Over-Shadowed

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Luke 1:26-55

God is my strength.

Mary knows this already. She would have learned this, recited this, sung this from the Psalms in her first century version of Sunday School, growing up in Nazareth of Galilee. God is my refuge and my strength, she would have prayed over and over again. A very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear. No matter what, she would have prayed. And Mary would have felt a sense of comforting trust that God was her strength, and your strength, and my strength no matter what! Which is our promise in Advent as we prepare for the coming of Christ.

But when Mary, who is engaged to Joseph—of the house of David—actually comes face to face with the God she has prayed to for strength, when she physically encounters the power of God directed toward her in the first person dwelling in a messenger named Gabriel, when she hears that she has found favor with God and that she will bear a son and that her son will rule an unending kingdom, Mary stutters in the face of the God who is her strength. As most of us undoubtedly would.

“How can this be?” she wants to know. I am not even married yet. What you are saying does not make any sense.

And she is right. And that is the point. The power of God doesn’t make sense. Especially when it is staring you right in the face.

And so the strength of God, through the voice of Gabriel, cuts straight to the chase: “The Holy Spirit will come upon you,” Gabriel says, “and the power of the Most High will overshadow you. And nothing will be impossible with God.” Period.

For Mary, at least as the story is conveyed to us in Luke’s Gospel, this appears to be enough. God says it; she believes it; and that settles it, as the bumper sticker says. “Here am I, the servant of the Lord; let it be with me according to your word.”

And the rest, as they say, is history.

2000 years later, Mary’s place in that history has been hotly debated. Is she, herself, worthy of worship? What is going on with her psychologically in this moment of “Annunciation”? Is she really a “meek and mild gentle maiden,” as our opening hymn suggests? Or does she instead speak a word of heartfelt challenge in response to Gabriel’s announcement?

Some theologians want to read Mary as being immediately obedient to God’s word, encouraging those of us who follow in her footsteps on this fourth Sunday in Advent, 2011, to do the same. But others see Mary actively engaging the creative power of God with a strength of her own, insisting that God invites Mary to “co-create” a new world order, as it were, and that this “co-creating with God” is our calling, as well as we prepare for the coming of Christ once more.

I, for example, like to point out that the very name “Mary” just so happens to mean “rebellious.” I think the meaning of her name matters! And it is not beyond the realm of possibility that some measure of rebellion in Mary’s spirit may very well have been encouraged by her first century Jewish community. And no, I’m not talking about the bubble gum popping in church kind of rebellion. I’m talking about the fact that Mary and her people faced the ongoing consequences of the Roman occupation and exploitation of even her little town in Galilee. I’m talking about the yearning for justice and freedom that would very likely have been nurtured in her spirit from the time she was a young child. And this yearning would have been prevalent all around Mary as her people sought the strength of God in resisting the power of Rome.

I’m talking about the kind of yearning, rebellious, revolutionary spirit that would urge Mary to joyfully embrace the power of God gestating within her that will “scatter the proud, bring down the powerful, and lift up the lowly in order to fill the hungry with good things,” which are the flat-out revolutionary words of the Magnificat that Mary sings with Elizabeth once her role in the birth of Christ has been announced. In fact, the power of God gestating within Mary so infuses her with the awesome and righteous strength of the Holy Spirit that she is able to proclaim that the revolution of God’s justice and peace has already occurred—in the past tense—because it has already occurred within her very self!

This is, as far as I can tell, the whole point of the incarnation, for Mary and for us: God’s power is already with us, blessing us, strengthening us, uplifting us, redeeming us, even when we can’t quite make sense of it. God’s power is even within us, scattering whatever in us that is proud or powerful in the ways of domination and opening us up to the pride and power that is the way of God. Whether we are, by nature, “meek and mild gentle maidens” gratefully receiving the gift of God’s grace without question or rebellious radical revolutionaries for justice and peace. Or perhaps a little bit of both.

The true promise of this fourth Sunday of Advent is that Mary allows this power of the God who is already her strength to be more than a helping hand through the journey of her life. When the invitation comes, she allows this power of God to transform every part of her life beyond recognition! Mary welcomes the power of God into her very body in order to bring about the salvation of the world. She says “yes” to this power that makes no sense and never will. She commits to a future she cannot yet see but believes is good news. She takes the time to let God’s presence grow within her those nine long months. And she trusts God to strengthen her, whatever happens next. And that is what the life of faith is about, then and now. Total, utter, life-changing transformation through the power of the Holy Spirit.

And the really good news is that when “the power of the Most High overshadows” Mary, as the angel Gabriel says it will, what is actually going on is that God’s strength is enveloping Mary in a divine seal of protection as every part of her life is transformed by God’s power, throughout her scandalous pregnancy and the tumultuous life of the child she loves so much. What is really happening when “the power of the Most High overshadows” Mary is that God wraps her up in God’s own power, just like we wrap ourselves up in the baby blanket crocheted by our grandmothers or the prayer shawl knitted by our deacons. And the kingdom of heaven that God wants to birth through us is protected and strengthened and nourished and supported.

Now that is something to celebrate, as we open our own hearts and minds and even bodies to the ways Christ is born through us in this new year. Because this “kingdom without end” ushered in at Christ’s birth asks every one of us to labor for justice and peace in our time—just as Mary did in her time—and that is one dangerous mission, to be sure. But the power of God protects we who birth this present reality. The power of God envelops us, casts shade upon us, and yes, even overshadows us as we welcome the Prince of Peace once more.

And for that powerful presence, for that strength of our God that will never fail us—ever!—may we joyfully join our sister Mary in responding, “Here am I, the servant of God; let it be with me according to your word.”

I pray it may be so.

Amen.

Comfort, Texas

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Isaiah 40: 1-11           

Mark 1: 1-3  


“The beginning of the good news of Jesus Christ, the son of God,” according to Mark’s Gospel, sounds quite a bit like the words of comfort coming to us from Isaiah in the Old Testament lesson that is also before us this morning. Words that begin with, “Comfort, o comfort my people.”

If we were paying close attention to Isaiah last week, in the first Sunday of Advent, we did not hear these words of comfort. We heard words of a sense that all is not well with the world and that we really do need a savior. And perhaps it left us a little bit on edge, wondering where our hope might come from in this Advent season that is our preparation for Christmas.

Well here is that hope, right here, right now, in this follow-up word from the prophet. Because the good news of our journey through the season of Advent is that Isaiah’s proclamation of judgment is followed immediately by comfort! In fact, for Isaiah the whole point of God calling the people to repentance in the first place is because God wants to forgive and restore and renew. To make whole. And the good news of our ongoing journey through the season of Advent is that the last word on Christmas—the eschaton, as we have been discussing in our adult education class—the last word forever from our steadfastly loving God is always, and finally, grace.

You see the people to whom Isaiah speaks, both this week and last week, have just plain suffered too much. The entire city of Jerusalem has been decimated by the Babylonian empire, the great Temple of Solomon destroyed, and the people have been taken into captivity—into exile—away from everything they know and love, wondering if their God even exists anymore.

In the world of ancient Israel at the time of Isaiah’s preaching, the people believe that something of the literal, physical, essence of the God they worship resides in the temple that is built to honor God. The kabod of God, they call this literal, physical essence of God in Hebrew. Translated into English as the glory of God. So every time you hear the phrase “glory of God” or “glory of the Lord” consider that this is referring to the literal or physical manifestation of God on earth.

