January 4--Waiting for the Light

"The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” –John 1:5

Sunday was amazing.

Seventy two degrees, a soft wind, and absolutely nothing to do. The perfect ‘winter’ day for short-sleeve -clad torsos to soak in the sunshine . . . for cousins to fly kites at the park down the street . . . for grandmother to join granddaughter in casual conversation about the precious gift of life and the peaceful joy of returning to our master in death.

So much light and love . . . so much warmth and comfort . . . it is hard to believe the shortest day of the New England winter was only a week ago. That ice storms and piles of snow and frigid temperatures defined my life until the morning of Christmas Eve. All that is far away as I linger in bare feet and turn on the ceiling fan for a bit of cool air and prepare for the year to turn in this very different part of the country where I have celebrated Christmas with family.

But I have not forgotten the darkness.

Darkness has defined so much of our lives for so many months that it has seeped into our very bones, especially if we live in New England. Those of us who are not native to this part of the country may resist it at first. (I still remember the shock of that first year of steady but stark decline in daylight hours from late fall to Christmas week.) Eventually, though, it becomes part of the rhythm of our lives year after year . . . something we may even embrace as a comfort at times . . . the deep call of nature to a season of restful hibernation in the midst of the frenetic pace of a culture that never sleeps.

Darkness may actually be a welcome friend for those of us who are sensitive to light, who burn easily, who find too much sunshine and hot weather to be even more stressful than cold, snowy winters.

“All things came into being through the Word, and without the Word not one thing came into being,” John’s gospel tells us in the lectionary text for today. “What has come into being in the Word was life, and the life was the light of all people” (John 1:3-4).

It blows my mind to imagine a God who created all these things that have come into being . . . the darkness, the light, the different kinds of people and animals and plants who need different kinds of climates in order to thrive. It blows my mind to remember the darkness and cold of New England as I rest in the radiant sunshine of the American South. It blows my mind to pray to a good and generous God who created all of it, who loves all of it, who redeems all of it, who knows that we need light in the midst of too much darkness, that we need darkness in the midst of too much light.

I am grateful for the light of this fleeting alternate reality, the warmth of this southern weather, the wisdom of this moment with Grandma, the faithful reminder that these things exist, even as I prepare to return to Boston. The memory of lightness will sustain me through the long, cold winter yet to come.

Which is the mystery of faith.

God has come into our world in just this way this Christmas season . . . an alternate reality, a constant comfort, a wisdom of age mixed with youth . . . one brief moment of spiritual ecstasy before returning to our normal lives. The darkness is still with us; it will not ever go away completely, nor should it. But the memory of this light sustains us through everything that will come in the months and years and lifetimes ahead.

“The Word became flesh and lived among us . . . full of grace and truth” (John 1:14). May this truth be a comfort to us in this season of darkness and light, giving us hope, and filling us with joy, reminding us of the Creator even as it speaks of the Redeemer. God is with us, in all the seasons of our lives. Amen.

Gusti Linnea Newquist

(additional lectionary texts: Jeremiah 31:7-14; Psalm 147:12-20; Ephesians 1:3-14)

December 28--What it Means to Be Free

"But when the right time came, God sent his Son who was born of a woman and lived under the law. God did this so he could buy freedom for those who were under the law and so we could become his children. Since you are God's children, God sent the Spirit of his Son into your hearts, and the Spirit cries out, "Abba, Father." So now you are not a slave, you are God's child, and God will give you the blessing he promised, because you are his child" (Galatians 4:4-7).



What do you think of when you think of freedom? No fences? Hippies marching with signs? Martin Luther King Jr.’s "Let freedom ring"? Freedom from exams? Freedom from illness? Freedom from war?

A spiritual mentor of mine once told me, “I became free when I said, ‘Lord, I will do what you want me to do.’”


It is an odd thing to think about spiritual freedom in a country that defines itself so fundamentally by that word. It is difficult to translate the freedom of which the Apostle Paul speaks into our current cultural climate. It is difficult to imagine the kind of freedom Paul longed for and experienced as he preached the gospel in the midst of persecution, in the midst of imprisonment, in the midst of the very real practice of slavery throughout the Roman empire.


What does it mean to be free? What does it really mean to be "free"?


When Paul was writing this letter to the Galatians, he obviously was not thinking about American freedom--or American slavery--at all. He was, instead, thinking about first century Gentiles: non-Jews living in the northern part of the Roman province of Galatia, an area of the world we know today as the nation of Turkey. He was thinking about the God he worshiped as a Law-abiding Jew and how that God had extended grace to these Gentiles and all others through the faithfulness of Christ.

Unlike competing evangelists who were teaching the Galatians in his absence, Paul believed that only Jews should observe Mosaic Law; for the Gentiles of his ministry, Paul saw the Law as a stumbling block. The gospel message Paul preached to the Gentiles was about spiritual freedom in Christ. Paul believed the message preached by his opponents would lead to spiritual slavery, rather than freedom.

But those who opposed Paul’s gospel message of spiritual freedom warned that his emphasis on God’s grace did not provide sufficient instruction for daily living. They thought Paul’s emphasis on grace left too much room for doubt about whether or not a Gentile had sufficiently converted to Christ. So Paul responded with a letter full of pastoral advice for those who would live in Christ’s realm of freedom. “For you were called to freedom, brothers and sisters,” he writes. “Only do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence, but through love become slaves to one another.” Be led by the Spirit in order to inherit the kingdom of God, he says. “You shall love your neighbor as yourself” (Gal 5:13).

Be slaves to one another? This is the way to be free?! Isn’t that a contradiction in terms?

But we've heard this language before in the gospels from the mouth of Jesus. It’s the Great commandment, and the second which is like it. Living in Christ’s freedom means loving God, loving neighbor, loving self. On this commandment hangs all the Law and the Prophets. It is, in fact, THE law for the Galatians and for us. And it is what it means to be free, for the Galatians and for us. The only way we can be free is to devote ourselves entirely to this law. It is the spiritual paradox of divine freedom.

So how do the Galatians know when they are living according to this law, when they are living according to this freedom? When they live by the fruits of the spirit, Paul says. How do they know when they are living by the fruits of the spirit? When they relate to one another with love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. Against such things there is no law. With such things we live into the very kingdom of God.

What do you think of when you think of freedom? In twenty-first century America it is too easy to forget we are at war and it is too easy to give in to a materialistic mentality and it is too easy to bite and devour and destroy one another, all in the name of freedom. We do well to listen with fresh ears to God’s Word to us through these words to the Galatians.

