By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist
Sermon April 29, 2012--Good Shepherd Sunday
Psalm 23
John 10:11-18
About ten years ago, theologians Rita Nakashima Brock and Rebecca Parker embarked on an artistic quest through the Mediterranean. They were seeking the earliest expressions of Christian art and how those forms of art depicted Jesus. They were imagining what that art might have to say about the liturgical and ethical formation of the early Christians for whom this art was created. And, perhaps most importantly, they were exploring what the liturgical and ethical formation of early Christians might have to say to us, we who are twenty-first century American Christians celebrating “Earth Day Sunday” on this Fourth Sunday in the Season of Easter. A Sunday that has us reading Psalm 23 year after year alongside a lection from John’s Gospel describing Jesus as the Good Shepherd.
The two scholars (whose findings are compiled into a massive tome titled Saving Paradise: How Christianity Traded Love of This World for Crucifixion and Empire (emphasis added)) embarked on their exploration of early Christian art with the explicit expectation of discovering the manner in which early Christians portrayed the Crucifixion. Meaning that they expected to discover early Christian renderings of a suffering, dying Jesus. On a cross.
Instead, the sanctuaries they explored revealed images of a Jesus who was very much alive. And surrounded by a lavish and vibrant natural world that was also very much alive. And it just so happens that the most popular early church portrayal of Jesus was the image we celebrate on this Good Shepherd Sunday: a glorified Christ surrounded by adoring sheep grazing in green pastures, with lushly painted gardens enveloping the entire community of faith as they gathered for worship. The image reinforced by written quotations from Psalm 23.
Imagine, if you will, how a similar scene would feel in this sanctuary. If the chancel were filled from top to bottom with a vision of Jesus as the Good Shepherd. With our stained glass windows along the sides of the sanctuary saturated in ivy. With four aisles (instead of three) flowing symbolically with living water, as if they were the four rivers flowing in the Garden of Eden described in Genesis 2. How would all this sensory imagery shape our experience of worship?
We would feel as if we were worshiping in Paradise, would we not?
This was, in fact, the conclusion of Rita Nakashima Brock and Rebecca Parker upon viewing sanctuary after sanctuary of early Christian art. Over and over again they discovered churches drenched in a lush visual garden of grace. As they imagined what it would be like to worship in these churches, they discovered the dominant sensory experience of early Christianity was the recovery of “Paradise.” Not Lost. Not in need of a cross to cover the sin. But Found!
Of course we all, to this day, dream of “Paradise Found” as an archetypal image of the heavenly realm. We might conclude this early Christian art was an escapist attempt to deny the suffering of this world in favor of a future fulfillment. But when Brock and Parker broadened their study to include ancient liturgies and ritual practices and prayers of the early church, they realized the permeation of paradise in the liturgical life of early Christians was meant to reinforce the reality of Paradise here and now. At least as much (if not more than) as an afterlife hope.
Baptismal liturgies used in the fourth century by Bishop Cyril of Jerusalem openly describe this ritual as a “portal to Paradise” through which disciplined, dedicated catechumens renounced their greed. Their fear. Their violence. Their desire for the power to dominate others. Their rage against the powers that have dominated them. After a great season of thorough preparation, they stripped themselves of their burdens and their sins and emerged naked as a “new Adam” from the waters of re-creation, passing through the gate of the garden of the Good Shepherd.
Upon rising from the baptismal waters as a new creation in Christ they were clothed with white robes and escorted to the feast of Paradise—their first Holy Communion—chanting Psalm 23 as they processed to the table: The Lord is my shepherd. I shall not want. God leads me through the still water. God prepares a table before me . . . God anoints my head with oil.
As they gathered around the table for the Eucharist, they drank milk and honey to break their fast. Then the rest of the community joined them in sharing the bread and wine of paradise. And, get this, the bishop declared these new baptized members of the church to be grafted to the tree of life at the center of the garden! Firmly rooted. Forever in Paradise.
But the portal to Paradise was not just a moment in time. It was certainly a struggle to stay rooted in the Paradise to which they had been grafted. And so the ritualized practices of the community of the church developed, cultivating within the faithful a commitment to the ethical grace of learning once and for all how to live together as one humanity in the generous garden of God. They had to “practice Paradise,” as do we, every time they gathered to worship God. And that is what it meant to be the church.
Now this may sound like a highly idealized view of early Christianity. And indeed it may very well be. They clearly had their problems and conflicts, just like we do. All we have to do is re-read the lesson from the Gospel of John to notice that. Clearly Jesus—or at least the Gospel writer in the name of Jesus—warns against those who might put their own personal needs ahead of the flock. You could assume from the context he means the Pharisees. What’s more, anyone who has actually functioned as a shepherd in the real world would say it’s not exactly a high compliment for us to be compared with sheep, even if it is as Christ’s own “flock.”
But consider, if you will, how our worldview would shift, how our environmental ethics would shift, if we really did worship the God of the garden, rather than the Lord of the laptop. (And I love my laptop!)
The thing is, we really have been created by the God of this good garden we call planet earth to live in perpetual Paradise with God and with one another. We really have. And the thing is, we really do need to fundamentally shift our vision away from the assumption of Paradise Lost to the ethical imperative of Paradise Found. Because we really were created to be stewards of this earth, humans from the humus, Adam from the adamah in Hebrew.
