A Character of Our Communities

  The Character of Our Communities 

Acts 9:36-43 

The title of my sermon this morning comes from a book by a pastor and ethicist named Gloria Albrecht. Like many theologians and biblical scholars and just plain “regular folks,” Gloria Albrecht finds herself frustrated with the uniquely American emphasis on “rugged individualism” and the sense that we’re all just in it for ourselves on our way to the top. Albrecht argues that Christians should be different. That we should be about “conversion to community,” in all of its diversity, where we all share one heart that touches the least of us. And calls us to a shared commitment in our individual stories and experiences. Which I think we have seen in droves this week in response to violence and bloodshed all across the world.

The true “character” of our communities, Albrecht says, comes when we integrate the struggles within the stories of our tradition with the diversity of our lived experiences and a genuine resistance to violence and oppression that is practiced over and over and over again through the course of a shared common life.

Which is, I think, a fancy way of saying that the character of our communities is shaped by paying heartfelt attention to the characters of our communities. Including—and perhaps especially—those who ask the toughest questions and present the toughest struggles and invoke the toughest challenges.

One of the characters of our community here at Madison Square who asks questions and invokes challenge is Bob Allen. And I think everyone who knows Bob will agree: he is quite a “character”!

When I first visited Bob in the hospital about a year ago, he confessed to me that he just isn’t in to “all that religious hocus pocus.” He had taken a bad fall and hit his head. And it was bad enough that he needed minor surgery and a fairly lengthy recovery period. And although we were reluctant to admit it out loud, especially in his presence, we were a little bit worried that maybe this might be the beginning of the end.

I knocked on the door of his hospital room with more than a little fear and trepidation. But of course, Bob being Bob, put me at ease right away. He was lying flat on his back and could barely move his body. But there was nothing wrong with his mind. Or his mouth! And he said he was doing just fine, thank you very much.

And then he told me about his life before this hospital bed. He said he had served in the military in World War II but because of the trauma of that experience he has devoted his life to peacemaking ever since. He said he had built a business when he came back to Texas—and was successful—but that he always felt his true labor was to “the common good.” And of course he told me about how he had met and married his beloved Betty Lynn. And I was mesmerized. And as far as I could tell he really was doing ‘just fine, thank you very much.’

But then he got quiet. And he lowered his voice. And he said, “You know, Gusti, I’m really glad you’re here. And it’s been great to talk to you. But I’m afraid I’m just not into all that religious hocus pocus. I hope you’re not offended.” And I could tell by his eyes that he was genuinely concerned.

I will admit I was taken a bit off guard. But I knew that Bob had a heart of gold. So I blurted out without much thought: “Well, I guess I won’t pray for you, then!”

And thank God, he laughed! And I laughed. And he got better. And I got away with a really big lie. Because of course we did pray for Bob, didn’t we? Right here in worship. Every Sunday. Until he got better. Not because we care so much about all that religious hocus pocus. But because we care so much about Bob. As a character of our community . . .

And so we can imagine, in some small way, what it is like for that early Christian community in the Book of Acts, in the little town of Joppa, full of people who care so much about Tabitha, who has become ill, and is dying before her time, that they beg Peter to come rushing from the next town over and do something to help them.

When Peter enters the room he finds Tabitha’s community weeping over their loss. They are inconsolable. Tabitha has been their leader. Perhaps even their “pastor,” although that term as we understand it does not yet occur in the early church at the time of this story. Whatever her role, the Greek text tells us that Tabitha is officially a “disciple.” It is the only time the feminine form of that word is used in the Bible. Which means she must have earned the respect and authority and responsibility that come with that official title, as a character of her community.

So how does Tabitha earn the designation of “disciple” in the church in Joppa? Is it because she is “into all the hocus pocus of religion”? Or is it instead because she literally clothes her congregation with the steadfast love of God, sharing her sewing talents far and wide among those who need them most? The ones on the margins. Including the widows, who in her time are very likely penniless. And who, like Tabitha, are dying much too young.