We who follow Christ have a responsibility that comes with our political and spiritual independence. “Do not use your freedom as an opportunity for self-indulgence,” God says to us through the words of the apostle Paul, “but through love become slaves to one another.” Love your neighbor as yourself. Live by the Spirit and be guided by the Spirit.

And as we continue to pray for the world’s freedom from sin and suffering and despair, when too many people still live in political and personal bondage, we do well to repeat what seems on the surface like a contradictory word to “Stand firm . . . and not submit again to a yoke of slavery. For Christ has, indeed, set us free in order to live in freedom.” Slavery in love to one another. Freedom for those who live in bondage.

May we sing it with voices that will never be shaken. May we live it with a conviction that will never be challenged. May we proclaim it with a hope that will never be forsaken. May we pass it on from generation to generation until that final day of freedom when suffering and evil and pain will be no more. We pray it in Jesus’ name. Amen

Gusti Linnea Newquist

(additional lectionary texts: Isaiah 61:10-62:3, Psalm 148; Luke 2:22-40)

December 21--The God Who Strengthens Us

"Now to God who is able to strengthen you according to my gospel and the proclamation of Jesus Christ, according to the revelation of the mystery that was kept secret for long ages but is now disclosed, and through the prophetic writings is made known to all the Gentiles, according to the command of the eternal God, to bring about the obedience of faith -- to the only wise God, through Jesus Christ, to whom be the glory forever! Amen" (Romans 16:25-27).

I have often found it odd that Christianity is a religion of such great weakness. We have a crucified God in Holy Week, we have an infant God at Christmas, we have dim-witted disciples of both first-century and twenty-first century inadequacy. If we were to gather together the most brilliant minds in the history of the world to create the most appealing religion we might market to the masses, I have serious doubts that most of what Christians believe to be "true" would make the list.

Most of us, if we are honest, want a religion of strength, not weakness. Most of us want assurance that if we just do the right things and live the right way that God will reward us. And not just spiritually. We want to believe that God will reward us with material blessings, with physical prowess, with a good job, with a beautiful spouse. We want to believe that God has the power to keep us from losing our jobs or our loved ones or even our own lives. We want to believe that God will make everything all right . . . that God will make us all right.

But God comes to us as a baby at Christmastime. Vulnerable and weak. Demanding our strength, demanding our attention, demanding our sleepless nights of feedings and diaper-changings and tending to sickness and praying for the strength to be a "good enough" parent when it feels like we can't go on another minute. If God is a baby, that means we are the strong ones. God is dependent on us, not the other way around.

I find that pretty intimidating!

But I also find it encouraging . . .

I can think of numerous times in my life when I was able to cultivate a strength I never knew existed within me only because someone else was completely dependent on me . . . because someone else had become as vulnerable as a baby. And I can think of a few more recent times in my life when I had been the one "born again," in desperate need, depending on the strength of another.

And in those moments, I can say beyond a shadow of a doubt, I felt God's presence more fully than at any other time. "I feel God in my skin," I remember saying this summer when I was so sick that I couldn't even feed myself. But now that I'm better, oddly enough, God seems quite a bit farther away. I have to work at prayer. I have to work at discernment. I have to work at worship.

It is a strange and miraculous thing, this religion of ours that celebrates the weakness and vulnerability of God . . . the weakness and vulnerability of humanity. It is, in fact, the desire and vulnerability of God that is God's strength, we proclaim. And it is our desire and vulnerability as human beings that is our strength.

No wonder this divine wisdom is folly to the world!

Christmas is just around the corner, the baby is born again among us. God is born again among us. And we are born again in God. What kind of tenderness can we offer? What kind of sustenance will we seek? What kind of family will we gather together to support and encourage the new life in our midst?

It is our chance to try again. It is our chance to get it right this time. It is our chance to admit how very much we need one another . . . how very much we need God . . . and how very much God needs us.

Merry Christmas everyone. I wish you all the best in this season of Joy.

Gusti Linnea Newquist

(additional lectionary texts: 2 Samuel 7:1-11, 16; Luke 1:47-55 or Psalm 89:1-4, 19-26; Luke 1:26-38)

December 14--Trusting the One Who Calls

"Rejoice always, pray constantly, and give thanks for everything--for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus. Don't stifle the Spirit; don't despise the prophetic gift. But test everything and accept only what is good. Avoid any semblance of evil.

"May the God of peace make you perfect in holiness. May you be preserved whole and complete--spirit, soul, and body--irreproachable at the coming of our Savior Jesus Christ. The One who calls us is trustworthy: God will make sure it comes to pass" (1 Thessalonians 5:16-24).


Now that I use a cell phone with caller ID, I screen my calls ruthlessly. An unknown caller will go directly to voice mail. A known caller? Well . . . depends on my mood. You just never know what you'll hear on the other end of the line . . . or if you'll be ready to hear it.

Take today, for example. Three phone calls came in. The first one from my boss. Check. I answered that one right away! The second one from a tutoring client. Could be good news or bad. I answer. Good news! An 'A' on her research paper! Definitely worth picking up.

The third one? Unexpected. We had parted ways angrily over two months ago. I figured I'd never hear from him again. But there it was, his name on the screen. Do I pick up? Yes. And the path to an honest reconciliation begins. Worth it? I think so. We'll see in the weeks and months ahead.


Three different calls. Three different reactions. Three different opportunities to work and celebrate and heal old wounds. Three different opportunities to trust the connection with the person on the other end of the line. Three different opportunities to trust the divine connection linking each one of us to the other.


But it is not always easy to trust the one who calls. The co-worker, the student, the alienated friend . . . the holy mystery we call God. We do not know--we cannot know--the true intentions of the caller. We do not know--and cannot know--exactly how we will respond . . . especially if the call requires us to change our lives, to heal our wounds, to heal the wounds we have caused others.


God's call is dramatic for some of us, like that of the Apostle Paul blinded on the road to Damascus. His call led to a passionate missionary zeal among the community of Christ in first century Thessalonica and other communities all across the Mediterranean. It was not an easy call for Paul, to be sure. He faced torture and imprisonment and a lifestyle resembling the most dysfunctional traveling workaholic. Certainly not the idyllic spiritual sanctuary we aspire to in our own Christian walk!

But God's call is ordinary for most of us, like that of the Thessalonians urged to live holy lives and to love one another. Just when we think we've accomplished that goal, God shows up through an apostle or a prophet to "exhort [us] to even greater progress" (1 Thess 4:9). It is a lifelong journey of seeking--and doing--God's will.


