Pressing Onward Toward the Goal

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Philippians 3:4b-16
Matthew 21:33-46


It is World Communion Sunday, celebrated by Presbyterians on the first Sunday in October every year since 1936, reminding us on this particular Sunday each year what we know every time we celebrate communion: that the risen Christ bids us come from east and west, north and south, across every border of human design to feast with him in eternal grace. To re-member his broken body through the sharing of bread and the pouring of wine. To continue his commitment to feed all who hunger and sate all who thirst. To proclaim boldly his death and his resurrection and his coming again in glory; to trust the heavenly banquet prepared for evermore.

It is World Communion Sunday, celebrated by Lutherans and Methodists and everyone in between, reminding us on this particular Sunday each year what we know in our hearts every time we celebrate communion: that this table to which we come—begging—does not belong to Madison Square Presbyterian Church, or to the Presbyterian Church (U.S.A.), or even—I would dare to suggest—to any organized institutional “visible church” at all . . .

The table belongs to Christ. And Christ bids every one of us come.

It is a table to which broken and suffering people have come for centuries, seeking spiritual sustenance and finding it in abundance. It is a table to which hungry and thirsty people have come, seeking literal food and drink and finding it in abundance. It is a table to which self-satisfied and self-righteous people have come, seeking forgiveness of sins and assurance of pardon and finding it in abundance.

It is a table of grace.

It is a table that takes us as we are and transforms us into who we can become. And whenever we come to the table, we quite literally come from across the globe, from across the centuries, from across all time and all space to share a meal with everyone who has come to this table before us and everyone who will come to this table after us and everyone who hungers and thirsts on this planet right now with us. Including Judas, and every one of us who knows betrayal. Including Peter, and every one of us who knows denial. Including the Beloved Disciple, and every one of us who knows what it is to witness suffering to the end. Whoever we are, we come to the table. And we are One Body. And we are at peace.

It is World Communion Sunday. And as we gather across time and space to feast with our Savior, we join with other Presbyterians in offering a tangible response to this peace that passes all understanding when we collect our special offering to the Presbyterian Peacemaking Program. And we say with our gifts of dollars and cents that we want this gift of grace we receive at the table, this gift of peace we receive at the table, to be made real in the world beyond these walls. Because we know we live in a world that is far from the promise of the peace we experience at this table. All we have to do to know that is to read the Sunday paper this morning.

I have been thinking much about this table and its gift of peace, as I have studied the Scriptures that are before us this Sunday, both in my own prayerful discernment and with our newly formed Teach the Preacher group who struggled with me to make sense of such a violent parable from Matthew’s gospel on such a Sunday devoted to peace.

If we are going to put the parable of the Wicked Tenants in the context of the table to which we come, we should note that the conversation most likely takes place on Monday or Tuesday of Holy Week in those high stakes days between Palm Sunday and Easter when tensions are high and Jesus is just beginning to draw the kind of attention that will soon have him arrested and crucified on trumped up charges later in the week. This harsh, violent parable about killing and casting out and crushing under the cornerstone is told three days before the Last Supper, four days before the crucifixion, six days before the resurrection (let us never forget that part!), in the earliest part of that Holy—yet terribly violent—Week that forms the foundation of our faith as followers of Christ. That week we re-member every time we come to the table.

In the context of the violence of that horrible—yet Holy—week, we have another vineyard and another landowner. Perhaps he is the same oikodespotes from the parable of two weeks ago, but this time he is an absentee landlord who thinks he has done everything necessary to protect the fruits of his land with a fence and a watchtower and tenants who will take care of things until the plentiful harvest. He thinks he is secure. He thinks he has paid the price for peace.

But the harvest goes terribly wrong. The tenants to whom the landowner entrust his crop decide to hoard the abundance that never belonged to them in the first place, inciting a cycle of violence that leaves multiple people injured or killed, including the beloved son of the landowner, himself. The vineyard is utterly decimated. Blood is flowing where wine should have been poured. The body broken, the blood shed. Exactly what we re-member when we come to the table.

There is too much brokenness. There is too much bloodshed.

The later Christian interpretation of this parable is, of course, that the chief priests and the Pharisees are the wicked tenants and that their “rejection of Jesus” means the kingdom of God has been given exclusively to Christians. That the rejected cornerstone (meaning Christ, himself) will crush those who rejected it. And so the cycle of violence has continued, as Christians throughout the centuries have come to this table identifying ourselves with the “good tenants” to whom the vineyard of God’s kingdom has been given and have then gone from this table vindictively using this parable to justify anti-Judaism—and anti-whateverism—in its most ugly and violent forms.

I don’t think that’s what the table is about. I don’t think that’s what the parable is about.

The chief priests and the Pharisees, to whom the parable is directed, know that what the wicked tenants have done is wrong. They are, in fact, the first to name the injustice, the first to speak the anger that would surely be in the heart of anyone whose servants and sons were all murdered by such wicked tenants. The chief priests and Pharisees will, in fact, identify themselves most closely with the landowner in this parable. Many of them are landowners, themselves, wealthy enough to leave their vineyards in the hands of trusted tenants while they tend to their religious duties in Jerusalem: their own “table of Sacraments,” if you will.

What the chief priests and Pharisees do not see—either by choice or by ignorance—is that the cost of their identification with the average household despot of the Roman Empire perpetuates further economic barriers against the most vulnerable peasants who seek the solace of their God at the Jerusalem Temple. It has been the problem with the Temple hierarchy since its inception, almost since the time of Solomon. The Jerusalem elite builds up the temple at the expense of the poor. And Jesus calls them on it, just like the prophets before him called their chief priests on it—holding up a mirror to the undercurrent of fear and greed and violence that perpetuates this system . . . and that will eventually take his own life. Which, of course, we also re-member at this table.

Two thousand years later, on this World Communion Sunday, as we re-member the stories of that horrible—yet Holy—week, can we honestly claim to be the “good tenants” who replace the religious leaders of Jesus’ day with our own more excellent fruit of the kingdom? Or does the same mirror Jesus held up to the chief priests and the Pharisees of his day reveal our own fear and greed and violence even now?

I would argue that it does. I would argue that we, like the apostle Paul, cannot yet claim to have “reached the goal of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.” Just look at our hoarding. Just look at our wars. Just look at the vineyard we pollute with utter disdain. I would argue that we come to this table clinging, like Paul, to “Christ and the power of his resurrection”—especially on this World Communion Sunday—because we know there is too much suffering in this world, and we know we are too much a part of that suffering, and we know that we do not want to be anymore.

We know that we need healing and wholeness and hope and that we don’t quite have it yet in its fullness. We know that peace on earth begins with us: with our families and with our co-workers and yes, with our own congregation. We know we come to the table broken and suffering, hungry and thirsty, self-righteous and self-satisfied, desperate for a second chance.

And we get it.

Because this is a table of grace. It is a table that takes us as we are and transforms us into who we can become. So come to the table, whoever you are, wherever you are from, whatever you have done, whatever you have left undone. Come to the table. “Forget what lies behind” . . . let it go . . . it is over and done . . . it is in God's redeeming and resurrecting hands. “Strain forward to what lies ahead, as we press on tighter toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.” The future is before us. The future to which Christ calls us. And it truly can be a future of peace. Because peace really is here for us in the bread and in the cup, as we re-member the broken body of Christ, and transform a week of ever-escalating violence into a meal of resurrection life. Let there be peace on earth, we pray as we come to the table; and let it begin with me.