We in the Christian tradition understand the glory of God to be seen in the incarnation. It is what we celebrate on Christmas Day. But the people of ancient Israel believed the glory of God resided in the Jerusalem temple. And by the time we get to this lesson from Isaiah the Jerusalem temple has been destroyed. And so the people literally wonder if God exists anymore.

They are ready to receive a word of comfort. And so God—who most emphatically does still exist!—and does not need a temple or a church, or even a preacher, for that matter, in the mighty yet intimate voice that belongs uniquely to our steadfastly loving God, calls forth a divine council in the heavens and invites the prophet Isaiah to listen in. And says, “It is time to comfort my people.” It is time.

A voice from the divine council rallies the troops. “Make straight in the desert a highway for our God,” the voice directs. Roll out a path of safety and security through the danger of the desert. A path that will always lead the people back to their spiritual home. And another voice confirms: somewhere along that path of safety and security and comfort the “glory of God,” the kabod of God, the physical presence of God in our midst will be revealed! And all people will see it together.

And another voice concludes: God, herself, will be leading the flock of God’s people along this path of safety and security through the danger of the desert, like a shepherd carrying the lambs of God close to her heart, gently leading the mother sheep” through this desert highway to land of comfort and healing and wholeness and hope.

This is what our Advent journey is all about, especially on this second Sunday of Advent here at Madison Square. We who gathered here last night in a service to comfort families of the victims of violent crime bore witness to the glory of God revealed right here in our midst in this our spiritual home. The same aisle your elders and deacons will follow to the table of sustenance that is our communion today became for those families the path of safety and security, foretold by Isaiah, through their desert of despair and grief. One lamb of God after another brought forward an angel of hope representing the spirit of the one they had loved so deeply.

They stood at the microphone, which had been moved beside the table, and they spoke the name of the one they had loved. And in speaking that name, they called forth the glory of the God who knows each us by name, just like we know the ones we love by name. And they called forth the glory of the God who also had a name at his birth that is coming so soon. And they called forth the glory of the God who relates to us in all the ways the one they loved had related to them: as mother, father, son or daughter, sister, brother, friend.

And they made their way by ones and twos and entire extended families to the tree that has been so beautifully and lovingly placed in our midst. And they hung their angel on the tree, gracing us with the glory of God through these angels on this second Sunday of Advent. And the God who is our shepherd led them with tender grace along this path of safety and security and wholeness and hope just as God leads each one of us along this path, holding us close to her heart, gently leading the mother sheep and the grandfather sheep and the brother and sister and best friend sheep, as we hold the ones we love close to our hearts, trusting always in the light that does still shine in the darkness. And the darkness cannot ever overcome it.

Comfort, oh comfort my people, God says to the divine council, with the same heart of the mother and the grandfather and the best friend seeking solace. Comfort my people, God says to us, who gather in this sanctuary of hope on this second Sunday of Advent. I know what it is to be one of you, God says to us, in this joyful feast that is our communion today. And I want you to be well!

And so I am calling you, God says, down this path of healing and wholeness and hope through whatever desert would diminish your spirit. I am calling you home to this table of grace. I am feeding you with my very own presence. And I am sending you forth to do the same for all you meet. Because the one comforting path of God’s presence in our lives must always follow two different directions: the first one inward to this table of grace, and the second one outward to a world that is hungry for hope. We are not comforted here, in the end, for ourselves alone, but in order that we might, in turn, comfort God’s people in the world beyond these walls.

This is the promise of our second Sunday of Advent, as we gather at the table of Christ for our resurrection meal. I pray it may be so. Amen.

I've Seen Fire and I've Seen Rain

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Isaiah 64: 1-9
Mark 13: 24-37

“Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest and let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen.”

This is the prayer that has graced the Newquist family table ever since I can remember. It is a prayer that apparently goes back generations, having actually originated on another continent in another language in another time. It is a prayer that, if we pay close attention, speaks to the deepest longings of all our hearts every time we gather as one human family at one table or another across time and space. At the Thanksgiving table. At the communion table:

“Come, Lord Jesus,” we pray. Come.

In my family, of course, we were eager to eat the meat! When I was growing up the blessing was but one more parental-imposed barrier between our over-eager taste buds and the stacks of complex carbohydrates and essential amino acids that would fuel our active minds and adolescent bodies. My three brothers and yours truly would race through the blessing as fast as we could, combining words that were never meant to be compounded, cascading ever more rapidly toward the punchline ‘Amen!’ that would finally give us permission to dig in.

It sounded something like this: Comlojesubeoguesnlethegiftusbestahhhhhhmen!

(Let’s just say we were not all that reverent when it came to stuffing our faces.)

As you know, I went back home for Thanksgiving this year. All four siblings back at the same table with spouses and offspring and Grandma stopping in for good measure. As we sat down Monday night for what would be our first meal of the week, I reverted to childhood. The fastest blessing on record came out of my mouth.

My family was not amused.

“Okaaaaaaay?” my sister-in-law wondered, looking around for an explanation to this mutiny. “What was that about?” my brother demanded, completely forgetting that he had originated this race.

The times had apparently changed. Not a single one of them dove for the comfort-food spread lavishly before us. The “blessing” that had once been a burden had become one of the most treasured parts of their meal.

“You ruined it,” my Dad sighed, shaking his head. And he was right. I had ruined the blessing of our family meal the same way most of us ruin Advent.

The season of Advent, beginning today, is, you might say, the grace before the feast of Christmas. Advent is a churchwide chance to gather with our human family and prepare for Christ’s coming. Which is, I would argue, altogether different than preparing for Christmas, at least given what Christmas has become in our culture. Advent may be even more important than the Christmas meal, itself. Or at least it can remind us—like a blessing before mealtime—why Christmas is so very special.

What might happen if we decide not to race through the season of Advent like four teenagers on a fast-track to the Christmas dinner splurge? If we took the time to pray our way through this blessed season of Advent slowly and intentionally, opening our hearts and minds and spirits to receive Christ as our guest, asking for God’s blessing on our gifts—both great and small?

Come, Lord Jesus, be our guest, and let these gifts to us be blessed. Amen.

If we slow down enough to pay attention to the blessing that is this season of Advent, we may very well hear ourselves reciting a prayer for all time, and not just our time: “O that you would tear open the heavens and come down!” we might hear ourselves clamoring in this season, with the same spirit of longing as the prayer from the prophet Isaiah that is our Old Testament lesson for today. “We are all your people,” we might hear our human family crying out, if we slow down enough to pay attention, as Isaiah heard his human family crying out when God seemed hidden from them.

If we slow down enough to pay attention to the blessing that is this season of Advent, we may very well, like Isaiah, hear the cries of people we don’t even know. Or even more challenging, people we do know but don’t like. Or even more challenging, people we do know don’t like us. And we might actually start to listen to them, and learn from them, and maybe even come to sit beside them at the feast that is to come.

Because if we slow down long enough to pay attention to the blessing that is Advent, we may very well be forced to acknowledge how desperate we truly are—every one of us—for a savior. Right here, right now, and not just two thousand years ago. Because the hard truth of this Advent blessing is that neither Isaiah in the Old Testament lesson nor Jesus in the Gospel of Mark promises cheap grace or easy comfort as we rush to the fulfillment of God’s promises of peace. “We have all become like one who is unclean,” Isaiah confesses on our behalf, “and all our righteous deeds are like a filthy cloth.” “For nation will rise against nation,” Jesus warns, “there will be earthquakes in various places; there will be famines.”

How’s that for Christmas holiday joy? How’s that for a family time of prayer before the big meal of the season?