According to New Testament scholar Margaret Aymer, who teaches at the Interdenominational Theological Seminary in Atlanta, first century women like Tabitha—and the widows who surround her weeping—and their husbands—most often succumb to poverty, malnutrition, illness, or violence before they reach their fortieth birthday. Meaning that yours truly—who is still considered a “young pastor” in the twenty-first century Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.)—would be nearing the end of my life if I were in Tabitha’s church.

But because Tabitha cares about the character of her community, she is not willing for her people to surrender submissively. She wants them to live! So she does exactly what Gloria Albrecht suggests: integrating the struggles within the stories of her tradition with the diversity of the lived experiences of her community. In a genuine resistance to violence and oppression that is practiced over and over and over again through the course of their shared common life.

How does Tabitha do it? She devotes herself to good works. To acts of charity. Which, in the Book of Acts, means pooling together whatever resources she can scrape up to cultivate the common good. And she doesn’t stop with her own tribe, either. The fact that she is known by a Greek name, as well as a Hebrew one, tells us she very likely practices her discipleship across all boundaries of culture and religion and ethnic identity.

Which is why Peter comes running when he hears of her death. And puts everyone else out of the room. And prays for her. And offers her—perhaps for the first time in a long time—the same kind of communal care she has offered to so many. And the call to “rise up” and keep on going. And the gift of a hand to help. And somewhere, somehow, Tabitha summons the strength to respond.

And she rises!

Which is what the people of Boston—at their best—have done in the face of the violence that literally exploded in their midst. It’s what the people of central Texas—at their best—are doing in response to a different kind of explosion that has shaken the core of that community at risk. It’s what all of us do—in ways large and small—when the Character of the Risen Christ takes over in our midst. Even in the face of overwhelming anguish. Teaching tolerance. Resisting violence. Rushing to one another’s aid when death comes too soon and despair rears its ugly head.

Because the true character of our community trusts that God will still yet find a way to turn our mourning into dancing. Not because we’re “into all that hocus pocus.” But because we have made a choice to live in the light of the common good.

Today, this week, we have witnessed true evil. Too many people dying way too soon. And we could very well dismiss the story of Peter raising Tabitha from the dead as something like “religious hocus pocus” in the face of true anguish. Or we can lament it as a special power that belonged only to Peter, while we mere mortals still struggle with abject suffering.

But I think the character of Bob Allen teaches us something different. Last Sunday, as we danced and marched and sang in the light of God, a kind of chaos ensued at the end. The choir was singing one verse of the song, and I was singing a different verse, and the congregation was singing something different, and none of us really knew where things were heading. Yours truly wasn’t so sure if this dancing idea was such a good one after all.

But unbeknownst to the rest of us, Betty Lynn Allen whispered in Bob’s ear. To the man whose body was completely immobile just a year ago. And said, “do you think you could get your walker out into the aisle and walk down a little ways to the music?”

Which is modern-day Madison Square English for “Tabitha, get up!”

And Bob said, “Sure!” And stunned us all, as he shook his shoulders and swayed his hips and swished down the aisle.

Proving to all of us once and for all that the resurrection of the body really is real.

This is the true character of our community isn’t it? The character of the community of Christ. To rise up. To keep dancing. To keep singing. To keep serving.

And so we will! Amen.

A Time to Dance

A Sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Exodus 15:19-21; Psalm 30

Her name is Miriam. And she dances and sings and plays the tambourine, as she leads her people to celebrate victory and new life, in praise of the God who has led them out of despair and toward a land of promise and plenty.

Her mother has most likely taught her how to dance. And her mother before her. Because this is just what women do in the ancient tribal cultures of the Hebrew Scriptures. Their job is to survey the life of the community and put the stories to dance. Composing the perfect lyric, and the perfect dance movement, and the perfect swish of the tambourine, to celebrate in their singing and dancing that life has been restored in the face of sure death and victory has triumphed in the face of sure defeat.

We see this throughout the Scriptures if we read them carefully. Both women and men come together in dance. To celebrate a military victory. Or to keen their way through a funeral. Or to rejoice their way through a wedding. Or to simply retell the classic stories of their people and the God who has led their people to new life. Their dance becomes a ritual to pass on the teaching from one generation to the next. In praise of the God who created them good. And celebrates with them, as life in beloved community continues . . .

