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.

Resisting What Makes for War

Sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Luke 4:1-13


“You are God’s beloved child.

“God is very pleased with you.

“As a creature of the earth . . . you will return to the earth:

“ashes to ashes,

“dust to dust,

“but always in the light of God’s everlasting love . . .”


With these words we began our Lenten journey toward Jerusalem with Jesus last Wednesday in our service of ashes and oil.

We gathered around this table in a vigil of prayer, naming those places and people and powers that rage within us and among us. That need the peace of Christ to dwell richly in our hearts. Singing for that peace to begin on earth and to begin with us. Right here. Right now, as we begin our discernment of Christ’s peace together.

We were and we are, in a very real sense in this Season of Lent, doing what Jesus himself does when he goes to the desert to face his own demons in the lection from Luke that is our lesson for today.

“You are my beloved child,” he has heard God say in his baptism in the Jordan. “I am very pleased with you.” But you are not human forever, he must also hear. You will die. As every one of us does. And, in our own culture of avoidance of death, as every one of us too often forgets.

These bodies of ours are mortal. Of the earth, even though they breathe the spirit of God. And it is the way of the earth that our bodies will die, as does the body of Jesus. Even though he, and we, are always God’s beloved and pleasing children. The question of our baptism, then, is how we should live in the light of the full knowledge that we will also die. And how we should die in a way that will contribute to the ongoing flourishing of the life that lives on in our wake.

There is no better place to ponder these questions than the desert. Where the fragility of life and the reality of death are ever-present in body, mind, and spirit. Which is why we find Jesus there in his post-baptism self-examination and preparation for ministry on this first Sunday in our Lenten discernment of peace.

Christians often read this story of Jesus in the desert as an individual series of temptations for an individual man and his ministry and then apply the reactions of Jesus to our individual dealings with temptation. But for Jesus—and for all first century Jews who live in the land of the Roman Empire—the questions that come in the desert are far beyond one individual’s cycle of life and death as a creature of the earth. The questions that come in the desert are about living and dying as a people in the peace that passes understanding. A peace that is emphatically unlike the Pax Romana—or ‘Roman Peace’—that governs every part of their lives.

For Jesus—and for all first century Jews who live in the land of the Roman Empire—the Pax Romana that is supposed to enrich human flourishing is really about suppressing the resistance of a conquered people by military might. And co-opting their means of subsistence living for economic exploitation by a far-away king.

For Jesus—and for all first century Jews who live in the land of the Roman Empire—the question of baptism is about how to resist this crushing of life all around them through a Pax Romana that is the emphatic opposite of the peaceable kingdom of God. In Galilee, where Jesus grew up, ritual purification of water and desert self-examination were about recruiting resistance movements and fostering the simmering ferment of nationalism, much more than they were about personal piety.

And so for Jesus the desert becomes a testing ground for sorting out the best and most faithful way to resist what makes for the war of the Roman Peace. Now the Romans ironically describe their ‘peace’ as feeding the hungry, ruling the world with justice, and protecting the people from themselves. But the people know the Romans do this by commercializing the local economy for their own advantage and cultivating a dependence on Rome as the occupying power. For those resisting the Roman Peace that really makes for war, a post-baptism desert self-examination and preparation would normally go one of two ways: the way of the warrior preparing for armed revolt. Or the way of the purist creating a separatist community in the wilderness far from collusion with the empire.

But in the face of temptation to simply replace the violent peace of the Roman Empire with a power-hungry ‘violent peace’ of his own, Jesus finds a third way: engaging the powers of greed and power and idolatry through the nonviolent radical love of God for the enemy. Yes, I will feed the hungry, he says, but I will do it by blessing the gifts of God and inviting the community to share what they have and not by pretending to be a miracle worker. Yes, I will proclaim the regime change of violent Roman rule, but I will do it by living God’s kingdom of justice and peace and not by returning evil for evil. Yes, I will test God’s power to protect the righteous, he says, but I will do it by trusting this protection throughout all of eternity and not merely through this mortal body.

Yes, I will resist what makes for war, Jesus says. But not the way the Romans do. The way God does. Through steadfast, enduring, never-failing, forgiving LOVE. For enemies as well as friends. For self as well as God.

And so he does.


But by and large his disciples cannot figure out how to follow in his footsteps.

Even in his own time, Peter rushes for the sword in defense of his master when the nonviolent way gets really, really hard. Even in our own Scriptures the final book of Revelation envisions a cosmic battle between good and evil with the warrior Jesus. Even within the first few centuries of the emerging religion that rose from the resurrection, the Roman Empire claims the power of the cross of Christ to lead victory into war, rather than reshape their swords into plowshares.