I pray it may be so.

Amen.

Teaching and Testing

By Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Exodus 17:1-7  

 

Something always gets messed up in a move.

This time, for me, it was the Brita filter. You know, the water thermos with a special compartment at the top that filters out impurities contaminating the water from the tap. [I don’t actually know a lot about water filtration. I just know that I had a Brita filter in Tucson, and I liked it, and I expected to have the same one here in San Antonio.]

For two weeks I unpacked kitchen boxes with dedicated perseverance, savoring in my mind the sediment-free stream that would flow from its spout the moment we were reunited, anticipating with ever-greater enthusiasm the moment I would finally pull my one and only Brita filter out of the last box of kitchen items to be unpacked . . . on Tuesday . . . late afternoon . . .

It was cracked.

A long, thin, irreparable crack from top to bottom. Goodbye Brita filter. Hello a few choice words from a frustrated yours truly! [I will not repeat them from the pulpit.]

Let’s just say I sympathize with the ancient Hebrews, wandering in the wilderness, wondering from where in the world their next drink of water will come. If I was this upset about a broken Brita filter after a remarkably easy move, imagine what it would be to find yourself in a land you have never known, swept up with a pack of runaways you have barely met, with no United Van Lines to get you and your belongings safely from Egypt to the Land of Promise and Plenty.  

“What in the world were we thinking?” was the phrase on the lips of just about every Hebrew making the journey. [Including a few more words we won’t say from the pulpit.] Yes, Egypt was bad. Egypt was really bad. But at least we knew where the next bottle of water was coming from. Here there is nothing to drink!

And Moses, their leader, is at his wits end to respond. It does not matter that this ragtag bunch of escaped runaways has passed through the Red Sea unscathed. It does not matter that God has just rained bread—manna from heaven—to provide for the hunger of this group of people Moses has come to lead. What matters is this present moment of life and death, this dry and weary land where there is no water to put in even a cracked Brita filter. And they honestly do not know if God is with them or not. And maybe it would have been better to have just stayed put in Egypt after all.

At least that’s what the ancient Hebrews say in the present moment of panic. And let’s face it, that’s what we all say in the present moment of whatever panic currently terrifies us, even though God has already proven over and over again that God will provide in the wilderness: through the Red Sea, through the manna from heaven, through the quail. And God continues to prove it, as God leads Moses and a group of elders to a gushing stream from a rocky place in a nearby mountain, to an abundant waterfall that was there all along, but just didn’t happen to come from the Brita filter covering the contaminated tap water flowing abundantly from their enslavement in Egypt.

Something always gets messed up in the move, but God somehow always finds a way to make it better. That is what God is trying to say to the ancient Hebrews wandering in the wilderness. That is what God is trying to say to all of us wandering in the wilderness.

Because the story of the ancient Hebrews wandering in the wilderness is the classic story of pilgrimage, of setting out on a journey of faith with all of the twists and turns, the teaching and testing, the leaving behind and the embracing of the new that are necessary when God invites us to band together on a journey of grace to a place we do not yet know but that we have been told holds promise and opportunity, abundance and wholeness, milk and honey. Peace.

We are part of that pilgrimage every Sunday when we gather in the name of Christ, celebrating the goodness of what God has already done for us and for our people, naming our present panic—a job on the line, or a child that is sick, or an anger that refuses to abate, or a faith that has come crashing to its core—and finding somewhere in this holy hour in this holy space a river of life to sustain us on the journey, just like the Hebrews did in the waters of Meribah. A word of hope in the Call to Worship, a note of grace in a song of trust, a conviction revived in a prayer or a reading, a challenge or opportunity from the meditation on the Word.

When we come to worship every Sunday, we remember this pilgrim journey we are on—this pilgrim journey God’s people have always been on—and we trust that somehow, someway, God will bring us home.

And God does!

I think that is why your “Bienvenidos” is so important to you, why you demanded it back at the beginning of your worship service after you felt like it was taken away. The presentation of the gifts is kind of like the tabernacle the ancient Hebrews carried across the desert, forming the center of their campground from one movement to the next, the place they could always count on, no matter where in the wilderness they found themselves. And I applaud you for it. It is the hallmark of who you are at Madison Square Presbyterian Church, welcoming God’s pilgrim people to whatever home we can find as we wander our way through the wilderness that is our very lives.

So now here we are, settling in to our third week together as interim pastor and pilgrim people, and the welcome is genuine and heartfelt . . . and it seems timely to step back a bit and reflect for a minute on what it is we are actually doing together in this “interim” ministry. Or, perhaps more appropriately, what it is God might be doing with us on this particular pilgrimage that is ours in this season at Madison Square.

Like the ancient Hebrews, we, too, are setting out on a journey of faith through an unknown land to a promise of hope on the other side, are we not? Or, more accurately, we are meeting at Mount Sinai to journey the rest of the way together. We are a group of people—like them—joined by a common heritage, bound together by a sense that a just and generous God wants freedom and wholeness and abundant life for all God’s people, bound and determined to find that grace by any means necessary, bound and determined to find a “permanent” pastor who will not lead this community back into Egypt, bound and determined to prepare this community to receive that new pastor well.

Like the ancient Hebrews, we may hit a few bumps in the road—and perhaps we have already—and it may take a little longer than we really think it should—and perhaps it has already. But this is a pilgrimage, not a sprint to the finish . . . a way of life, not something to “get through” so we can start the “real” living again. And there is much to be learned along the way if we take the time to pay attention.

The Hebrews needed a census of the people they actually had traveling with them—not unlike our own efforts to update our membership rolls, so they took the time to stop and count. And they needed a set of shared guidelines to organize their daily living—not unlike our newly adopted bylaws, so they took the time to stop at Sinai and receive the Ten Commandments. And they needed a new class of elders and deacons trained in the ways of the wilderness, so they took the time to re-organize their leadership in patterns that served their needs more effectively and fairly.

And they needed to work through their disagreements and head off the opposing tribes trying to send them back to Egypt, so they took the time to debate their differences and stand firm in the face of backlash and mistrust. And they just plain needed to let go of what was no longer working for them in order to receive a new opportunity for something different to emerge—not unlike me letting go of my Brita filter. So it took them a while. And it will take us a while. But once we are ready for the Land of Promise and Plenty, we will really, truly be ready!

Because what the ancient Hebrews realized through their pilgrimage in the wilderness—and what I hope we will learn right along with them—is that the journey was, in fact, the destination. Everything they learned in the wilderness sustained them in the land to come. Pilgrimage became a way of life, not just a practice in the moment, and the trust in God to provide for them and strengthen them through whatever wilderness they found themselves in became the walk of faith that is ours still today.

Are you really with us, God, in this journey through an unknown land? they wanted to know. Yes, I really am, and I will be with you to the end, God responds.