But they are right. Perhaps the reason we race through the blessing of the season of Advent is that it just may spoil our appetite to acknowledge the complete and utter mess we have made of this world God has given us. And yes, I mean “we.” Because the biblical tradition does not let us off the hook as individuals who say we don’t agree with the failings of our institutions. The biblical tradition holds every one of us accountable for the common failings of the human race.

Our fractured economy, for example, where regardless of what we think about the Occupy Wall Street Movement, the truth really is that income inequality is greater than it has been since the eve of the Great Depression, even as one country after another and one state after another and one municipality after another defaults on its promises to the past and to the future. And our fractured government, for example, where superb dysfunction is all that seems to come from the super committee of the moment and superb silence too often resonates throughout the churches on the pressing issues of our time as we in the pulpit rush to the Christmas comfort of your affliction, instead of afflicting your comfort in the blessing of the season of Advent.

If we slow down enough to pay attention, we may very well hear ourselves grumbling, like the prophet Isaiah, that God has “delivered us into the hand of our iniquity.” And that may make us very, very uncomfortable at the exact moment we are seeking God’s comfort. And this is, I must tell you, as it should be. Because if we are more concerned in the season of Advent about feeling good than we are about being good, then we have missed the whole point of the coming of Christ. Repentance is required for Christ to come again.

The blessing of Advent does feel like a burden, I am afraid . . . unless it reminds us how desperate we really are for a savior. We really are pleading with God in Advent to bring forth that time and place where pain and suffering will be no more, and no more shall the sound of weeping be heard, and God’s reign of justice and peace will lead the wolf to dwell with the lamb. We really are holding out in hope in Advent with these few words—“Come, Lord Jesus”—the promise of that heavenly banquet we all will share with a wounded yet resurrected Christ at the end of time. The “coming of the Son of Man” Jesus calls it in Mark’s Gospel lesson for today. The “eschaton,” as we have been discussing in our adult education class.

We who are moderate to progressive Presbyterians do not generally speak of preparing for the Second Coming, which is what this Advent blessing really is all about. Often, given our intellectualism or our desire to move beyond a fear-based religious upbringing or the simple fact that Jesus said in Mark’s Gospel Lesson for today that it would happen in his generation and it clearly did not—at least not the way we think it should—we are not necessarily sure we want to believe it. Or we leave it to the Left Behind movement or simply dismiss the whole notion as irrelevant to the moment we are in.

But the prophet Isaiah holds God to account for God’s promise of steadfast love and loyalty through the end of time, and we who follow Christ in our time and place are no less faithful when we do the same. We sinned because you were angry, Isaiah is bold enough to declare to God. “Because you hid yourself we transgressed,” Isaiah says. If we could just see you, he seems to be declaring, we would get our act together. If you would just shape us who are clay into a beautiful and useful creation, Isaiah pleads—like a potter at the wheel—we will become your new creation, we will sit at the table with our friends and our enemies in the coming kingdom of Christ’s glory, and we will find a way to make sure the table is open to all. You have worked this wonder in the past, Isaiah says. “Come, Lord Jesus,” we pray. “We thought we’d see you again.”

“But about that day or hour no one knows,” Jesus concludes in the Gospel of Mark. It is like God has gone on a journey and left us—God’s servants—with God’s work to do, and asked a doorkeeper to be on the watch. So we gather at the table with passionate patience in a perpetual season of Advent, holding hands and praying, “Come, Lord Jesus. Come.”

And in the meantime, we get to work. Because we are Christ’s body, here in the church, right here, right now, and God has given us a job while we wait. “Can You Help?” the front cover of today’s “Giving Issue” of Parade Magazine asks. And it features 10 organizations that are lending a helping hand across the nation. And if you want to “think globally but act locally,” may I point right next door to the Child Development Center, where your extra donation could go a long way toward ensuring the stability of a program that serves so many who have few other places to go? Or if extra dollars are hard to come by right now, how about just asking someone you don’t know—or better yet someone you do know but have a hard time liking—to sit down to dinner with you . . . and hear their prayer for Christ to come mingled with your own . . . and watch the kingdom unfold right before your eyes.

Because in a very real sense Christ is already here, as we sit at the table. The meal is already before us, as we pray for God’s blessing in preparation for the feast. And this watching and waiting is but a prelude for the joy to come, if we just take the time to pay attention.

I pray it may be so. Amen.

You Have What is Yours

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Matthew 25:14-30

Two years ago, when I was serving a church in Tucson, I had the privilege of joining a group of teenagers and their adult advisors on a mission trip to Agua Prieta, Mexico, just across the border from Douglass, Arizona. We were participating in one of our Presbyterian Border Ministry partnerships called “Frontera de Cristo,” which offers assistance in church development, health ministries, and migrant resources for both sides of the U.S./Mexico border.

Our very first day was a Sunday, so we visited Lily of the Valley Presbyterian Church in Agua Prieta. The service was, of course, in Spanish, so we strained our ears to understand what was going on. But worshiping God is, in a sense, a universal language, so we found ourselves settling into the rhythm of the sanctuary quite nicely after just a few moments.

Then came the time came in the worship service to receive the morning offering. Here at Madison Square, we pass a plate down the pew while the choir blows our socks off with whatever musical arrangement Paul Hughes has cooked up for us this week. And it is amazing! But nobody sees what we give—or if we give—and we don’t really talk about money very much, and it is all very private, as issues relating to money usually are in polite society on this side of the border.

But at the Lily of the Valley Church, the offering time is a really big deal. In fact, it’s almost as if the entire service culminates at this point. The band—with drums and guitars and crashing cymbals—leads the entire congregation in singing, and they come forward in plain view to place their offering in plates that are placed on the communion table. We, who were supposedly ‘rich’ Americans, wanted the congregation to see that we would give our part, too. But as we stood up to put our dollar in the plate, our host urged us to sit back down.

There are two different processions that come forward to the front of the sanctuary at the time of offering, he said. In the first, it is only the official members of the congregation that come forward. When you join Lily of the Valley Presbyterian Church, you commit to offering ten percent of whatever income you have earned every week. It is a condition of membership to offer a tithe, he told us.

Wait until the second procession, he said. That is when anyone who wishes to give an additional offering—or participants in worship who are not official members of the congregation—come forward to present their gifts. Two processions—one to tithe, one to make an offering of love, both to celebrate the goodness of a God who has offered us abundant life, who has commanded us to share that abundant life with everyone.

Three days later, we learned that part of our mission trip experience would be to try to figure out how to live on a maquila salary for 36 hours. We were reminded that this salary was about the same as what our tithing Christian sisters and brothers at Lily of the Valley Church received. So we, who had been asked to figure out how to live on a basic salary similar to what our Christian sisters and brothers working at one of these factories would have, huddled over a budget worksheet to discuss our most important budget priorities: Food, of course. Shelter, definitely. We figured we had enough clothing for 36 hours so we let that basic necessity go unbudgeted. But tithing. That was on the list of possible budget items. What would we do about tithing?

It was a concept that was new to our youth, so I explained that in biblical tradition, when the Israelites lived in an agricultural economy, they were commanded to return the first tenth of their crops to the service of God. This “tithe”—meaning 10 percent—provided an income for the temple priests who had committed their lives to serve the people. The tithe also provided a pool of resources to care for those who did not have enough to cover their basic needs.

