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!!!!

Satisfaction

Sermon by,  Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Third Sunday in Lent (Communion)

Psalm 63;

Luke 13:1-5, 

“Jesus Is A Rock in a Weary Land” (Anthem)

The beloved and beautiful Psalm 63 is a Battle Song, in a way. Attributed to King David as he flees the armies of insurrection that are rising up against him in the latter part of his reign. The backstory to this psalm is that David’s own son—Absalom—is out to topple him and take over the kingdom he has worked so hard to build. At this point in the story, as David writes this psalm from the desert of Judah, his enemies are winning. David has fled to the wilderness, hunted by those who seek to destroy his life, clinging to the protection of the God he still believes has called him to greatness. Just not so obviously right now.

The Bible tells us the end of the story. That David does win it all back in the end after a hard-fought battle. That he returns to the throne and passes on all he has built to an even greater legacy through his beloved son, Solomon. But in the moment of this psalm all we know is that the once mighty King David has “lost it all.” His wealth, his power, his kingdom, his honor. He is “wandering in the wilderness” in every way you can imagine. Desperate. For water. For survival. For the God he wants to believe set him up for all this in the first place. 

And—as so often happens in the desperate “deserts” of our lives—it is in fact through this very moment of losing it all that David finds his soul again. In the humiliating loss of everything he has thought he depends on—his money, his power, his prestige—David finally seeks instead the source of that one drop of water that will quench his thirst. For physical water. For greatness in politics and on the battlefield. For the only true satisfaction there can ever be. Which comes from the steadfast, unrelenting, unconditional, unwavering, hesed love of the God who will not ever let us go.

In the moment of losing it all David finally finds the God who has been seeking him all along, begging to break through the barriers of so-called “security” that David has built up around himself. And when David finally finds satisfaction in the steadfast love of God, he sings from the depths of his soul: Your steadfast love is even better than life! I could die in this desert right now. Without wealth or power or prestige. But satisfied as with a rich feast. Because you have been my help. And in the shadow of your wings I sing for joy. And my soul clings to you. Because your right hand upholds me.

And we could end the story right there. Because that is where we all want to end the story. With a change of heart and a satisfaction of spirit and a sense that God can always make a way out of no way. And that the river of grace will always flow through whatever dry and weary land has sabotaged our souls . . .

And it will . . .

But as much as David says he is satisfied, he is not really truly satisfied. At the very moment of David’s spiritual awakening—when he finally relinquishes his grip on his own power and succumbs instead to the satisfaction of the steadfast love of God—David relapses right back into righteous rage, calling down God’s vengeance upon the ones who have chased him into this desert in the first place. And he condemns “Those who seek to destroy his life, into the depths of the earth, given over to the power of the sword, to be prey for jackals.

Is this “an eye for an eye” or what?

In fact it is actually more like the eyes of the next seven generations of your enemy’s children for an eye!

Which is how vengeance works, isn’t it? We are never quite satisfied with finding our soul again on the other side of despair. We really must have our retribution. And we are never quite satisfied with an equal retribution, which is what “an eye for an eye” was actually supposed to be about. We really must escalate. And escalate. And escalate. Eye after eye after eye. Until the whole world is bitterly blind.

Of course we could judge David harshly for botching the beauty of God’s grace in this psalm with a benediction of blame. Or we could leave out those last two verses altogether, which is what the Revised Common Lectionary does.

But God bless him, David really does tell it like it really is. Which is what the psalms do over and over again. And “like it really is” is that no matter how “spiritually satisfied” we say we are—even when we lose it all and finally find we need only the source of our souls to sustain us—the truth is we really are a very vengeful people. Every one of us. And we still look to God to “take it out” on our enemies.

Do we not?

Especially when we think we are emphatically “in the right,” like David does. And of course we are always emphatically “in the right”!

Which brings us to Jesus on that road to Jerusalem in the Gospel of Luke, where we have been following him on a Lenten journey of discerning peace these past many weeks.

The story is anything but peaceful!

Have you heard about that awful Pontius Pilate? his friends on the journey want to know. The rumors of his atrocities are spreading far and wide, they say. Have you heard the latest? Mixing the blood of Galileans with the blood of animal sacrifices at the temple! This cannot stand! It’s a sacrilege! We demand satisfaction!

The rumor is an appeal to their nationalistic sympathies. With a story that is very likely not actually true, as it is attested nowhere else in any other literature of the time, including in the other three gospels. It is very likely a trumped up report with the intent of galvanizing greater support for revolt against Rome by playing to the moral superiority of those on the journey with them.

We would never do what Pilate did, the crowd seems to be saying. We are good. He is bad. We demand satisfaction.

But Jesus shuts it down entirely. No one sinner is any worse than any other, he says. No one offense is any worse than any other. No one act of violence any worse than any other.

The truth is, Jesus says, unless you change your hearts and minds—unless you repent—your demand for satisfaction in retribution for whatever real or perceived violence has been inflicted on you will turn right back around on yourself. And you will perish right along with it in a sort of boomerang effect of vengeance and counter-vengeance.