And the truth is the peaceable kingdom of God still has not yet come, as much as Jesus proclaimed that it would. At least not in its final and forever form. And we who follow him two thousand years later face questions of our own in resisting what makes for war as we enter the desert of Lent. Fully claimed as the beloved and pleasing children of God. Fully conscious of the reality of our mortality. Fully convicted of the violent ‘anti-peace’ that pervades our every step. And fully convinced that the individual and the international struggle for peace are connected.

So what do we do?

The Presbyterian Church as a national denomination has made clear our conviction that the vocation of peacemaking calls to everyone who follows Christ. On the one hand, we should not retreat into our desert enclave. But on the other, we should not return evil for evil.

In the Confession of 1967 we say that “God’s reconciliation in Jesus Christ is the ground of the peace, justice, and freedom among nations which all powers of government are called to serve and defend.” That “the church, in its own life, is called to practice the forgiveness of enemies and to commend to the nations as practical politics the search for cooperation and peace” and that “this search requires that nations pursue fresh and responsible relations across every line of conflict, even at risk to national security, to reduce areas of strife and to broaden international understanding.”

We say that “reconciliation among nations becomes particularly urgent as countries develop nuclear, chemical, and biological weapons, diverting their [hu]manpower and resources from constructive uses and risking the annihilation of [hu]mankind.” And we say that, while “nations may serve God’s purposes in history, the church which identifies the sovereignty of any one nation or any one way of life with the cause of God denies the Lordship of Christ and betrays its calling.”

At the same time as we say all of this, we do not say that pacifism is our universal and unequivocal response to violence. The Presbyterian Church affirms the classic teaching of the Reformed tradition that “God alone is the Lord of the conscience” and supports individual Christian conviction across the spectrum. From conscientious objectors to four-star generals and everyone in between. We may stand as a denomination in opposition to particular wars we believe are not “just,” but we will also as a general rule support humanitarian intervention and the military defense of a cause we believe to be “just.”

And that may be what we continue to do in the years to come. But the question that is before us now in this Season of Lent is whether or not we might rediscover the “third way” between pacifism and “just war” Jesus discovered for himself in the desert: the way of nonviolent active resistance to the things that make for war.

Can we, as the living Body of Christ today, hasten the day when war and violence are no longer inevitable means for resolving conflicts? Internally, interpersonally, or internationally? Are there other ways to heal ourselves and our communities? Or to provide protection and security? If so, what are those ways? For ourselves, and for the world?

These are the questions we take with us into the desert of our Lenten discernment. Without pre-meditated answers. But open to the outcome that the Spirit has to offer.

Trusting that in every step along the way of the desert discernment

We are still God’s beloved children

And God is still very pleased with us

As children of the earth we will return to the earth

Ashes to ashes

Dust to dust

But always in the light of God’s never-ending love.

Amen.

Total Trasparency

Sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Luke 9: 37-43a


I had just begun my second year of seminary when news of yet another mass shooting reached our community. It was an Amish School for girls this time. Do you remember? It was October 2006. Half of the girls were killed. Half of them were wounded.

One of my sister students was heartsick and none of her normal coping mechanisms were working. So a few days after the shooting she called out to anyone on campus with eyes to see and ears to hear to gather with her in the chapel for a time of prayer and supplication.

Sarah was one of the most politically active students on campus, someone you would expect to rally the rest of us for something more like gun control legislation than for a prayer vigil. But this shooting had gotten to her. So we gathered and we prayed. We lit candles, we sang songs, we cried, we held each other tight.

And our chaplain, the Rev. Kerry Maloney, said the following words that have guided my understanding of prayer ever since: “My belief about prayer,” she said, “is that it transcends time and space. In prayer,” she said, “we are totally transparent, with God and with one another and with the total transparency of all creation. In prayer we have nothing more to hide. And the truth of who we really are—the good, the bad, and the ugly—is already transformed in the light of God’s never-ending love.

“When we pray,” she said, “we step out of chronological time and connect to the entire cosmos throughout the ages. With everything and everyone that has already occurred. And with everything and everyone that will one day come to be. So in this moment, as we pray, we are standing right beside those girls. We are with them in our prayer. Bearing witness, which is what the word martyr really means. Just as God is with them, bearing witness. Even in the moment they feel most alone, most afraid, most forsaken by God and by humanity. And these candles we light in the midst of this darkness surround them in their fear with light and with love. And they are transfigured with Christ.

And they are not ever alone!”

I have been thinking of that prayer vigil for a long time now, and the prayer vigils that emerge across the world after any tragedy, including the one here at Madison Square after the Sandy Hook shooting last December. A prayer vigil is one of the few things we know how to do when there really is nothing we can do to make sense of the senseless violence swirling all around us.