In Advent we hear the call once more, preparing ourselves to respond "in perfect holiness." The One who calls us is trustworthy; the One born among us is faithful; the One dwelling within us is preserving us--in spirit, soul, and body--so that we may participate in the glorious reign of God.

May it be so among us and within us as we look forward to Christmas.

Amen.


Gusti Linnea Newquist

(additional lectionary texts: Isaiah 61:1-4, 8-11; Psalm 126 or Luke 1:47-55; John 1:6-8, 19-28)

December 7--God's Generous Patience

"This point must not be overlooked, dear friends: in the eyes of the most High, one day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day. God does not delay in keeping the promise, as some mean "delay." Rather, God shows you generous patience, desiring that no one perish but that all come to repentance. . . . Consider our God's patience as your opportunity for salvation" (2 Peter 3:8-9, 15).

A wise woman mentor of mine once warned me never to pray for patience. "You will be given far too many opportunities to practice it," she said. "Best to just make it clear to the Almighty that this is one lesson you have no need of learning." I believed her, and I still do. I have never, ever, prayed for patience.

Unfortunately, it does not seem to matter whether or not we actually adopt patience as a posture of prayer. We still have far too many opportunities to practice it!

Whether we are waiting for a new job or a new baby . . . whether we are waiting for a renewed sense of purpose or a renewed financial stability . . . whether we are waiting for a reversal of discrimination or an end to an abusive relationship . . . whether we are waiting for an organ transplant or the lifting of an ever deepening depression . . . whether we are waiting for an estranged child to call or a lingering grief to thaw . . . we wait, and we wait, and we wait.

And we pray.

But we do not pray for patience in any of these situations! We pray for justice! We pray for healing! We pray for protection! We pray for purpose! We pray for the present unbearability to pass from our path. We pray for "new heavens and a new earth where, according to the promise, God's justice will reside" (2 Peter 3:13). We pray for peace. We pray for hope. We pray for strength. We are tired of waiting. We are tired of waiting. Every day is like a thousand years.


The first century Christians receiving Peter's second letter were tired of waiting, too. They had joined the Jesus movement expecting the Savior's immediate return, thank you very much! They had been preparing for that new heaven and new earth right away, not years or decades, or generations away. They had taken great personal risks to join this cause of justice and righteousness, but they were getting antsy as they waited and waited and waited. Now false teachers exploited their frustrations, taunting them to give up hope in a message that seemed so clearly wrong . . . or at least outdated.

Taunting them into despair.

Jesus is never going to come back, the false prophets say. Justice is never going to reign. Good news will never win over evil. Healing is never going to come. A purpose-driven life will always evade us. A dead-end relationship is all we deserve. Only the ruthlessly ambitious can garner wealth or power. Violence is just the way of the world.

The false teachers are around us still--are they not?--nagging at our hopes for God's peaceable kingdom. From within and from without they taunt us with feelings of incompetence, inadequacy, powerlessness. Why bother preparing ourselves for God's eternal reign, if they are right? Why bother living holy lives in service to God and others, if Jesus has yet to return? Why bother dedicating our talents to the kingdom, if the kingdom is just an illusion? We have had such grand visions. The reality seems so very far away.

"But do not forget this one thing, dear friends," Peter says to them and to us, as well. "To God one day is as a thousand years, and a thousand years is as one day. God is not slow in doing what God promised--the way some people understand slowness. But God is being patient with you. God does not want anyone to be lost but wants all people to change their hearts and lives."


Wait a second. God is being patient with us? God is waiting for us? God is taking forever (quite literally) in order to help us? It sure doesn't feel that way most of the time!


But I guess that's the point, isn't it? God is the one praying for patience, not us. God knows how much better we can do with what we have been given. God wants us to change our hearts and minds, to commit once again to the peaceable kingdom. God wants to give us a chance to get it right this time.

God wants us to open our eyes and celebrate the abundance we have been given, rather than languish in despair over what we think we have lost. God wants us to claim the best parts of our lives for our work and our companions, rather than succumbing to the worst that is in us. God wants us to offer a healing touch or a gentle word to someone in need, rather than leave them to wallow in their own sadness. God wants us to stand in active resistance to injustice and violence and greed and despair, rather than passively accept the status quo. God wants us to "look for the coming of the Day of God, and try to hasten it along" (2 Peter 3:12)!

The patience God prays for--the patience God asks of us--is not about sitting around on our rears praying for someone else to usher in the kingdom. The patience God asks of us is about active waiting, determined preparation, steadfast hope in the face of every reason to despair. God made a promise to us. And God does not break promises.

Our Advent discipline is the practice of trusting this promise, of changing the parts of our hearts and our lives that depart from this promise, of praying for the courage to hasten this promise, and of opening our eyes to recognize it when it comes. Of opening our eyes to recognize when it is already here.

"Do not be carried away by the errors of unprincipled people and thus forfeit the security you enjoy," Peter concludes. "Instead, grow in the grace and knowledge of our Sovereign and Savior Jesus Christ, who is glorified now and for all eternity."

May it be so for each of us, as we prepare once again for the birth of Christ. Amen.


Gusti Linnea Newquist


(additional lectionary texts: Isaiah 40:1-11; Psalm 85:1-2, 8-13; Mark 1:1-8)

November 30--Rich in Every Way

"Grace and peace to you from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

"I always thank my God for you because of the grace God has given you in Christ Jesus. I thank God because in Christ you have been made rich in every way, in all your speaking and in all your knowledge. Just as our witness about Christ has been guaranteed to you, so you have every gift from God while you wait for our Lord Jesus Christ to come again. Jesus will keep you strong until the end so that there will be no wrong in you on the day our Lord Jesus Christ comes again. God, who has called you into fellowship with his Son, Jesus Christ our Lord, is faithful" (1 Corinthians 1:3-9)


It feels good to hear that someone is grateful for who you are, simply as a human being. Those of us who have trouble accepting compliments may shrug away such glowing words of praise. Those of us who have been taught to be "humble" may hear it as idolatry. Those of us who know we have messed up big time may hear it as a cosmic joke. "I always thank my God for you. . . . you have been made rich in every way . . . you have every gift from God while you wait."

And those of us who have lost our retirement portfolios or our jobs or even our homes may hear it as a lie.