And it all begins with the dance of Miriam, in this particular passage from Exodus 15. Biblical scholars tell us that the Hebrew language used in this story—with the tambourine and the singing of “God’s glorious triumph”—is the oldest version of the Hebrew language that exists in the entire Bible. It’s like carbon dating for the language of biblical texts. They can excavate how language has evolved over time, and have determined that this song and dance of Miriam really is the oldest surviving remnant of written story that exists in Scripture.

Which gives us some evidence that—as much as we tend to imagine the stories of the Bible were passed down orally before they were written—it is in fact more likely that at least this oldest story of our tradition was shared over time through a ritual reenactment of dancing. With intricate steps to demonstrate the escape from Egypt. And a violent crescendo of tambourine crashing to mark the moment the chariot riders of Pharaoh crash into the sea.

It is not unlike the tribal dances of contemporary indigenous cultures that tell their stories with elaborate ritual and dance and clothing and singing. With each movement and each thread and each undulation of the voice, the dance expresses symbolically the relationship of a people and a land and a divine mystery that leads them ever onward. And gives them hope in the face of despair.

In the case of the Bible the true liturgical dance movements of the stories of our ancestors—and the musical scores that go with them—have been lost to history, much to our dismay. But the lyrics remain, proclaiming the goodness of the God of the dance, who will not ever let our foes rejoice over our destruction.

In Exodus 15 it is called the “Song of the Sea,” this dancing, singing, tambourine-shaking triumph led by the prophet Miriam in praise of her liberating God. And it becomes the prototype for all of the song and dance that follows throughout the Bible. Including the dance of the Psalmist in our other Scripture lesson for today.

By the time the Psalmist composes this ensemble, generations have passed in the land of promise and plenty. The fruits of God’s liberation are blooming everywhere. Miriam’s Red Sea Re-enactment has danced on for decades. And the people are gathering to dedicate a new Temple to this old God of the Exodus.

And the God of the dance is at it again!

The Psalmist, whose job it is to employ the arts in service to this moment, wants to choreograph a movement that will call the congregation to ever greater trust in the same victorious God who led their ancestors to triumph in the Song of the Sea. That same God, the Psalmist says, the one who swooped in to rescue the community of Miriam and Moses and Aaron, has rescued me as well. And will rescue you, too, in the call and response of the dance . . .

Like Miriam and the ancient Hebrews fleeing persecution from the armies of Pharaoh that have chased them into the desert, the Psalmist says, I too have faced certain death in a dire illness that crept up in a moment’s notice at the very moment of my overconfidence. I had been so sure of myself, the Psalmist says, that I thought a mountain would move before I could be swayed by disaster.

But oh how the mighty have fallen, the Psalmist admits. And my dance of hubris has turned into a cry for help. And the face of God has seemed hidden from me. And I could so easily give in to despair . . .

But I will not give up on the God of the Dance! the Psalmist insists. And then he goes where we in our Protestant piety often dare not: arguing with God, pleading with God, bargaining with God, in a direct appeal to the divine ego. “I cannot sing and dance and praise you, O God,” the Psalmist declares, “if my bones prematurely return to dust.” It is a challenge for God to be faithful to the promise they have danced together for generations. “What good am I to you?” the Psalmist laments, “if I am left to languish in despair?”

And somehow it seems in the very act of crying out, in the very movement from hubris to humility, in the very righteous wrestling with the One who created the dance to begin with, in the very authenticity of the Psalmist’s faith, in dancing through his weeping in the night, in dancing through his mourning, the God of the dance lifts up the soul of the Psalmist from the Pit of despair. And  joy has come!

You can call it endorphins. Or you can call it the Spirit of God. Whatever you call it, it was our own Helen Pape who taught this dance to Deacon Carla Salinas and me last Sunday after worship, as we brought the gift of communion to her home, where she is bound. There was a time when she was the pillar of this church, teaching Sunday School and offering nursing care to all who needed it, no matter whether or not they could afford it. But that time has now faded into the memory of story-telling. The left half of her body is now immobile. And one of her sons is no longer living. And as far as I am concerned, she would be justified in lamenting the Pit of her despair.

But instead she taps her right foot to the rhythm of the dance of joy. And she picks up the phone every morning when her daughter-in-law calls. And she says with conviction and assurance that God will lift her up. That “this is the day that the LORD has made; and we will rejoice and be glad in it!”