And we really do present the practical gifts of Paradise every Sunday in our Sacramental use of water and bread and wine. I think we do this because deep down in the part of us that is not yet in complete denial that we are fundamentally creatures of the earth we know that we cannot take these things for granted! That water and bread and wine really are “sacred.” A sign and a seal of God’s grace given to us. In abundance. In Paradise.
If Rita Nakashima Brock and Rebecca Parker are right (and I think they are), then the Sacrament of Baptism we celebrated just two weeks ago (and reaffirmed today with our newest members) really was designed to serve for us as a portal to Paradise. Not just for those individuals involved with the Sacrament, but for all of us. And if they are right, then the Sacrament of Communion we will celebrate next week really is offered to us as the feast of Paradise, training us to know the world through our senses, as a joyous experience of the gift of life.
And if they are right, then the liturgy of the gathered community in worship every Sunday really is intended to cultivate within us the ethics of Paradise. And the minute for mission we received from Mr. Norwood today about faithful stewardship of our electronic waste really is a mandate for us to practice “Saving Paradise,” as if our lives depended on it.
Because they do. Spiritually and socially.
Perhaps I am naïve, but I would like to hope that twenty-first century Christians on the brink of a possible environmental disaster just might start to live differently if we truly believed we had been grafted into the tree of life at the center of Paradise. If we truly trusted the Good Shepherd to supply our need and not just our want. If we truly embraced a disciplined life of ethical grace. I would like to hope that this Earth Sunday could be a taste of Every Sunday, celebrating the abundance of God’s good creation and vowing to practice faithful stewardship of it.
Naïve or not this really is the invitation from our Good Shepherd on this Earth Day Sunday here at Madison Square. That we celebrate the Paradise God has given us in this good creation. That we claim ourselves rooted and grounded at the center of the garden, unable to be who we really are without it. And that we commit ourselves to saving this Paradise one electronic waste donation at a time. May we respond to this invitation with an alleluia for the abundant life God asks us to share.
I pray it may be so.
Amen.
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Monday, April 23, 2012
Infant Baptism, Take Two
By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist
Sermon April 22, 2012
Psalm 103: 15-17
On Tuesday mornings at 9:15, the cheerful cacophony of small children chattering among themselves fills the fellowship hall on the second floor of our educational building next door. The 3, 4, and 5 year-olds from the Madison Square Child Development bound up the stairs with great anticipation to join me in a time of singing and story-sharing and prayer and blessing. It has become one of my very favorite times of the week. It brings everything we say we are about here at Madison Square Presbyterian Church into one pure portal of grace. I am the luckiest pastor alive in this moment!
Every week I ask the children what they want to sing. I have taught them a few of my favorites: “This Little Light of Mine.” “Rejoice in our God Always.” “This Is the Day That Our God Has Made.” But every week, without fail, they turn to that old classic: “Jesus loves me . . . this I know . . . for the Bible tells me so.”
They have it memorized! They are very proud of their memorization skills. I am proud of their memorization skills! In two languages! Because we sing “Jesus Loves Me” in sign language, as well as in English. “Little ones to him belong,” we sing together every Tuesday. “We are weak, but he is strong.” You know how it goes, right? “Yes, Jesus loves me . . . yes, Jesus loves me . . . yes, Jesus loves me . . . the Bible tells me so . . .”
The Bible really does tell us so, of course. Right here in the 19th chapter of the Gospel according to Matthew. “Then little children were being brought to him,” the gospel says, “in order that he might lay his hands on them and pray.” Which is exactly what Jesus did, once he had given his disciples a true “come to Jesus” lesson for speaking sternly against those who had brought the children to him.
Now we are enlightened twenty-first century Presbyterians. We might easily look down our noses at those clueless first century disciples who refuse to “suffer the little children,” as that passage is interpreted in the King James Version of the Bible. They just didn’t get it, we might find ourselves mockingly lamenting. We, of course, know that “Jesus loves the little children,” don’t we? “All the little children of the world.”
But if you look at this passage in context, there is a bit more to the story. The blessing of the children in Matthew’s Gospel comes right in the middle of the three chapters that describe what happens between the Transfiguration and the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem. Meaning that Jesus is literally halfway down the road to the Passover Festival when the children come to him. Halfway down the road to the Temple where he will clash with the religious authorities who will ultimately condemn him. Halfway down the road to his Last Supper with his disciples. Halfway down the road to the worst form of betrayal we can possibly imagine.
You could forgive him, perhaps, for being a little distracted, couldn’t you? By all rights he has a lot on his mind. And the disciples do, too, even though they haven’t quite caught on to what “Holy Week” will really be all about in the week that follows this chance encounter with children. What they do know is that Jesus is on a mission, and the children are a distraction. Or so they think. (And let’s just be honest. Don’t we fall into the same trap sometimes? Don’t we? Be honest . . . )
The good news, of course, is that Jesus does not follow the lead of his disciples. Instead, he takes the lead. Right here, in the pivot point of his journey to Jerusalem, Jesus makes the children his highest priority. He lays his hands upon them, as he has been asked to do. He prays for them, as he has been asked to do. And then he takes it one step further by declaring them to be the very ones who inherit the kingdom of God.
If the experience of Jesus in this passage of Matthew’s Gospel is anything like what I experience on Tuesday mornings with the children of the Madison Square Child Development Center, you can bet that Jesus is far more blessed by them on his journey to Jerusalem than they are by him. I would go so far as to suggest that it is this blessing of the children that sustains him through the cross just as much as anything else that comes before or after. Those kids are just plain worth it. They are worth everything.