We used to be "rich in every way," we might think. We used to "have every gift from God" while we waited. We used to be thankful for abundance on Thanksgiving. Now we enter the holiday season with flattened wallets and heightened fears and a sense of dread about how long we have to "wait" until things get back to normal. Advent this year--the season of active waiting--may be less about preparing for the eternal reign of God and more about figuring out how to ride out a recession (or worse).

How do we hear Paul's words of gratitude if we are anxious, if we are sinful, if we are humble, if we are full of self-doubt?

"I always thank my God for you because of the grace God has given you in Christ Jesus. I thank God because in Christ you have been made rich in every way, in all your speaking and in all your knowledge."

God has given us grace, Paul says to the first century Christians at Corinth. God has given us grace, Paul says to twenty-first century Christians around the world. We have been graced by God, in Jesus Christ. We are rich in God's grace. We are rich when we know this grace and when we speak it. The gift of grace will keep us strong as we wait. It will help us know the faithfulness of God. This is why Paul is thankful for us.

But what is this gift? What is this grace, in which we are rich?

Grace often refers to mercy, of course, to the gift of restoration after repentance. But it is also a dynamic gift of faithful living that, according to Charles Campbell, "creates a new kind of community--one in which the divisions and hierarchies of the world no longer function." Grace is, in short, the very kingdom of God among us, the very thing we claim to be waiting for!

In the rest of Paul's letter to the Corinthians, he outlines what that new kind of community should look like . . . and holds the Corinthians accountable for falling short. They are divided among themselves (1:10-15), they are puffed up with pride and arrogance(4:6), they emphasize wealth disparities within the community (11:22), they have yet to learn how to love one another (13:1-13).

We, too, fall so very short of the kingdom community. We, too, are divided, puffed up, full of economic disparity, yet to learn how to love as God loves. But we are graced. We are forgiven. We are empowered to live a new life together. We are, indeed, rich in every way. Our fears and our wrong-doing and our self-doubt will not keep us from the riches of God. They are, instead, opportunities to embrace what we have had all along. They are opportunities to acknowledge God's grace.

The faithfulness--the grace--of God will indeed endure forever. In Advent, we prepare ourselves to receive that grace. We begin by acknowledging how very much we need it, and then by saying "thank you," to God and to the community that teaches us how to love one another.

May we use this season to cultivate that gratitude and to share it with the world.

Amen.



Gusti Linnea Newquist


Additional lectionary focus (Isaiah 64:1-9; Psalm 80:1-7, 17-19; Mark 13:24-37)

November 23--Admitting Our Need

"Anything you did for even the least of my people here, you also did for me" (Mt 25:40)

(Lectionary Focus: Matthew: 25:31-46)


It is Tuesday of Holy Week in the chronological setting of this week's gospel lectionary text. At the moment, it may be hard for us to place ourselves there in our minds. For us, after all, it is the end of the liturgical year, the Sunday before Thanksgiving, the week before Advent. The Tuesday of Holy Week seems very far away.

But in the context of one of the most famous Christian parables--the one before us today--it is Tuesday of Holy Week. Just two days ago, Jesus entered Jerusalem triumphantly, igniting the enthusiasm of disciple and stranger alike. Just yesterday, Jesus turned over the tables in the Temple and threw out the money changers and healed the blind and the lame. Just this morning, Jesus taught in the Temple using stories to explain the coming reign of God while hotly debating theological assumptions with Pharisees and Sadducees.

Just a few minutes ago, Jesus warned us--his disciples--of the persecution yet to come. We still do not understand he is talking about the cross. We still do not know our Jerusalem mission will end in defeat. We still do not know the rebirth of hope the resurrection will bring.

It is Tuesday of Holy Week. That place in between the joy of Palm Sunday, the agony of Good Friday, and the exultation of Easter.

From this in-between place, Jesus offers a vision of the kingdom of God, the last one recorded by Matthew before the Passion begins. "I was hungry, and you gave me food. I was thirsty, and you gave me something to drink. I was alone and away from home, and you invited me into your home. I was without clothes, and you gave me something to wear. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me" (Mt 25:35-36).


It is the clarion call for Christians around the world and for many of us, the essence of our faith. When people are in need, you help them, especially the ones with the least access to power and resources. "Anything you did for even the least of my people here, you also did for me" (Mt 25:40).

And it is true that we should always read this parable as a call to serve the most vulnerable, in our communities and around the world, as a direct way of serving Christ. Even when we worry for our own economic future. Especially when we worry for our own economic future.

But it is also true that Jesus, himself--in a very literal way--will be hungry and thirsty, naked and in prison, in the days following this Tuesday of Holy Week. Jesus, himself--the strong leader, the very son of God, the one we have always expected to help us--will very literally need us to help him. And most of us will fail to recognize how very much he needs us until it is too late.

"I was hungry, and you gave me nothing to eat. I was thirsty, and you gave me nothing to drink. I was alone and away from home, and you did not invite me into your house. I was without clothes, and you gave me nothing to wear. I was sick and in prison, and you did not care for me" (Mt 25:42-43).


It is not always easy to recognize the need in those we expect to be strong. It is not always easy to recognize the need in those who have always responded to our need. We are so used to seeing them as the ones who do have everything that we cannot always see what they lack.


And it may be even more difficult to admit we have become the one in need if we are accustomed to being the one who always helps others. It may be even more difficult to admit the true financial consequences of losing our job if we have always expected job security. It may be even more difficult to admit the weakness that accompanies an illness if we have always expected vigorous health. It may be even more difficult to admit the crushing burden of our ever-mounting debt if we have always expected the resources to pay it off. It may be even more difficult to admit the depth of loneliness that paralyzes our thoughts if we have always expected a community of support.

If we are accustomed to serving others as "the least of these," how very hard it is to humble ourselves to receive such service in return.

But Jesus models that, too, in the chapter following our lectionary.

It is Wednesday of Holy Week. One more day before betrayal and imprisonment. One day after the parable about the "least of these." A woman approaches Jesus with an alabaster jar filled with expensive perfume and pours every last drop of it onto his soon-to-be-crucified body. Yet when the disciples complain that the money should have been given to the poor, Jesus rebukes them, admitting his own need. "This woman poured perfume on my body to prepare me for burial," he declares. "I tell you the truth, wherever the Good News is preached in all the world, what this woman has done will be told, and people will remember her" (Mt 26:12-13). The "least of these" really is Jesus, the one we expect to be strong. A woman sees his need and fills it, sparing no cost to herself. But the disciples are blind, and later run away.

"Anything you refused to do for even the least of my people here, you refused to do for me" (Mt 25:45).