Helen is bargaining with God to let her live to be 99, because she wants to keep singing and dancing and praising God’s goodness with anyone who will take the time to join her. Because she, like Miriam and like the Psalmist, wants the world to know that the dance continues for us, even today, as we march and sing and dance. To the tune of the Lord of the Dance. In the light of the God who will not ever let us go.

And my prayer is that her prayer will be answered. Because surely it will benefit God to have someone like Helen teaching the rest of us how to dance.

So in the spirit of Helen, in the Spirit of the Psalmist, in the Spirit of Miriam, let’s join in the dance! Whoever you are. Wherever you come from. Whether you are weeping through the night or shouting with joy in the morning. Because you, too, belong to the toe-tapping, hand-clapping, tambourine-smacking God of the Dance!

Amen.

Soul Friending and ‘The Main Meal'

Sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist
April 7, 2013—Second Sunday of Easter
Psalm 150; Luke 10:38-42 

“Bienvenido, Jesus!” you can almost hear Martha shouting, as this beloved child of God makes his way into her parlor. As her treasured guest. As her Teacher. And her friend.

She is deeply humbled to have him grace the halls of her house, and so, “Welcome Home!” she shouts with joy.

And the Prelude begins. And the angel choir sings the introit. And the bells chime. And Jesus can finally, for once along this long hard road to Jerusalem, take a deep breath, in this moment of rest.

Except Martha cannot wait for the music to end to make sure he is feeling right at home!

And so she cuts in as soon as she hears a pause in the refrain:

Can I take your coat, Jesus? Wash your feet, Jesus? Offer you an ice cold coke, Jesus? Sit you down in this comfy la-z-boy, turn on the telly, crank up the internet before I rush off to the kitchen to whip up your favorite meal, Jesus?

Jesus . . ?

Jesus . . ?

Who is instead, of course, in deep conversation with her sister, Mary. About what it has been like to walk without permanent shelter these past many months. About relying completely and utterly on the kindness of strangers. Finding a warm welcome some places. And shaking the dust off your feet in others.

And maybe he is telling her what he has learned in his preaching of the sermon on the mount. Or how he came up with the parable of the Good Samaritan at just the right moment when the religious scholar was trying to trick him. Or about this form of prayer he is working on to teach his disciples, and how he wants to get it just right.

Or how they never seem to understand what he has been trying to teach them, no matter how many different ways he tries to explain it . . . 

And Mary listens intently. And laughs. And sighs. And maybe even offers some insight into human behavior that could help him on the rest of the journey to Jerusalem . . .

But Martha interrupts in frustration, “Will you hurry up already, Mary!” and “Tell her to help me welcome you home!” Jesus . . . 

And her hospitality collapses into hubris. And Jesus may very well think he would do better to just pack up his things right then and there and go back to walking that lonesome valley by himself.

Oh, Martha. Dear Martha.

We know her so well because she is us, getting so caught up in the details of the welcome home that we miss the reason for the welcome in the first place. Which is simply to listen to one another. And to wonder with one another. And to come to truly know one another. And ourselves in one another. In the breaking of the bread. Like Mary does with Jesus. And like Jesus does with Mary.

I do it too.

Even just last week, on that glorious Easter Sunday we celebrated with great joy and jubilation, yours truly found herself rushing, rushing, rushing into the park across the street. In the wee hours of the morning. Scrambling to set up for our “Almost Sunrise Service.” And getting so caught up in all my worrying about whether or not we were really ready for the resurrection that the man who had been sitting right there on the bench, for many hours already, who really did watch the Easter sun rise—the very same man we want to welcome to our table today through our communion in the park—picked up his belongings and walked away, without a whisper or a warning . . .

And I did not even think, until it was way too late, to say even the simple words: “welcome home.”

It’s a good thing Jesus gives us a second chance isn’t it? It’s a good thing the table isn’t really ours at all. But his. And that we are following him to a park where he has been all along. Waiting for us to join him. With listening instead of worry. To learn all over again what the main meal is really for. Which is “soul friending.” And “spiritual companioning.” Along whatever journey we find ourselves on. With whomever we chance to meet along the way . . .

