop sacrificing my children. That was never what I wanted!

It’s what the preacher of the Homily to the Hebrews in our Scripture this morning is saying to her own first century congregation: let there be no more sacrifice. That is not what God wants. That was never what God wanted. Let it be done. Let this time be different. We can’t do this anymore . . .

In the past twenty years the Presbyterian Church as a national denomination has joined with everyone from the Methodists to the Lutherans to the U.S. Conference of Catholic Bishops to compel our country to stop sacrificing the children of God to the violence of guns. Year after year we have urged elected officials to regulate guns and ammunition as effectively as we do cars. Now is time to say enough is enough!

We do not say this as a condemnation of responsible gun owners. We say this because we follow in the footsteps of an early Christian movement that knows all too well what it is to live in a culture of violence.

Jesus, himself, grew up with armed guards on the streets, in the schools, at the temple, as some are calling for now. Jesus, himself, knew the presence of these armed guards in the midst of the people stoked even more resentment and rage than before, as their land of promise and plenty became a bitter police state. Jesus knew it was destroying them.

Even his disciples want to reach for the sword.

But Jesus calls us to another way. If you live by the sword, he says, you will die by the sword. If you live by the gun, you will die by the gun. If you hate in response to the hatred with which you are hated, you will become the very thing that you hate. The only way to end the cycle of violence is through non-violent radical love. The only way to end the cycle of violence is to love your enemies and to pray for those who persecute you.

That is why I have insisted on including the perpetrator of the Sandy Hook shooting in our prayers and our candles and our bells this past week. Because in praying for the one who would do such a terrible thing, as Jesus taught us to do, we must face the rage that also dwells within us. In praying for the one who would do such a terrible thing, as Jesus taught us to do, we must see the senseless violence that raged in him as a mirror of our own. And mourn the death of yet another child of God, whose promise and potential was cut short too soon. And we must act for him, as well. 

30 children of God die in America every day on the other side of a gun. We live through one gun massacre as a country every single day.

For every gun that is used in self defense, eleven are used to attempt suicide, seven are used to attempt a crime, and four injure or kill their victim on accident. A security system with this kind of track record would be taken off the market.

It’s time to do better. We really must do better. This time really must be different.

In the Magnificat, which is our Gospel Lesson for the day, a righteous young mother sings for an end to the violent world into which her baby will be born so that a new world of justice and peace might begin. Scholars tell us this hymn was actually composed by a community that lived after the resurrection. Who saw in the resurrection of Christ the commitment of God to overcome violence forever with the radical love of Jesus.

Luke’s Gospel takes this resurrection hymn and puts it in Mary’s mouth, as the child within her leaps in her womb. As she sings with her cousin, Elizabeth of this new life in their midst. As they look at the violent world as it is and say, enough! Because the new world of justice and peace begins right here, right now, with the birth of the one she bears for us. The one for whom we have been waiting all this time.

It is time to end the violence, Mary sings.

My child is worth it, Mary sings.

And so are ours.

So let’s get to work . . .

Amen.

Into the Way

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Second Sunday in Advent
Luke 1:68-79

Our own Rebecca Baker came bursting into the Church Parlor last Sunday morning with a whole lot of questions for our Adult Education guest. Ann Helmke had come to speak with us about this congregation’s emerging approach to ministry with the homeless and to offer a powerful Minute for Mission in worship.

Rebecca had been our “Ambassador” in the park earlier that morning, heading into the neighborhood that surrounds our sanctuary with nothing but a cup of coffee and a caring heart. And an invitation to communion. And a trust that God would lead the way . . .

And so it was no surprise that God would lead Rebecca to a man who is living without permanent shelter, as many but by no means all of our neighbors are. She tried to get him to go to Haven for Hope, which is San Antonio’s massive network of shelter and social service providers housed under one roof and a mission project of this congregation. But he resisted.

He had heard various urban legends of one sort or another criticizing Haven for Hope. Rebecca had no response, which was why she came bursting with questions for Ann Helmke. And maybe the answers to those questions would have helped move this man to a place we feel certain can minister to his physical needs. Or maybe the answers would have meant nothing to him. It is possible that this man simply did not want to go to Haven for Hope, for reasons we may never know or understand, no matter how hard we try.

But when he started talking about his despair over the state of the world—and perhaps over the state of his life—well that was something Rebecca could relate to, at least in her own way. Because you do not have to be without permanent shelter to know what it is to suffer. Every one of us knows grief or loss or doubt or anger. And every one of us can meet the grief or loss or doubt or anger of another with a heart of compassion. Which means “to feel with.” Or even “to suffer with.”

Which was what Rebecca did.

Your Ambassador in the Park, who had no answers that would persuade this man to move, could simply say to him, “I don’t know how I’d get through if I didn’t believe in God. It’s almost a choice. It keeps me from despair.”

And as Rebecca came back to our adult education group and shared her story, the reality of how God was leading her “into the way of Christ” with this man became clear. Her caring, compassionate presence was the mission itself!

Her willingness to be vulnerable with this man about her own despair was the mission itself. Her willingness to trust God to use this “communion of compassion” she did truly share with this man—her common union with him in the sharing of their suffering—even if there were no formal Words of Institution or bread or juice—even if it took place hours before our “official” communion service in the park—this communion, in God’s own way, in God’s own time, for this man and also for her (and dare I say for us) was the mission itself.
“I was a minister!” Rebecca declared to us. And you could almost hear Ann Helmke smiling back in that moment saying: “Tag! You’re it.”

“Tag. You’re it!” Those may very well be the most prophetic words uttered in this sanctuary for all time, when Ann Helmke delivered her minute for mission for us last week as we prepared for communion in the park on the First Sunday of Advent.

“Tag! You’re it!” she said to us, as a reminder that we already bear the image of the Christ who is coming on Christmas Day, of the Christ who was already born among us full of grace and truth, of the Christ we anticipate in great expectation in the fullness of time when suffering and sorrow and pain are no more . . . 