What the disciples discover at this crossroads on the journey to Jerusalem is that the children are not a distraction from the mission. The children are the mission, itself!
We at Madison Square have discovered the same thing at this “crossroads” time for discerning the ongoing mission for this congregation. In the Focus Groups that have been meeting and reporting to your Transition Team about the deepest values and commitments for Madison Square in the future, ministry with children and youth has emerged as a top priority. The children are the mission, itself.
This is good news for those who approach us now, as the twenty-first century disciples of Jesus, with children of their own wanting to know Jesus the way we know him here at Madison Square.
Laura Waldrum, for example, whose story you just heard in our Moment for Mission this morning. Her twins are some of the most enthusiastic participants in our Tuesday morning singing.
And Ben and Rebecca Baker, for example, who are always on the lookout for children who need the nurturing, embracing, empowering community that Madison Square knows uniquely how to provide.
And Gina Acree, for example, whose daughter MacKenzie is the spitting image of who I was at that age. And oh, how I pray for her to weather the teenage girl years to come better than I did . . . and for this community to be there for her when those years are hard.
And all those parents who come here with their children seeking a church where their families will be received as 100% “normal” and affirmed in the grace of God. And they are! Integrally woven into the fabric of this church . . . at “home” in every way a family can be “at home” here at Madison Square.
And of course we cannot forget the parents of Evy-Lou Bowhay-Carnes and Nathan Chapman, whom we have baptized together into the Body of Christ in the months since I joined you on the journey. We laid hands on them and prayed for them in our sacrament of infant baptism, just as Jesus did with those other children so many centuries ago. We made covenant promises to them that God’s grace and love are available to them before they even know how to ask for it. When others are asking for it on their behalf. Just like they did with Jesus.
We made a pretty big commitment to those children, as I emphasized over and over again last Sunday. And if we are going to make this commitment real, if we are going to make this emerging mission with children and youth real, we need to keep putting our money where our mouth is and our talent where our treasure is.
In the past year Doerte Weber-Seale, Gina Acree, Gin Courtney, and Susan Shaw-Meadow have worked tirelessly to stabilize and shore up this vital ministry with children and youth in the midst of what was, to put it bluntly, a time of pretty great turmoil. Jane Armstrong has been a beautiful and tender guide for our acolytes as they lead us in worship, and John Sawyer has lent his creative gifts for fun craft projects with the kids. Last year Ellie Holmes made a huge contribution, and many others have pitched in to help keep things going for our fabulous kids. We have great reason to shout “alleluia!” for this ministry here at Madison Square.
But these faithful volunteers cannot do it alone, just as the Board of the Child Development Center cannot do it alone. Our children still need your help, now more than ever. If you have one Sunday morning to spare in a month, maybe you could help out next door during Children’s Church. Or if you are only available for a limited time, Vacation Bible School is just around the corner. Or if you really just “aren’t good with kids” (and let’s face it, some of us just aren’t) ask Doerte or Susan how you can help in other ways, behind the scenes, perhaps. Because our ministry with children and youth belongs to all of us and not just some of us.
This is, after all, why Presbyterians recognize infant baptism in the first place. Because every one of us is, in the end, an infant in the arms of God. Utterly dependent on God’s grace. Desperate for a touch and a prayer no matter what stumbling blocks those other disciples might put in our way. Eager to rest in the arms of a love that will not ever let us go. Our children show us who we really are in the eyes of God. That is why they inherit the kingdom of God.
And so we say, as Jesus did, “Let the children come. Let them come! See what manner of love our God has given unto us . . . that we should all be called children of God!
“For that is who we are.”
Alleluia! Amen.
Sermon April 22, 2012
Psalm 103: 15-17
1 John 3: 1-3
Every week I ask the children what they want to sing. I have taught them a few of my favorites: “This Little Light of Mine.” “Rejoice in our God Always.” “This Is the Day That Our God Has Made.” But every week, without fail, they turn to that old classic: “Jesus loves me . . . this I know . . . for the Bible tells me so.”
They have it memorized! They are very proud of their memorization skills. I am proud of their memorization skills! In two languages! Because we sing “Jesus Loves Me” in sign language, as well as in English. “Little ones to him belong,” we sing together every Tuesday. “We are weak, but he is strong.” You know how it goes, right? “Yes, Jesus loves me . . . yes, Jesus loves me . . . yes, Jesus loves me . . . the Bible tells me so . . .”
The Bible really does tell us so, of course. Right here in the 19th chapter of the Gospel according to Matthew. “Then little children were being brought to him,” the gospel says, “in order that he might lay his hands on them and pray.” Which is exactly what Jesus did, once he had given his disciples a true “come to Jesus” lesson for speaking sternly against those who had brought the children to him.
Now we are enlightened twenty-first century Presbyterians. We might easily look down our noses at those clueless first century disciples who refuse to “suffer the little children,” as that passage is interpreted in the King James Version of the Bible. They just didn’t get it, we might find ourselves mockingly lamenting. We, of course, know that “Jesus loves the little children,” don’t we? “All the little children of the world.”
