The Pursuit of Happiness

Peals of delight permeated the air around the pavilion at Brackenridge Park this Friday afternoon, as I and my dog stumbled upon a full-blown water balloon fight among the graduating senior class of Thomas Jefferson High School.

They were really into it! Not a single person stayed dry. The jocks, the nerds, the teacher’s pets. It didn’t matter who you were. If you were a senior, you were soaked! And when they ran out of actual balloons filled with water they moved on to water bottles. And water fountains. And water buckets! They found any way they could to just flat out pummel each other with water, in their senior picnic bliss.

I was jealous. I wanted in on the fun. And so did my dog. She was jumping from one puddle to the next, lapping up the remnants and wagging her tail with joy the entire time. So we strolled up next to one of the teachers, who was chaperoning the crowd, to see if we could pass for teenagers.

[We couldn’t.]

Partly, the teacher was laughing. And partly, she was sighing. “Four years of stressing over lesson plans to prepare them for the global economy,” she said, with a smirk on her face and a shake of her head. “Four years of writing stellar exams and grading papers well into the night. And all I have taught them boils down to this?!”

It really was a sight to behold. All that water. All that laughter. All those tax dollars and teacher training hours running down the drain . . .

And yet, if you think about it, isn’t wading in the whooping laughter of a water balloon fight what we would all rather be doing on a late Friday afternoon? Instead of rushing through traffic, frantic and frenetic from one more work-week of too much stress and not enough substance?

And—don’t tell your pastor—but isn’t wading in the whooping laughter of a water balloon fight what we might all rather be doing today? Instead of slumping out of this sanctuary into what management consultants call “the Sunday afternoon blues,” when we start stressing about the hectic workweek ahead of us and maybe even hit the email to get a head start on the craziness to come?

What if, in spite of that dreadful “Protestant work ethic” that has been driving our culture so fast and for so long, our “work” could be something more like what those graduating seniors of Thomas Jefferson high were doing with their water balloons and their peals of laughter?

What if our “work” is actually supposed to be something more like what those seniors were doing, with their water balloons and their peals of laughter?

What if our true vocation—as the people of God—really is “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness,” as the real Thomas Jefferson literally wrote? Not just as a Friday afternoon senior picnic but as the way of life we are called to live in “the new creation” we have become in Christ?

It is, as we say in this country, an unalienable right. “Endowed by [our] Creator.” Enshrined in the Declaration of Independence. So you could say this water balloon fight on Friday was actually a good use of our tax dollars at work. You could even call it “citizenship education”!

But would you believe “the pursuit of happiness” is also enshrined in the Protestant—Presbyterian—conviction of what it means to be human? That, according to our tradition, joy and laughter and frolicking in God’s good creation are the entire point of human existence?

We Presbyterians used to require our children to memorize what we call “The Westminster Catechism,” a long set of questions written in the 17^th century about the Bible and the Ten Commandments and the Lord’s Prayer. The Westminster Catechism was designed to teach the essentials of the faith for generations to come.

We don’t memorize these questions anymore, but maybe we should. At least the first one, which goes like this:

“What is the chief end of man?”

Or, in 21^st century gender-inclusive language, “what is the primary purpose of human existence?”

And the answer is: “To glorify God . . . and enjoy God forever!”

Does that sound like drudgery?! 

[This question is not for the teenagers in the room.]

It all goes back to the book of Genesis, as just about everything in our tradition does. In the garden. Of the good creation. Where humanity was formed, from the earth, to join our “creator” God as a “co-creator” in Paradise. To make life flourish, so that joy and beauty might bless the world. Our common creativity. Our common joy. This is the whole point of our existence!

And it stands in direct contrast with the creation stories of other cultures in the ancient near east that compete with the Genesis story of creation. The Sumerians, for example, believed humanity was created as “grunt labor” for the gods. That the lot of the human race really was to work ourselves into oblivion.

But in Genesis we are simply created for joy. For companionship. For continued creativity. For life in full abundance. Cultivated for the common good.

It is the kind of life that Jesus calls us back to, even on the other side of what we call “The Fall.”