“Tag! You’re it!” she said to us, as a reminder that the deep mystical truth of our incarnational theology is that Christ comes again and again and again in our world through the birth and the re-birth of every single one of us on this planet. Including in the beautiful baby Jake who was baptized this morning.

“Tag! You’re it!” Ann Helmke said to us, as a reminder that our tradition claims all things were created through Christ. Which means that, according to our tradition, the very presence of Christ dwells deep within every single one of us, and deep within Jake, just because we exist. Just because we exist!

Which means that every single one of us bears the image of Christ to one another, as we surrender our spirits into the way of simply meeting the honest suffering of one another, without easy answers to fix the pain, but with the compassionate heart of Christ, and the radical choice to trust the Providence of God in spite of all evidence to the contrary. Which is exactly what our “Ambassador” Rebecca did with the man in the park.

Which is what made her a minister to him. And which, I would venture a guess, is what made him a minister to her in return . . .

This mutual ministry of surrendering our spirits into the way of meeting the honest suffering of one another, without easy answers to fix the pain, but with the compassionate heart of Christ, and the radical choice to trust the Providence of God in spite of all evidence to the contrary, is what we mean in the Presbyterian Church when we say we are all ordained to the ministry of Christ in our baptism. Every one of us. Not just those we call “pastors.” We are all sent forth from these baptismal waters to share a communion of compassionate companionship in Christ, watching our spirits dance themselves together, with the Song of Zechariah playing in the background, as the music of the one who will always guide our feet into the way of peace.

Which means that what we just did together in baptizing baby Jake today was nothing short of a full-fledge ordination service, complete with vows and commitments to celebrate the covenant God has always honored with God’s people, even when we are given to despair—especially when we are given to despair! And commissioning Jake to join us in a lifetime of ministry.

We have no idea today how Jake will live out his ordination to ministry, just like Zechariah has no idea how his son—John the Baptist—will live out his ministry in our Scripture lesson from Luke this morning. In fact, if the story of Zechariah and John the Baptist is any example, Jake’s journey may be quite different than the ministry we have in mind for him!

Zechariah was, after all, a temple priest at the height of his career. In the innermost circle of the temple rituals. With fancy robes and incense. And I’m just guessing he had a pretty fancy seminary degree. The son of Zechariah—whose ministry he sings into existence through the song that is our Scripture today—ships out to the desert, clothed only with camel’s hair, eating nothing but locusts and wild honey. You could imagine Zechariah tearing his hair out, wondering how this commissioning song for his son could turn so terribly off key!

But if Zechariah was really paying attention to the song he sang for his son, if we are really paying attention to the song we sing for Jake, and if Jake is paying attention to the song we are singing for him, then we know they are both right. Yes we know the promise of God’s continued coming from the hallowed walls of the temple treasure (Zechariah’s and ours). But it must always lead us into the desert across the street, or any other place where people are desperate for the everflowing river of grace. Because the whole point of what we are doing “in here” is to remind us what God is already doing “out there.” So that our compassion is cultivated. And we are guided into the way of Christ.

That is what happened for Rebecca last week as she became a true minister. That is what happens for every one of us, every week, as we become ever more fully the ministers of God our baptism ordained us to be. That is what will happen for our precious baby Jake as he grows from this baptismal moment, in wisdom and stature, and in divine and human favor . . .

Because the truth of the Song of Zechariah is the truth of our baptism. That God is still with us. And we are still with God. And that you, Jake . . . and you and you and you . . . will be called the prophet of the Most High. For you will prepare the way of our God. And through you God will give light to those who sit in darkness. And through you God will guide our feet into the way of peace. I pray it may be so. For Jake. And for us. Amen.

Fear and Foreboding?

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Luke 21:25-29


“I’ve been out here for thirty-seven years,” he said, when I sat beside him on the bench in the park across the street as your ambassador two weeks ago.

“Nothing ever changes.”

I asked him to explain.

He said he had spent most of his adult life employed as a cook nearby, serving folks who needed a hot meal every now and then. He liked his job. Met a lot of interesting people. Got to know the neighborhood inside and out. Better than I do, to be sure. Maybe better than all of us, who tend to drive down here from somewhere else and then drive back home to somewhere else.

He is retired now, this man from the neighborhood I met two weeks ago. But he still comes to sit on that bench week after week, year after year, and watch it all unfold before him. I would go so far as to call him, in Christian language, a “martyr.” Which we often associate with being a victim, but in Christian tradition simply means a person who “bears witness.” And surely this man bears witness from his perch on his bench in the park across the street.

And what has he witnessed, I asked? People going in and out of the hospital for treatment across the way. Or going into the pharmacy next door for more treatment. Or taking their pets for an afternoon of ‘catch’ at the dog park on the others side of the street.

Or, yes, coming together to make drug deals. Or drown their sorrows in alcohol. Or beg for money. Or bum a cigarette. Or claim a bench to sleep away the night.

All of which this man on the bench has witnessed over the past thirty seven years.

They also come just to sit in peace for a while, along their way to someplace else. Which is what he was doing when I stepped into his space with a cup of coffee and an invitation to communion two Sundays away . . .

“I’ve been out here for thirty-seven years,” he said, shaking his head. “Nothing ever changes.”

I thanked him. Then found another man on another bench and offered another cup of coffee. And then I went on my merry way and went on about my merry life . . .


But he got to me. And I think we all need to hear what he has to say as we prepare for what we do hope will be a true “communion”—a true “joining with”—the world Jesus came to serve. Because if we take seriously the Gospel insistence that our neighbors may have something to teach us in the name of Christ, even as we embark on this mission to share with them the “welcome home” we have known within these walls for so many years, we need to heed the warning of this truly wise martyr, who knows this neighborhood far better than any of us.

Which is that if we think we can fix the problems of the park in one small communion service, we had better get our heads examined!

In fact, if we think this communion in the park we are about to experience is about what we are doing at all, then we have entirely missed the point.

The point is about what God is doing! Or, to be more theologically correct in this Season of Advent, it is about what God has already done in the coming of Christ. And it is about what God has promised to do in the fullness of time with “the coming of the Son of Man,” as described in our lesson from Luke today. 