That was what God was teaching them in the wilderness. That is how they were testing God in return. And that is what God is teaching us, too, here at Madison Square as we work our way through “The Developmental Tasks of the Interim Period,” which is what we call the intentional transition from one installed pastor to the next. Like the ancient Hebrews, God really is forming Madison Square Presbyterian Church as a whole new people, a whole new community, in a new place with a new way of relating to one another—and, I would dare to suggest, even a new way of relating to God. And it is going to take some time to figure that new way out, just like it did for the ancient Hebrews.

What I want to offer you, as your interim pastor, is the stability and trust and joy that comes with embracing this pilgrimage as a way of life, rather than a means to a destination, learning over and over again that God will find a way to provide for us just at the moment we have given up hope. That God will fashion us into a new community, just when we have decided we cannot belong. That God will teach us and test us, just when we have caved in to the cloud of unknowing. That in these times of pilgrimage, we discover more deeply who we are, and we trust more intently whose we are, and we become more fully who God created us to be. In fact, that is always our invitation as a people of faith. It’s just that now we get to pay closer attention to it.

What I have learned from you in these few short weeks is that you already have everything you need to sustain you on this pilgrim journey: you have la fuente de identidad, the water of your baptism . . . reminiscent of that passage of freedom through the Red Sea . . . grounding us in the promise of God’s grace for the journey; you have la mesa de sustento, the meal of manna and unfiltered water flowing from the most unlikely places . . . nourishing us just at the moment we have given into despair; and you have el libro de memoria y promesa, the stories of God’s walk with our people in the past, encouraging us in the present toward the future hope that is life eternal in that Land of Promise and Plenty.

In the weeks and months to come on this pilgrim journey that is ours together, I will simply remind you of what you already know: that God is still with us even now; that prayer and perseverance will see us through whatever panic emerges along the way; that who we will become may yet be even more exciting than who we have been; and that at the end of the day, God will always . . . always . . . always welcome us home.

This is always what it has meant to be God’s pilgrim people. With or without our Brita filter. Amen.

Another Day, Another Dollar?

By Gusti Linnea Newquist

Exodus 16:1-15
Matthew 20:1-16

Every day is a gift from God, the ancient Israelites sing, as Moses assures them God will feed their hunger and quench their thirst. Every day is a gift from God, we have joined them in singing when we, too, gather around the bread of life, as the manna from heaven falls, as the heavens “rain bread,” which is how the Hebrew is so beautifully translated. Every day is a gift from God, we celebrate with them, soaking up the raining bread in the wilderness of Sin—just like we have been soaking up the raining rain this weekend—in a land that is so barren of life in the eyes of the ancient Israelites that even Egypt, with its whips and chains of slavery, seems like a welcome—and lush—alternative.

But every day is a gift from God, the ancient Israelites start singing, when the raining bread starts to fall and the quail crop up from the cracked and parched earth. And they have enough to eat, and it is enough for everyone, no matter how rich or poor or young or old. No matter how able-bodied. It is not a luxury, of course. It is not fried chicken and apple pie. But they have their daily bread. And so do we. Because in the middle of a dry and weary land, when even Egypt seems like a better alternative, Moses thunders, “God. Will. Provide!” And God does!

It is a question that is ever before us, is it not? Will God really provide? Jobs? Security? Peace? Rain for a drought-ridden state? These economic times—and this literal drought—have forced us all to reconsider our basic assumptions about money and savings and grace and providence. The truth is, if we are really honest, we would be hard-pressed to find anyone among us who is not wandering in the wilderness when it comes to money. It is a symbol of our ego, our security, our emotional rootedness. Plain talk about money is in many ways more threatening to us than plain talk about sexuality. The truth is, if we are really honest, we might rather believe God will just make it all better for us if we complain loudly enough, like the Israelites did with Moses. That bread really will rain from heaven or money really will grow on trees so we don’t have to think about it anymore.

But according to the Bible, God’s provision for daily bread extends well beyond the miraculous manna in the wilderness. God’s provision for daily bread also includes an emphatic set of teachings for the community to live by once they have settled into the Land of Promise and Plenty. The Law, we call these teachings in English; Torah in Hebrew. And in the teachings of Torah, once the people have settled into abundant life across the Jordan, each tribal family is assigned sufficient land holdings to meet their basic needs for generations to come. Enough for everyone—rich, poor, young, old—to receive their daily bread from the abundance of the land they have been assigned. Not so different from the miracle of manna in the wilderness, actually. Only this time, the miracle comes from human sharing of God’s abundance. Which is, given the human propensity for hoarding, perhaps the greater miracle.

Torah maintains a special concern for the most vulnerable among us: the widow and the orphan, to be precise in biblical language, but really anyone who has fallen into perpetual poverty. According to Torah, the wealth of the land should be redistributed every fifty years so that those who have fallen behind can start fresh with a level playing field where debts are canceled, where indentured servants are set free, where God’s wilderness promise of enough for everyone becomes the literal law of the land. It is Basic Biblical Economics: 1) God has given us abundance; 2) We are required to share it; 3) Inequities must be reconciled over time. (see Leviticus 25. Yes. Leviticus!)

We pray for these biblical economic principles every Sunday in our Lord’s Prayer: “Give us this day our daily bread,” we ask. “Forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors,” we pray. We call forth, as Jesus did, the core of the teachings of Torah, the core of the tradition through which God has ensured God’s faithful provision for all of humanity, the core of the tradition Jesus comes to fulfill by his very presence among us.

Because by the time we get to first century Judea, where that itinerant preacher named Jesus consolidates the core of Torah into what we call The Lord’s Prayer and starts sharing the core of Torah with his disciples through parables about the kingdom of heaven, just about everyone has forgotten the law of the land. The Romans have taken over. The tribes have all been scattered. Landowning elites now own great estates producing luxury crops of wine and oil. Oikodespotes, these landowners are called in Greek: oiko, meaning “household,” and despotes meaning—well—let’s just say this is where we get the English word despot. They foreclosed on loans, they took over peasant farms, they drove the little guy out of business, and they drove up food prices. Intentionally. Without mercy. The peasant farmers, themselves, often had no choice but to start working for the very same landowner who had taken their land!

By the time we get to first-century Judea, where an itinerant preacher named Jesus starts sharing parables with his disciples about the kingdom of heaven, the Land does not seem so full of Promise and Plenty anymore. It has become far easier to believe manna will fall again from the sky than to believe a landowner will actually live by the teachings of Torah. I suppose we could say the same thing today.

Jesus says it can be different. Jesus demands it to be different! “The kingdom of heaven,” Jesus says in Matthew’s Gospel, Chapter 20, verses 1-16, “is like a landowner who went out early in the morning to hire laborers for his vineyard. After agreeing with the laborers for the usual daily wage, he sent them into his vineyard.” And already we who are disciples are stunned. This is a landowner unlike any other “household despot” that comes to mind when you hear about the 1^st century equivalent to an “overpaid CEO of a multinational corporation.”

Unlike his peers who would normally never associate with the day laborers at the lowest pay grade in his company, this guy actually takes the time to go hire them himself. He seeks them out early in the morning, while most of us are still sipping our morning coffee and reading the paper. A landowner wants to talk to a day laborer. A CEO wants to talk with a mail clerk. And this, in itself, really could be something like the reign of God.