And our job as human beings—our truest and most honest vocation—is simply to say “thank you” to God. For this gift of life. For this gift of creativity. And to live in a spirit of gratitude all the days of our life, tending the garden we have been given as our home.

That is what it means “to glorify God . . . and enjoy God forever.”

But what does that have to do with our actual work? Meaning the thing we do to pay the bills? Or the ways in which we tend the house? Or raise the kids? Or even—God help us—to maintain the church?

We only have to look right back to the “real” Thomas Jefferson for a reminder of what can go wrong when “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” applies only to people whose wealth and leisure rely on the exploited labor of others. Or when we are so far in debt that no amount of work will ever free us from our burden. Or when the job we have depended on just evaporates into thin air. Or when our “pursuit of happiness” in the form of inexpensive blue jeans leads to factory conditions in Bangladesh that literally burn workers alive when they cannot escape a fire.

We really have fallen far from the garden of our creation, where there was always already enough for everyone. And it really is scary when we see how far we have come from where God intended us to be, in the beginning.

And that is where God’s job description comes in, according to Psalm 46.

Because we who are human have not yet figured out how to pursue a life of happiness for every one in God’s good creation, the psalmist says, God is working overtime to figure it out for us! The vocation of our God is to execute justice for the oppressed, to give food to the hungry, to set prisoners free, to open the eyes of the blind, to lift up those who are bowed down, to love the righteous, to watch over strangers, and to uphold the orphan and the widow.

And our truest pursuit of happiness, our truest joy, our truest glory, is when we join God in that work! It is our common vocation in Christ, sealed in the covenant of our baptism, where there is no more slave or free or Jew or Greek or male and female. Where we have somehow, someway, found our way back into that Paradise of abundant life, with the chance to try again. And maybe get it right this time . . .

The great Protestant reformer John Calvin, who founded the tradition that would eventually become the Presbyterian Church in this country, put it this way: as human beings we are social creatures. We simply cannot exist in isolation. And our social nature as human beings renders us mutually dependent on one another, bonded together as the Body of Christ, in our common vocation to “transform the world through coordinated human effort,” as a community that has already been forgiven—and freed—for new life in our baptism.

Which is why I think those graduating seniors from Thomas Jefferson High really were on to something when they celebrated the commencement of their vocational life by dousing one another with wave after wave after wave of water. They were literally binding themselves back together as the Beloved Community, one precious drop at a time, where the fate of one is bound up with the fate of all. Which is what God is trying to do for every one of us in our baptism.

And that is our invitation today, as we celebrate our graduating seniors and commission them to a vocation that reflects the goodness of who God created them to be, in pursuit of the common good.

Because God commissions us all to remember our baptism. And our common calling in Christ. Which really is, simply, to glorify God. And enjoy God. Forever! I pray it may be so. Amen.

The Spirituality of Our Religon

“The Spirituality of Our Religion”

Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist

Psalm 104:24-30; Romans 8:14-17

So how many of you are familiar with the phrase “spiritual but not religious”?

How many of you would actually describe yourselves as “spiritual but not religious”?

It is a popular phrase of our time. Useful for many of us who find the institutional church to be outdated or oppressive or just plain irrelevant. And it is a fairly widespread sentiment. A Gallup poll in 2003 indicated that a full 33% of Americans would define ourselves as “spiritual but not religious.” And the numbers are only increasing.

Some scholars of religious history are going so far as to describe this “SBNR movement” as the next wave of Reformation in American Christianity. And I think it is true, on the whole. And I think it is a trend we should embrace, rather than reject. At least as far as it makes sense for us.

Because we at Madison Square are highly sympathetic to the “spiritual but not religious” sentiment, are we not? This is a church that prides itself on being “home for the homeless” in every way a person can be homeless. The pews at Madison Square—and even the pulpits, I might add—are filled with people who have found in this place a way to leave behind the trauma of “church hurt” we associate with negative religion. And hold on instead to a community of spiritual seekers who take us as we are and not who some “institutional church” thinks we are supposed to be.