I would suggest that our invitation this week, as we turn toward Thanksgiving, is to open our eyes beyond our common assumptions about the image of Christ who is hungry and thirsty, naked and alone, sick and in prison. Yes, there are the obvious places, and we should never ever neglect them. But the deepest needs of another person may not be as obvious as we think. We may actually find "the least of these" in that strong leader among us, who cries out for help but is misunderstood by the ones who claim to know him or her best. If we are honest, we may even find "the least of these" to be ourselves.


May God grant us eyes to see and ears to hear and mouths to express the depth of our need, and then grant us the ability to respond. Amen.


Gusti Linnea Newquist


(additional lectionary texts for this week: Ezekiel 34:11-16, 20-24; Psalm 100; Ephesians 1:15-23)

November 16--The Only Thing We Have to Fear

"Master, I knew that you were a hard man. You harvest things you did not plant. You gather crops where you did not sow any seed. So I was afraid and went and hid your money in the ground." --Matthew 25: 24-25a.

(Lectionary focus: Matthew 25:14-30)

I've been reading the prophets lately, as they cycle their way through the daily lectionary. The harsh words of the LORD through the prophet Zephaniah have hounded me this week: "I will punish those who are satisfied with themselves," our God says to ancient Israel. "Their wealth will be stolen and their houses destroyed. They may build houses, but they will not live in them. They may plant vineyards, but they will not drink any wine from them. The LORD's day of judging is coming soon; it is near and coming fast" (Zephaniah 1:12-13).

No wonder the servant is scared! If the prophets are right, there’s not much that angers God more than the people of God mishandling our wealth.

The self-satisfied spending of elite biblical Israel, after all, led to a radical day of reckoning at the hands of a foreign empire, centuries before the time of Christ and his presentation of this parable. Investment in exotic luxury items at the expense of the most vulnerable rendered the whole people of God susceptible to foreign assault . . . and ultimately the victims of outright exile. It makes sense that the servant several hundred years later would see wealth as so dangerous. Better, indeed, to avoid it altogether. Better, indeed, to make sure it stayed safe.

And it’s not just an Old Testament sentiment, either. The entire Book of Revelation anticipates a cataclysmic economic collapse of the great Roman Empire as God’s righteous response to their incessant greed. The letter of James, too, warns the rich that their gold and silver “will eat your bellies like fire” (5:3). The First Epistle to Timothy reminds us that “the love of money is the root of all evil” (6:10).

So why would Jesus choose to describe the kingdom of heaven in terms of so much wealth? A talent, after all, could fund one worker for fifteen years. Two talents for thirty. Five talents for 75!

It’s not God’s abundance that’s the problem, Jesus suggests in this parable. It’s our gratitude for it . . . our acknowledgement of it . . . and our stewardship with it.

Because we still do have talent, both the monetary kind and the human ability kind. We have quite a lot of it, actually. Some of us have enough to fund thirty or even 75 years. Others of us have just a single dose, just enough for fifteen. But even one talent is a whole lot of money for a first-century worker dependent on his boss for his daily bread. And even one talent is a whole lot ability for the twenty-first century worker desperate for a job. And every talent, invested well, will double in return. This is the one certainty of God’s market economy.

It is natural to fear for our basic economic survival. It is natural to fear our mishandling of wealth. Even the euphoria of a dramatic presidential election emphasizes in its wake our deepest anxieties about money. Has our wealth been stolen--or will it be soon? Have our houses been destroyed--or will they be soon? Have our jobs been lost--or will they be soon? The economic agenda is the nation's agenda, the world's agenda. The parable of the talents could not be more relevant.

We can bury God’s gifts of talent and treasure and face a wrath even worse than that of the prophets. Or we can take what we have, invest it in the common good, and double our wealth in service to God. The choice is ours in the weeks and months ahead. May we make the choice of faith, acknowledging our fears before God, and trusting God’s everlasting abundance.
Amen.

Gusti Linnea Newquist

(additional lectionary texts for this week: Judges 4:1-7; Psalm 123; 1 Thessalonians 5:1-11)

November 9--Always a Bridesmaid

“At that time the kingdom of heaven will be like ten bridesmaids who took their lamps and went to wait for the bridegroom.” –Mt 25:1


(lectionary focus: Mt 25:1-13)


A well-meaning family member recently gave my older cousin a self-help book: Find a Husband After Thirty-Five (using what I learned at Harvard Business School). We rolled our eyes and groaned when we saw it . . . then of course devoured it cover to cover! A twelve-month plan for the thirty-something singleton to get herself to the altar with the man of her dreams. “Saturation” tips for online dating. Research development for “product improvement.” Culminating in, believe it or not, a full-scale “marketing plan” with an upscale product roll-out, advertising strategy, and “man-agement” training. This has got to be a recession-proof industry if I’ve ever seen one!

Of course, preparing for the Son of Man is something quite different than slogging through the dating scene in search of a mere mortal. We’re talking about an apocalyptic event to usher in a new era of justice and peace, where the last shall be first and the powerful shall be humbled and the oppressed shall be set free. We’re talking about a radical reversal of fortunes that terrifies some and liberates others. We’re talking about an event that most of us say we want but that few of us believe might actually happen in our lifetimes. We’re talking about a serious theological commitment to the power of God to transform the world, not frivolous romantic yearnings exploited by a consumer culture.

But that’s just the point, isn’t it? It’s exactly the point.

Jesus has asked us to seek this coming reign of God with the same intensity and passion and longing with which we seek a life partner. Jesus has asked us to long for this radical re-orienting of the entire cosmos with the same dedication and yearning with which we crave human companionship. And Jesus has demanded that we stop sulking around in our loneliness and despair—to stop waiting for the fantasy of the peaceable kingdom to drop magically out of the sky—and instead get off of our rears and out of the house and actually do something to make the world ready for its arrival.

We do not know when this event will actually take place. We just know that it has been promised, as if a betrothal. And we know that we want it desperately. In the meantime, Jesus has asked us to do whatever it takes to be prepared for this coming reign of God, including using what we can learn from Harvard Business School!

So what might that something be? How might we keep our lamps trimmed and burning? How might we roll out our marketing plan in preparation for God’s eternal reign?

Maybe we can get started by doing some of the other things Jesus asked us to do, like feeding the hungry, clothing the naked, visiting the imprisoned, and healing the sick. Maybe we can get started by committing ourselves over and over again to a culture of peace and a forgiveness of debts. Maybe we can get started by committing ourselves over and over again to loving our enemies and praying for those who persecute us. Maybe we can get started by taking one small step at a time to love God and to love neighbor.