But the story goes on: “When [the landowner] went out about nine o’clock, he saw others standing idle in the marketplace; and he said to them, ‘You also go into the vineyard, and I will pay you whatever is right.’ So they went. When he went out again about noon and about three o’clock, he did the same. And about five o’clock he went out and found others standing around; and he said to them, ‘Why are you standing here idle all day?’ They said to him, ‘Because no one has hired us.’ He said to them, ‘You also go to the vineyard.’”

And of course there is no explanation for why all the laborers did not receive work that morning or why the landowner did not just hire them all in the first place. But if the situation in Tucson of day laborers who gather at churches to wait for work is any indication, there simply were not have enough jobs for everyone. At least not according to secular economic principles. And many of the laborers, themselves, have a code of ethics to follow. “Maria has a sick child and can’t pay the doctor,” they might say. “She should go first in line.” Or “Joey hasn’t worked in a week. He really needs the money.” Watching their own chances fade as they day wears on, hoping against hope something else will come along. And it does, in the kingdom of heaven! God really does find a way to provide: through a landowner who has finally figured out how to talk to the people who work the land, through a landowner who realizes he really does have enough to share, through a household despot who converts to the basics of biblical economics: 1) God has given us abundance, he realizes; 2) We are required to share it, he decides; 3) Inequities must be reconciled over time. And now is always the time.

“When evening came, the owner of the vineyard said to his manager, ‘Call the managers and give them their pay, beginning with the last and then going to the first.’ When those hired about five o’clock came, each of them received the usual daily wage. Now when the first came, they thought they would receive more; but each of them also received the usual daily wage. And when they received it, they grumbled against the landowner, saying, ‘These last worked only one hour, and you have made them equal to us who have borne the burden of the day and the scorching heat. But he replied to one of them, ‘Friend, I am doing you no wrong’ did you not agree with me for the usual daily wage? Take what belongs to you and go; I choose to give this last the same as I give to you. Am I not allowed to do what I choose with what belongs to me? Or are you envious because I am generous?’ So the last will be first and the first will be last.” And that is the final teaching of Basic Biblical Economics.

The traditional interpretation of this parable is, of course, that God is the landowner, and we are the laborers. That God wants to give us abundant life by God’s good grace, and we who are human want to believe we can earn it. And we can’t. Because it is a gift. Always and forever, a gift.

God wants everyone to have our daily bread. Period. And God knows this will not happen unless we all do our part—landowner and day laborer, alike—to trust God has truly given us enough, to trust we can share it well, to trust we can find a way to reconcile inequalities.

We at Madison Square have a small but significant way to practice the basic biblical economics of our Scripture lessons today. God has given us the stewardship of this small vineyard, here on the corner of Camden and Lexington, to cultivate for the glory of God to practice biblical economics. We are a community of faith that gathers from across the city to call this place home every Sunday of every week, that gathers around the table for our own manna from heaven every month. We are a community of children that seeks wholeness and hope in the Child Development Center every Monday through Friday. We are a community of recovering alcoholics who find this church to be the one place they can relinquish their lives to a higher power. We are a set of buildings to maintain—or tear down—and a mission of justice and peace to proclaim beyond our walls.

You probably were not expecting a Stewardship sermon this Sunday, but here it is: God has given us everything we need to provide well for each of these ministries. In fact, God has given us so much that we could probably double our provision for the ministry that is before us. We just have to decide we want to do it, following the lead of that converted household despot landowner who took the time to know the people, who figured out he had a lot more to offer than he thought he did. And we do, too.

Amen.

The Forgiveness Project

by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

“I needed to forgive him,” Mary Johnson said of the man who had murdered her 20 year old son at a late-night party in Minneapolis, Minnesota in 1993. “I needed to forgive him,” Mary said, “so I could help other mothers in pain.”

Ten years after enduring the worst pain a mother can experience, ten years after describing the man who murdered her son as “an animal . . . [who] deserved to be caged,” Mary contacted Oshea Israel in prison to see if he would receive a visit from her. After an initial refusal, Oshea finally said yes. “I had to be a man,” Oshea said to himself when Mary made the first move. “[I had to] communicate with his mother.” 

It was not an easy reunion. Although she had asked for the meeting, Mary’s anger and hurt were still strong, even ten years later. She had thought Oshea should have a stronger sentence. She had thought parole should not ever be an option. She had become reclusive and unable to look at her son’s photos. The pain was visceral, even then. But she was a Christian woman who believed it was her duty to forgive, seventy times seven, if need be. And so she prayed and fasted for twenty-one days before meeting with Oshea to clarify her intentions and to focus on forgiveness. 

Oshea, for his part, had spent the past ten years blaming Mary’s son for the crime. Oshea claimed he had been provoked in the heat of the moment and that Mary should have raised her son better than she did. But when Mary made the first move toward reconciliation, Oshea knew it was time to take stock of his life over the past ten years, to take responsibility for his actions. He realized, upon reflection, that he had changed and grown in ways he had not anticipated. He had found the courage to walk away from the gang that had stoked the violence in the first place. He had pursued a GED and was ready for a fresh start. So he prepared to meet the mother of the man he had murdered ten years earlier with a spirit of repentance and respect, unsure of what to expect in return.

Ten years after the crime, ten years after the trial, ten years after the sentencing and imprisonment, Mary and Oshea met once again. They spoke for two hours, both of them praying for an attitude of grace. And as they talked, Mary realized Oshea’s life was very similar to her son’s. They had both liked the same sports, they had both experienced the same difficulties in school, they had both been seduced by the gangs that had escalated the violence that fateful night. In the honest sharing of their lives, Oshea felt a strong connection to Mary, almost as if she were his second mother. “I caused her pain,” he realized. “But we are loving each other through it.” 

As their reunion drew to a close, Mary said to Oshea, “I forgive you. I let you go,” and he hugged her tight in response. Mary cried and started to fall with the weakness of relief, but Oshea held her up, supporting her with his strength. And as they stood there, hugging and crying, ten years after he had murdered her son, Mary literally felt hatred and bitterness leave her body. She literally broke free of the chains around her soul the murder of her son had become. And so did Oshea, even though he was still technically in prison. Both of them were freed by forgiveness.

By the time Oshea was finally released on parole, Mary was able to welcome him wholeheartedly back into society. He moved in next door to her, and they began to look out for one another, like mother and child. Mary now wears a locket with a picture of her son on one side and a picture of Oshea on the other. And Mary’s dream of forgiving Oshea in order to be able to help other mothers in pain has become a reality. She formed a non-profit organization to help others who have lost children to violence. Mary and Oshea speak together throughout their community about forgiveness and healing. And their story was the feature article this week for the “Heroes Among Us” department of People Magazine. Truly Mary and Oshea are both heroes among us, an inspiration to all who would heed the gospel call to forgiveness and hope that is our Scripture lesson this morning. 