But if you look at this passage in context, there is a bit more to the story. The blessing of the children in Matthew’s Gospel comes right in the middle of the three chapters that describe what happens between the Transfiguration and the Triumphal Entry into Jerusalem. Meaning that Jesus is literally halfway down the road to the Passover Festival when the children come to him. Halfway down the road to the Temple where he will clash with the religious authorities who will ultimately condemn him. Halfway down the road to his Last Supper with his disciples. Halfway down the road to the worst form of betrayal we can possibly imagine.
You could forgive him, perhaps, for being a little distracted, couldn’t you? By all rights he has a lot on his mind. And the disciples do, too, even though they haven’t quite caught on to what “Holy Week” will really be all about in the week that follows this chance encounter with children. What they do know is that Jesus is on a mission, and the children are a distraction. Or so they think. (And let’s just be honest. Don’t we fall into the same trap sometimes? Don’t we? Be honest . . . )
The good news, of course, is that Jesus does not follow the lead of his disciples. Instead, he takes the lead. Right here, in the pivot point of his journey to Jerusalem, Jesus makes the children his highest priority. He lays his hands upon them, as he has been asked to do. He prays for them, as he has been asked to do. And then he takes it one step further by declaring them to be the very ones who inherit the kingdom of God.
If the experience of Jesus in this passage of Matthew’s Gospel is anything like what I experience on Tuesday mornings with the children of the Madison Square Child Development Center, you can bet that Jesus is far more blessed by them on his journey to Jerusalem than they are by him. I would go so far as to suggest that it is this blessing of the children that sustains him through the cross just as much as anything else that comes before or after. Those kids are just plain worth it. They are worth everything.
What the disciples discover at this crossroads on the journey to Jerusalem is that the children are not a distraction from the mission. The children are the mission, itself!
We at Madison Square have discovered the same thing at this “crossroads” time for discerning the ongoing mission for this congregation. In the Focus Groups that have been meeting and reporting to your Transition Team about the deepest values and commitments for Madison Square in the future, ministry with children and youth has emerged as a top priority. The children are the mission, itself.
This is good news for those who approach us now, as the twenty-first century disciples of Jesus, with children of their own wanting to know Jesus the way we know him here at Madison Square.
Laura Waldrum, for example, whose story you just heard in our Moment for Mission this morning. Her twins are some of the most enthusiastic participants in our Tuesday morning singing.
And Ben and Rebecca Baker, for example, who are always on the lookout for children who need the nurturing, embracing, empowering community that Madison Square knows uniquely how to provide.
And Gina Acree, for example, whose daughter MacKenzie is the spitting image of who I was at that age. And oh, how I pray for her to weather the teenage girl years to come better than I did . . . and for this community to be there for her when those years are hard.
And all those parents who come here with their children seeking a church where their families will be received as 100% “normal” and affirmed in the grace of God. And they are! Integrally woven into the fabric of this church . . . at “home” in every way a family can be “at home” here at Madison Square.
And of course we cannot forget the parents of Evy-Lou Bowhay-Carnes and Nathan Chapman, whom we have baptized together into the Body of Christ in the months since I joined you on the journey. We laid hands on them and prayed for them in our sacrament of infant baptism, just as Jesus did with those other children so many centuries ago. We made covenant promises to them that God’s grace and love are available to them before they even know how to ask for it. When others are asking for it on their behalf. Just like they did with Jesus.
We made a pretty big commitment to those children, as I emphasized over and over again last Sunday. And if we are going to make this commitment real, if we are going to make this emerging mission with children and youth real, we need to keep putting our money where our mouth is and our talent where our treasure is.
In the past year Doerte Weber-Seale, Gina Acree, Gin Courtney, and Susan Shaw-Meadow have worked tirelessly to stabilize and shore up this vital ministry with children and youth in the midst of what was, to put it bluntly, a time of pretty great turmoil. Jane Armstrong has been a beautiful and tender guide for our acolytes as they lead us in worship, and John Sawyer has lent his creative gifts for fun craft projects with the kids. Last year Ellie Holmes made a huge contribution, and many others have pitched in to help keep things going for our fabulous kids. We have great reason to shout “alleluia!” for this ministry here at Madison Square.
But these faithful volunteers cannot do it alone, just as the Board of the Child Development Center cannot do it alone. Our children still need your help, now more than ever. If you have one Sunday morning to spare in a month, maybe you could help out next door during Children’s Church. Or if you are only available for a limited time, Vacation Bible School is just around the corner. Or if you really just “aren’t good with kids” (and let’s face it, some of us just aren’t) ask Doerte or Susan how you can help in other ways, behind the scenes, perhaps. Because our ministry with children and youth belongs to all of us and not just some of us.
This is, after all, why Presbyterians recognize infant baptism in the first place. Because every one of us is, in the end, an infant in the arms of God. Utterly dependent on God’s grace. Desperate for a touch and a prayer no matter what stumbling blocks those other disciples might put in our way. Eager to rest in the arms of a love that will not ever let us go. Our children show us who we really are in the eyes of God. That is why they inherit the kingdom of God.
And so we say, as Jesus did, “Let the children come. Let them come! See what manner of love our God has given unto us . . . that we should all be called children of God!
“For that is who we are.”
Alleluia! Amen.
Sunday, April 15, 2012
What the Wounds Would Say
By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist
April 15, 2012 Sermon
John 20:19-30
You may have “life in this name,” the Book of Memory and Hope teaches us.
You may have life in this name! The name of the risen Christ, the one whose wounds have been healed, and we can see them, and we can touch them, and they don’t hurt anymore! Which means maybe someday our wounds won’t hurt anymore, either. Which is why we want life in this name!