But if we do it right a prayer vigil is far more than a fairly benign act of comfort. If we do it right a prayer vigil is a radical moment of transformation. Or transfiguration, to use the language that is given to this particular Sunday in our liturgical year. Because if we do it right a prayer vigil creates the space for total transparency, before God and one another. As we drop the masks we wear that pretend to keep us secure and own up to our own feelings of guilt and rage and despair and violence. And trust them to the compassionate heart of God in the hope of a resurrection redemption.

If we do it right a prayer vigil insists we are not alone in the fractures and the fragments of a violent and vindictive shattering. Because all that has ever been and ever will be surrounds us with grace and healing and wholeness and hope. With fuel for the journey of faithful action that must—without question—come next.

This is what is happening in the story of the transfiguration of Jesus we have just heard in Luke’s Gospel.

In the passage that precedes the lectionary text for today Jesus has warned his disciples of the violence that is to come when they head toward Jerusalem. Now he may have known full well exactly what was going to happen on the cross. Or he may simply have known that his way of radical justice and love would draw the wrath of the world he came to heal.

But either way the violent rage that rips through his flesh on the cross that is to come . . . most certainly requires a prayer vigil in response. Which is, if you think about it, what Christian worship is all about.

With an eye toward this cross, in total transparency about the violence in our midst (that would claim even the very flesh of God), we gather every Sunday . . . to pray. In a very real sense every act of Christian worship is a vigil of prayer in the face of violence, trusting the total transparency of who we really are into the light of God, who will transfigure our violent ways. Meaning that in our prayer vigil called worship God holds the violence of the world in healing hope and transforms it into a glimmer of gleaming grace.

If my seminary chaplain is right, then the prayer vigil that Christian worship has been about for these two thousand years is right now pulling us out of space and time and connects us to the whole of the cosmos. And we are RIGHT NOW on that mountain with Jesus, as he prays for the strength to confront the chaos that surrounds him.

And we are, like Jesus, surrounded with the wisdom of the ages: the light of Moses and Elijah and all who have come before. Gathering the strength and perseverance and trust we need to come back down off that mountain of prayer as the beloved and chosen children of God to confront the convulsing spirit of violence within our own crowd. And heal it. And restore it to life.

This is where we find the boy in Luke’s post-transfiguration story. A child who is gripped by a spirit of violence. A parent who is desperate for healing and has nowhere to turn. And have we not heard that story over and over and over again. A parent of a child with a violent spirit begging the disciples of Jesus to cast it out. But they could not. Because they . . . and we . . . are still too afraid.

The violent spirit is beyond the boy’s power to control it. And beyond the parent’s power to confront it. But Jesus, whose violence has already been transfigured into nonviolent radical love, in this vigil of prayer, is beyond fear. Jesus, who has come down from that mountain, is surrounded for all time by the light of the love of God in our prayers for him. And he can heal this poor conflicted boy and restore him to a life of peace in community because he has already known the grace of transfigured violence.

And we can, too.

Imagine if we entered this Discernment of Peace in the Season of Lent in the same attitude as the vigil of prayer that accompanied the Transfiguration of Christ and allowed him to rebuke the violent spirit in love? Imagine if we live in Lent in the light of the love that will not ever let us go, in a true vigil of prayer, in total transparency of who we really are, sorting through the fear the anger the pain the despair and the violence that grips us, like the demon that grips this young boy in Luke’s Gospel?

Imagine if we came through this prayer vigil in the Season of Lent with the courage to stand with Jesus, in the light of God’s transfiguring love, and love the boy who is gripped beyond his own control instead of condemning him out of our own fear and anger?

Imagine if we could find another way to face the fury of the violent spirit that rages in our midst. Because we have already faced the violent spirit that rages in our selves. And known it to be transfigured in the healing light of God

This is what our Lenten Process of Peace Discernment is trying to find out.

Presbyterians across the nation in this Season of Peace Discernment are invited to “meet the Prince of Peace, as if for the first time.” To discover again his life of radical, non-violent love in the face of fear. To return again and again to this vigil of prayer that surrounds the violence of the cross with light and love. Not as the will of a vengeful and violent God, but as the truest symbol of God’s suffering solidarity with the violence of humanity. A suffering that God has already transfigured into a nonviolent witness for justice and peace.

If we do it right, this Season of Lenten Discernment for Peace will require total transparency. Standing in the light of the violent deaths of our children and rebuking the convulsing spirit of rage that has made it so commonplace. We will have to take a hard, long look in the mirror of our own violent rage in response and pray for Christ to cast it out.