John Dominic Crossan calls it “The Divine Cleanup of the World,” this apocalyptic mythology of chaos and confusion at the end of time, with distress and fear and foreboding, and the shaking of the powers of heaven.

And as much as we want to be a community of grace, the truth is the “Divine Cleanup” that really does hold humanity in judgment for the ways in which we have completely and utterly messed up this good creation God has given us from the beginning. With our greed and our hoarding and our empire-building. And our division of the world into those who gorge at a table of gluttony and those who are still yet begging for one small crumb.

The truth is we are moving farther and farther away from even knowing our neighbors, much less loving them. And maybe we are even moving farther and farther away from knowing and loving ourselves.

Which is why the “Divine Cleanup” apocalyptic mythology of the coming of the Son of Man swooping from the heavens in a cloud with power and great glory to finally make it right again is simply one more way that Scripture calls us to admit how far we have fallen from who we were created to be. And to admit we cannot un-do this mess ourselves. Which is exactly what this First Sunday of Advent is all about.

We need a Savior. We cannot do it by ourselves. Because if it were up to us, nothing really would ever change.

The good news is that we have one. The good news is that we can say, in some mysterious way, the “Divine Cleanup of the World ” has already happened in the coming of Christ, even as we wait in hopeful expectation for its final fulfillment in the fullness of time.

The good news is that we can say, in some mysterious way, the table of Christ to which we come this morning has already been spread in the park across the street for these past twenty-seven years, or one hundred thirty-five years, or even before Madison Square Presbyterian Church ever dreamed of planting itself on this corner of Camden and Lexington . . .

And the good news is that we can say, in some mysterious way, the table of Christ to which we come this morning has always spread out from the center of the great hungering crowds who will never stop pressing in upon Jesus for a word of hope and healing in a world gone terribly wrong. Whether we are living in the first century or the twenty-first century. And our invitation is to join them.

And the really good news is that we can say, in some mysterious way, the table of Christ to which we come this morning has always and forever been a taste of that heavenly banquet that is already prepared in the fullness of time. Beyond the “Divine Cleanup of the World” where violence and addiction and economic injustice and hopelessness and despair and gluttony and homelessness and greed and hunger really are no more. And the last really have already become first. And—woe unto so many of us who think we’ve got it all together—the first really have already become last.

The point of the communion we celebrate today, that we celebrate any time we receive the Sacrament, is that in the fullness of time at the heavenly banquet we “taste” at the communion table our neighbors in the park are already there! Waiting for us! And we have all finally come home to God’s good news for the poor and recovery of sight to the blind and release to the captives and liberty for the oppressed. Because we have finally listened to one another. And loved one another. In the same way Jesus did . . . 

And the point of the communion we celebrate today, that we celebrate any time we receive the Sacrament, is that in the meantime—as we keep waiting and watching and preparing for that fullness of time when all really is made well—we go ahead and get to work on knowing our neighbors and knowing ourselves over and over and over again.

And so we join that wise martyr on that bench in the middle of the park. Watching and witnessing. And learning from him what it means to cook a hot meal for folks who need one every now and then. Only to find out we need one, too . . .

I pray it may it be so. Amen.

It's All About the Children

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Job 42: 10-17 

 
Two Sundays ago, as our Stewardship Season officially began, we encountered in our Scriptures a rich man approaching Jesus, asking, “What must I do to inherit eternal life?” We imagined together what it might mean for us at Madison Square to do just as Jesus recommends: to sell off everything we might think we depend on. The endowment, the mineral rights, the building and the property. And to see what the Spirit might have to teach us in their place.

It was not my intent to make us gasp in horror, although that might have been a legitimate response. It was my intent to prepare us spiritually for the lesson of the Book of Job that came before us last Sunday, about a man who did not have the choice to sell his possessions like the rich man in the Gospel of Mark did. Who instead lost it all in one great tragic moment through absolutely no fault of his own.

It was my intent on both Sundays, as we have entered this Season of Stewardship, to start by instilling within us a heart of compassion for anyone in our midst who may have also lost it all. Who may have nowhere else to turn. Who might even one day be our very selves. In spite of our careful planning or our great education or our fabulous family. Because Job had all of that, too. But he had to learn the hard way that he could not place his faith in those things.

It was also my intent on both Sundays, as we have entered this Season of Stewardship, to instill in us a heart of compassion for our Job-like neighbors right across the street. Who have every right to feast at the same table of grace that we do once a month. Who may, in fact, have a thing or two to teach us about the grace of God. Which is why we are going to follow Jesus out to the park on the first Sunday in December for our Sacrament of Communion. And open our hearts to learn from our neighbors. And just see what opportunities—and maybe even challenges—the goodness of our God opens up for us.

And it has been my bottom line intent, in all of this preaching and teaching and singing and praying in this Season of Stewardship, that we might encounter for just a brief moment—in the shuddering thought of losing it all—the depth of divine grace that really has been with us from the dawn of creation. Just because we exist. Just because God exists. And will not ever let us go. Not ever.

This is, of course, what Job learned last Sunday. And what I think he tries to convey to his family and friends this Sunday, as we return to the very last chapter of his Book and discover that he gets it all back in the end.

In double portion.


Now before I go any further I should warn us that we could read the first two chapters of Job and the last chapter of Job and learn the exact opposite lesson of what the book is trying to teach. We could think that the point of the book is that we should suffer patiently through trial and tribulation. Never questioning God. Believing God will give us back what we think we “deserve” materially in the end.

That isn’t the point of the book at all!

Job has not forgotten everything that happens in between the second chapter and the forty-second chapter. And neither has God. The supposedly happy ending only comes after Job has defiantly declared his innocence, wept in despair, shaken his fist at God in fierce anger and frustration, and learned the hard way that it’s not “all about him.” The happy ending only comes after Job is transformed by what he has endured!