Which is why the parents of Evelyn Louise Bowhay-Carnes have presented their child to us for the Sacrament of Infant Baptism. They have said, in this act, that they want life in the name of the risen Christ for their child. They want the peace of Christ, the shalom of Christ, the healing and wholeness and hope of Christ, the peace that passes all understanding of Christ, to be with her. And also with you. And I dare say, also with them, as they seek your help in raising her in the faith.
And so we made covenant promises with God and with one another to make this so in our Sacrament this morning, trusting that the risen life we claim in Christ will be made real for Evy-Lou. Her parents expressed their commitment to journey with her to discover the wonder of God’s love made manifest here this day. And we, her congregation, pledged to welcome her into the full life of this community. To open our hearts to her in her most vulnerable places. To lead her always to the table of sustenance. To offer her the wisdom of the ages as she hungers for truth.
And she will hunger for truth!
We said we would love her, that we would support her, that we would care for her as she lives and grows among us. We said, “I Do.” We said it a lot! And our “I Do’s” were as binding in this sacred covenant vow this morning as ever a marriage vow was that has been made among beloved partners throughout all time.
What God has joined together, let no one put asunder.
So we are “one body” now with Evy-Lou, much the way married partners become “one body” in their commitment to one another. She has joined us in the font of our identity. “Clothed with Christ,” with us, in the spirit of resurrection.
Which is why we come back . . . Sunday after Sunday after Sunday . . . for this new creation we become when the risen Christ holds our flesh in his hands and breathes the Holy Spirit through us, as he did with the disciples in that upper room in our Gospel of John text.
There’s just one problem.
This is the second Sunday of Easter. The afterthought Sunday. The one where the Great Alleluia already seems hung up on the shelf for next year. The one where year after year poor Thomas gets a really bad rap for his infamous “doubting,” held up for all to “anti-emulate.”
We have come back for this new life in the name of the risen Christ we have promised Evy-Lou in her baptism, only to find ourselves surrounded with a rag-tag group of scared and confused and yes, “doubting” disciples in their first century Jerusalem home. With the door locked shut. For them and maybe for some of us. Because they, and perhaps we, are still afraid.
The disciples know what “those good religious authorities” did to Jesus. They handed him over to be crucified! The disciples know it could happen to them, too. And to us, too. So we lock the door. Bolt it shut. In fear and trepidation.
And, I might add, with good reason.
We call it “church hurt,” here at Madison Square. That profound violation of body and spirit that occurs when religious law is invoked with religious fervor against some of God’s most faithful people. It happened to Jesus. It happened to Thomas. It has happened to many of us. And we will do whatever it takes to keep it from happening again, won’t we?
Hence the locked door. The fearful gathering. The refusal to trust what has not yet earned our trust, or what we have not yet let earn our trust. And so we wait . . . behind a locked door . . . and wait . . . and wait . . .
It has been a long week.
The thing is nobody knows “church hurt” better than Jesus does. Nobody. He literally bears the scars on his body, his hands, his feet, his side. These wounds that Thomas is so desperate to see.
It is, after all, not so much evidence of the resurrection that Thomas seeks as it is evidence of the crucifixion! Because the crucifixion was real, and it hurt, and you just can’t gloss it over and say everything is “okay” now, can you? Thomas is not “okay”!
Because the thing is, Thomas bears “church hurt” wounds, too. All the disciples do. Maybe their wounds as visible as the wounds of Jesus, and maybe ours aren’t either. But those wounds are still with us, whether those wounds are from “church hurt,” or just plain “regular hurt,” and they aren’t going away, and so we have to figure out how to keep going forward with them, not in spite of them . . .
And that is what the resurrection is all about.
Thomas finally trusts the resurrection is real when he can see for himself that the wounds of crucifixion really have been healed, not ignored. Transformed, not tossed aside. Transfigured, to use theological language. They just plain don’t hurt anymore!
This is the resurrection hope we cling to Sunday after Sunday as we come home for new life in the name of the risen Christ. That whatever wounds we bear, and whatever wounds we have inflicted, they just aren’t the final answer. They just aren’t. That we have been baptized into the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, and our wounds can be healed, too!
That, in our baptism, they already are.
When I met with the parents of Evy-Lou in preparation for this Sacrament, we talked about what Baptism meant to them. We talked about the kind of life they want for Evy-Lou, the kind of church they want for her, the kind of faith they want for her.
And, like every parent that ever was, they shared how much they want her to be well. How much they want to protect her from pain. And how much hope they found in this congregation that Evy-Lou would be loved and nurtured and celebrated and anointed with grace and mercy. Given all the spiritual tools she will need for a life of joy and service. The shalom she will need to live a resurrected life in Christ.
But the truth is, as hard as we try, we will not be able to keep Evy-Lou from pain in her life. There will be wounds that are hers and hers alone, just like there are for all of us. And we, even in our deepest desire to be faithful to our covenant vows to her this morning, we will make mistakes. And so will you, her parents . . .
The promise of Baptism to Evy-Lou today is not that she will be without pain in her life, as much as we wish it would be so. The promise of Baptism to Evy-Lou today is that she has been clothed with Christ for every part of her life, and even into her death, and that this clothing serves as a great seal of resurrection protection that will transfigure whatever wounds she bears into God’s promised shalom hope and grace and love.
This is, in fact, the baptismal promise for every one of us.