And we will have to journey to Jerusalem with Jesus, in our own way for this day, loving our enemies and praying for those who persecute us, in exposing the truth of the violence all around us.

But if we do it right this prayer vigil we call Christian worship in the Season of Lent can transform our violence. And heal it. And make us whole. And we will all be “astounded at the greatness of God.” Just like the ones who watched this boy being healed in Luke’s Gospel today.

And we will not be alone. And we will find what we seek.

So let the prayer vigil of our Lenten discernment for peace begin . . .

Amen.

Fulfillment

Sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Luke 2:41-47, 4:14-21

 

In our first Gospel lesson from Luke for today we join Jesus in the temple in Jerusalem as a twelve year old boy studying with the saints of his tradition. Which is, of course, also our tradition. He is learning his sacred Scriptures. He is asking tough questions about them. And he is maybe even telling his teachers a thing or two about what he reads there, as is depicted in this print version of a stained glass window, to my right and your left.

Those of us who were here in worship just four weeks ago on the Sunday after Christmas have already heard this story of Jesus in the temple with the teachers. But I have brought it back again today as a way to celebrate the role of the educator, now that we have just commissioned of Susan Shaw-Meadow for a long-term and fruitful ministry with our children and youth for many years to come, in the tradition of these biblical educators in the life of Jesus two thousand years ago.

It may be tempting to believe that Jesus was born “knowing it all” from his infancy. But the truth is that he—like us—was formed in a particular religious tradition as a youth, among a particular people, in a particular time and place. And he—like us—experienced the educators of his tradition shaping his worldview, and his “God-view,” and his conviction of his calling. For better and for worse. Just like they did for every other Jewish boy of Judea and Galilee in the first century. Just like Susan and the Christian education team she has pulled together this past year do for us.

Educators in the life of Jesus would have focused his formation in three ways. First, on the covenant between God and the people of God as expressed in the Law and the Prophets. Second, on the particular way of life and set of traditions that fulfilled this covenant, also expressed in the Law and the Prophets. And third, and on a particular set of skills that would contribute to the needs of the family and the community and allow him to earn a living. Which for Jesus would most likely have meant carpentry.

This education of Jesus would have begun in the home, just as Christian education must begin in the home. His parents, as his primary religious educators, would have taught him to recite the Shema on a daily basis. To speak from his soul every day of his life the text from Deuteronomy 6 that had shaped the covenant for his people for centuries.

This covenant says: Hear, o Israel, The Holy One is your God, The Holy One alone. You shall love the Holy One your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. Which is how Jesus would have learned the Great Commandment he came to teach his own disciples so many years later. This Commandment did not come out of nowhere. An educator taught it to him!

An educator also taught him to observe the Sabbath, and to attend the Nazareth synagogue he returns to in our second Gospel lesson today, and to follow the Jewish dietary laws, and to participate in the temple festivals of Jerusalem. Which is where he runs into the highly respected class of “certified” educators known as scribes. And his education continues.

It is not beyond the realm of possibility that the ones who educate Jesus in the temple on this day after the Passover Festival pull out the very same scroll on which is inscribed the words of the prophet Isaiah. The words that form the basis of our second Gospel lesson today. The ones that say the Spirit of the Holy One is upon me . . . because God has anointed me to bring good news to the poor, release to the captives, recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free. 

It is not beyond the realm of possibility that the ones who educate Jesus this day after the Passover Festival, having just celebrated the story of liberation from oppression in Egypt, teach Jesus that Isaiah had proclaimed these words to a people who had lost everything. Who were living in exile at the time of Isaiah’s teaching. But who longed to return to this land in true freedom and justice and peace. And it is quite likely these educators suggested to Jesus that there was a parallel between the longing of the people in this Scripture and the longing of the people of his time to live in freedom and justice and peace.

And it is not beyond the realm of possibility that the ones who educated Jesus that day after the Passover Festival taught him that the prophet Isaiah had predicted a Messiah—an anointed child of God—would lead the people to reclaim in that land the kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven. And that those educators tapped Jesus on the shoulder and said, “Tag . . . you might be it.” And that Jesus might have actually believed them. Which is why he comes back twenty years later with a mission and a ministry and an anointing, based on these very words from Isaiah, that is affirmed by everyone!

It is in fact emphatically clear, at least in Luke’s Gospel, that Jesus becomes who he is in ministry and mission because he is celebrated and anointed and educated for that ministry throughout his infancy and his childhood and his young adulthood and then finally his adulthood, when he returns to his hometown synagogue and proclaims the Scripture has been fulfilled in his reading of it.

And all speak well of him, and of the gracious words that come from his mouth.