He has learned the gift of compassion for anyone else going through what he has gone through. He has learned the gift of praying for the very same friends who had patronized him so profusely with their self-righteous spirituality and utter lack of compassion for him. And he has learned to pay attention to those in his midst who never had a hope for the kind of great wealth—the kind of great inheritance—he had taken for granted all along. Meaning his daughters. Whom he acknowledges by name:

Jemimah . . . meaning “with God.”

Keziah . . . meaning “God’s fragrance.”

Keren-happuch . . . meaning, loosely translated, “the beautifier.”

It may not seem like a big deal to us in the 21st century United States of America for a man like Job to pass on his inheritance to his daughters as well as his sons. But it is a huge deal for the Bible! It only happens one other time that I am aware of, in the Book of Numbers, from a father who has no sons to claim his inheritance and needs to keep his land “in the family.”

But here in Job sharing the inheritance with his daughters is not about carrying on the family name. He has enough sons for that. Sharing the inheritance with his daughters is about justice. It is about the fact that Job has learned through his own brief dramatic loss what his daughters have been experiencing all along. Without an inheritance of their own. Without a name of their own. Completely dependent on the whims of the powerful for their own fortune or famine. Job’s experience of learning he cannot depend on his wealth to save him has heightened his sensitivity toward others who never had wealth of their own in the first place.

This is what I think Jesus was hoping the rich man in Mark’s Gospel would learn, too, by giving it all away on purpose. Thisis what I think God might be asking us to re-learn in this intentional Season of Stewardship at Madison Square.

Who in our midst is like the daughters of Job? In need of an inheritance that doesn’t just come naturally by cultural imperative. With whom might God be inviting us at Madison Square to share our great inheritance? The ones who wouldn’t get any inheritance otherwise?

We only have to look as far as our own Madison Square Child Development Center for an answer. It began as a mission of this church in 1974 for the specific purpose of educating children with few other options. Even today, as we look toward 2013, the Madison Square Child Development Center is the only Four-Star Texas Rising Star Early Childhood Education Provider in downtown San Antonio that accepts children whose tuition is covered through the Child Care Services of San Antonio. About half of the students are covered by CCS, and they sit right alongside children of judges and educators and business professionals in receiving an inheritance of grace and learning and opportunity that would not be available to them if we were not here, following the teaching of Job to make sure the inheritance goes to all of God’s children and not just some.

Their names, because they matter, are Jeremiha, Zoe, Sophia, Laela, Benjamin, Nathaniel, Rebekah, Sebastian and Nora. Jake, Salomon, Avianna, and Pistol. Malakai, Thomas, Vanity, Neveah, Michael, Nadalline, Shalom, Jesus, Ariealla, and Maya. Jayden, James, Dominick, Madisyn, Sofie, Abigail, Savannah, Joshua, Jordynn, Isayah, and Conner. Simon, Caleb, Cash, Ruthie, Marisa, Daniel, Nola, Aryanna, Ezekiel, Michael, and Noah.

And they are beautiful!

It is not inexpensive to educate these children. The church subsidizes many of the CDC expenses through our building and grounds and personnel budget lines. Up to $40,000 per year. Which may sound like a lot of money until we remember that a healthy 5% annual draw on the Madison Square Primary Investment Fund—the one I encouraged you to consider “giving away” two Sundays ago—just so happens to total $40,621.

May I suggest this is a perfect way to pass on the Madison Square inheritance? At least according to the Book of Job.

I’ll even take it one step further. What if—just asking what if—Madison Square Presbyterian Church set a goal within the next five years to give away all of the inheritance that comes to this congregation from the Primary Investment Fund and the mineral rights gifts to mission projects for those who have no other hope for an inheritance? Like Job’s daughters.

I haven’t run this by the session or the stewardship committee. And it may take longer than five years to do it. But imagine what kind of stewardship of God’s grace this congregation could offer if every dime of the church’s operating expenses came from the pledges within this worshiping community and every dime of the inheritance went directly to mission?

I think it could happen! I know it can happen! I am convinced there is an enormous wealth of untapped talent and time and treasure in this congregation just waiting for a chance to break forth for the good of God! It may require us to spend a little less in other areas of our lives. Skip our Starbucks once in a while for the sake of the kingdom of God. But wouldn’t it feel fabulous! For us and for God?

Just think about it. We, too, could be like Job. Transformed by God’s grace. Blessed beyond measure. In order to be a blessing beyond measure. And shouting Alleluia for the inheritance we get to pass on.

Just think about it.

Amen.

Fearfully and Wonderfully Made

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Job 38:1-7, 34-41, 42:2, 5
Psalm 139:1-18


When I was in seminary, the great professor and preacher known to the world as the Reverend Doctor Peter J. Gomes would remind us over and over again, with his deep gravelly preacher voice, in his fancy doctoral robes with Puritan preacher tabs at the collar, and that great Peter Gomes air of dramatic intensity, that our job as pastors would be “to comfort the afflicted and afflict the comfortable.”

We would laugh every time he said it, and we would laugh at the way he said it, but we knew deep down that he was right. And we knew that it might not always be clear who among us would count as “afflicted” or who would count as “comfortable.” And we knew that even if we did suspect who was who, in a general sense, that it was also true the ones among us who might appear to “have it all together” on the outside would often be crying out for help on the inside. And the ones among us who might seem to be struggling beyond the telling of it might in fact be doing just fine, thank you very much.

Appearances simply don’t tell the story of the soul, do they? What shame or pain or guilt or even secret joy we carry deep within. And the designation of comfort or challenge for any one individual might very well change from week to week or month to month, or maybe even from minute to minute. Or it just might even be both at the exact same time. At least if you’re anything like me.

Which is why I bring the reminder of Peter Gomes to all of us every Sunday when we come to the Prayer for Illumination in our worship service just before the reading of the Scripture. Did you notice? In our Prayer for Illumination, every Sunday, we pray for both the comforting Word and the challenging Word, speaking to us through these words of ancient Scripture, shaping us as God’s “beloved community,” with an emphasis on community.