That we may trust our wounds to the God who knows what it is to be wounded. And our healing to the God who knows what it is to be healed. And our new life daily to the God who is desperate to give us all a second chance . . . or a third chance . . . or a three-hundredth chance. That we may, with our wounds—and not in spite of them—even learn how to trust “church” again.
Because, in the end, this is the only way we will recognize the risen Christ in our midst. When we trust our wounds to one another, and watch them heal before our eyes.
I pray it may be so for us this day.
Amen.
April 15, 2012 Sermon
John 20:19-30
You may have “life in this name,” the Book of Memory and Hope teaches us.
You may have life in this name! The name of the risen Christ, the one whose wounds have been healed, and we can see them, and we can touch them, and they don’t hurt anymore! Which means maybe someday our wounds won’t hurt anymore, either. Which is why we want life in this name!
Which is why the parents of Evelyn Louise Bowhay-Carnes have presented their child to us for the Sacrament of Infant Baptism. They have said, in this act, that they want life in the name of the risen Christ for their child. They want the peace of Christ, the shalom of Christ, the healing and wholeness and hope of Christ, the peace that passes all understanding of Christ, to be with her. And also with you. And I dare say, also with them, as they seek your help in raising her in the faith.
And so we made covenant promises with God and with one another to make this so in our Sacrament this morning, trusting that the risen life we claim in Christ will be made real for Evy-Lou. Her parents expressed their commitment to journey with her to discover the wonder of God’s love made manifest here this day. And we, her congregation, pledged to welcome her into the full life of this community. To open our hearts to her in her most vulnerable places. To lead her always to the table of sustenance. To offer her the wisdom of the ages as she hungers for truth.
And she will hunger for truth!
We said we would love her, that we would support her, that we would care for her as she lives and grows among us. We said, “I Do.” We said it a lot! And our “I Do’s” were as binding in this sacred covenant vow this morning as ever a marriage vow was that has been made among beloved partners throughout all time.
What God has joined together, let no one put asunder.
So we are “one body” now with Evy-Lou, much the way married partners become “one body” in their commitment to one another. She has joined us in the font of our identity. “Clothed with Christ,” with us, in the spirit of resurrection.
Which is why we come back . . . Sunday after Sunday after Sunday . . . for this new creation we become when the risen Christ holds our flesh in his hands and breathes the Holy Spirit through us, as he did with the disciples in that upper room in our Gospel of John text.
There’s just one problem.
This is the second Sunday of Easter. The afterthought Sunday. The one where the Great Alleluia already seems hung up on the shelf for next year. The one where year after year poor Thomas gets a really bad rap for his infamous “doubting,” held up for all to “anti-emulate.”
We have come back for this new life in the name of the risen Christ we have promised Evy-Lou in her baptism, only to find ourselves surrounded with a rag-tag group of scared and confused and yes, “doubting” disciples in their first century Jerusalem home. With the door locked shut. For them and maybe for some of us. Because they, and perhaps we, are still afraid.
The disciples know what “those good religious authorities” did to Jesus. They handed him over to be crucified! The disciples know it could happen to them, too. And to us, too. So we lock the door. Bolt it shut. In fear and trepidation.
And, I might add, with good reason.
We call it “church hurt,” here at Madison Square. That profound violation of body and spirit that occurs when religious law is invoked with religious fervor against some of God’s most faithful people. It happened to Jesus. It happened to Thomas. It has happened to many of us. And we will do whatever it takes to keep it from happening again, won’t we?
Hence the locked door. The fearful gathering. The refusal to trust what has not yet earned our trust, or what we have not yet let earn our trust. And so we wait . . . behind a locked door . . . and wait . . . and wait . . .
It has been a long week.
The thing is nobody knows “church hurt” better than Jesus does. Nobody. He literally bears the scars on his body, his hands, his feet, his side. These wounds that Thomas is so desperate to see.
It is, after all, not so much evidence of the resurrection that Thomas seeks as it is evidence of the crucifixion! Because the crucifixion was real, and it hurt, and you just can’t gloss it over and say everything is “okay” now, can you? Thomas is not “okay”!
Because the thing is, Thomas bears “church hurt” wounds, too. All the disciples do. Maybe their wounds as visible as the wounds of Jesus, and maybe ours aren’t either. But those wounds are still with us, whether those wounds are from “church hurt,” or just plain “regular hurt,” and they aren’t going away, and so we have to figure out how to keep going forward with them, not in spite of them . . .
And that is what the resurrection is all about.
Thomas finally trusts the resurrection is real when he can see for himself that the wounds of crucifixion really have been healed, not ignored. Transformed, not tossed aside. Transfigured, to use theological language. They just plain don’t hurt anymore!
This is the resurrection hope we cling to Sunday after Sunday as we come home for new life in the name of the risen Christ. That whatever wounds we bear, and whatever wounds we have inflicted, they just aren’t the final answer. They just aren’t. That we have been baptized into the life, death, and resurrection of Christ, and our wounds can be healed, too!
That, in our baptism, they already are.
When I met with the parents of Evy-Lou in preparation for this Sacrament, we talked about what Baptism meant to them. We talked about the kind of life they want for Evy-Lou, the kind of church they want for her, the kind of faith they want for her.
And, like every parent that ever was, they shared how much they want her to be well. How much they want to protect her from pain. And how much hope they found in this congregation that Evy-Lou would be loved and nurtured and celebrated and anointed with grace and mercy. Given all the spiritual tools she will need for a life of joy and service. The shalom she will need to live a resurrected life in Christ.