It is this concept of Soul Friending and Spiritual Companioning—of listening and paying attention—that the Rev. Ann Helmke, Director of Spiritual Services at Haven for Hope, shared with our adult education class this morning. About how we at Madison Square might continue to cultivate a ministry of hospitality among those of us in our neighborhood who live with permanent shelter and those of us who do not, or at least not yet . . .

They are simple concepts, to be honest. Ones that don’t seem on the surface to be a whole lot of “work.” At least if we are living in the frenzy of our “Martha ministry.”

Soul Friending is really just about listening. And paying attention. And offering our simple presence to one another. And possibly a prayer. And perhaps even a conversation. Without moving with undue haste, as the poet Oriah Mountain Dreamer cautions, “to hide or fade or fix” the pain, or envy the joy, or judge the journey . . .

And yet, as Martha learns, Soul Friending is so difficult to practice because we end up working so hard to manufacture the welcome that we often miss the opportunity to simply receive it when it comes of its own accord.

In these past few months, with our first communion in the park in December and our “ambassadors in the park” in the weeks before and after the sacrament, we have been somewhat intermittently, somewhat inadequately, but with renewed intentionality, soaking up the “Mary” wisdom of Soul Friending and Spiritual Companioning. By heading out to the park with a cup of coffee and a desire for a conversation and a willingness to be transfixed and transformed by the stories we heard.

And it is time to try again. And to see what the Spirit will do with us this time around. And maybe find out what the Spirit did last time around without us even knowing it . . .

Because the thing about Martha’s muttering in the face of her very welcome guest is that she makes the mistake of thinking she is welcoming Jesus to her table, when in fact he is welcoming her to his. And the thing Mary gets that the rest of us can remember is that the table of Christ has already been spread, in the “main meal” we are already sharing with Christ’s guests.

And the wisdom of Soul Friending and Spiritual Companioning among us today is that it will be someone we think we are rushing to serve, either in the park or in this sanctuary, who welcomes us home. To his bench. To sit at her feet. And hear his story. Just like Mary did with Jesus.

It is the whole point of “communion” in the first place, this main meal that we share. With the risen Christ as our host. In the conviction that we cannot know him without knowing our neighbor.

And so we keep on trying. Whether we are a Martha or a Mary. With the grace of our soul friending and spiritual companioning God poured out in a rich feast. And the hope of a heavenly banquet where all are fed, and all are heard, and all are loved, beckoning us ever onward . . .

And welcoming us home . . . without interruption!

I pray it may be so . . .

Amen.

Into the Garden

A Sermon by: Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist
Easter Sunday—March 31, 2013 

John 20:1-18 

 

Christ is Risen! Christ is Risen, Indeed!

And so we shout another Alleluia. As loud as we can. And another Alleluia! As long as we can. And another Alleluia! In as many languages as we can. With our choir and our orchestra leading the way. As they have so beautifully—and so powerfully—through our introit, and our anthem, and our hymns.

Christ is Risen!

Christ is Risen indeed!

Alleluia!

Alleluia!

Alleluia!

But there is another strain weaving its way through our singing and our shouting and our clapping.

Even in this lush garden of grace that is our Resurrection Sunday, even surrounded by the bountiful beauty of God’s abundant life that is the Christian faith, Mary is still weeping. As so many of us are. Because the trauma of a cross is still with her, even as she tries to put her life back together in peace.

This is why, after all, Mary has come to the garden this morning. To put her life back together. To seek the “peace of Christ,” as we say in the church. To find a way out of no way. Which is God’s way. Someway.

And according to the Gospel of John, she comes empty-handed. There are no spices and ointments in John’s story, as there are in the other gospel versions. There is simply a woman, whose life has been torn apart by violence, coming into a garden, seeking some solace after everything she thought she could depend on has literally vanished into the air. And she weeps. As any of us would.

In hindsight we can say that she doesn’t get it. Or chide her for doubting. Or point to Peter or the so-called Beloved Disciple as the ones with true faith.

But as far as I am concerned this right here is the miracle of Easter! Before the empty tomb. Before the encounter with “the gardener.” Before the recognition of the risen Christ and the call to tell the world, a wounded and weeping—yet tenacious and courageous—Mary simply shows up. In the garden of grace. Seeking the peace that passes understanding.