Which brings us to the Book of Job. In the beginning, this man has it all. He is, the Bible says, “blameless and upright, fearing God, turning from evil.” He has a huge family to carry on his lineage: seven sons and three daughters. Which in biblical numerology simply means Job has “the perfect family.” He has also amassed great wealth in ranching and farming, which allows him to hire hordes of servants and to throw lavish parties that win the love of all his friends and neighbors. And to sponsor great religious festivals during which he always worships God with great ferver and prays for God’s continued blessing on him and his family . . . 

The thing is, Job has got it together! He is, in the words of Peter Gomes, quite “comfortable.” Devout. The envy of his peers. Which then goes on to beg the big question of the book: Is Job’s devotion to God because of his blessing? Does Job expect the wealth and honor he has gained as some kind of “divinely sanctioned quid pro quo” in response to his righteousness? This belief would certainly fit right into the prevailing theological sentiment of his time. And maybe even of our time.

Until it all falls apart.

Out of nowhere, with no notice at all, on one terrible day, disaster descends on Job.  His ranch animals are slaughtered. His servants are massacred. His children are killed in a tornado. Every bit of Job’s blessing is gone!
And then the question becomes: will Job still celebrate the goodness of the God of all creation now that he is afflicted? In the midst of his very real agony? Or will he cry out in anger and betrayal and just plain pain?

It turns out that Job really is human. Just like the rest of us. Even the very human Jesus cries out, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” As we all should, in my audacious opinion. Because God really can take it when we are fully real about what is going on with us beneath the surface. The hurt, the shame, the anger, the fear. As far as I am concerned, one of the worst legacies of the Christian tradition is this misplaced idea that we are somehow lacking in faith when we tell God like it is when it hurts. Don’t you think God already knows anyway?

Of course Job’s so-called “religious friends” don’t agree with me. They are convinced Job must have done something dreadful to deserve such disaster, and they shut him down every time he expresses himself honestly. They are convinced God must be punishing Job for some unexpressed sin for which he must repent. Over and over again Job protests his innocence. Over and over again his so-called “religious friends” demand his confession. Until finally Job has had enough of the whirlwind and blows up at his friends and at God. If things are this bad when I’ve done nothing wrong, Job wants to know, how bad will they be if I do deserve divine retribution? And the question is never quite answered. By God or by Job’s so-called “religious friends.”

The answer that does come, from God, out of the whirlwind, is one of incomparable compassion, accompanied by incomprehensible detachment. The God of the whirlwind does not try to explain the inexplicable, to justify Job’s suffering, or to take it away. The God of the whirlwind simply is. The God of the whirlwind simply exists. From the beginning of time until the end. Laying the foundations of the earth. Numbering the clouds. Creating the plants and animals, some of whom happen to be human. With wisdom in our inward parts but not nearly approaching the great wisdom of the God who created it all.

It is a cycle of life that includes us but that is not dependent on us, as much as we would like to pretend that it is. The answer that comes from God out of the whirlwind to the suffering of Job is simply I Am. And You Are. Fearfully and wonderfully made. And the world goes on. And that, in the end, is all we really can depend on. And that, in the end, is enough.

The desert mystics call this grace. This compassionate incomprehensibility of God that can only be known by losing it all. This divine detachment from all the ups and downs of our individual human lives can only be celebrated when we have nothing more to lose. The desert mystics call it, unbelievably, “grace.” And so does Job!

Such knowledge is too wonderful for me, Job concedes in the end. I can never understand you, God. But now I see you. Even in the whirlwind. And you are good!

It is a far cry from the “God’s eye is on the sparrow” song that keeps so many of us going through the tough times. But as Mark Marty reminded me yesterday, enlightenment comes when we are able to hold two competing truths in tension at the same time. On the one hand God cares enormously for each small part of our lives. And on the other hand it’s just not all about us, at least according to the Book of Job.
Either way, it’s a grace. Either way, we are fearfully and wonderfully made. Either way God’s works are wonderful. That we know very well. Which is why this really is a sermon about stewardship, believe it or not. In a week when we will all receive a letter in the mail inviting us to consider our gifts of time and talent and treasure to offer the church. The hope is that you will give as generously as you are able in each of these areas, and perhaps even more generously than you think you are able, and see how God can use it for good.

But the fourth chapter of First Peter in the New Testament tells us that stewardship is less about a specific checklist of time or talent or treasure and more about making good use of the good grace of God. Sharing it with one another. Companioning one another better than those so-called “religious friends” of Job did. With a deep heart of compassion for the “affliction” our neighbor might be suffering and we don’t even know. Comforting where we can. But also challenging where necessary . . . 

This is why I dared to suggest last week that we might have something to learn as a congregation if we followed the teaching of Mark’s Gospel to give up the possessions we depend on so much here at Madison Square. It’s not because I think it’s bad to have money or property to inherit from our predecessors. Or that we’re all going to the bad place because we accept the proceeds of Big Oil! It’s that I think we could learn something about God’s grace if we really do end up losing it all. The way Job did. The way the rich man in Mark’s Gospel might have. It’s that I think the wisdom we might gain on the other side of that loss could be a greater gift than anything we could possibly measure another way. The way it was for Job.

So when you get that stewardship letter this week, consider the grace of God that has overwhelmed your life with joy, whether you are comfortable, or afflicted, or comfortably afflicted. And pledge as generously as you are able in your time and talent and treasure in the year to come. And know that God is speaking to you, too, through the whirlwind, saying, “I have searched you and known you. I have discerned all your thoughts and am acquainted with all your ways. In my book were written all the days that were formed for you when none of them as yet existed. We have come to the end; I am still with you.”

I pray it may be so. Amen.

Threading the Needle

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Mark 10:17-31

So how many of us were here two weeks ago for the best Power Point presentation ever on the Madison Square Church finances? It was amazing, wasn’t it? Good news after good news followed up by even more good news! In fact, there was so much good financial news for Madison Square in that Power Point presentation that our fabulous church Treasurer actually apologized to us for not having any bad news to send us reaching into our pockets to fend off a pending financial crisis.