But the truth is, as hard as we try, we will not be able to keep Evy-Lou from pain in her life. There will be wounds that are hers and hers alone, just like there are for all of us. And we, even in our deepest desire to be faithful to our covenant vows to her this morning, we will make mistakes. And so will you, her parents . . .
The promise of Baptism to Evy-Lou today is not that she will be without pain in her life, as much as we wish it would be so. The promise of Baptism to Evy-Lou today is that she has been clothed with Christ for every part of her life, and even into her death, and that this clothing serves as a great seal of resurrection protection that will transfigure whatever wounds she bears into God’s promised shalom hope and grace and love.
This is, in fact, the baptismal promise for every one of us.
That we may trust our wounds to the God who knows what it is to be wounded. And our healing to the God who knows what it is to be healed. And our new life daily to the God who is desperate to give us all a second chance . . . or a third chance . . . or a three-hundredth chance. That we may, with our wounds—and not in spite of them—even learn how to trust “church” again.
Because, in the end, this is the only way we will recognize the risen Christ in our midst. When we trust our wounds to one another, and watch them heal before our eyes.
I pray it may be so for us this day.
Amen.
Sunday, April 8, 2012
Threatened With Resurrection
By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist
April 8, 2012 Sermon--Resurrection of Christ Sunday
Mark 16:1-8
“So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to no one, for they were afraid.”
Oh, dear.
This really was not what we were expecting. We have become so used to John’s Gospel story on Easter Sunday. An entirely enthusiastic reunion with Mary Magdalene and Jesus and Peter and a gardener to set us free in lily-white dresses and blue satin sashes. Which is what we all want in the end, is it not?
Somehow we have ended up here. Gospel of Mark version, original ending restored. Our key witnesses over-laden with unused ointment, tongue-tied in terror, an alleluia stuck in their throat, replaced with something that sounds more like a resounding, “aaaaaaaaaaa . . ?”
They are threatened with resurrection, here at the empty tomb. Where things just aren’t making a whole lot of sense . . .
It is worth remembering, of course, that these three women (Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome), they have seen it all. They have birthed and they have bled and they have fed and they have bathed their young, like good Jewish women of Galilee. They have scrubbed the scales of the fish in the Lake of Galilee until they had no more scales to scrub, working their fingers to the bone. They have figured out ways to make ends meet that they were sure were not ever going to meet. And they have buried their old, and far-too often they have buried their young. And they have seen the cross a thousand times. And yes, they were there when they crucified our Lord . . .
And the thing is, they can handle all of that! In a way, they can handle all of that. They know all too well the fragile thread of human existence, and death is nothing new to them, and bitterness is nothing new to them, and doubt is nothing new to them, and resentment is nothing new to them. And they have figured out a way, in their own way, to handle all of that!
It’s the other side of that cross that brings them to their knees. This “nothing” that is a profound something by its very nothingness . . .
Which is that He is not here! He has been raised, as he said!
Which means that how they have been “handling all of that” is now radically undone! It doesn’t need to be “handled” at all! Jesus has gone right on back to work in Galilee! Right on back to where the ministry began in the first place! Right on back to preparing a place for them—and us!—to follow. And by God, the angel says to anyone who will listen, if you know what is good for you’ll get right on out of whatever tomb your cross has put you in and get back to work right along with him! Because God isn’t done with Jesus yet. And Jesus isn’t done with you yet. And God knows Jesus isn’t done with me yet!
Alleluia! Amen!
But can we just admit the threat of resurrection for a minute? Can we just admit that Jesus knows how we too easily entomb within the holy temple of our bodies a burning rage or despair or sadness over whatever cross we have borne. Or guilt. Or vengeance. Tell the truth! And that tomb of terror sits right here, where the compassionate heart of God is supposed to be beating with joy within us. Can we just admit we might very well be more threatened by the thought of God emptying that tomb that dwells within us than we are by the cross that put it there in the first place? Because that tomb makes sense to us. We have oil and spices to lay on those bitter wounds. We have figured out how to “handle” it.
And yet here we are on Easter Sunday morning. With two Marys and Salome. And the stone on that tomb that has encroached itself around the beating heart of God within us been rolled away, with no effort on our part. With absolutely no effort on our part! And what do we find instead . . ?
That the beating breathing boundless body of Christ bids us back to that life-giving Lake of Galilee. Wherever that lake may be in your life and in mine. To resurrect together his ministry of justice and peace and healing and wholeness. And grace, in the end. And grace . . .
Which is what the ministry of Jesus has always been about, after all. And a little thing like a crucifixion isn’t going to get in the way of that. Not now. Not ever. And that is the gospel truth.
Alleluia. Amen.
We at Madison Square know this story in our bones, do we not? We know how God can wrestle a resurrection out of a devastating despair, because God has done it right here in our midst. Can I get an Amen? We know that a trip back to Galilee to figure out how to do Christ’s ministry in a new way for a new day is worth the weary ride.
We have seen a resurrection in this congregation, have we not? And we will see it again . . . and again . . . and again . . . and again because it is the mission of Madison Square “to seek and be receptive to the Spirit of God” in all things, and that Spirit is indeed “working all things together for good for those who love God and are called to God’s purpose,” and that means us!! And that Spirit has already rolled away the stone, and has already gotten us started on this resurrection life, and we are just getting started!
