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.