It makes you wonder what might become of all of our children when they are celebrated and anointed and educated for ministry, too. When they are told the stories of the covenant every day the way Jesus was, every day. When they are reminded to love God and to love their neighbor, the way Jesus was, every day. When they are taught from the prophets to make sure those who are on the margins of society—those who are poor, captive, blind, oppressed—know that God is most especially concerned about them, the way Jesus was, every day. It makes you wonder what might become of our children when they believe—because some educator has tapped them on the shoulder—that maybe they might be the ones God has anointed today, the way Jesus was, to lead us all in reclaiming the kingdom of God on earth as it is in heaven.

But I do not expect us to have to wonder about this very long here at Madison Square. Because the ministry of educator Susan Shaw-Meadow is doing just this: celebrating and anointing and educating every one of God’s children for a ministry that is only just beginning to become clear in their lives. Just as the ministry of Jesus was only beginning to become clear among the educators in the Jerusalem temple two thousand years ago.

In fact Susan’s vision for the Christian Education program at Madison Square sounds remarkably like the education that formed Jesus for his ministry in our lesson from Luke. She wants Madison Square to be a vibrant church home for children and youth from a variety of backgrounds. Where young people are welcomed as they are and appreciated for who they are. Where they learn the stories of our faith and the core practices of worship and prayer. Where their questions about faith and life are taken seriously and are engaged actively. And where they see faith in action and have opportunities to serve others. It is her updated version of the Shema and the vision of Isaiah preached by Jesus. And it is a good one!

The good news of Susan’s ministry with us is that the future is wide open and ready to unfold. Like any good educator she is already steeped in the rich heritage of this congregation. Like any good educator she has carried forward the beloved traditions of her predecessors so that our children and youth can have a common thread from the past through the present. But like any good educator she is always reaching for something more, something creative, something new to speak the truth of God’s claim on every one of our children’s lives.

Because the Spirit of our God is still yet on her! To fulfill in her own life—as well as to teach in the lives of others—what it is to proclaim good news for the ones the world does not love, but whom God draws the most close.

And our prayer for her—and for ourselves—is that the Spirit will continue to anoint her with grace and enthusiasm and courage for the ministry that lies ahead. And that our gratitude for her ministry will continue without ceasing, as she passes on the tradition to a whole new generation of God’s fabulous beloved children.

I pray it may be so.

Amen.

Into the Exuberance!

A sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

1 Corinthians 12:4-26 

If the Church Were Christian, says author Philip Gulley, in the book we have been reading in the adult education class these past several weeks, “meeting needs would be more important than maintaining institutions.”

Period.

And it makes sense, right? The whole reason the church exists is to be human need. Not to perpetuate itself.

In fact, I am quite certain that I could just repeat those words verbatim on any given Sunday at Madison Square and sit back down. And we would go on about our singing and our serving, and our MLK march planning, and our Habitat for Humanity building with the sure conviction that we are absolutely committed to meeting human needs and not at all about maintaining an institution.

But here we are, on this particular Sunday at Madison Square, ordaining and installing new church officers. Offering the very traditional gift of anointing and laying hands upon Mike Ballentine and Norma Villarreal, as a sign and a seal of God’s call to them in their baptism and a recognition of the gifts for governance and congregational care we have discerned in them for leadership among us in the years to come. And we have to admit that in many ways this act of ordination is exactly designed to perpetuate the institution called Madison Square Presbyterian Church. Which is, I would argue, an institution worth perpetuating!

On this particular Sunday we are also re-affirming the gifts for governance and congregational care we have discerned in Sharon Wallace and Ben Baker and Rebecca Baker and Vi Berbiglia, as we anoint them and lay hands upon them to install them for a second term of service as deacon and ruling elders for this congregation.

And if Sharon and Ben and Rebecca and Vi are willing to tell the truth about their first terms in their respective offices of deacon and ruling elder, I am quite certain they will tell you it has felt a whole lot like institutional maintenance, at least in the sixteen months I have ministered among you as your interim pastor. Because assessing and repairing the administrative functioning of the congregation has been a very intentional part of our work together.

Ben Baker, as your Treasurer, has given just about every Saturday in the past six months to implement a major overhaul of Madison Square’s financial record-keeping system, now that we have the recommendations from the first external audit of church books in fifteen years. Talk about institutional maintenance! And he has said “yes” to three more years! What a gift! Alleluia for Ben!

And Vi Berbiglia, as the chair of your Madison Square Child Development Center Board, has devoted countless hours to digging into the budget and staffing realities of the CDC. She has pulled together a team of people who have dedicated themselves to maintaining that institution with a new, more sustainable business model to implement for the coming year. And she has said “yes” to three more years! What a gift! Alleluia for Vi!