And this is not because God wills it, mind you. Nowhere in either text (Psalm 63 or Luke 13) does God actually desire such violent retribution. We are the ones who desire it! But this is how the cycle of violence works, Jesus says. Satisfaction demands satisfaction in return. Until the whole world really is blind!

Change your heart Jesus says, over and over and over again. In this text and throughout his ministry. Go back to that desert of Psalm 63, he says. And let go of the wealth and the power and the prestige that are holding you hostage to your demands for satisfaction. Be satisfied instead with the river of grace that flows without ceasing. And the rich feast I have prepared for you from the beginning of time until the end. It doesn’t have to be this way. We can live another way.

And he proceeds to prepare a table. A rich satisfying soul feast. For the very one who would betray him. And the very one who would deny him. And the very ones who would abandon him. And for you. And for me. And for the world.

Today at that table comes our chance to try again. To go back to the desert of Psalm 63 and get it right this time. To find a way to stay satisfied with the steadfast hesed forgiving freeing love of God that will not ever let us go. That cuts through whatever false security of wealth and power and prestige mark the walls of our boundaries. That cuts through our demands for satisfaction against our enemies. And instead invites our enemies to the feast right along with us.

Who do we need to forgive, even if we want vengeance? Especially if we want vengeance! Who do we need to ask to forgive us, even when they want vengeance? Especially when they want vengeance! What mercy do we need to show as a congregation? As a denomination? As a nation? What mercy must we ask in return?

Unless we change our hearts and minds we really will perish in our violent retribution. But here today we can learn the lesson anew. The steadfast love of God really is even better than life. It really is. We know it because we are tasting it. Right here. Right now. And we could die today in this desert of Psalm 63. Without wealth or power or prestige. But our souls really would still be satisfied as with a rich feast. Because God really has been our help. And in the shadow of God’s wings we really do sing for joy. And our soul clings to God. Because God’s right hand upholds us.

And we really can end the psalm right here this time. With a change of heart and a satisfaction of spirit and a sense that God really can make a way out of no way. And that the river of grace will always flow through whatever dry and weary land has sabotaged our souls.

Because it really, truly, already has.

I pray it may be so.

Amen.

Brooding

Sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist
Second Sunday in Lent

Genesis 1:1-3

Luke 13:31-35  

“No bird sang in the sky,” when Christ, the author and the giver of life, through whom all things were created—including you, including me—finally falls victim to Herod. That cruel ‘fox,’ as Jesus calls him in our Gospel reading from Luke. When Jesus finally falls victim to the Roman Empire with which Herod has colluded all his life, and to which the healing and liberating and life-giving non-violent Christ has been such a terrifying threat.

No bird sang in the sky, perhaps because in that moment of his death the earth returns to the formlessness of its early origin. Devoid of the life that gives it meaning. And the waters of chaos reign once more. And darkness re-covers the face of the deep. And just for a moment the violence of that chaos has won . . .

So instead of singing, the birds start cawing, “Jerusalem, Jerusalem. City of peace. Why do you keep doing this to your prophets?’

It has become an article of faith, in the two thousand years since the tragic death of Jesus on this cruel instrument of Roman torture and terror, to say it is the will of God for this particular child of God to die in this particular way. It has become an article of faith to say, in fact, that God intends the cruel torture of the cross because we are all such awful people, and we all deserve such an awful punishment.

My favorite way of phrasing this common understanding of the cross is to say. “We all deserve a big old whooping, but Jesus took the whooping for us.”

It’s what we think, isn’t it? It is what we have been taught to think. That our sins are so bad they require a violent act from a violent God to satisfy God’s violent rage.

But what if it isn’t true?

What if it just is not true?

What if this violent rage of a violent God exacting a violent vengeance is an understanding of the cross that has its roots in the eleventh century and not in the time of Jesus?

What if, as our Luke text suggest, God sent Jesus to Jerusalem not to die for us but to live for us. Like a mother hen gathering her beloved chicks back into the brood.

What if the whole point of Jesus is to give physical form to the ‘mother hen’ Spirit of God that swooped over the chaotic waters of Genesis when God was beginning to create the earth? That brooded over the chaos. And calmed it. And incubated it. And gave the chaos a generating darkness so that God could speak light into it. And so the darkness of violent death could not ever overcome it.

What if the whole point of Jesus is to show the children of God a way to waddle—without fear—right back home to God’s nest. Nestled beneath God’s wings. Resting along the cool calm waters of our baptism. With room enough for us all. Even those other “chicks” we’d really rather not have as siblings. But whom are still God’s beautiful, precious, pleasing children.

Whom God loves with all her soul.

It is, after all, the ‘mother hen’ Jesus who swoops across the countryside from one chaotic village to the next. Casting out demons and performing cures. Today, tomorrow, and the next day. Until the work is finished.