In any other week, the story of Mary and Oshea would have made it to the front cover of the magazine and we would have heralded their courage as a hallmark of hope. But this week, of course, the cover story is about September 11^th, ten years later. This week, the locket hanging around the neck of the 9-year old Lauren McIntyre on the cover of People Magazine holds a photo of her father, Donald, a Port Authority Police Officer who was killed in the Second Tower of the World Trade Center. And in honor of her and all the children whose fathers died on that day before they were born, this week of remembering and re-telling the stories of September 11, 2001 takes precedence over all else, as it should.

What does the call to forgive “seventy times seven” really mean for us on the 10^th anniversary of September 11^th? Are we supposed to forgive the hijackers the way Mary forgave Oshea? Are we supposed to forgive Osama bin Laden, himself? Or is it our own government giving in to the temptation to torture we are called to forgive? Do we just “let go” of the worst day in the history of our country as a moment in time to hand over to God without question or comment? Or is something else going on with the forgiving king and the unforgiving servant of that might encourage us and challenge us and strengthen us as a community for the gospel ministry that is ours today, ten years later?

Biblical scholar William Herzog reminds us in his analysis of the Parables [of Jesus] as Subversive Speech that we do well to remember the true nature of kingship in the time of Jesus. When we, who live in a democracy, hear the parable today, we automatically assume the king is parallel to God. And we assume the king is benevolent. But kings in the time of Jesus are not to be confused with God! The kings who ruled in the time of Jesus had a pact with the Roman Emperor to “keep the peace” by squelching the masses. It was a cycle of violence so vast and so excessive and so insidious that it made the gang violence in Minneapolis that ended the life of Mary’s son look like child’s play. 

The kings of the first century Roman Empire exacted severe taxes from the peasant population to enhance their material wealth and expand their influence and power. Most peasants were radically in debt for their entire lives. The kings employed a servant class of bureaucrats to prop up their authority and claim their taxes by any means necessary. And the kings kept a standing guard of merciless thugs ever at the ready to enforce this system of exploitation through torture. The king, the servants, and the thugs were a closed system of powerful elitism that propped up about 2% of the population at the expense of the other 98%. All of them were corrupt, all of them were ruthless, all of them were beyond the scope of the true reign of God.

The disciples listening to Jesus talking about a king, his servants, and the thugs who implemented torture on a far-too-often basis would have had a visceral negative reaction. They would not naturally have associated either themselves or God with any of the characters of this parable. They would not have believed it possible to compare a king, his servants, and his thugs to what Jesus calls “the kingdom of God.” 

And that is precisely the point! 

For one brief moment, in the vision of Jesus of the reign of God, a benevolent, messianic king overcomes the expectations everyone holds of his ruthless, vindictive nature and breaks the cycle of violent exploitation once and for all. For one brief moment, in the vision of Jesus of the reign of God, a benevolent messianic king completely forgives a debt that could never have been repaid in the first place. (10,000 talents is the equivalent of 150,000 years of labor!) 

And, most important, in the vision of Jesus of the reign of God, a merciless king finally showing mercy is not just an individual act of forgiveness designed to alleviate the suffering of one individual person. Forgiving such a massive debt was for the good of the whole kingdom. It meant the servant no longer needed to extract the money from the peasants. It meant the thugs no longer needed to beat them all into submission. It meant the gap between the rich and the poor could close just a small bit. It meant a new era of justice and peace could be ushered in. In the vision of Jesus of the reign of God, the king would join the servant in promoting healing and forgiveness throughout the kingdom, ending the cycle of violence once and for all. Just like Mary and Oshea as new mother and new son working together to heal their community through Mary’s non-profit organization in Minneapolis. 

That was the hope many of us held in the early days after September 11^th, was it not? We lit candles of healing love, we donated blood in droves, we told story after story of the “heroes among us”: of fire department chaplain Father Mychal Judge administering last rites to a dying firefighter just before he died, himself; of the “man in the red bandana” who led people to safety on the 104^th floor; of the director of security for Morgan Stanley, who had developed a rigorous evacuation plan prior to September 11^th for the 22 floors in the south tower occupied by his company. 2500 employees left the building alive, following the sound of his voice on a bullhorn. He had even begun to break into song in order to lift up their spirits as they escaped.

Story after story lifted all of our spirits in the early days after September 11^th, when we pulled together as a nation, when we clung to the best that was in us in order to drown out the worst that had befallen us. And the entire world rallied to our side because the entire world was impacted right along with us. Thirty-three countries lost citizens that day. (And that is only counting the ones who were “documented.”) For me, September 11, 2001 was the final event that propelled me into the ordained ministry. I saw how religion was being used for evil—and not just the religion of Islam—I saw how religion was stoking violence rather than promoting peace, and I wanted my life to be about proclaiming the radical decision to end the cycle of violence once and for all that Jesus describes in the parallel of the forgiving king. Even if we only know it just for a brief moment. Because sometimes the brief moment is all we will ever know.

Some would say we have strayed beyond all measure from the hope and the goodness that emerged from the chasm that was September 11^th. Some wonder if we gave in too far to the temptations of anger and fear that we have no hope of reclaiming our souls. 

I think the gospel says something different. 

It took ten years for Mary to forgive Oshea, but she finally came around to it. The moment of healing could come, though, only after she was honest about her grief, only after she was honest about her pain, only after she was honest about her anger. But when the moment came to forgive, she was ready. She found a way to let go. And her letting go released the one who had wounded her so deeply. And if they can do it, so can we.

It may take a lot longer than ten years to forgive something as traumatic as the terror of September 11^th. It may take a lot longer than ten years to resurrect the best that is in us that emerged on that day. It may take a lot longer than ten years for the cycle of violence we have accepted as “just the way things are” will turn into the reign of God ending violence once and for all. 

But if we learn anything from the story of Mary and Oshea, if we learn anything from the story of the forgiving king and the unforgiving servant, if we learn anything from the stories of September 11, 2001, what we know for sure is that forgiveness is a process and not a final product. What we know for sure is that good can win over evil in the end. What we know for sure is that all of us—every one of us—stand desperately in need of God’s grace. I have often considered that Jesus tells us to forgive seventy-times-seven times because it takes that long to get it right.

Jesus was, after all, responding to a question from Peter about how to live together as a small community of believers, in the heart of an empire that had not yet grasped the vision of the reign of God, that was still—just like us—caught up in the cycle of unending violence that rendered every one of them helpless to despair. 

But with you, Jesus tells Peter, with you, Jesus tells the gathered community that is the church, with you  it is different. With you, the reign of God has already taken root. With you, the practice of forgiveness in the small things must be front and center, seventy times seven times: naming the hurt and pain and anger, to be sure, but coming out on the other side as better people, stronger people, more hopeful people. Because once you have practiced forgiving the small things, Jesus implies in this parable, then you just might be able to forgive the big things. And what better place to start practicing than the church?

The church, according to our Presbyterian Constitution, is “the provisional demonstration of the kingdom of God,” the community that has claimed the alternative vision of Christ as its own, the community that has said we want our lives to be about healing and hope and yes, even forgiveness, responding to the grace of the benevolent, messianic king in the parable. Responding to the real-life witness of Mary and Oshea in Minneapolis. Responding to the priest who gave his life tending the immortal soul of another. The church is the place where we say we do not want to be bound up in anger and vengeance and violence and victimization anymore. It is the place where we say we are family—every one of us, God’s family—and God has given us a new lease on life. 