And Rebecca Baker, as the chair of your Mission Committee, has been plowing through the park with a cup of coffee and a compassionate heart as your ambassador. Absolutely committed to meeting human need. But she has spent just as much time in the church office trying to figure out which budget authorizations are under her oversight and which ones are not and what kinds of receipts she needs to keep and for how long. And she has said “yes” to three more years! What a gift! Alleluia for Rebecca!

And Sharon Wallace, as your Deacon representative and Stewardship Committee member, has sat through meeting after meeting after meeting of planning and preparation. I am sure if you asked her it has sometimes felt an awful lot more like running a business than it did like reaching out in love to the people she feels called to serve. But she has said “yes” to three more years! What a gift! Alleluia for Sharon!

Yes, it can feel a whole lot like institutional maintenance when we are called to leadership in the church. But just look at the great diversity of gifts God has given us among just these four people, each of whom God has raised up among us for this unique moment at Madison Square. When we have needed exactly what they have to offer. With every one of their gifts being essential for building up the Body of Christ, Madison Square version.

And just look at the gifts of Mike Ballentine and Norma Villarreal, in healing, in compassion, and in mission for the years to come. And they have said “yes”! Alleluia for Mike and Norma!

In fact I would say the greatest gift that each of these leaders brings is that they already know that the whole reason they do what they do is to meet human need. That the whole reason this institution we call Madison Square Presbyterian Church and Child Development Center exists is to meet human needs. And not the other way around. And they do it with passion and enthusiasm and conviction. Period!

So what does that look like for Madison Square 2013 version?

The first thing it means is that our elected officers are not alone in their ordination to the ministry of meeting human needs, as Paul reminds those first century Christians in Corinth. Every one of us is! Including—and perhaps especially—the ones who do it quietly, behind the scenes, just making sure whatever needs to happen does in fact happen. Like Jack Weiss and Stu Ansel somehow always making sure there’s enough food to go around at an after-worship potluck or coffee hour. Like Marsha and Audrey and Gin and so many others loving everyone they meet who walks in the door when they are the ushers for the day. Like Jerry King, who unceremoniously made a “soul friend” with a man he met in the park. And who knows both of their lives are transforming because of it.

Like every one of you who has sent Larry Correu a get-well card, filling his wall with treasures from his church family, who already know that if one of us hurts, then every other one of us is involved in the hurt. And in the healing! Which is what Paul also reminds those first century Christians in Corinth.

But it is not just the hurt of human need that we share. It is the joy of human need. Because we who are human really do need to live in joy! And so Paul reminds us that if one part of the Body of Christ flourishes, every

other part enters into the exuberance. Which is what we did last week with Mac Holmes. And it sure did feel like we all got baptized right along with him, didn’t it?

The really good news, friends, is that as far as I can tell in this moment as your interim pastor, as we ordain and install your new class of deacons and ruling elders, we have finally figured out here at Madison Square how to maintain the institution just well enough to make sure we have the foundation we need to meet the very human needs that are all around us. With compassion. With joy. With exuberance! And with love.

And that is cause for another Alleluia!

Amen.

The Attitude of Gratitude

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Isaiah 43: 1-7
Luke 3: 15-17, 21-22


“Hot diggity dog!”

Have you seen the youtube video?

“Hot diggity dog!” is what the football fan shouted when his son gave him a Bear Bryant fedora for Christmas, a gray hat just like the legendary University of Alabama football coach used to wear . . .

It was the best Christmas ever for Don Buckhannon, from Oxford, Alabama. He put the hat on his head right then and there. And he shouted “hot diggity dog”! And he clapped his hands. And he grinned from ear to ear.

And he was grateful!

For the hat. And for the team. And for the son who knew him so very well.

But that was not the end of the story.

“What size is the hat, Dad?” you can hear his son asking in the background of the video. And so he takes the hat off his head. And he looks inside to see what size it is. And then this old bear of a man begins to weep with joy. His son has hidden a ticket to the Alabama-Notre Dame national championship college football game inside the hat.

“We’re goin’ to the game, Pop!” his son shouts. And the video camera starts to shake. And the whole family is laughing and crying. And Mr. Buckhannon keeps on shouting “Holy Moly!” over and over again.

“Hot diggity dog!” “We’re goin’ to the game!”

The video, which has gone viral on youtube, ends with a resounding, “THANKS!” from this grateful Dad. A Dad who is . . . without a doubt . . . very pleased with his beloved child.


When I first saw this video my mind went straight to our own Mac Holmes, whose life we celebrate today in the sacrament of adult baptism.