He left the bearing of the bad news to me . . .

So here it is. Brace yourselves.

Because of the generous inheritance we have received from our predecessors in these pews, Madison Square can rely on a $1.8 million endowment to keep the church afloat during good times and bad and to support missions and programs and staff and building maintenance we could never afford on our own. And because of the generous inheritance we have received from our predecessors in these pews we get to worship in this gorgeous historic sanctuary that just feels like “home” the moment you walk through the door. And we have a three story multi-purpose educational building next door housing a Child Development Center that offers a high quality downtown education to kids who couldn’t get it anywhere else. And both of these buildings are completely paid off. And because of the generous inheritance we have received from our predecessors in these pews, we receive a substantial perk to our annual budget from oil and mineral rights. And when we combine this generous inheritance with the deep-pocketed and heartfelt generosity of every one of us worshiping today with this fabulous community here at Madison Square, we become an incredibly wealthy church.

By any reasonable global economic standard we as members of the community of Christ here at Madison Square are flat out rich!

So here’s the bad news of Christ, Gospel of Mark version:

Anyone want to try to fit a camel through this thing? [my mother’s sewing needle]

“How hard it will be,” Jesus says, “for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God. [Because in the kingdom of God] many who are first will be last, and the last will be first.” Including, I am afraid, Presbyterian churches.

Now before I go any further let me just say that I am well aware we are an economically diverse congregation here at Madison Square. In fact I think that is one of this community’s greatest strengths. We welcome the full spectrum of economic diversity within these walls. And, I might add, this is somewhat unique in the mostly middle to upper middle class professional Presbyterian world.

Yes our church finances at Madison Square may be off-the-chart stellar, but I am just going to hazard a guess that our personal finances are all over the place. Some of us are struggling to face unemployment or underemployment with the firm conviction that God will provide some way, some how, even if we can’t see it yet. And yet some others of us are blessed with a steady stream of income that offers a comfortable cushion to thrive. But we hold on to an equally firm conviction that these gifts from God cannot be hoarded for our own gain but must be shared wisely to care for those who just plain didn’t get so lucky. And with most of us we are somewhere in-between these two extremes. We may have enough to get by for the moment, but we always seem to worry about what’s next. Trying to figure out how in the world our expenditures always seem to rise to meet our income. Swimming (or drowning) in debt. Fearing we might not ever truly have “enough.”

When it comes to our own personal financial position we might not place ourselves in the rich man’s perspective in the biblical text for today. But as the Body of Christ we are more than mere individuals in these pews. We are a community. And as a community we really are rich. So what can we learn together from this man in Mark, and Jesus, and a camel and a needle that can help Madison Square inherit eternal life? Which means, in Mark’s Gospel, to inherit “the kingdom of God.”

God alone is good, Jesus might tell us, as he told the rich man. Regardless of the “good news” of your church budget. You know what to do, he might say to us. Follow the commandments. Love God and love your neighbor. Yes, of course, we might say in response. We’re already doing that, aren’t we? But instead of the rave reviews we expect it may very well be that Jesus, loving us as deeply as he loved that rich man, could tell us that we still lack one thing. And that we should sell what we own and give the proceeds to the poor: the $1.8 million endowment. The building and the property. The mineral rights and the dividends from oil. And then keep following Jesus on the “good news” journey down the river of our baptism that flows from the throne of God.

And we might gasp in horror.

Think about it. What if Jesus really did ask us to give up the “good news” of our financial position at Madison Square for the sake of the good news of the kingdom of God? Would we go away grieving all that we would lose? The things that make Madison Square the church home we love? Or would we relish the chance to let go of what we think is good in order to build up treasure in heaven?

The thing is it can be easy to get complacent when we live off an inheritance. On the one hand, we can expect that things “will always get taken care of” so there’s not much we have to do for ourselves. Or we can get so carefree with our spending in thinking the river will never run dry that we ruin the water table for every generation to follow. Or we can become so captive to our wealth we are complicit with the power that creates wealth unjustly and the law of accumulation that requires others to live with less. Or we can come to place our faith and trust in those things that stoke our wealth—and grant us false security—instead of in the God of all creation who gave us this generous inheritance called life in the first place. In abundance. Meant to be shared. As a gift of grace and not something we earn on our own. Which is what I think Jesus was getting at with the rich man and the camel and the eye of the needle.

What would we do, who would we be, here at Madison Square, if we had none of that? If we decided to thread our needle through the wisdom of the kingdom of God that says the only way to overcome the crucible of wealth is to give it away?

Would we fall apart without our organ? I LOVE our organ! But is it possible we might find a greater trust in the God we’ve been worshiping all along through the accompaniment of our organ? Would we pull back on our mission giving in order to pay the bills? [Which is what a whole lot of churches are doing these days.] Or would we find a greater solidarity with those who have never had a hope for the kind of inheritance we take for granted and give away even more? Would we moan and groan about “what isn’t getting done” in comparison with the past? Or would we share even more of our own time and talent and treasure in order to fill the gap?

Here’s the really good news for Madison Square: we already know the answer. We’ve already lived the answer. In the past year every one of us has offered time and talent and treasure we might not even have known that we had in order to build up the kingdom of God through this community. Elders and Deacons have spent hours upon hours focusing this ship forward, visiting the sick and injured, getting our financial house in order, filling staff vacancies, supporting the Madison Square Child Development Center, bringing food to support Christian Assistance Ministries, volunteering with Habitat for Humanity, and creating a worship experience that fosters hope and facilitates mission.

Every single person who has been asked to lead worship as a liturgist has said yes. We haven’t had a repeat yet! Everyone who volunteers as an usher “welcomes home” the people of God in a spirit of generous hospitality. Everyone who volunteers with our children and youth carries the inheritance forward for the generation yet to come. Everyone who gives just a little bit more time and talent and treasure than they think they can afford receives back a hundredfold in blessings in this life and the next. Just ask yourselves if this is true. It is!