In the church, we still dare to believe that forgiveness and healing really are possible. That a new life together really is possible. That whatever pain we have caused, that whatever pain we have endured, God still can make one family of us all. God still work all things together for good. God still can make a resurrection out of any crucifixion!

So let’s be the “provisional demonstration of the kingdom of God” together on this tenth anniversary of September 11^th, on this first Sunday of our new ministry together, claiming the grace of God grace as our own, speaking the truth in love to another, praying for a spirit of repentance and respect in our dealings with one another. Because if we do that—when we do that!—I promise you the world around us will start to follow suit. And the radical reign of God that was the vision of Jesus will start to take root beyond our walls. And the violence and the suffering we think is inevitable will one day be no more. And the world will truly, one day, be at peace. 

I pray it may be so. 

Amen.

Praying When You Don't Know How

Texts: Luke; 11:1-13 Romans 8:26-39

In a small Texas town, a new bar/tavern started a building to open up their business. The local Baptist church started a campaign of petitions and prayers to block the bar from opening.

Work progressed, however right up till the week before opening, when a lightning strike hit the bar and it burned to the ground.

The church folks were rather smug in their outlook after that, till the bar owner sued the church on the grounds that the church was ultimately responsible for the demise of his building, either through direct or indirect actions or means. The church vehemently denied all responsibility or any connection to the building's demise in its reply to the court.

As the case made its way into court, the judge looked over the paperwork. At the hearing he commented, 'I don't know how I'm going to decide this, but as it appears from the paperwork, we have a bar owner who believes in the power of prayer, and an entire church congregation that doesn't.'

I am sure that not everyone at Madison Square PC is comfortable about their prayer life, or that even those of you who pray, won’t find ways to expand your understanding and repertoire of prayer.  The point to this sermon is to help everyone feel good about growing stronger in your use of prayer as a part of your life of faith.

In this morning’s reading, Paul says this:

ROM 8:26-27:  In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit itself intercedes for us with groans that words cannot express.    And God who searches our hearts knows the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit intercedes for the saints in accordance with God's will.  

Paul is telling us God even helps us pray when words fail us; God helps us pray when we don't know how; God helps us pray when prayer is far from our lips. 

Paul is affirming that since the Christian has become part of the body of Christ, the indwelling Holy Spirit is active in each of us. At some point in our faith journey we have made the affirmation that we will reorient our lives to become Christ centered instead of self Centered. Maybe it was at baptism, or at confirmation, or when we joined the church, or at some other turning point in life that we took seriously the acceptance of God as the center of our life.   That change, that turn-around from self-centeredness to Christ-centeredness is what  makes the difference in how we pray, and how the Holy Spirit prompts us in our praying. 

So, Paul’s affirmation is that the Spirit of God that dwells within us touches our spirit and leads us to pray even before we know what to say, or form the prayers on our lips.  The Holy Spirit prompts us in our prayers.

So, now that I have told you that your prayers to God are prompted by God, how does that help you pray, even when you don’t know how?  

1. Prayer is about Loving. 

When you talk about  prayer, or think about prayer, imagine a frame around the picture of  that talk. The frame around prayer is love.  Prayer is lover’s talking to each other.  The poet Samuel Coleridge in his poem, the "Rime of the Ancient Mariner," says  "He prayeth well, who loveth well."  Effective pray-ers are effective lovers.  We are not talking about prayer as a duty, as an obligation, as something we do only when our back is forced against the wall. Praying comes from falling in love.

God first loved us--that is why The Spirit of God initiates the communication within us. That is why God's Spirit works its way into us, and wraps itself around our own Spirit.  "

God loves us. That is why God's Spirit is within you saying "speak to me.  Talk to me. Don't think you have to go it alone. I love you. Let’s talk."  Prayer is the singing of love songs between God and ourselves.  And the more we pray our love song, the deeper the love grows.  How many couples do you know who love each other but never speak?  Or, how many people do you know who fall in love with each other, never having spoken a word to each other.  Neither happens. Maybe you find yourself in the position of not feeling either loved by God, or loving God.  Well, the love won’t emerge without talking, without prayer.  Talking to God and Listening for God is part of the courtship. Prayer is the way you fall in love. And prayer is the way lovers stay in love. 

For a lot of people, God is not their lover, but their butler. Most prayer is telling God what to do for them, or asking for God to help them with their agenda. God is the great butler—and prayer is a long, “gimme, gimme, gimme.” This relationship doesn’t last very long. 

Previously, I have quoted a remarkable 17^th century monk, Brother Lawrence, who wrote beautifully about the loving way we can relate to God, and how to pray. Let us look at what he said, 

It is not necessary to be always in church to be with God, we can make a private chapel of our heart where we can retire from time to time to commune with God, peacefully, humbly, lovingly; everyone is capable of these intimate conversations with God, some more, others less; God knows what we can do. Let us begin—perhaps God is only waiting for a a single generous resolution from us…Become accustomed then little by little to adore God in this way: demand of Him His grace; offer Him your heart from time to time during the day in the midst of your work…do not burden yourself with rules or particular devotions, but act with faith, love and humility.  

You see, you and God can be lovers who talk to one another frequently throughout the day.  

2. Pray as you  can, not as you can’t.  

You  don't have to change anything. You don't have to learn anything.  You don't have to be someone else.  You don't have to "get right with God" first.  Pray as you can.

Begin where you are, for God already knows where you are, and accepts you for who you are.  Nothing else has to happen first. There is no such thing as a bad prayer.  Any words will do.

Ann LaMott in her book, Traveling Mercies, speaks about prayer when she had a problem with her son.  She says she sat down beside the river ,  

I prayed to know what to do, and I kept thinking I was hearing an answer, but it was like a one-woman ping pong game; I decided yes, and I decided no and so on. I decided I was getting crazier every passing moment. So I called some friends. Half said yes, and half said no. But all the ones who believed in God told me to pray. So I did. Here are the two best prayers I know: “Help me, help me, help me.”  And “thank you, thank you, thank you.”   A woman I know says, for her morning prayer, “Whatever.”   And then in the evening, “Oh, well.”

Are you angry.  Tell it to God.  Be angry, Shake your fist.  Are you sad, worried, panicked, lost--tell it to God. Speak to God as you speak to a lover. Let your self be in God's presence just as you are.  There is no point in pretending, because God knows what you are trying to hide if you pretend. So, let your prayers reflect who you are.  Psalms  13,22, others;  one third of Psalms are  Laments--

Pray about your feelings, your needs for yourself, your needs for others, your joys, your concerns, your failings, and your consistent failures. In this form of simple prayer, the good, the bad and the ugly are all mixed up together. .  In other words, in prayer, you will learn how to let it all hang out. God is ready. After all, God loves you.