Mac is also a huge football fan. And Mac also has a beloved child with whom he is very pleased. And Mac’s beloved child also went to great lengths to get him tickets to a really big football game, up in Dallas, on Thanksgiving Day. [I will not reveal which football team he was rooting for, except that it was the “right” one. Mac and I have discovered we are both big fans of Robert Griffin III.]




It is the “attitude of gratitude” that I think of most when I think of Mac Holmes. Because Mac is just like that football fan from Alabama, who would be grateful just for a hat. And who honestly would be grateful for his beloved child without even needing a hat.

The truth is Mac Holmes has a way of being grateful just for the day. Just for the mere fact that he can get up in the morning. Just because he has beautiful children. Just because he can come here and be part of a community that loves him just the way he is. Just because he has a God who loves him just the way he is.

And the thing about Mac’s attitude of gratitude is that this is a hard-fought feeling for him. Mac knows all too well that life is just plain hard sometimes. He has had more than his fair share of rough shakes, and plenty of reason to throw his hands up in despair. But instead he says, “hot diggity dog.” I’ve got another day of living. Better make it a good one.

We need that reminder, Mac. From you. From our football fan in Alabama. From the God who created every one of us good. And is very pleased with us.

We need that reminder the same way Jesus did when he went to the Jordan and joined in the suffering of the teeming mass of humanity all around him. Jesus said “alleluia anyway” for this dousing in divine grace. And he dunked himself in the water of the deep, at the hand of John. And the tears of gratitude from the God who loved him beyond compare flowed. And a voice from the heavens shouted a resounding, “THANKS!” My beloved child. I am so pleased with you.

It was not because Jesus had actually done anything that God was grateful for him. There was not even a fedora involved! It was just that God loved him. It was just that God was grateful for him. The same way Mac is grateful for his children. The same way we are grateful for all of our children.

“Hot diggity dog,” God says to us in our baptism. “We’re goin’ to the game.”


The great debate in biblical and theological scholarship around the baptism of Jesus, of course, is why in the world he needed to be baptized. If he was truly without sin, scholars wonder, what was the point?

The point is this, at least as far as I am concerned: baptism is far more about gratitude than it is about guilt. Let me say that again. Baptism is far more about gratitude than it is about guilt! When we baptize an infant we say “alleluia” for the God who claims us before we even know how to ask. And when we baptize an adult we say “hot diggity dog” for the grace of the God who created us good and is very pleased with us. Not because we have done anything. Or because we have decided to stop doing anything. But just because we are.

In fact, I would venture a guess that it was this resounding “THANKS” from the God who was so very pleased with Jesus that gave him the strength he needed to minister the way he did for the rest of his life. To reach out with joy to the ones who seemed to have nothing to be grateful for. To see a couple of fish and a few loaves of bread and say “hot diggity dog” for the feast. To love the very violence that raged around him as he faced his death. To comfort the community that tried to figure out how to carry on the mission without him. 

“You are my beloved,” God says to Jesus . . . and Jesus says, “thank you for another day,” in return. And shows us how to do it, too. Which is what Mac is also showing us today.

And we are all grateful!

So “hot diggity dog, Mac! Holy moly! We’re goin’ to the game!”

Amen.

Incarnating the Living Christ

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Luke 2: 41-44
Luke 2: 45- 52


The great religious festival has ended, for Mary and Joseph and Jesus in our Gospel Lesson today, and for us, as we come back ‘home’ to Madison Square for one last service of worship at the end of the calendar year.

For them it is the Passover Festival. For them it is a grand pilgrimage through the heart of Jerusalem every year to remember the birth of their people, the way we remember the birth of Christ.

For them it is the old, old story of God leading the Hebrews out of Egypt, through the desert, and into a land of promise and plenty. But for them the land of promise and plenty has become a police state. More and more armed guards from the Roman Empire encroach upon their temple and their people and their potential. More and more of their children succumb to the violence that permeates their midst. More and more of their parents wonder if God really is still with them.

And so they find themselves praying for a “Passover-in-reverse.” For God to raise up another Moses and Aaron and Miriam in their time, that the land might return to the promise of plenty that lingers in the songs of the Passover Festival. Just as our promise of peace lingers in the songs of Christmas.


Jesus, in this story, is still just a boy. But he knows enough to know that he needs to know more. So he stays behind in the Temple and he studies his Scriptures and he asks the tough questions and he astonishes his teachers with his wisdom and understanding. And they wonder if he just might be that leader for whom they have been praying all this time . . .

And we could say this is unique to Jesus. That in this story we see him as the special Son of God that he is. And it is. But we could also say that this is how all children can be with enough space and enough trust and enough support to guide them along the way. They become our teachers. They just might be the ones God is raising up among us, to lead our violent land back to promise and plenty.