It is not so different from the pledges we make to our congregation. Some of us give ten percent, right off the top. Others of us give a different percentage every year. Others of us give a particular amount that reflects our prayerful response to the generosity of God. Through the practice of giving back—whatever amount it might be—we, like the ancient Israelites, remember that everything we have produced through the sweat of our own labor is, in fact, a gift from God, even if we worked hard to earn it. And through the practice of giving back, we, like the ancient Israelites, share the fruits of our labor with those whose labor simply has not provided sufficiently for their needs, even if they have worked just as hard as those who have more.

So there we were, four American teenagers and three American adults living on a Mexican maquila salary for 36 hours trying to decide whether or not to tithe. We did not think our maquila salary was very large. We had already decided that we could not afford to set aside any money for medical emergencies. And with four growing teenagers among us, we really, really, really wanted to have enough to eat!

So . . . would we tithe?

Well, it just so happens that one of the adult leaders and I are committed tithers, and we both spoke passionately in favor of the practice. The other leader spoke of how her experience of tithing is an expression of her gratitude for having a job and her discipline of trusting that God will provide, even when times are difficult, just as God provided for the Israelites wandering in the wilderness on their way to a land of milk and honey. I spoke about how the practice of tithing had given me the courage and dignity to receive help from others when I needed it, knowing that God was using the gifts of others to care for me in my time of need, just as God had used my gifts to care for others in their time of need.

We convinced our teenagers to tithe in Agua Prieta on that mission trip. Some of us agreed reluctantly, others of us agreed passionately. But in the end, we tithed. And then we got sick. We had set aside money for the church, we had set aside money for food, we had set aside money for housing, but we had not set aside money for healthcare. And we got sick.

Guess who helped us? Lily of the Valley Presbyterian Church. The place we had just sent our tithe.

Our pastors took us to the doctor, and we got the medicine we needed. Our church family made us chicken soup—a cross cultural health care system for sure. Our leaders adapted the schedule for us, so we could rest. And we got better. And now it is all a distant memory.

But we tithed. On a maquila salary, we gave thanks and we gave back. And I would submit to you that the experience of giving to the church in that 36 hour period really did change our lives, spiritually, emotionally, physically. We gave back as a reminder that everything we have received comes from God. And we gave back as a reminder that God has asked us—no, God has commanded us—to share what we have with others. And we gave back as a reminder that we might someday need help ourselves. And that, too, is a gift from God.

On this Stewardship Sunday, at Madison Square Presbyterian Church, God has invited us all to gather in the spirit of those four teenagers and three adults in Agua Prieta making decisions about our budget and what we think we can afford. Food, of course. Shelter, no doubt, Clothing down the road. Health care, we pray. But giving back to God . . . perhaps we really can afford it. Perhaps, in this economy, when more and more people are coming to us for help, we can’t afford not to.

God really has provided for everything we need, just as God provided for the Israelites wandering in the desert . . . just as God provided for the first century Judeans in the time of Jesus . . . just as God provides for 21^st century Christians—and people of all faiths—across any border in any part of the world during any economic cycle. And our job is to say thank you . . . and to share. May it be so among us today. Amen.

On Being Presbyterian

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Matthew 23: 1-12


It is Reformation Sunday—the last Sunday in October—an occasion offered to us every year in our church calendar to take special time in our worship and preaching to remember our heritage as Presbyterians and consider what pieces of our heritage maintain a lasting relevance in our current era.

We are, after all, a denomination that claims its origins in the Protestant Reformation of sixteenth century Europe. We are a denomination whose roots are in resisting what our forbears believed to be the corrupted power and influence of a class of clergy that separated themselves from the people. A denomination whose roots are in recovering the original source of the teachings of Jesus and stripping away the trappings of cultural excess that co-opt the gospel for its own purposes. A denomination whose roots are in the radical truth that God’s grace alone is all we can ever depend on, that God alone is all we can ever depend on, that God alone is the lord of our conscience.

We are, in fact, a denomination whose roots are in the teaching of Matthew’s Gospel lesson for us today. Don’t be like the Pharisees, Jesus tells his disciplies and the crowds surrounding them. Yes, they “sit on Moses’ seat,” and they are good and qualified teachers of the tradition. You should listen to what they say. But “they tie up heavy burdens, hard to bear, and lay them on the shoulders of others.” They turn the gift of Sabbath, the gift of the community, the gift of releasing one’s burdens through public rituals into even greater burdens, when they are supposed to be blessings. Even worse, the Pharisees have given themselves over to the perks of their position, propping up their image instead of truly caring for the needs of the people. Every one of these being a fault that the sixteenth century Reformers saw mirrored in the Roman clergy they found themselves resisting. And because those reformers took the gospel lesson seriously, here we are five hundred years later with an entirely new denomination on a new continent with a rich legacy of our own to resist and reclaim.

Part of our rich legacy as a denomination lies in the enormous role Presbyterians played in the early formation of this country that is our home. The United States Constitution, for example—and the general principle of representative democracy, where power is shared and no one person has ultimate authority—is directly related to the Presbyterian form of government. Presbyterians, by and large, supported the American Revolution, as well. A large number of the signers of the Declaration of Independence were Presbyterian. John Witherspoon, the only member of the clergy who signed the Declaration, was a Presbyterian minister.

And just to give us some perspective on the more contemporary influence of Presbyterianism in our common life, I offer you the following sample of noted Presbyterians: Fred Rogers, of Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood was a Presbyterian minister; Mark Twain was a Presbyterian; David Brinkely was a Presbyterian; Sally Ride grew up Presbyterian (and her sister is an ordained minister in California); Presidents Dwight Eisenhower and Ronald Reagan, as well as Vice President Walter Mondale were all Presbyterian; and just to put things in really important perspective Jimmy Stewart, John Wayne, and Shirley Temple were Presbyterian, too. How could we ever have gotten along without these Presbyterians! Surely we are part of a rich, long legacy of faithful people who lived good and decent lives and made a significant contribution to the world at large. Life as we know it would not exist without the Presbyterian tradition. We have every right to hold some small measure of pride in the rich heritage that is ours to claim today.

But while there are many lifelong Presbyterians among us who may already be well aware of our heritage and our famous sisters and brothers in the faith, many of us united with a congregation of the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.) in our adulthood, including yours truly. It used to be that when people of one denomination moved to another town or state, they would look up the nearest church in that denomination and transfer their membership there. This is no longer the case. Some of us intentionally align with the values and teachings and history (and perhaps even the famous people) of our particular denomination, but most of us simply stumble upon a church that we like, or a pastor we like, or a music program we like, and take on the Presbyterian label as just one more piece of the package. Am I right?

In fact, most sociologists who study American religion in its current trajectory are warning those of us who cling tightly to a particular denominational heritage that we are out of step with the majority of our parishioners and with the population at large. American religion has entered a new era of “post-denominationalism,” these scholars say, where most of us hop from one denomination to another—or even from one distinct religious tradition to another—depending on our particular needs at particular moments of our lives, and depending on what options are available in a new location for a highly transient population.

And all of this is just fine, in my opinion. Because the very Gospel Lesson that the 16th Century Reformers used to justify their resistance to Roman rule warns all of us who follow in their footsteps of the dangers of placing too much authority in any human institution—or any human being representing that institution—including, and perhaps especially, our own.

The Pharisees, after all, are not such a different group of people from modern day Presbyterians. They, like all Jews living under Roman occupation in first century Judea, are trying to figure out how to be faithful to the tradition of their ancestors while at the same time resisting the occupation of the Roman empire. At least one first century historian—by the name of Josephus—describes the Pharisees as a group that lives simply and protects what is worth fighting for, as people who “love one another and practice consensus in their community.” And they have—by far—the most popular support among first century Judeans.