Now the language of ‘demons’ in this story may sound strange or even scary to us, but for the first century follower of Jesus it just means any kind of internal or external force of feeling or disease or social condition that rips through our bodies and spirits beyond our ability to control it with our cognition. It means something like the violent rage that can well up within any of us without warning when we feel threatened. Or the terror that gets triggered in a time of post-traumatic stress. Or the mental illness that overpowers us even when we try so hard to tamp it down. Or the racism or sexism or homophobia that ripples through our common life even when we think  we have already overcome. 

And these demons can come to define us, can they not? We can forget who we really are. Trading the font of identity for the waters of chaos. But Jesus does not. He knows our demons are more like a fox in the henhouse when the madness takes over. He knows the true font of our identity is formed by the hovering, brooding, life-giving ‘mother hen’ Spirit of God. Not the chaos. And he wants to heal us. And restore us. His brood of beloved children. Not condemn us. And so he does. With the love of a God who created us good. And in us is incredibly pleased.

It is part of our denomination-wide Lenten Journey of Peace Discernment on this Second Sunday in Lent to consider why we in the church keep on clinging to violence—even in our most treasured teachings of the tradition about the cross—when the clear witness of Jesus and the early church lead us on the path of nonviolent love instead.

And as far as I can tell, our ‘brooding’ over our love of violence must begin with this fundamental question: can we who are human fully receive the unqualified, unquenchable, unconditional, universal, ‘mother hen’ steadfast love of God deep in our soul. Literally ‘bred’ into the fabric of creation. Calling us home to an all-affirming shalom. Through the waters of our baptism. Calming the chaos?

Can we really believe God just wants to love us? And love one another? Not because of something we do. Or don’t do. But just because God loves God’s children!

Or must we instead keep insisting on our inherent sinfulness. And your inherent sinfulness. And their inherent sinfulness. Whoever “they” may be. Worthy only of a great big whooping. And thereby attacking one another over and over and over again in a constant pecking order based on that sinfulness that lands us right back where we started in the beginning. With the earth as a desert wasteland. And the waters of chaos raging. And no bird singing. Because we keep on killing the beloved children of God.

The truth is that Jesus really does show us a different way. Right here in Luke’s gospel. When the fear of Herod really could stop him in his tracks, he says no, I am still God’s beloved child and God is still very pleased with me. And I am healing the demons that rage in our midst through the steadfast love of God. And I could flee this threat, or I could fight this threat, but instead I will love this threat and lament this threat with the clucking of a mother hen. Who keeps on calling the chicks home to a loving all-affirming shalom through the waters of our baptism.

The choice Jesus makes—to love and lament the threat, instead of fighting or fleeing it—is the one available to us all in our Lenten Journey discerning God’s peace. It is literally “bred” into the fabric of creation, according to Genesis, through that hovering, swooping, brooding Spirit of God that comes upon the waters of chaos and finds a way to calm them. Slowly. Steadily. Patiently. With care.

Yes, the threats of chaos will always come to us. In ways large and small. From within our own families and from around the globe. And even—dare I say—from within our very selves. And the demons get stoked and the chaos starts to swirl and the font of our identity starts to fade. But the brooding ‘mother hen’ love of God remains. Present with us from the dawn of time. And we get to return to the shadow of its wings if we want to. And I think we really want to.

“In what ways does the church today practice—or fail to practice—Jesus’ message of nonviolence?’ the Peace Discernment question asks of us. What legacy might we reclaim in our 21^st century context?

Many of you met Janie Spahr when she stood trial here one year ago for her ministry of blessing the marriages of same-gender loving couples as a Presbyterian minister. Nowhere in the church have I seen the brooding ‘mother hen’ love of God, in the face of violent threat, more actively proclaimed in word and in deed than through Janie’s ministry, and others who follow in her footsteps.

For decades Janie has served on the front lines of the movement for lgbt equality in church and society, healing and casting out demons of hatred and despair. And for decades the great ‘foxes’ of Herods have threatened her way. And the Pharisees in their fear encouraged her to flee the wrath, urging her not to “divide the church” with her ministry.

But she never gave in. She didn’t flee, but she also didn’t fight back. At least not on their terms.

Instead she has stood firm in her identity as the Beloved Child of God, saying simply, “I am healing in God’s name. And so should you. I am gathering all of God’s beloved children into the brood. And so should you. I am blessed to come in the name of the life-giving Spirit of God. And you can be, too!”

It has taken a long time. It has taken too long. And we sometimes feel we still have too long to go. But because of the nonviolent ‘mother hen’ Jesus love of Janie—and so many like her throughout the centuries in the civil rights movement and the women’s movement and all the peace and justice movements of the tradition—we are closer to living as the beloved community of God’s children than we ever have been before.

This, my friends, is what the Jesus ministry looks like.

The brooding, ‘mother hen,’ beloved community. Facing our own demons. Loving onward and upward. Changing hearts and minds and spirits along the path. Even in the face of fox that threatens the way.

And it is what we mean at Madison Square when we say, “welcome home.” You beautiful, beloved, fabulous brood.

May every one of you live in peace.

Amen.