This is, I believe, the real truth of the Incarnation. That the image of Christ is born again in every child God places on this planet. That every child is our teacher. That every child offers us the chance to know the Word of God made flesh. And that with every child God gives us, God also gives us the chance to get it right this time!

This is not because children automatically bring us divine bliss. If they are anything like Jesus in this story from Luke—or anything like me, as my own parents who are here today will testify—children can be impetuous and oblivious and ready to make a break for whatever suits their fancy whenever it suits them. Even if that means hiding in the Temple when you are supposed to be going back home to Nazareth.

The reason children bear the image of Christ in our midst is that their very provocations can propel us to maturity. In their very impetuous nature we are compelled to guide them and correct them and nurture them, in the same way we pray for our parenting God to guide and correct and nurture us.
The bottom line truth of the Incarnation is this: if we want our parenting God to be with us, then we had better get on about the business of being with our children. This imperative has become more clear than ever in these past several weeks, as we have all watched the loss of children to gun violence with feelings of abject helplessness.

But we are not helpless! We are here in the Temple with Jesus, lingering after the holy days, learning another way to respond to the violence that rages around us and within us. Learning a way that leads to wisdom and understanding, without becoming violent ourselves.

We are here in the Temple with Jesus, lingering after the holy days, with the invitation to act on our baptismal vows to care for the children God has given us to love. So let’s do it!

In the next 7 minutes our organist, Mark, will offer some musical accompaniment for our time of individual reflection and commitment. Your Red Packet gives you some options to consider:

1.    One thing you might do is simply meditate upon the Prayer for Children included in your folder . . . or the artist rendition of Jesus in the Temple included up here in the chancel . . . and listen deeply through your meditation for a response from the Spirit to lead you in further commitment to our children.

2.    Another thing you might do is consider the ministry of the Madison Square Child Development Center in your prayers. A small notecard and envelope are available for you to write a note of encouragement to one of the teachers or staff that are listed in your folder. You may place that notecard in the offering plate later in the service, and we will deliver it to the appropriate person.

3.    Your prayers for the Child Development Center may lead you to make a special donation to the Child Development Center using one of the envelopes in the folder. Please place your offering in the plate later in the service.

4.    There is a letter from the session to Elected Officials in the red notebook advocating public policy positions that we believe reflect our baptismal vows to our children. You are welcome to endorse this letter and send your own copy to one or more elected officials whose contact information is also in your folder. If you wish, you may also put your letter in the offering plate, and we will make sure it is deliver to the right person.

5.    Or you may choose to write your own letter on the blank sheets of paper included in your folder.

When the music draws to a close after about seven minutes, we will conclude our time of meditation by joining together in the Prayer for Children by Ina Hughes.


"We Pray for Children"
by Ina Hughes

We pray for children
Who put chocolate fingers everywhere,
Who like to be tickled,
Who stomp in puddles and ruin their new pants,
Who sneak Popsicles before supper,
Who erase holes in math workbooks,
Who can never find their shoes.

And we pray for those
Who stare at photographers from behind barbed wire,
Who can't bound down the street in new sneakers,
Who never "counted potatoes,"
Who are born in places we wouldn't be caught dead  in,
Who never go to the circus,
Who live in an X-rated world.

We pray for children
Who bring us sticky kisses and fistfuls of dandelions,
Who sleep with the cat and bury goldfish,
Who hug us in a hurry and forget their lunch money,
Who squeeze toothpaste all over the sink,
Who slurp their soup.

And we pray for those
Who never get dessert,
Who have no safe blanket to drag behind them,
Who can't find any bread to steal,
Who don't have any rooms to clean up,
Whose pictures aren't on anybody's dresser,
Whose monsters are real.

We pray for children
Who spend all their allowance before Tuesday,
Who throw tantrums in the grocery store and pick at their food,
Who like ghost stories,
Who shove dirty clothes under the bed,
Who get visits from the tooth fairy,
Who don't like to be kissed in front of the car pool,
Who squirm in church and scream on the phone,
Whose tears we sometimes laugh at and whose smiles can make us cry.

And we pray for those
Whose nightmares come in the daytime,
Who will eat anything,
Who have never seen a dentist,
Who are never spoiled by anyone,
Who go to bed hungry and cry themselves to sleep,
Who live and move, but have no being.

We pray for children
Who want to be carried
And for those who must,
For those we never give up on
And for those who never get a second chance,
For those we smother.
And for those who will grab the hand of anybody kind
enough to offer it.

We pray for children. Amen.

(We pray for Children, 1995,
William Morrow publisher)