The Sadducees, on the other hand, as priestly aristocrats who are caught up in Temple sacrifices, are perceived by the people to be overly friendly with Rome. The Essenes, who live in austere, celibate community in the desert of Qumran, are perceived by the people to be escapists. The Zealots, who seek to overthrow Rome with military might and have already provoked a violent retaliation, are perceived by the people to be far too dangerous.

We, who are twenty-first century American Christians know the Pharisees predominantly as the legalistic opponents of Jesus. The Protestant Reformers of 16th century Europe know the Pharisees as the prototype of all that is wrong with the religion they are seeking to reform. But in comparison with the other sects of first century Judaism, the Pharisees are not really so bad. In fact, they are good. They are really, really good. They are the scholars and the teachers—and, I might add, the preachers!—who have taken on the job of educating the masses regarding the best ways to adapt Mosaic Law to their entire lives. The Pharisees, by and large, believe the best way to be delivered from Rome is to live as faithfully as possible in accordance with the Law of Moses. And they believe God has commissioned them, by and large, to instruct others into the same fidelity.

Some might say this is a good working job description for a twenty-first century Christian pastor, the “teaching elder,” as the new Presbyterian Form of Government calls us. We are supposed to “be committed to teaching the faith and equipping the saints for the work of ministry . . . so that they people are shaped by the pattern of the gospel and strengthened for witness and service.” Concerned about, as our tradition calls it, “rightly preaching the Word and rightly administering the Sacraments.” Concerned about offering the people a chance to relinquish their burdens of sin and oppression and receiving the grace of God in response. Concerned with cultivating a community that is well-educated about the tradition and its modern-day application to our lives. We are . . . I can’t believe it . . . supposed to be Pharisees! What would the Reformers say?!

How about something like this?

On this Reformation Sunday—which can far too easily succumb to a state of “Presbyterian Pride”—the message is fairly straightforward: don’t do it! Just don’t do it. And the reason is this: the tradition, in the end, is not about you. It’s not about your country. It’s not about your movies and your television shows. It’s about God! And God is doing amazing things in your life and in the world, and we in the church want to be part of it. Plain and simple. Nothing else matters.

Many of us who land in this particular congregation at Madison Square have a story to tell about the Pharisees from whom we are fleeing, of the “church hurt” that has led us to a new home. But really, in the end, every one of us fits the description of the Pharisees in Matthew’s Gospel. Those who crave public approval, who fails to practice what we preach, who think we are passing on a blessing when in fact it can become a curse. Presbyterian ministers just as much as everyone else, and in fact sometimes more. That is the nature of religious institutions, and we are just plain stuck with it. When I was a senior in college lamenting this reality to my grandmother, she shared her own struggles with this truth. Yes, “the church wants to put chains on my soul,” she told me she had felt throughout her life. “But,” she said, “I don’t have to let it.” And neither do we.

The good news of the gospel really is this: God’s grace works through even us, even these inadequate, far too human, far too “Pharisaic” institutions, to bless the entire world. Even through you. Even through me. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to do anything. It’s simply here . . . ready, in this font of identity, in this table of sustenance, in this book of memory and promise, any time you want to come home. So welcome home.

This is what it means to be Presbyterian, after all. That God has welcomed you home, just the way you are. Not asking for fancy dress or public displays of piety. Just as you are. Whether you are John Wayne or our newest member to be received by the session after worship today or anyone else in between.

So I invite you in these next few moments of worship simply to rest in the goodness of who God is, and who God created you to be, and who God created this church to be. Knowing that God’s grace is sufficient to carry you through whatever burdens you bear and whatever burdens our tradition may unfairly place upon you. Trusting that Christ’s burden is easy and Christ’s yoke is light. And that the one God who claims us all is always leading us home.

I pray it may be so. Amen.

The Bible Tells Me So

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Deuteronomy 6:4-7

Leviticus 19:18

Matthew 22:34-30

Shema Yisrael, Adonai Elohaynu, Adonai Echad. Every day observant Jews across the globe chant this Scripture from Deuteronomy 6:5. Twice daily, in fact. It is called, as is traditional in Jewish custom, by the first word of the sentence as it is written in the Hebrew language: “Shema,” which means “to hear.” Observant Jews across the globe teach this Scripture to their children from generation to generation. They say it together as a bedtime prayer, reciting regularly what is—for all of us—the greatest command, which I translate from the Hebrew in the following manner:

Listen! Pay Attention! You are the people with whom God has chosen to persevere!

Don’t ever forget how special you are. Don’t ever forget the great lengths God has gone to in order to claim you as God’s own. Don’t ever forget that God is with you, always, even until the end of the age.

The Holy One is your God. The Holy One alone.

Meaning that the unnamable, unpronounceable, invisible God who created you from the waters of chaos, and redeemed you through the waters of the Red Sea, and sustains you through the waters of the mikvah (the ritual baths of purification) or the baptismal font is all that matters, ever! No matter what lesser god would demand your allegiance. No matter what lesser god would claim your very life. So, in response, you shall:

love the Holy One your God with all your heart and all your soul and all your strength.

And there is nothing you can do that is more important than this!

Now let’s be honest. How many of us walk around with a working knowledge of Deuteronomy fresh on our minds? Not many. We who are Christian have inherited an unfortunate Pauline distaste for the Law of Moses. We write off the so-called “God of the Old Testament” as vengeful and violent and vindictive. We even go so far as to mistake the origin of this “Great Commandment”—the Shema—with Jesus, himself. For we who are Christians, the command to love God with all our heart, soul, and mind comes directly from Christ in the Gospel Lesson from Matthew that is before us today, in response to a testing from the Pharisees, on the last Tuesday of his earthly existence, in a Temple showdown over the heart and soul of what it means to be faithful in the midst of empire.

But the Pharisees, the Sadducees, the Herodians, the disciples, literally everyone around Jesus in first century Judea—including Jesus, himself—would have chanted this beautiful Scripture from Deuteronomy—from the Law of Moses we too regularly disdain—every day of his or her life, from the time of childhood to the present moment. First century Judeans would have experienced the Shema as a deep wisdom dating all the way back from the Exodus, shaping their people through good times and bad for over a thousand years (depending on when you date the Exodus).

And they would have been taught over and over from our Leviticus reading not to exact vengeance against those who have wronged them, but “to love your neighbor as yourself.” Jesus is not instituting a new great commandment in this text from Matthew. He is simply reminding the Pharisees what they should already know: that the whole point of the Bible as they know it—the Old Testament—is to teach them how to love God and neighbor. And I would say the whole point of the Bible as we know it, is the same thing. It is not just a book of memory that tells us what people long ago thought about God. It is a present-day book of hope, holding forth the possibility that someway, somehow, if we just repeat these words long enough, maybe someday we will get them right.

Shema Yisrael, Jesus would have chanted over and over and over again throughout his life, as the core teaching of his own sacred Scriptures. Adonai Elohaynu, Adonai Echad. And the meaning of that chant would have seeped into the very fiber of his being, granting him a deep reservoir of courage to remind him who he really was—and to whom he really belonged—no matter what he will face from the chief priests and the Roman guards just a few days after the exchange with the Pharisees that is our Gospel lesson for today. The Shema would have kept Jesus grounded in the love of God for better and for worse throughout the entire ordeal that is to come.