You might even say Madison Square is a church of the “spiritual but not religious.” Especially on Pentecost, when we celebrate without holding back, the swooping, swooshing, swirling life of the Spirit. Ushering in a whole new way for a whole new day. With a little bit of chaos. And a whole lot of fun!

But of course we are an actual congregation. In an actual denomination. Within an actual tradition. We are still a religion. Right? And so the question is can we be spiritual and religious? Or spiritually religious? Or religiously spiritual? Or spiritual without being sappy. Or religious without being rigid? Or something better than the image we are trying to resist!

It may help to have a common definition of terms. So let’s start with the word “spiritual.” We have been discussing this in our adult education class in our book study on the Christian Spiritual Life. And I just shared a brief definition of spirituality with our children. Which is that the very basic bottom line basis of spirituality—in any tradition, but especially in the Christian tradition—is simply about our breath. The ruach in Hebrew. The pneuma in Greek. The spiritus in Latin. And if you’re into yoga the prana of our pranayama in Sanskrit.

In biblical terms this means that the ruach of God—or the Spirit of God—that forms humanity by breathing through the irrigated dust of the earth literally still flows through our bodies as we breathe in and breathe out. And that this ruach or spirit of God literally binds us with all of creation, as we in the animal kingdom breathe in oxygen from the exhale of the plant kingdom. And our inhale becomes the carbon dioxide we exhale, so that plants have something to inhale in return.

To put it bluntly, “If you are breathing, you are spiritual!” And since all of creation is breathing, all of creation is spiritual, including the countless creatures teeming through the vast expanse of the Sea celebrated by the psalmist in our Old Testament lesson for today.

Which means that spirituality isn’t something we do as individuals that makes us somehow unique or somehow more enlightened or somehow “not religious.” Spirituality is instead simply about paying attention to what is already happening in this breathing, pulsing, symbiotic union of creation that flows together in the fullness of “spirit,” whether we take the time to notice or not.

And it may sound strange in our 21^st century American religious culture, but it is in fact our spirituality that is more demanding of us than our religion! In this country, in this culture, by and large we have the freedom to choose our shared religion. But—if our definitions are true—we actually do not have the freedom to choose our shared spirituality. It simply is. Simply because we have a shared breath.

Which brings us to the definition of “religion.”  It comes from the Latin word religio. Which means “to bind.” And that may sound scary if we fear being bound to a religion of condemnation.

But our definition of spirituality tells us we are already bound to the whole of creation. By the union of our breath. Whether we want to be or not! It is the religion to which we are bound—at least for we who have a choice about it—that can actually be more liberating than our spirituality! It is more like deciding to make a covenant among people and within a tradition. It is more like saying we want to live together in common understanding about the practices of spirituality that inform how we live as a creation. A creation that is already bound together in the Spirit.

The “binding” of religion is actually not all that different than the commitment we make in a marriage.

Which happened here, just yesterday, as two beautiful young souls stood together in front of this font.

And joined their right hands. And offered their promises to bind themselves to one another in holy matrimony. For as long as they both shall live. And they symbolized their bond with wedding bands. And they wanted to be bound to one another! Because they had met their match. And it was very, very good . . .

Of course anyone who is married will tell you it gets harder, right? There are times you look at your partner and wonder what in the world you were thinking. You change together. You grow together. You struggle together. But if you keep paying attention to one another you can truly “go deep” together. And you can learn far more about yourself in the mirror of your marriage than you ever would have if you hadn’t “taken the plunge.”

This is the kind of bond we can share in our religion! Growing together. Changing together. Struggling together. Going deep together. And learning far more about ourselves in the mirror of our religious community than we ever would have if we were off on our own on our mountain meditating.

It is not always easy to be either spiritual or religious. We really do struggle with the people and the institutions and the traditions to which we are bound. Just like any married couple struggles. And let me just say as a side note that of course anyone with a conscience would want someone who was bound to an abusive religion—or an abusive marriage—to get out. But the truth may very well be that we learn more from wrestling with what binds us together than we do from breaking the bond altogether. And the truth is that the Spirit of God is still breathing through we who are creatures of the dust. And sprinkling us with the river of the water of life in our baptism. And continually re-creating a whole new body we call the church.