The really good news for Madison Square is that we don’t actually need that inheritance at all in order to follow Jesus down the river of grace that is the abundant life of the kingdom of God. We would do it anyway. We are doing it anyway. And we will keep on doing it because that is just what we are going to do. It’s the only thing that ever had any hope of saving us, in the end.

Because the best news of all for every one of us is that the good grace of God is just like that inheritance we have received from our predecessors in these pews. A pure gift. A complete and utter gift. Through nothing we have earned on our own. And nothing we can do or not do in return. But simply shout alleluia. And say thank you. And then pay it forward to those who need it even more than we do.

And that is what the good news of the kingdom of God is really all about. It may feel impossible for we who are mere mortals. But not for God. For God all things are possible. Including a very rich camel threading the eye of this needle so that all may be one in the household of God.

May it be so for us at Madison Square in this season of stewardship. Amen.

Coming Out and Coming In

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Esther, selected verses

Solidarity Sunday, Peacemaking Sunday

 

Don’t forget who you really are, Esther. Hadassah . . .

Do not ever forget who you really are!

This is how I imagine Mordecai preparing his cousin for her life as a queen in the land of their conqueror. Yes, you must hide your identity in order to succeed, I can hear him telling her. In fact, the very name “Esther” is related to the Hebrew word that means “to hide” or “to keep secret.” So yes, you must keep your true identity a secret, he surely says. And yes, you must use your “feminine wiles” to win the king. But do not ever forget who you really are. And whose you really are.l

Hadassah . . .

“Hadassah,” as I have learned this past week, is a myrtle plant. And the leaves of the myrtle plant, I have learned this past week, have a sweet fragrance that is released only after the leaves are tested and stretched and challenged. So that what has once been beautiful to look at may now appear bruised and broken but is instead a great gift of calming comfort to all in need of a blessing of grace.

So do not ever forget who you really are, Hadassah who becomes Esther. And do not ever forget who you can become when you are tested and stretched and challenged and graced.

Which of course really does become the invitation for Esther the Queen once she learns of the plot to destroy her people. And her mettle is tested, and her courage is stretched, and her wisdom is challenged, and her true identity is graced as she “comes out” to the king. Over a meal. And begs him to save her people.

When I shared the story of Esther with our youth this morning, I left them hanging here. What do you think happens next? I asked them.

They were pessimistic. I wanted the happy ending.

Which of us is right?

The king does feast at the banquet of Esther’s table day after day after day, eating of the bread she has prepared in wisdom, drinking of the wine she has mixed in hope. The king does say yes to her plea to save her people. And they all live happily ever after, thanks to Esther’s bravery and courage!

Except the story keeps on going . . .

The problem with the Book of Esther, the problem with the human race, the problem with us, is that our violence does not truly end with a banquet, even though it should. Right here. In communion. Instead the violence changes hands.

The problem with the Book of Esther, the problem with the human race, the problem with us, is that the one who may appear to be all-powerful is in fact powerless to stop the consequences of his own violent power once it has been set in motion. Once the king has ordered a violent uprising against the people of his own queen, he cannot simply call it off. The anger is stoked. The masses are armed. The damage is done.

Or so they think.

In order to save Esther and her people, the only thing they think they can do is arm them in return. So that they might defend themselves. Which they do. Which they must! But which, in doing so, leaves “seventy-five thousand of those who hated them” dead at their hands.

Not exactly a cause for celebration.

The problem with the Book of Esther, the problem with the human race, the problem with us, is that the violence does not end unless we make an active choice toward nonviolent resistance to the violence we condemn. Which is, of course, what Jesus did. Teaching us to love our enemies and pray for those who persecute us and do not return evil for evil. Even to the point of death.

But if we are to say the way of Jesus is somehow “better” than the way of Esther, then we would also need to confess at the same time that we—who live in a largely Christian nation, with political campaigns making bold claims about representing “Christian values”—are at this very moment still fighting wars in self-defensive retribution. Just like Esther. And that we, like Esther, might very well be causing more death in response to the threat we fear than was ever threatening us in the first place.

And if we are to say the way of Jesus is somehow “better” than the way of Esther, then we would also need to consider how contemporary the Book of Esther sounds in light of the Holocaust. And to remove the log from our own “Christian” eyes before we start pointing out specks in the eyes of others.

This is why, in the end, we must come back to this banquet, on this World Communion Sunday, on this Peacemaking Sunday, on this Solidarity Sunday. We have a confession to make to the Prince of Peace about how very far we have fallen from the peace that passes understanding. We have to beg God to show us yet again the way to resist the violence that would claim us all. And to re-member who we really are. Which is, in the end, also “Hadassah.” That beautiful, sweet, fragile gift of grace. Always intended to bloom with joy. As a garland of peace. Through every land and nation. For just such a time as this.

I pray it may be so. Amen.

Memory and Hope

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

 

Nehemiah 8:1-15

Matthew 22:34-40

“Este es el libro de memoria y . . ?” This is the book of memory and . . ?”

Is it esperanza/hope? Is it promesa/promise? Or is it simply memoria/memory, with nothing more to say? Those of us involved in the worship planning at Madison Square have engaged in an ongoing conversation over this question—bordering on debate—over the past year.

I think I might be winning! ;-)

I have been the one advocating esperanza/hope. Why? Because, quite frankly, I need it. A reason for hope in my life. I need that “thing with feathers,” as Emily Dickinson calls it, “that perches in the soul, and sings the tune without the words, and never stops at all.” I need that thing that keeps us going when we think we have no “going” left to “go.” I need that thing that inspires us to greatness, on the one hand, and puts us back together again when we are shattered, on the other.

I am guessing I am not the only one. I am guessing almost all of us have an experience of holding onto hope when even hope seems hopeless. The question is, do we find that thing called “hope” in the Bible?

The answer is yes. And then if we’re honest, maybe no. And then finally and emphatically . . . yes!

Take Nehemiah, for example.