You already know that communication leads to intimacy.  And that is true with prayer.  It is hard to be close to God in Christ without communication.  Most people find their lives become rich when they open up the communication with the Christ within themselves

  3. Silence is part of prayer.   Prayer is about speaking to God, and listening for God to speak to you.  Silence makes listening possible.   If you don't know what to think or say, be still. Be quiet. The Psalmist said, "Be still, and know that I am God." Let the silence be your prayer.  Let the arms of God be wrapped around you in comfortable silence--and just be there. In the silence you can listen for God to speak. Silence in prayer is okay. A lot happens in the silence of prayer.  If you come to God and pray with words, then spend at least as much time or more listening in silence.   In fact, I have found that often in silence I hear nothing.  But amazingly, later in the day or week, I hear the very thing I was praying for or about on the lips of someone.  God spoke not in the silence, but the silence made me ready to hear God in the words of someone. 

4.  For Presbyterians Private Prayer is always apart of our corporate prayer as the body of Christ., That is, what we do here together in prayer and worship is the model and basis for what we do privately in prayer and worship.

Let me end with a few comments  and suggestions about prayer here at Madison Square Presbyterian Church.

a.  Look at your morning order of worship. Notice on the first page that we pray the “Confession”.  In Presbyterian worship we will always begin with bringing praise and thanksgiving to God—usually by singing.  Then we will offer a prayer called “Confession”. In many churches is is called “Confession of Sin.”  But I am one who sees it more as a confession of “who God is and who we are”.  Therefore, while I am here, our prayer of confession will always start with some kind of acknowledgment of God’s Grace and Goodness, or gratitude for blessings, and that we are the forgiven children of God in whom God delights.  Our relationship is wonderful, and intimate. Then, there will be a “yet” or “but”  in which we speak to God of the difficulties of life and the trials we have to bear—we state our failings, or our brokenness, or our weakness.  You get the picture.    “Great to be home Papa…but I wrecked the car this week.”

Our prayer of confession is then followed by an “Assurance of Grace”.  The promise is  given of God’s grace healing our broken lives, mending our hearts, forgiving us, and making whole again.  Some churches call this “assurance of pardon.”  The word “pardon” is a bit narrow and doesn’t convey what I think is given to us in this wonderful act of restoring us to our fullness as “a new creation in Christ.”

b. Corporate prayer is about each of us, but not only about each of us.  It is about all of us; we pray on behalf of all of humanity—this is “our prayer” of the brokenness of human relationships of all of us around the world. It is me. But not just me for I am a part of all of humanity—and they are a part of me.  I ask forgiveness for me, but not just for me, but for all; peace and wholeness are given to me; but these are the gifts I ask for all of humanity. I cannot separate myself from all the rest of humanity as broken in need of wholeness. So prayer is corporate. 

The pattern was set by Jesus. The Lord’s prayer begins with ”our Father” and every pronoun in it is plural. So, the pattern of prayer is found in the worshipping community every Sunday morning as we pray together. It is never just about me, but always our prayer is about all of us.  

A Grandfather passed his granddaughter's room one night and overheard her repeating the letters of the alphabet in a strange and reverent way.  He stopped and listened, then asked her, "What are you doing?"  She said, "I'm saying my prayers, but I can't think of the right words tonight, so I'm just saying the letters.  God will put them together for me, because he knows what I'm thinking."

That's pretty good--and that little girl said just what Paul wrote to the church in Rome. When we don't know what to pray for, or how, the Spirit intercedes on our behalf--and prays the prayer we don't yet know.

Luke 11:1-13

11He was praying in a certain place, and after he had finished, one of his disciples said to him, ‘Lord, teach us to pray, as John taught his disciples.’ ²He said to them, ‘When you pray, say:
Father, hallowed be your name.
   Your kingdom come.
³   Give us each day our daily bread.
⁴   And forgive us our sins,
     for we ourselves forgive everyone indebted to us.
   And do not bring us to the time of trial.’ 

5 And he said to them, ‘Suppose one of you has a friend, and you go to him at midnight and say to him, “Friend, lend me three loaves of bread; ⁶for a friend of mine has arrived, and I have nothing to set before him.” ⁷And he answers from within, “Do not bother me; the door has already been locked, and my children are with me in bed; I cannot get up and give you anything.” ⁸I tell you, even though he will not get up and give him anything because he is his friend, at least because of his persistence he will get up and give him whatever he needs. 

9 ‘So I say to you, Ask, and it will be given to you; search, and you will find; knock, and the door will be opened for you. ¹⁰For everyone who asks receives, and everyone who searches finds, and for everyone who knocks, the door will be opened. ¹¹Is there anyone among you who, if your child asks for a fish, will give a snake instead of a fish? ¹²Or if the child asks for an egg, will give a scorpion? ¹³If you then, who are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the heavenly Father give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him!’ 

Romans 8:26-27  The Message

Meanwhile, the moment we get tired in the waiting, God's Spirit is right alongside helping us along. If we don't know how or what to pray, it doesn't matter. He does our praying in and for us, making prayer out of our wordless sighs, our aching groans. He knows us far better than we know ourselves, knows our pregnant condition, and keeps us present before God. That's why we can be so sure that every detail in our lives of love for God is worked into something good. 

Things to Do and Places to Go

Things to Do and Places to Go

Text:  John 3:1-17; Romans 8:5-14    (Reading from Eugene Peterson’s translation, The Message)

Those who think they can do it on their own end up obsessed with measuring their own moral muscle but never get around to exercising it in real life. Those who trust God's action in them find that God's Spirit is in them—living and breathing God! Obsession with self in these matters is a dead end; attention to God leads us out into the open, into a spacious, free life. Focusing on the self is the opposite of focusing on God. Anyone completely absorbed in self ignores God, ends up thinking more about self than God. That person ignores who God is and what he is doing. And God isn't pleased at being ignored. 

 9-11But if God himself has taken up residence in your life, you can hardly be thinking more of yourself than of him. Anyone, of course, who has not welcomed this invisible but clearly present God, the Spirit of Christ, won't know what we're talking about. But for you who welcome him, in whom he dwells—even though you still experience all the limitations of sin—you yourself experience life on God's terms. It stands to reason, doesn't it, that if the alive-and-present God who raised Jesus from the dead moves into your life, he'll do the same thing in you that he did in Jesus, bringing you alive to himself? When God lives and breathes in you (and he does, as surely as he did in Jesus), you are delivered from that dead life. With his Spirit living in you, your body will be as alive as Christ's! 

 12-14So don't you see that we don't owe this old do-it-yourself life one red cent. There's nothing in it for us, nothing at all. The best thing to do is give it a decent burial and get on with your new life. God's Spirit beckons. There are things to do and places to go! 

Let me highlight the heart of what I have just read.  Listen again:

Obsession with self is a dead end.  Attention to God leads us out into the open, into a spacious, free life.  Focusing on the self is the opposite of focusing on God... When God lives and breathes in you, you are delivered from that dead life. With Christ's spirit living in you, your body will be as alive as Christ's. ..the best thing for you to do is give your old self-centered, do-it-yourself life a decent burial, and get on with your new life.  God's spirit beckons. There are things to do and places to go.  

Well that pretty much sums up the basic meaning of the gospel. 

Unless we can get our ego out of the way, we will continue to live in a dead end life. 

Unless we die to self, we will not rise to new life.  We will live in a dead end. 

If you want to follow Jesus, you have to get ego out of the way so the Spirit can come in and take over.  God is in charge, not your ego.