The point I am trying to make here is that the words we say in worship, the songs and prayers we teach our children, the symbols and Sacraments we point to as often as we can, it all really matters! According to scholars who study the impact of ritual on the human psyche, we literally form a “ritual body” in our life together on Sunday mornings. We literally form neurological pathways through our brains that shape our consciousness and train our reflex reactions in moments of stress. Our rituals become integrated into the very fabric of our lives beyond conscious thought. And so we who perform these rituals must be very, very careful in how we enact them, as you are in your presentation of God’s gifts.

For Christians, our rituals focus on gathering around a baptismal font and a communion table and a pulpit and lectern from which we remember the ways in which God has spoken to God’s people throughout the ages and trust God to speak to us again today. And then here, at Madison Square, we also say, “Welcome home.” And I don’t have to tell you how much these rituals really matter, do I?

Esta es la fuente de identidad we say every Sunday, over and over, and we make sure our children are present in worship to hear these words. This is the font of identity, we say. And the sound of water splashing among these stones seeps into the cultural lining of our minds, and the assurance of God’s grace that comes along with it. To the point that whenever we hear splashing water, whenever we touch this miracle of life that forms ¾ of our bodies and ¾ of the earth’s body, whenever we taste the sweet blessing of water on our lips, whenever we bathe, whenever we swim, even whenever we cry we have the chance to float again in the font of our identity, to remember our baptism, to glimpse for one brief moment the grace of the God who has claimed us from the beginning of creation . . . and will not ever . . . ever . . . ever . . . let us go!

The waters of baptism are, I would suggest, the Christian version of the Shema. Because the Sacrament does not end with this particular font and this particular sanctified water and this particular child on this particular Sunday. We may be baptized only once, but we touch water every day. Ad with every touch and taste and even smell of this precious gift we take far too often for granted we have the chance to chant our own daily prayer in the spirit of Shema:

Esta es la fuente de identidad, we could say every time we turn on the faucet. This is the font of identity. I am a child of God’s blessing, we could say every time we bathe ourselves or our children, a child of God’s promise. And so I will love God with all my heart and soul and mind . . . and my neighbor as myself . . . because my neighbor is also a precious child of God’s blessing . . . a precious child of God’s promise . . . swimming in the sacred waters of baptism right along with me . . . and so anything I do or say to my neighbor I also say and do to myself.

If we remember our baptism daily with the simple touch of water, the simple taste of water, the simple sound of water, then we, like Jesus, will have a deep reservoir of courage and hope to remind us who we really are—and to whom we really belong—whatever we may come to face from our version of the chief priests and Roman guards who seek to steal our identity from us.

If we remember our baptism daily with the simple touch of water, then we, like Jesus, will have a deep well of hope for the entire human race to which we have been sealed. If we remember our baptism daily with the simple touch of water, then we, like Jesus, will hand back to God—remit is the word that comes to us from the Latin—every fault and failing, every insecurity and infidelity that would separate us from the covenant commitment we have in Christ.

This is the gift of grace and assurance and protection we have just given Nathan, child of blessing, child of promise, child of God’s covenant with humanity. This is the gift of grace and assurance and protection we claim again for ourselves.

So gather together again in God’s grace, people of God: the ones with whom God will always persevere. Gather at the overflowing fuente de identidad, splashing with delight in these sacred waters that wash over you, chanting forever that God has claimed you as God’s own, and demands nothing in return but to be loved with every part of who we are. And demands nothing in return but to be loved through our love of our neighbor. And demands nothing in return but to be loved through our love of our selves.

This is the font of identity, dear friends. Receive this gift of grace as it comes to you unbidden: with adults who respond gratefully to God’s wholly outstretched arms; with adolescents who are just opening up to God’s eternal grace; and with children whom God claims before we even know how to ask.

I pray it may be so.

Amen.

Seeing the Face of God

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Exodus 33: 12-23
Matthew 22: 15-22

Moses and the Hebrews have been at Mount Sinai for an entire year. They thought by now they would have arrived in the Land of Promise and Plenty, stable and settled, with all of the problems of Egypt behind them.

They are not.

At least not the way they thought they would be. They are still at Mount Sinai, still practicing the Ten Commandments, still figuring out how to live together away from the court of Pharoah in Egypt. Still figuring out how to worship a god whose face they cannot see and whose name they cannot pronounce. Because YHWH, the one who leads the Hebrews to Sinai, refuses to be pinned down in a graven image of wood or stone. “I am who I Am,” this god says. “I will be who I Will Be.” Not always terribly comforting for those of us who want God to “make sense,” stay the same, be whomever we want God to be.

And so the Hebrews are still at Mount Sinai, stuck in a holding pattern with God: worshiping a calf of gold (choosing an image of wealth they can see over a god who refuses to be rendered in an image), jockeying with one another for control of the community when Moses is away, and just generally missing the point of the honeymoon we are supposed to be celebrating after the holy union we celebrated last Sunday.

They are frustrated. With God, with Moses, with one another, with themselves. And, let’s face it, we can relate. Because which one of us has not—at least at some point in our lives—gotten stuck in a holding pattern with the Almighty? And maybe even—shall we be really honest?—with the people the Almighty has given us to love?

The presbytery, for example. Or the Presbyterian Church of Mexico, which has severed its official ties with us over our new inclusive ordination standards. Or even our own families where the commitment may be strong, but the compassion may be waning. We get stuck in a holding pattern, just when we think we have re-committed to this holy union with God and with one another and the new life that awaits on the other side of the wilderness. And we can easily spend the better part of a year—or two—or ten—watching and waiting for some word from God that will “fix it” and guide us on our holy way once more. Just like the Hebrews at Mount Sinai did.

As we come to our lesson from Exodus this morning, Moses has finally received that much-awaited word from God: It is time to move on. It is time to let go. It is time to embrace an unknown path to an unknown land . . . following with full trust this god whose face we cannot see. But before we pack up our tents and gather extra food for the journey, Moses wants comfort and assurance on this pilgrim journey toward wholeness. And surely this is also something we can all understand. Will you really be with us God, he asks? Can we see you somehow along this path that lies ahead? Being who you are? Being who you will be?

And God responds with grace and mercy, as God is sure to do: ‘I will make all my goodness pass before you,’ God says. Just lift up your eyes to the hills, just trust that I will lead you. My face hidden from you, yes, but my glory ever before you. Just trust that I will help you, because I have called you by name, and you are precious in my sight.

The invisible, unnamable god of the Hebrews does, finally, lead the people to a Land of Promise and Plenty. The same land Jesus roams as an itinerant preacher. The same land in which a temple has been constructed as the central place of worship for God. The same temple to which Jewish pilgrims from across the Mediterranean travel for the annual Passover Festival, which is where we find our Gospel Lesson. Tuesday of Holy Week. With Jesus and his disciples joining the pilgrimage. The Passover Festival recalling, of course, the same pilgrimage of Moses and the ancient Hebrews we have been ourselves remembering these past many weeks in our worship life together.

Along the way to Jerusalem, Jewish pilgrims from across the Mediterranean sing hymns from the Psalter . . . special hymns designed specifically as pilgrimage songs, including the one that our choir just sang. ‘I lift up my eyes to the hills,’ Jesus sings, his disciples singing with him. ‘From whence will my help come?’ we pray together. ‘My help comes from the Holy One . . . the maker of heaven and earth,’ we assure ourselves along the pilgrim path. ‘The Holy One will keep you from evil. The Holy One will guard your life.’