Alleluia! Amen.
And so when the angel says, “Go and tell,” we really can go and tell. Because we have seen it, and we have lived it, and we know it can change the world. We know that it already has.
“There is no bad from which good cannot come,” the beautiful Spanish proverb is translated into English. No hay mal que por bien no venga. And this is the gospel truth. There is no bad from which good cannot come.
So whoever you are, from wherever you have come, whatever you have done, whatever has been done to you, whatever has been left undone . . . the tomb is empty for you! The ministry continues for you! The alleluia has been shouted for you! The new life begins with you!
So go . . . and tell!
Alleluia! Amen.
April 8, 2012 Sermon--Resurrection of Christ Sunday
Mark 16:1-8
“So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to no one, for they were afraid.”
Oh, dear.
This really was not what we were expecting. We have become so used to John’s Gospel story on Easter Sunday. An entirely enthusiastic reunion with Mary Magdalene and Jesus and Peter and a gardener to set us free in lily-white dresses and blue satin sashes. Which is what we all want in the end, is it not?
Somehow we have ended up here. Gospel of Mark version, original ending restored. Our key witnesses over-laden with unused ointment, tongue-tied in terror, an alleluia stuck in their throat, replaced with something that sounds more like a resounding, “aaaaaaaaaaa . . ?”
They are threatened with resurrection, here at the empty tomb. Where things just aren’t making a whole lot of sense . . .
It is worth remembering, of course, that these three women (Mary Magdalene, Mary the mother of James, and Salome), they have seen it all. They have birthed and they have bled and they have fed and they have bathed their young, like good Jewish women of Galilee. They have scrubbed the scales of the fish in the Lake of Galilee until they had no more scales to scrub, working their fingers to the bone. They have figured out ways to make ends meet that they were sure were not ever going to meet. And they have buried their old, and far-too often they have buried their young. And they have seen the cross a thousand times. And yes, they were there when they crucified our Lord . . .
And the thing is, they can handle all of that! In a way, they can handle all of that. They know all too well the fragile thread of human existence, and death is nothing new to them, and bitterness is nothing new to them, and doubt is nothing new to them, and resentment is nothing new to them. And they have figured out a way, in their own way, to handle all of that!
It’s the other side of that cross that brings them to their knees. This “nothing” that is a profound something by its very nothingness . . .
Which is that He is not here! He has been raised, as he said!
Which means that how they have been “handling all of that” is now radically undone! It doesn’t need to be “handled” at all! Jesus has gone right on back to work in Galilee! Right on back to where the ministry began in the first place! Right on back to preparing a place for them—and us!—to follow. And by God, the angel says to anyone who will listen, if you know what is good for you’ll get right on out of whatever tomb your cross has put you in and get back to work right along with him! Because God isn’t done with Jesus yet. And Jesus isn’t done with you yet. And God knows Jesus isn’t done with me yet!
Alleluia! Amen!
But can we just admit the threat of resurrection for a minute? Can we just admit that Jesus knows how we too easily entomb within the holy temple of our bodies a burning rage or despair or sadness over whatever cross we have borne. Or guilt. Or vengeance. Tell the truth! And that tomb of terror sits right here, where the compassionate heart of God is supposed to be beating with joy within us. Can we just admit we might very well be more threatened by the thought of God emptying that tomb that dwells within us than we are by the cross that put it there in the first place? Because that tomb makes sense to us. We have oil and spices to lay on those bitter wounds. We have figured out how to “handle” it.
And yet here we are on Easter Sunday morning. With two Marys and Salome. And the stone on that tomb that has encroached itself around the beating heart of God within us been rolled away, with no effort on our part. With absolutely no effort on our part! And what do we find instead . . ?
That the beating breathing boundless body of Christ bids us back to that life-giving Lake of Galilee. Wherever that lake may be in your life and in mine. To resurrect together his ministry of justice and peace and healing and wholeness. And grace, in the end. And grace . . .
Which is what the ministry of Jesus has always been about, after all. And a little thing like a crucifixion isn’t going to get in the way of that. Not now. Not ever. And that is the gospel truth.
Alleluia. Amen.
We at Madison Square know this story in our bones, do we not? We know how God can wrestle a resurrection out of a devastating despair, because God has done it right here in our midst. Can I get an Amen? We know that a trip back to Galilee to figure out how to do Christ’s ministry in a new way for a new day is worth the weary ride.
We have seen a resurrection in this congregation, have we not? And we will see it again . . . and again . . . and again . . . and again because it is the mission of Madison Square “to seek and be receptive to the Spirit of God” in all things, and that Spirit is indeed “working all things together for good for those who love God and are called to God’s purpose,” and that means us!! And that Spirit has already rolled away the stone, and has already gotten us started on this resurrection life, and we are just getting started!
Alleluia! Amen.
And so when the angel says, “Go and tell,” we really can go and tell. Because we have seen it, and we have lived it, and we know it can change the world. We know that it already has.
“There is no bad from which good cannot come,” the beautiful Spanish proverb is translated into English. No hay mal que por bien no venga. And this is the gospel truth. There is no bad from which good cannot come.
So whoever you are, from wherever you have come, whatever you have done, whatever has been done to you, whatever has been left undone . . . the tomb is empty for you! The ministry continues for you! The alleluia has been shouted for you! The new life begins with you!
So go . . . and tell!
Alleluia! Amen.
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