And being bound together in this religion of the Body of Christ can be wonderful!

We saw it just last week, when two beautiful mothers brought their child to this community and asked for the blessing of God upon her life. They said we want her to know in the depth of her bones that she is a child of God, as Paul tells the Romans in our New Testament lesson today. They chose to make this covenant on her behalf, here, in this religion, because they want their child to be bound to a people and a tradition that will fill her spirit with hope when a spirit of fear grips her tight. They want her to be bound to a people and a tradition that will welcome her home to be glorified with Christ when the suffering of the world threatens her joy. All things Paul wanted to share with the Romans to whom he was bound in the spirit of their religious covenant.

These mothers want their daughter to be bound to this community of faith! In a good way! By choice! Because they know that true companionship in this life can make all the difference. Which is what the best of religion is really all about.

Yes it may sometimes seem easier to be spiritual but not religious. Believe me, I know the struggle it is to bind yourself to an institution that can so often seem so far away from the kingdom of God we are called to proclaim. There are times that I too want to chuck it all and go meditate forever on the top of a mountain somewhere.

But like the mothers who brought their baby for baptism—and like all of you who are still coming here today—I just can’t stop finding the goodness of God in this gift of our religious community. And the Christian community Presbyterian Version is still the place I want to practice the spirituality that binds us to the fullness of creation. And on this fourth anniversary of my ordination to the ministry I can honestly say I am thrilled to be bound to both this spirituality and this religion. As wild and crazy and chaotic as it is has been and will continue to be!

And so I hope you will join me in the next few moments to say alleluia to God for the gift of the Spirit that makes us both spiritual and religious. And I hope you will take this time to renew your bond with the love of God that will not . . . ever . . . ever . . . ever . . . let you go. And to say alleluia again for the opportunity to bind ourselves together in this beloved community. And to ride the wave of that wily Spirit together. And to see how surprised we all can be by where the wind blows.

I pray it may be so. Amen.

The Healing Hope of our Mothering God

“Welcome Home, Iliana,” we have just said in our baptismal vows earlier this morning.

“Welcome Home, people of God,” we say every Sunday here at Madison Square.

And it catches at your heart doesn’t it? Perhaps especially on this Mother’s Day, as we long for the deepest home expressed by the Psalmist today. When our soul is soothed and quieted and we are held in the steadfast arms of the mothering God who will not ever let us go.

But there was another “Welcome Home” that caught at my heart this week. This time on a sign at a restaurant  near the crime scene in Cleveland, Ohio, where three young women finally escaped their captor.

“Welcome Home: Amanda, Gina, and Michelle,” says the sign. And our hearts fill with compassionate hope for their healing. And for the healing of anyone who has suffered such unspeakable evil. Including many of us who have “come home” to Madison Square today.

Our names may not be headline news, but it is the inescapable truth of our existence that every one of us—in some way—bears the mark of the madness that seems to run free in our midst. Every one of us—in some way—“comes home” to this sanctuary today wounded by the ways of the world. In search of the fierce and steadfast love of our “Mama Bear” God, who is desperate to protect and defend every one of her children. Whether we know their names or not.

I am hesitant to speak of such suffering in the midst of our joyful celebration this morning. But it is in fact because of the joyful celebration of the baptismal covenant—and the mothers who bring us to birth within that covenant—that we must remain vigilant in naming and confronting and healing the knowledge of evil that still yet runs rampant in this garden of life we have been given to tend as co-creators with God.

The truth is we who are human know evil far too well . . .

And we must respond!

In the Presbyterian tradition a powerful way to respond to this evil actually does come through our baptismal vows. In our tradition we literally ask the baptismal candidate—or her parents on her behalf—to make a commitment to “renounce evil.”

We couch it in positive language here at Madison Square. We base the question on our mission statement. We invite parents to “teach [their] child to ‘serve actively and creatively as an agent of love, reconciliation, peace, and justice in the community and in the world,’ which is a manner of living that renounces all evil.”