The words of this psalm are near to Jesus’ lips as he rides into Jerusalem on a donkey to shouts of ‘Hosannah!’ Near to his lips as he enters the temple that fateful first time. Near to his lips as he lashes out in horror at the money-changing operation that leads him to turn the tables. Near to his lips, as he lights into the Pharisees for their failure to see the madness all around them perpetuated in the name of God. Near to his lips, as the Pharisees and the Herodians approach him in the famous text from Matthew that is our Gospel Lesson today.

Because the difference, in the time of Jesus, is that the hills to which Jesus lifts his eyes belong to the Romans. The Romans own the roads; the Romans own the [Jewish] kings, who are in cahoots with the empire for their own political gain; the Romans own the coins; the Romans own everything. And, of course, they pay for what they own by taxing the peasants mightily.

All harvests, all personal property, everything is subject to Roman taxation. And if you think our tax rates are too high, think again. We are talking subsistence living, we are talking about perpetual grinding debt. We are talking about Jewish authorities doing the Romans’ dirty work as hated tax collectors. We are talking about the perfect storm for inciting an armed rebellion, which happened at least three times in the first two centuries of the Common Era.

In response to this threat of rebellion, Roman guards line the streets to “keep the peace” over everything they own. Meaning you cannot take a pilgrimage, you cannot lift your eyes to the hills, you cannot seek the face of God—or even just the Temple of God—without running smack into the face of the Romans. Especially during the pilgrimage to Jerusalem for the Passover Festival, the festival that reminds the people every year of the unnamable, faceless God who brought them out of oppression in Egypt and into the land that the Romans currently occupy. Into the land they believe should really belong to them.

To make things more scandalous, part of the practice of Roman domination is to force Roman imperial theology upon the people of the lands they conquer. They must worship the Roman emperor: the one they call, ironically, ‘Prince of Peace,’ ‘Lord and Savior,’ ‘Son of God,’ ‘Divine.’ The denarius—the Roman coin referred to in Matthew’s Gospel—has a picture of Tiberius Caesar on one side and the following caption on the other: ‘Tiberius Caesar, august and divine son of Augustus, high priest.’ It is literally brainwashing. A master stroke of social control. And it worked for a very long time. Except for the province of Judea. Because they have come to be monotheistic by the first century of the Common Era, because they absolutely must not make God into a graven image, the worship of the emperor is flat-out idolatry to them. And the coin that proclaims the divine son-ship of the emperor is the hated symbol of that idolatry.

That is why money-changers line the Temple, taking the Roman denarius and trading it for a Temple coin more fitting for the worship of God. But their exploitation of this transaction for profit at the expense of the poor stokes the ire of Jesus just two days before the encounter that is our text for this morning. And so the Pharisees and the Herodians think they have designed the perfect trap to catch Jesus in either treason or heresy. Because Jesus has already made clear his disdain for both the system of Roman taxation and the Temple collusion with that system.

But Jesus is lifting his eyes to the hills. Jesus knows from whence his help comes! Jesus trusts the Holy One to guard his life—and eventually even his death—and Jesus turns their trap right back on themselves. ‘Render unto the emperor the things that are the emperor’s,’ Jesus says. ‘And to God the things that are God’s.’

And lest we delude ourselves into thinking this is the first century version of the separation of church and state, let us remember that—to Jesus—everything belongs to God. Everything! To Jesus, the Pharisees and the Herodians reveal their idolatry, simply by asking the question.

Everything belongs to God, Madison Square Presbyterian Church. Two thousands years later, on this Sunday, October 16, 2011, everything still belongs to God. Two days after a global protest of a fractured financial system, one week before our own stewardship season begins in earnest, one and a half months into this pilgrim journey that will be our interim ministry together. The bottom line truth of our existence is that everything, everything, everything belongs to God. Everything reveals God’s face.

The validity of our own pilgrimage journey on this planet boils down to this: whose image do we see—and whose image do we seek—when we journey together as the people of God? Is it the face of whatever Caesar would demand our allegiance at the expense of the poor? Or is it the face of God—who cannot ever be fully known—but who claims every part of our lives for the good of God’s most vulnerable people?

I hope it is the latter. I think it is the latter. But we have some decisions to make if our allegiance truly is to the face of God in our midst. Because Jesus put his body on the line, he put his life on the line, he put his very faith in God on the line to say to anyone who would listen that it did not matter how much they resisted Rome if they did not care about the person sitting right next to them. That it did not matter how faithfully they paid their taxes if they did not give alms to the Lazarus begging at the gate. That it did not matter how much they prayed psalm 121 if they had bread they did not share with the hungry. That it did not matter how much they worshiped at God’s holy Temple if they did not make room for the ones they feared.

This is what the prophets have always said: if you want to see the face of God, just look around you. Just pay attention. The face of God is in every creature you meet.

Our Deacons have responded to this prophetic challenge in their commitment to respond to our neighbors in this downtown location when they ask for our help on Sunday mornings, and I hope you will support them in their endeavor. Our Session has responded to this prophetic challenge in their support of the children and their teachers at our Child Development Center next door, and I hope you will support their endeavor as well. Even our Buildings and Grounds committee has responded to this prophetic challenge in their rapid response to the overheating of our Alcoholics Anonymous guests who use the third floor for their meetings. And each one of us can respond to this prophetic challenge in whatever way God’s face is revealed in our lives. We just have to pay attention.

So take one step forward, dear friends, in the footsteps of Moses, seeking the face of God in this pilgrim journey we are on. And know that God is still your help, still your strength, still your guardian and your shield, for this life and for the next.

In the name of the One who saw the face of God in everyone he met . . .

I pray it may be so.

Amen.

This Holy Union

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Exodus 20: 1-4, 7-9, 12-20

Matthew 22:1-14

The “unity candle” is before us, on the table where we shared our common feast last Sunday. Where we came from north and south and east and west to celebrate a meal of abundant life. Where we came to confess we are sick with the sin and the suffering and the violence of our world—including the violence attributed to the king in the Gospel of Matthew. And we want to be made well, we want to be made whole, we want to be made one with our broken yet resurrected Christ. We want to be made one with God.

The “unity candle” is before us as a reminder of the values we share at the core of our covenant with Christ and, in turn, our covenant with one another. A covenant that is not so very different from the vows two people make when they stand “before God and these witnesses” to unite their lives “in plenty and in want; in joy and in sorrow; in sickness and in health; for as long as we both shall live.” Values of partnership and commitment, of fidelity and trust, of intimacy and shared purpose, of perseverance and hope. Values of faith.

The “unity candle” is before us as a reminder of the covenant union God has already made with us and that we have already made with God, from a time long before our time, from a mountain in a wilderness most of us will never see, where our Old Testament lesson this morning takes place. The covenant vows come from a mountain where a God who has heard the cries of a suffering people has led them out of bondage. From a mountain where a God who has a vision for a new life of promise and plenty together with these people will lead them onward to an old ancestral land. From a mountain where a God who is just beginning to become re-acquainted with this precious community will invite them to rest and simply spend some time together before moving forward with a whole new commitment.

I would go so far as to call it a “holy union,” this covenant that takes place between God and God’s people at this mountain in the wilderness of the Exodus. Even the prophets call it a “marriage”: covenant vows of steadfast love to express the mutual loyalty—the hesed—between God and God’s people—between God and us--“for as long as we both shall live.” Which is, of course, forever.