The wise bridesmaids among us will know that this takes hard work and dedication, that we will need to replenish our oil, that we will need to seek support from our companions on the journey. The foolish among us may think it’s just a romantic getaway, rather than a lifelong commitment through the good times and the bad.

We all get tired as we wait for The One, preparing for a kingdom that is already here but yet to come in fullness. But we can do what it takes to make sure we have enough oil to keep us going after we've fallen asleep. Because the longed-for consummation will finally come, even if it seems so incredibly impossible. And it will be a joyous feast for everyone to share.

“So always be ready, because you do not know the day or the hour the Son of Man will come.” For now, we are all bridesmaids waiting for the groom. But one day soon we will all be brides. Amen.



Gusti Linnea Newquist



(additional lectionary texts: Joshua 24:1-3a, 14-25; Psalm 78:1-7; 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18)

November 2--Loathing the Pharisee

Lectionary focus: Matthew 23:1-12

I used to love to loathe the Pharisees. As a young teenager growing up during the rise of the Religious Right, I would cling to the scathing critique of the Pharisees throughout the gospels as a way to stand defiantly within a religion that seemed so very far removed from my own values. Those modern-day Pharisees “make strict rules and try to force people to obey them!” I would declare to anyone who would listen. “But they are unwilling to help those who struggle under the weight of their rules.” The Religious Right has it wrong, I would convince myself in frustration. If Jesus were here today, he’d be railing against them!

But now that I, myself, am a religious leader the critique cuts closer to home.

How could I possibly deny that I do good things so that the people I supposedly “serve” will see them? How could I possibly deny that I take great care in choosing what to wear when I preach (not too trendy, not too mousy) and how I will fix my hair and makeup (don’t forget the bright lights and how you will look “on stage”)? How could I possibly deny that I enjoy sitting in that fancy chair behind the pulpit with my well-planned sermon and studying with the “most brilliant” scholars in the field and attaching the name of an Ivy League divinity school to my resume? How could I deny that I have become what I used to love to loathe?

The matter becomes even more complicated when we bring in the historical context in which Matthew is writing his gospel. Those who follow “The Way” of Jesus are literally in a political struggle with the Pharisees to pick up the pieces of Judaism after the destruction of the temple. The harsh rhetoric against the Pharisees may, perhaps, come from the mouth of Jesus, himself. It may just as likely be hyperbole on the part of the gospel writer in order to win over a frightened public. And it is just the kind of hyperbole that has led to centuries of (sometimes violent) Christian anti-Judaism. My frustration with the Religious Right pales in comparison with what “good” Christians have done to those “other” Pharisees.

Yet if we are to be honest about our motivations, regardless of our religious tradition, how can any of us deny that this description of the Pharisees is really the description of ourselves? Especially in a tough economy when job security is everything and being noticed by the most important people might mean the difference between a salary and bankruptcy. Because it’s not just about practicing our religion, Jesus seems to suggest. It’s about practicing our lives. And don’t we love to have the people greet us with respect in the marketplace?

“Whoever is your servant is the greatest among you,” Jesus said. “Whoever makes himself great will be made humble. Whoever makes himself humble will be made great.”

Yes, we have a whole lot to lose by following this teaching. We have our jobs and our homes and our prestige. But so did the disciples. And so did the post-Easter, post-Temple community to which Matthew writes. They, in fact, had more to lose than we do. They, in fact, lost it all.

What does it profit if we gain the world but forfeit our soul? Now more than ever, our greatness comes from our service to others. May we have the courage to serve in the coming weeks and months. Amen.

Gusti Linnea Newquist

(Additional Lectionary Texts: Psalm 107:1-7, 33-37; 1 Thessalonians 2:9-13; Matthew 23:1-12)

October 25--Loving at the Edge of the Promise

“You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind. This is the first and greatest commandment. And a second is like it: You shall love your neighbor as yourself. On these two commandments depend all the Law and the Prophets.”


Lectionary focus: Deuteronomy 34:1-12; Matthew 22:34-46


When I read this Sunday’s lectionary text from Deuteronomy about the final days of Moses I think immediately of Martin Luther King Jr.’s famous speech the night before he was assassinated in 1968. He had proclaimed the story of the Exodus and the vision of the Promised Land as a liberating hope for African Americans struggling to integrate after centuries of slavery and segregation. Martin Luther King felt a personal identification with Moses on the mountaintop after decades of marching and speaking and submitting to jail on behalf of justice. He had prayed and preached and inspired a community through a long wilderness, and he could see that land flowing with milk and honey just a few steps away. But he was not there yet, and he knew he might not get there in his lifetime. So he called upon others to take up the struggle in the months and decades ahead. And he died the next day without seeing his dream become reality. He died, like Moses, at the edge of the promise.

Forty years later, this biblical vision embraced by Martin Luther King, Jr. continues to propel many of us forward toward racial justice and reconciliation. And as a white woman who has lived almost her entire life in the American South, I know we still live at the edge of the promise Martin Luther King envisioned, even though we have come so much farther than ever before. Because racism and economic oppression are still all too real, I want hold up this promise of hope for all who continue to struggle for liberation and life abundant. I want to proclaim with Martin Luther King that this vision is what it means to “love the LORD your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength . . . and your neighbor as yourself.”


But there’s a pretty big catch. The “promise” for some can be a nightmare for others.


I have learned in the past several years that it is a radically different experience to read this text from Deuteronomy in my current New England congregation: a community that includes Palestinian Christians. Their very presence in our midst requires us to consider again the biblical community on the other edge of the promise Moses hears repeated on that mountain in the desert. Because if you are the neighbor already living in Jericho or Gilead or Judah, you hear this “promise” as a mandate from a tribal god to drive you from your land and destroy your way of life forever. If you are a Canaanite living at the edge of the promise, your neighbor is not anything like your friend. Your neighbor is really your enemy.


If this is the case, then, what does it really mean to love the LORD our God with all our heart, mind, soul, and strength? What does it really mean to love our neighbor as ourselves? What in the world was Jesus talking about when he gave us the two great commandments?

He was not talking about Valentine’s Day and touchy-feely Hallmark cards! What we learn from Martin Luther King and what we learn from the Palestinian members of my congregation is that anyone who has lived on either edge of the promise—the one seeking liberation from oppression and the promise of new life and the one suffering invasion and occupation and conquest—knows that loving God and loving neighbor is the spiritual discipline of a lifetime. And it is really, really hard.