And, when asked if they agree to do this, the parents of Iliana say, emphatically, “Yes!”

And so do we!

But a more traditional service of baptism in the Presbyterian tradition uses language that is much more stark. And language that we might often avoid in our legitimate efforts to bear witness to the unconditional love of God.

“Do you renounce the evil powers of this world,” one way of asking the question goes, “which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God?”

Including—and perhaps especially—our children.

And as jarring as that language might sound to us, the truth is that any parent would also—emphatically—for the love of their child, say, “YES! I DO! I RENOUNCE the evil powers of this world which corrupt and destroy the creatures of God!! I want my child to be well!

The theologian Daniel Migliore would describe our baptismal renunciation of evil as a steadfast commitment to “courageous participation in God’s struggle against suffering” (Faith Seeking Understanding, p114) with our children and for our children and by our children. Until all are made well in the fullness of time. Soothed and quieted and comforted in the arms of their mothering God, as the Psalmist sings in our Old Testament lesson today.

And the author of the book of Revelation, that is our New Testament lesson this morning, would say our renunciation of evil leads directly to God’s ultimate vision of healing hope for the whole of creation.

Like Madison Square’s baptismal vow, the renunciation of evil in Revelation is wrapped up in a positive vision of creative love.  With a river of the water of life flowing from the throne of God. And a spirit of grace that says Come! Frolic in the river! Amid the flourishing of fruit! And the broad branches of life in all its fullness! Growing in a city where pain and suffering and crying are no more!

It is the way our lives were supposed to have been all along. And it is the way our lives can yet be, when we truly renounce evil and cultivate the goodness of the creation God has consistently rushed to redeem.

Yes, admits the author of the book of Revelation, we know far too well what it is to suffer. And we live with ample evidence of the knowledge of evil in the violence that surrounds us. And we even call upon the violence of God to respond to that evil.

The first twenty chapters of the book bear witness to that.

But the final vision of Revelation, and God’s ultimate hope for humanity—in this life and not just the next—is that we might finally learn to live as a whole new creation. Where we refuse to be defined by the evil that we know. What we have done or what has been done to us. But where we define ourselves instead by the “font of identity,” in which we have been baptized. Where our “robes” have been washed clean of the stains of violence and suffering we have either inflicted or endured. And we have the right to reclaim the tree of life that has been ours to partake from the beginning of time until the end.

This is, after all, what resurrection faith is really all about.

Elizabeth Smart and Jaycee Dugard and others who have lived the deep trauma of evil bear witness to this healing hope of our mothering God. When asked how they not only have survived but have honestly come to thrive, they will say they have relied on faith and family and the steadfast hope that healing can come in the fullness of time.

Which sounds an awful lot like the baptismal covenant we continue to celebrate today.

We have said to Iliana, and to Geo and to Kimberly who mother her, that we will join them in instilling faith and church family and steadfast hope in their lives. So that they, too, might know the healing grace of God whenever and wherever they might need it.

And as important as those vows were for Iliana and Geo and Kimberly, the good news really is for every one of us who knows the evil of violence and suffering far too well.

The healing hope of our mothering God is right here for us! Right now for us! Right now with us! Splashing once again in the river of the water of life. Where Iliana and Geo and Kimberly have led us. And where everyone who is thirsty can come. And where anyone who wishes can take the water of life as a free gift of healing grace.

[go to table]

And so the Spirit and the bride say, “Come!”

And let everyone who hears say, “Come!”

And let everyone who is thirsty come!

Let anyone who wishes take the water of life as a GIFT!

I pray it may be so. Amen.

A Character of Our Communities

  The Character of Our Communities 

Acts 9:36-43 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And she rises!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so we will! Amen.

A Time to Dance

A Sermon by Rev. Gusti Linnea Newquist


Exodus 15:19-21; Psalm 30

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And the God of the dance is at it again!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Amen.

Soul Friending and ‘The Main Meal'

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jesus . . ?

Jesus . . ?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh, Martha. Dear Martha.

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

I do it too.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And welcoming us home . . . without interruption!

I pray it may be so . . .

Amen.