If there is no death of ego, there is  no Spirit filled life. So, let go, and let God. 

I wonder what it is like for each of you.   I know what it is like for me.  

It is damn hard to get ego out of the way. I struggle with it every day. How is it with you?

Jesus said the only way is that we must undergo a “death”.  That is why he said we have to daily take up our cross to follow him.  Unless the self dies, we will seldom live in the here and now.  We will seldom live in the present where God is.  That part of our self we call the “ego” always takes us to some other place, to some other time. In fact many of you sitting here now are not present—you have been lost in the past, or running off to the future after church is out, or you have been off somewhere doing something else.  Your ego has split you into a divided person, and you are seldom all present. Your heart is divided, you mind is filled with many things.  And part of you says you want to know God better, to have God touch your life. You want to walk with Christ.

But,  our  thinking, planning, self-serving ego is in charge and it is busy controlling our life. As long as this is true, we will miss seeing the Christ in our presence, we will miss the movement of the Holy Spirit blowing around us, we will miss the touch of God.  The abundant life promised by Jesus will elude us. 

Don't take me for a fool when I say this. But the reality is that your “head” may lead you into the greatest success story of your family, or of your school classmates, or of your fondest dreams.  Strong egos are good achievers.  But you will be living a dead end life, and miss the adventure of life with God. There are places to go and things to do that you can not even imagine as long as our ego is in charge.

Have you found that being religious isn’t really much of a help?  You go to church, you give you money, put in some time, maybe sing in the choir, say a prayer now and then.  But all the words, all the ritual, doing all the right things–and you still wonder if God even notices.  Is God even around?  The more religious we are, don’t we expect God to hang around more often?  I mean, why not?  If some people talk to God every day, and some people talk to God only once a month–where do you think God is going to hang around?  

But I have found it doesn’t work out that way.  Being religious doesn’t guarantee a difference.

That’s what Nicodemus found out.  John’s gospel says that Nicodemus was a Pharisee, one of the leaders.  He knew the Law, and he lived with a religious discipline.  People followed him.   But something was wrong.  Being religious left him wondering what he had to do to be close to God.  He was religious, but he did not have the Spirit.  Jesus figured him out right away.  Here is a man who is living a religious life and yet is missing out on the whole thing.  Even with all his religion He has missed the kingdom of God.  He has not breathed the Spirit.  He has not been filled with the Spirit.  

Jesus said, “Nicodemus, you must be born from above. From the Spirit.”

This was not a good week for Nicodemus.  He came to see Jesus, and was looking for a way to be close to God, and Jesus talks to him about being filled with the Spirit to be born from above.  

And so Nicodemus missed it–religious man that he was— he missed it all. 

“What are you saying with this 'born-from-above' talk?"  He asks Jesus.

Isn’t that our question too?  Isn’t that what we ask on most days.  

Here I am Lord!, Where are you?

Are you walking with me?  Are you working with me?

Are you running beside me?   Here I am, Lord.  

What do I have to do to know you are with me, here?

Oh yes, we are a lot like Nicodemus–we carry our religion around with us from day to day–say our prayers from time to time; worship on some Sundays and count it worthwhile. We want to think our baptism was enough–after all, we had the water on our heads, the preacher said the right words.   

 David Adam says in our REFLECTION FOR WORSHIP, “We have a little bit of faith, a few beliefs, some grasp the story of Jesus, some even know a few parables.  But it can hardly be called an immersion.  We dip in now and again when we feel like it.  It’s a strange relationship with our God.  It could hardly be called a “love affair.”

A love affair!  Isn't that what you want? Instead of  being a dipper, to be a lover!

What is Madison Square like, after all?  Are we dippers or lovers?  

Brother Lawrence was a 17^th century monk who mostly worked in the monastery kitchen. But he became famous for the letters he wrote to people inquiring about matters of  faith.  Those letters are collected into a little book title, Practice of the Presence of  God. In it he writes about the immersion into faith, the love affair with God.  Listen to his words:

It is not necessary to always be in church to be with God, we can make a private chapel of our heart where we can retire from time to time to commune with him, peacefully, humbly, lovingly; everyone is capable of these intimate conversations with God, some more some less.  God knows what we can do…Become accustomed then, little by little to adore God in this way: demand of God his grac; offer him your heart from time to time during the day in the midst of your work, at every moment you can…

How do we immerse ourselves?  How do we learn the practices of faith to be present with God?

• When you come to church, is this the place where you learn how to get your “ego self” out of the way so you can be present with God?   
• Is this the place where you learn the disciplines of meditation to silence the mind so you can hear the Spirit whisper?
• Is this  the place where prayer comes alive and you not only speak to God, but become practiced in listening to God as well.
• Is this the place where you learn to love and not fake it?   
• Is this the place where you learn the meaning of serving others instead of serving self?  Where self-centeredness is left outside the door?
• Is this the place where you learn how to bring justice into all relationships, both private and public?
• Is this the place where you discover what it means to be born from above to be led by the holy spirit?
• Is this the place where you learn the practice of holy reading, lectio divina, so God can speak to you in the reading of scripture or other texts?

Learning these practices is what the church community is for. Are we there yet?

Is it happening here?  It can.   

What kind of church might we become if we were to be filled with the Spirit? There is a book titled Five Practices of Fruitful Congregations. The fruitful congregation practices “radical hospitality,” it has “passionate worship,” it does “intentional faith development,” it is involved in “risk-taking mission and service,” and it practices “extravagant generosity”.  

The disciple came to the Master and said, “Will these disciplines you are teaching me lead to enlightenment?”

“No more than they will cause the sun to rise,” the Master said.

“Then why are you teaching them to me?”

“So that you will be awake when the sun rises.”

There is nothing holding you back from becoming any kind of church community you want to be.  There is nothing holding you back from reaching out and embracing each other and creating a strong community of faith. The lid is off of Madison Square Church.

You know this song, so join in singing with me, “Day by Day” . (Day by day, dear Lord, three things I pray, to see thee more clearly, to love thee more dearly, to follow thee more nearly, day by day). 

Jesus speaks to us, even as he answered Nicodemus:

Oh, Nicodemus, you are not hearing me.  You are a respected religious leader, but you only listen with your ears.  You are not listening with your heart–so you have not understood the ways of God.  Your ego hears the ways of the world.  But your heart hears the ways of the Spirit.  It is the Spirit that you seek.  It is the Spirit that brings life.  It is the Spirit that gives you new birth.  It is the Spirit that comes like the wind blowing free and unannounced, and uncontrolled.  Like the wind, you breathe it in and let it fill you and transform you.  Like the wind, you do not see the Spirit, but you feel it. Open your heart, Nicodemus. Let the Spirit fill you with trust:

  Trust me.  Trust my life, trust my death, trust my resurrection, 

trust my Father in Heaven who loves you.

 Let the Spirit fill you and lead you into a new life of adventure. 

God has things for you to do, and places for you to go.

Tell God you are ready, Nicodemus. Say to God, 

“Here I am. God.  Take me. Take my Day.  Take my life. ”

Take me in, send me out.  

Trust God, Nicodemus. Listen with your heart for the Spirit.