Yet when the lawyer asks Jesus which commandment is the greatest, Jesus tells the entire crowd to love their God and to love their neighbor. “On these two commandments hang all the law and the prophets.”

He is quoting his own Scriptures (Deuteronomy 6:5 and Leviticus 19:18). He is saying that we should interpret everything in them through these two commandments: love God; love neighbor.

The 4th Century theologian St. Augustine, says the same thing. If you read a biblical text and it does not lead you to love God and to love your neighbor, then read it again. You didn’t get it right the first time.


So let’s go back to Moses in Deuteronomy, at the edge of the promise he never entered himself, and see if we can hear a life-giving message for everyone. Even though we know what happens next—especially because we know what happens next—let’s hear that story again as the final word of the five books of the Law, which hangs on the commandment to love God and to love neighbor. And if we read it again, with this commandment in mind, we see that the final word of the Law is not about conquest and destruction. Neither is it about slavery and persecution. It is about hope.

And I think Jesus would say that we all live at the edge of God’s promise when we claim a vision of justice and peace that is right in front of us and yet so very difficult to achieve. We all live at the edge of God's promise when we trust in the living God who is beyond definition, geographic location, and tribal identification. We all live at the edge of God's promise when we follow a God who has chosen to persevere with all the nations through the particular history of the people of biblical Israel, a persecuted minority through most of its existence. God’s promise to that people is the same promise to all, Jesus would say. It is not a claim; it is a gift.

In return, God insists on healing and reconciliation among those with historic tensions. God calls for personal transformation in the midst of social transformation. As we live and love on the edge of that promise, we are owned by the vision, rather than owning it ourselves. We work for its partial implementation, even as we trust in its coming fulfillment. This is what it means to love God, to love neighbor, and to love self.

May God grant us the grace and the courage to follow these two great commands in this week and in the weeks to come. It is really hard. But with God, all things are possible. Amen.


Gusti Linnea Newquist



(additional lectionary texts for this week: Psalm 90:1-6, 13-17; 1 Thessalonians 2:1-8)

October 19--In God We Trust

Matthew 22:15-22

John Boehner spoke the fundamental truth in his floor speech just before the passage of the $700 billion rescue/bailout legislation a couple of weeks ago, regardless of how we feel about his politics. The House Republican minority whip reminded Congressional leaders that the motto on our money is “In God We Trust.” And he called upon God to help us through this crisis, concluding that God’s help was the only thing that would ultimately suffice.

He’s right. Separation of church and state, respect for religious pluralism, and implementation of just economic policies aside, John Boehner is right. If our lectionary study these past several weeks has taught us anything it is that God alone is worthy of our trust in the midst of economic uncertainty; God alone is our salvation; God alone has abundance to share . . . and expects us to share it in return.

Even The Boston Globe noticed that the lectionary texts over the past few weeks have focused on “God’s economy,” just at the time the rest of us have focused on the all-too turbulent machinations of our own global economy. “As Congress debated and President Bush signed a bailout for Wall Street,” the Globe reported on Saturday, October 11, “clergy have been pondering from the pulpit the pros and cons of capitalism, their reactions ranging from condemnation of financiers to soothing spiritual succor for average folks suffering financial setbacks” (“Subprime Thoughts in Sublime Settings,” B2).

God does have something to teach us about faithful economics, I would argue, just at the time we are all getting a crash course on commercial paper and market liquidity. God does have something to teach us about trusting God’s abundance and receiving it with gratitude . . . and then responding to that abundance with faithful stewardship of all we have been given.

In God’s economy, we have learned these past many weeks, those who govern can and will forgive massive debts . . . but they then expect such forgiveness to be extended to others (Mt 18, 09/14). In God’s economy, we have learned, every worker can and will receive a living wage, regardless of that worker’s perceived productivity (Mt 20, 09/21). In God’s economy, we have learned, a wandering tribe of outcasts escaping slavery can and will receive bread and meat and water that will only come when it is needed . . . but it cannot ever be hoarded (Ex 17, 09/28). In God’s economy, we have learned, our communal lives are ordered by a complete and utter devotion to a dynamic and mysterious “ground of being,” which limits the consequences of our greed and envy (Ex 20, 10/05). In God’s economy—and in our own economy—we have learned, the god of gold will never save us, but God’s steadfast love will endure forever (Ex 32, 10/12).

What more do we have to learn, as we approach another Sunday, as we approach another week of market turmoil, as we approach another month of recession and job loss and political uncertainty? What more do we have to learn, as we compare our economy to God’s economy and find ours wanting?

“Is it right to pay taxes to Caesar?” Matthew’s type-cast Pharisees and Herodians ask of Jesus in our gospel text for the week. “We know you are an honest man and teach the truth of God’s way.”

They are not asking an honest question, of course. They are trying to trap him. The tax is a hated instrument of Roman power and is—debatably—idolatrous. It is also the law. If Jesus answers in the affirmative, he is discredited among his most avid followers. If he answers in the negative, he is handed over to Roman authorities. Can Jesus give an honest answer?

“Give to Caesar the things that are Caesar’s,” Jesus says. “And give to God the things that are God’s.”

This ends the conversation. But it is only just beginning. Because everything, of course, belongs to God.

So give to Wall Street the things that are Wall Street’s, Jesus might be saying to us today. And give to God the things that are God’s. Our economy is not God’s economy, he might declare to us boldly. But here is how we can put into practice what we have learned:

--We can plead with our rulers to forgive massive debts—and expect such forgiveness to be extended to all. We can plead with our creditors for mercy—and we can extend that mercy to those who owe us (Mt 18, 09/14);

--We can strengthen our social safety net to make sure everyone has access to the basic necessities of life, knowing that we are also included in that safety net (Mt 20, 09/21);

--We can accept with gratitude God’s generous provision for our survival, even if it pales in comparison with the luxury to which we have grown accustomed (Ex 17, 09/28);

--We can place our primary trust in the God who is dynamic and indefinable, not confined to our fears, not pinned down by our panic—and allow that trust to order the ethical relations of our common life (Ex 20; 10/05);

--We can repent of our worship of the god of gold and turn once more to the God who remains with us always, who gives us opportunity in the midst of chaos, who will not abandon us to the evil we create (Ex 32; 10/12).

Give to God the things that are God’s, Jesus says to us over and over. God has already given everything to you. You can trust in that. You can depend on that. And you can share that with everyone you meet.

May we who would be faithful have the courage to trust what we have learned and to share these lessons broadly. Now is the time.