And she does not leave until she finds it!

And for those of us who might have trouble shouting alleluia this morning, the good news of the gospel is that this is how a resurrection really begins! Not through blind faith in something we can’t ever really understand, but in the simple act of showing up when all seems lost. And hoping for a healing. And not ever giving up until it comes.

The thing about what Mary does, according to the Gospel of John, that is such a powerful act of resurrection faith, is that she refuses to run away from the thing that brings her down. Because the thing about the garden, with the tomb, into which Jesus is placed, and to which Mary shows up on this Resurrection Sunday, with tenacity and with courage, is that it just so happens to grow in the very same place where Jesus is crucified.

Let me say that again.

The garden of grace to which Mary goes on Easter Sunday morning grows in the very same place where Jesus is crucified!.

Which means that Mary goes to tend the tomb, and seek the peace of Christ, and meet the gardener, who turns into the risen “Rabbouni” in the very same place where she witnessed the cross.

Which means that in order to meet the peace that passes understanding—which is the root of the reason Mary comes into the garden in the first place—she must summon the strength to return to the scene of the crime. To face once again the very same ground of the worst that humanity can do. Where the tree of the knowledge of evil has branched out for all time in the cross that took the life of Christ. 

And in order to meet the peace that passes understanding—which is the root of the reason Mary comes into the garden in the first place—she must dare instead to tend in that ground of the seeming victory of evil, a garden of grace, cultivated to care for a broken body and a weeping woman and a pair of rushing disciples. With a tree of the fruit of life growing in its place.

This is how resurrection flourishes, my friends!

For Jesus. For Mary. For us.

When we show up in the garden of our goodness gone awry, with the courage to look evil right in the face, and instead of giving in to despair holding fast even still to the core goodness of God and of one another. And then planting a lily. And watching it bloom, by the grace of our resurrecting God, into the garden we were created to tend all along.

The early church called it the re-opening of Paradise, this flourishing of life in the face of evil. And they said that it is Jesus who leads us there. Into the garden of a new creation. Through our baptism. Where we can finally and forever become the beloved community we were always created to be. Cultivating the fruits of peace and reconciliation and wisdom and love. With a table to sustain us. And a word of memory and hope to guide us.

This is what we at Madison Square have been trying to do in our Lenten Season of Discerning Christ’s Peace. We may not have said it consciously in these past forty days, but what we really have been doing is following Jesus—and Mary—back into that garden of grace, in the hope of an Easter alleluia.

We may not really “get” what the resurrection is really about. We may still doubt what is happening to us. We may still come with our wounds and our weeping. But the simple fact we have shown up is the root of our resurrection miracle!

Because as we have been seeking the peace that passes understanding—in this garden of grace we now dare to call “the church”—eight new members have heard the voice of “Rabbouni” calling their name to join with this community of faith. They have shown up with courage and grace and tenacity in this season of discerning the peace that passes understanding and they will not leave until they have known healing and hope. They have joined all the rest of us in confronting the crosses that have brought us to their knees, and lamenting the fear that binds us to our bombs and our bullets and our bullying, and praying for the grace to “bury the hatchet” with the ones we need to forgive and the ones who need to as to forgive us.

And they have, in simply showing up, and tending the garden in the face of the cross, met in the risen Christ the peace that passes understanding.

And so we now join them in re-affirming the covenant of their baptism, as the “portal to Paradise” the early church believed it to be. As a sign and a seal of the grace of God made known in Christ. As an invitation to a life of resurrection: of showing up, and cultivating courage, and feasting on the fruit of the tree of life in this resurrection garden Christ now calls us to tend. No matter what despair would lead us to weep.

So come into the garden on this Easter Sunday morning: Anne B, Thomas F, Grecia L, David M, Marisela M, Robert R, Ty R, and Kimberly S. Come into the garden all the rest of us! Whether you are weeping or whooping or wailing or wondering. Simply show up to meet the peace that passes understanding. And hear the voice of the risen Christ saying to you always: Bienvenidos, people of God! Bienvenidos, people of God! Bienvenidos, people of God! Welcome home!!!!