As a book of memory—recounting a story that is in some mystical way also our story—Nehemiah takes place as the people of God return to the land of Judah from a long and tumultuous exile in Babylon, about five hundred years before the birth of Christ. The lives of this community have been shattered to the core. The liberating miracle of the Exodus from Egypt is an ancient memory. The glory days of King David and Solomon ring bitter and hollow for a people who can never hope to attain such greatness. Instead they know only war and deportation, their house of worship destroyed, their leaders vanquished, their children cut off from their culture. They have every reason to give up on hope.

But they don’t.

God raises up a new generation of leaders from within the exiled community, teaching them to sing the old songs in a strange land, to adapt the old rituals to a new worship home, to tell the old stories toward a new hope for a new day. And now that day has come. It is time to return and rebuild. And they do!

By the time we get to chapter 8 of the book of Nehemiah, two new leaders—Ezra the scribe and Nehemiah the governor—have stepped up to steer the community through this rebuilding. They have led the people in fierce debate over the direction they wish to go as a community of faith. Some of it has been bitter. All of it has been heartfelt. But they have finally come to a place of decision, and they have coalesced around a new vision, and they have pooled their resources together to rebuild the foundation of the temple. And they are ready to move forward together.

So what does Ezra, their new leader, do to get them started? He gathers the people to study the Bible! Or at least what exists of the Bible to-date. And he includes ALL of the people. Men and women. And children, too. As many as have the capacity to understand what they are hearing. And—get this—Ezra reads to them from early morning until midday, day after day, until the entire Bible as they know it has been read aloud. Now how’s THAT for a really long worship service?

As a new day is dawning for them, they come to this Bible for a word of memory and hope, listening for a Word of God speaking directly to them through the words of their Scripture. Just as we do every time we gather in worship to be formed and re-formed, according to the Word of God.

So what do they hear God saying through these words of ancient Scripture? The same thing we do? “Do not weep. Do not mourn. This day is holy to your God. Eat. Drink. As one community. And if you have something to share give it to those who need more than they have. And rejoice! Rejoice! Rejoice! This is the Word of our God! As Ezra and Nehemiah sum up the entire Bible as they know it in just a few sentences, this is what they come to: This is the day that our God has made. Let us rejoice and be glad in it. Eat. Drink. Be Merry. And SHARE!!! Period!

(That’s actually a really good Stewardship Slogan!)

Now if you are anything like me you’d like to just close the book here. Right?

But we can’t. The problem is, as much as Ezra and Nehemiah get it right in chapter eight, they get it awfully wrong if you keep on reading to chapter thirteen. In the very legitimate interest of protecting the integrity of their community’s identity in resistance to outside oppression, they give in to the temptations of xenophobia, interpreting their Scriptures as a code of purity, rather than a code of justice. They go so far as to demand that the men of Israel who have married foreign women must divorce them and leave them destitute. To the point of sending their children packing. It is one of the most shameful parts of the Bible, as far as I am concerned. It sounds an awful lot like the ways our current U.S. immigration policies separate undocumented parents from their documented children. And, in fact, there is much in the way of violence and xenophobia in both testaments that should rightly make us cringe today. And may very well have been used as a weapon of oppression against us. I know I have been on the receiving end of this.

But the truth is that any one of us can use the Bible as a proof-text for just about any position we want to hold, whether it is advocating divorce (as Nehemiah does) or prohibiting it. Whether it is demanding the oppression of women or celebrating women as the bearers of the tradition. Whether it is justifying the hatred of same-sex partners or proclaiming an ethic of fidelity and partnership, regardless of sexual orientation or gender identity. I had one professor in seminary who went so far as to warn us that the Bible can be hazardous to our health, pointing to the history of biblical justification for slavery as evidence.

John Calvin may be right in arguing that humanity needs Scripture to serve as a kind of “spectacles” because our inherent knowledge of God is stifled inevitably by human sin. But in light of our history as biblical people, I would add that our reading of Scripture is also stifled inevitably by human sin. It is far too easy for any one of us to take liberties with Scripture in order to justify our particular preconceived agenda. Yours truly included.

So what do we do with the Bible?

I have two words of guidance from our Reformed/Presbyterian tradition. First, we believe that Jesus Christ is the Living Word of God made flesh, full of grace and truth. And we interpret all of Scripture—every chapter and every verse—through the life, death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. And lo and behold, Jesus himself, gives us the very tools for this interpretation! Coming directly from the Bible as it existed in his own time. Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18. The same words Ezra and Nehemiah were teaching the people five hundred years earlier.

“You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind, and strength.” Jesus says. “And you must love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments hand all the law and the prophets.” This is the key for interpreting the entire thing. To paraphrase the great 4^th century bishop St. Augustine, “if you read any part of the Bible and it teaches you to do anything other than love God and love your neighbor, then read it again; you didn’t get it right the first time.” This is the first rule of biblical interpretation, according to the Presbyterian tradition.

The second is like it. We interpret all of Scripture in community, rather than in isolation. Trusting that together we may discern God’s Living Word more faithfully than we can separately. Trusting that others will point out when our interpretations fail to live up to the command to love God and neighbor. Trusting that others will give insight into the cultural and social limitations of our own perspectives so that we may more faithfully bear witness to God’s love for the entire world. In this way, as feminist theologian Dawn DeVries argues, the Bible becomes “the means of grace through which God’s Word is ever and anew received in the Christian community.” Whether we need a memory to remind us who we really are. Or if we come desperate for a word of hope to get us through the day.

The bottom line in the Presbyterian tradition is that our hope really is ultimately in the God to whom the book points but whom the book is emphatically not. The Bible itself tells us that the Word of God has been made flesh among us. The Word of God is a person—Jesus—and everything else must be interpreted through him. And we come to know this Living Word of God through the memories recorded in the words we read and study together in the Scriptures. The memories of real people seeking a word of hope, just like us.

So we gather on yet another Sunday around this book of “memory and hope,” sharing the stories of those who came before us. Because their story is, in a very real sense, our story. And their hope is our hope. That the Living Word of God will comfort our affliction. And afflict our comfort. And shape us even today as God’s beloved community. Both now and yet to come.

I pray it may be so.

Amen.