And so the “unity candle” is before us as a reminder of the promises that were made at Mount Sinai, the covenant vows that were offered in our name—and yes, I mean our name—these ancient words spoken for you and for me—which is what the parable of Jesus in the Gospel of Matthew is really trying to say. That this holy union—this sacred marriage—between God and God’s people is for us, too—for the Gentiles, too—that this “holy union” with God is for all who would come to the feast.

And so we gather around the unity candle at the table of grace as a reminder of our covenant promises—the ones we call “The Ten Commandments.” To renew our first four vows, which focus our fidelity to a God of justice and liberation, and to renew our last six vows, which focus our fidelity to the people with whom we have been bound to God. Because “this holy union” with God must also require a commitment to God’s community: that we respect one another’s families; that we respect one another’s property; that we respect one another’s lives and reputations. That we expect the same respect in return.

We could, of course, paraphrase these Ten Commandments—these “holy vows”—with one Great Commandment, and a second, which is like it, (which is what Jesus did, after all): “to love the Holy One, our God, with all our heart, mind, soul and strength . . . and to love our neighbor as ourself.” And we could throw rice and blow bubbles and decorate our cars and all live happily ever after! Right?

Well . . .

 

The problem is, as everyone who has taken these very human vows knows, we just can’t seem to get it right. At least not all the time. Maybe not even most of the time. With God or with one another.  

How many of us can honestly say we have forsaken all other gods, for example? And no, I’m not talking about honoring the wisdom of other world religions. I’m talking about where we place our loyalty. Where we place our trust. I’m talking about the stock market. Or the Clinique counter. And no, I’m not suggesting we divest of our mutual funds or our makeup, I’m just saying we should be honest about where we find our identity and our security. I’m just saying we should be honest about the ways we make the God we worship into our own image, rather than the other way around.

And how many of us can honestly say we have loved our neighbor as our self? Let’s face it, if you’re like me you covet just about everything your neighbor has. Even Jimmy Carter “lusted in his heart,” after all! And even the easy vow—the one about honoring the Sabbath—the one that actually begs us not to work!—can be the hardest commitment to keep, at least in this global, integrated, double-recession economy.

The truth is, we are not good at honoring our covenant vows, with God or with one another. And God knows it. And Jesus knows it. And in his scathing critique of the chief priests and the Pharisees in Matthew’s Gospel lesson for this morning, Jesus calls them on it, just as much as he did in the parable that was before us last week, and the week before, and the week before that.

And this is a hard parable to swallow, at least on its surface. A king who is throwing a wedding banquet for his son strikes out in violent rage at those who refuse the invitation. And then, just when we think the banquet really is open to everyone, the person who isn’t dressed quite right gets thrown out on his head, as well. On its surface, this parable shakes up everything we want to believe about a loving, committed, steadfast God who will not ever let us go. We could go so far as to wonder if this “holy union” is even worth it at all.

But if we pay close attention to the context of the parable, we will see that all of the parables of judgment against the chief priests and Pharisees between Palm Sunday and Easter ultimately culminate in that famous passage from Matthew 25 about what really matters in the end: that we feed the hungry; welcome the stranger; clothe the naked; care for the sick; visit the prisoner. Each of these acts is a pro-active approach to honoring the commandment to love our neighbor as our self. Which is the same as honoring the last six vows of the Ten Commandments. Which is what it means to live in holy union with God and one another in the first place.

What Jesus is trying to do in this parable is shake up the people who think they have already done just fine by God and by God’s people, thank you very much. Who think they don’t need to be shaken up. Who think they have no need of grace. Who don’t care all that much about the hungry, lonely, naked, or sick. Who really, in the end, don’t care all that much about God. They just want to crash the wedding for a free meal. And if we, too, are shaken up by the parable, shall we confess that maybe, perhaps, we might just need to be?

The apostle Paul puts it a bit more gently: “God has chosen you and made you holy people,” he says to the Colossians, he says to us. “So you should always clothe yourselves with mercy, kindness, humility, gentleness, and patience. Bear with each other, and forgive each other. . . . Even more than all this, clothe yourself in love. Love is what holds you all together in perfect unity” (Col 3:12-14). These are the clothes that are fit for a wedding, after all. These are the clothes we would wear to renew the vows of our holy union. And, in the wedding traditions of the ancient near east, the king would have made sure every one of us was given these clothes if we could not afford them ourselves. So does our God. We just have to decide we want to wear this cloak of grace we have been given at the door. Because let’s face it, every one of us needs it.

  

In our communion last week, we were reminded that the table is open to Judas and Peter and all who fail utterly to live our covenant promises completely. “The great wedding feast,” which the Lord’s Supper is sometimes called, invites us to renew the commitment again and again and again. We just have to decide to say yes.

Right here, right now, God offers the same invitation: I love you; even now. I still want to be your God. Do you still want to be my people? And we get to say, I do.

Pastor:             You shall have no other gods before me.

Leader:            Do you take me as your God, the one on whom you will fully depend, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as we both shall live?

 

Congregation: I do.

Pastor:             You shall not make for yourself an idol, whether in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth. You shall not bow down to them or worship them. 

Leader:            Do you really take me as your God, the one on whom you will fully depend, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, forsaking all others, for as long as we both shall live?

Congregation: I do.

Pastor:             You shall not make wrongful use of the name of the Holy One, who is your God.

Leader:            Do you promise to honor me? Who I really am? Because I Am Who I Am, and I Will Be Who I Will Be, and I cannot just be whoever you want me to be in the moment? Do you take me as I am, and not who you think I should be?

Congregation: I do.

Pastor:             Remember the Sabbath day, and keep it holy. Six days you shall labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a Sabbath unto the Holy One, who is your God. 

Leader:            Do you promise to spend time with me? To stop working so hard for just a few hours . . . just one day a week . . . and get to know me again? To hear me speak to you again? To sing together again? To share our joys and sorrows again? To forgive what needs to be forgiven . . . to stop worrying so much about the future and just enjoy the time we have? To remember how very much we love each other? Do you promise to take time to be with me and our people?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             Honor your father and mother, so that your days may be long in the land that the Holy One, your God, is giving you.

Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to express gratitude for the family of God that gives you life? For the family that supports you and takes you in when you are hurting? For the family of this church that celebrates who you really are, that claims you as one of its children? Do you promise to honor your family?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not murder.

Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to cherish this precious life we have been given? To celebrate life in all its fullness around us? To preserve and protect the image of God in all of creation? Do you promise to love life?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not commit adultery.

Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to honor the commitments that others have made to one

another? To support the families in our midst who have made covenant promises to one another? Do you promise to honor your own covenant commitments?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not steal. 

Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to accept what is rightfully yours, and no more? To be grateful for whatever abundance God has granted you? To share from that abundance with others? To receive the gifts that others offer in your time of need? To ask for help when you need it?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not bear false witness against your neighbor.

 Leader:            With God’s help, do you promise to speak only the truth as you know it? To refrain from gossip or rumors or suspicion without genuine cause? Do you promise to listen carefully to what others have said, seeking to understand as much as to be understood, praying for God’s wisdom to clarify good intentions when misunderstandings lead to difficult feelings? Do you promise to speak only the truth as you know it?

Congregation: I do!

Pastor:             You shall not covet anything that belongs to your neighbor.

Leader:            With God’s help, do you really promise to accept what is rightfully yours, and no more? To be grateful for whatever abundance God has granted you? To share from that abundance with others? To receive the gifts that others offer in your time of need? To ask for help when you need it?

Congregation: I do!

 

May we be united in renewed commitment to God and one another on this day and forevermore.

Amen.