Gusti Linnea Newquist


(additional lectionary texts for this week: Exodus 33:12-23; Psalm 99; 1 Thessalonians 1:1-10)

October 12--The God Who Remains

Exodus 32:1-14; Psalm 106:1-6, 19-23

(Additional texts for this week: Philippians 4:1-9; Matthew 22:1-14)







“We have sinned just as our ancestors did. We have done wrong; we have done evil.” –Psalm 106:6


“These are scary times,” I said to Kristen earlier this week as we prepared for the waitressing gig we had both picked up for the night. I was thinking of the economic bailout debate and the upcoming job loss report and my evaporating retirement plan and the uncertainty of a long-term job search. “These are scary times,” Kristen agreed, thinking of her three kids and her pending divorce and the increasing scarcity of work just at the time when food costs and gas costs and the New England winter’s energy costs are on the rise. “These are scary times,” we hear from every economist on every newscast from television to radio to newspaper to blog. “We’ve never been here before,” these economists say. “We just have no idea how things will turn out.”


“These are scary times,” I can’t help imagine the ancient Israelites of our Exodus text saying to one another as they linger in the desert morning after morning, waiting for Moses to come back down off that mountain. “We’ve never been here before,” I imagine them saying as they go to bed at night with no plan in sight. “We just have no idea how things will turn out,” I imagine them whispering to one another as anxiety builds and panic spreads. “Make us gods who will lead us,” I can hear them beg of Aaron, the only leader they have left. “Moses led us out of Egypt, but we don’t know what has happened to him.” Give us something we can see and touch. Give us something we can trust.


I can’t help relating to their need for a tangible image of the god they claim to serve. I can’t help but see ourselves in them as they continue to cling for stability to the very thing that can never be stable--a god of gold.


“Take off the gold earrings that your wives, sons, and daughters are wearing,” Aaron responds to the Israelites, “and bring them to me.” And Aaron takes all their gold and molds it into a statue of a calf. Then he announces a feast in honor of God.

But God is not honored.

“They have made for themselves a calf covered with gold, and they have worshiped it and offered sacrifices to it,” God thunders at Moses, still up on the mountain. “I am so angry with them that I am going to destroy them. Then I will make you and your descendants a great nation.”


Gulp.


“Hold on a minute, God,” I want to say in defense of the Israelites, in defense of myself, in defense of every one of us who begs for some visible sign of security and stability. “How long do you expect us to languish in this leadership vacuum with no clear path forward and forecasts of gloom and doom everywhere we turn? We just wanted to see you. Aaron’s the one who made us worship the god of gold. Wall Street did it; not me!”


And it’s true, of course. Aaron did decide to mold the gold into a calf. Corporate lenders did decide to entice borrowers to make mortgages they could never afford. Government regulators did fall down on the job. Partisan bickering did contribute to the crisis, rather than solve it. Why should people like Kristen and me and the average Joe on the street bear the brunt of God’s anger, bear the burden of the bailout, bear any responsibility for where we are now and how we move forward?


But of course . . . if we’re really honest . . . if we’re really, really honest . . . most of us did dance—at least just a little bit—in that party for the golden calf we’ve been having for a while. Most of us, if we’re really honest, at some point have asked for that visible image--for that god of gold--to keep us safe, to keep us secure, to give us a reason to party when we're scared. Most of us, if we’re really honest, want our leaders to make it easy for us, so we don’t have to do the difficult spiritual work of trusting in a God we can’t see and a future we can’t know. Most of us, if we're really honest, deserve at least just a little bit of divine anger in response to our sin. We're in this one together, and it hurts all the way through.


And so it helps to see God negotiate with Moses, who is pleading our case forthrightly, who is appealing to God’s reasonableness, to God’s reputation, to God’s promise already given. And it helps to see that God can “repent” of anger, that God can “turn away” from the evil consequences of our actions, that God can give us the opportunity to do the same. For this is exactly what God chooses to do in this Exodus text. God will not abondon us to the consequences of our actions. The evil we have done is not the final answer.


It is not an easy reconciliation. It is not an immediate fix. Moses returns to the people and imposes a day of reckoning. The relationship between the people and God remains tenuous. But it remains!


And that, in the end, is the one thing we can depend on. Whether we have worshiped the god of gold or whether we got dragged to the party without participating in it. Whether we begged Aaron to make us a god we could see or whether we helped to fashion it ourselves. God is still with us, repenting of anger, turning us away from the evil we create. We can have another chance. We can make a new way together.

“Let anyone who wants to follow the LORD come to me,” Moses says to the people upon his return. Let anyone who wants to follow God join together, we can say to one another now that the truth of our economic crisis is upon us. It is time to repent. It is time to turn around. We can make a new way, with our God as our guide. May this be our commitment in the days and weeks to come. May we seek out those who will help live anew. In the midst of a crisis comes a new opportunity. We can begin again. May it be so. Amen.



Gusti Linnea Newquist

October 5--No Other Gods

Lectionary focus for this week:

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

(Additional texts: Psalm 19, Philippians 3:4b-14, Matthew 21:33-46)

“I am the LORD your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of slavery; you shall have no other gods before me” (Exodus 20:2).


Let’s get real. We just can’t seem to get it right, can we?

The very first of the Ten Commandments, the very first of the many commandments throughout the Book of Exodus, the very first commitment of any believer in the biblical tradition: put absolutely nothing in a higher place than God.

We just can’t seem to get it right, can we?

Of course, for the ancient Israelites not getting it right meant worshipping other tribal gods in the midst of a polytheist culture. But it also meant ignoring the widow and the orphan. It meant cheating in the marketplace and seeking wealth for some but not for all. It meant forgetting their desperate origins and the god who had led them out of slavery and into freedom. It meant replacing that god with all that glittered and thrilled but that could not ever finally save them.

Not so terribly different than we are, are they? Here we are so many thousands of years later, still worshipping the stock market or a political party or job security or physical beauty. Still holding on to anything that we can shore up to make our lives stable and to keep uncertainty at bay. Still doing all of this at the expense of the most vulnerable, the most uncertain, the most unstable. Still doing all of this at the expense of God.

The past several weeks have been nothing if not a stark condemnation of our national failing of the first commandment, regardless of our religious tradition or lack thereof. Even those of us who call ourselves “progressive” Christians, even those of us who have advocated all along for economic justice, even those of us who condemn “socialism for the rich and capitalism for the poor” . . . we still, if we are honest, worship the god of security and control. We, too, want stability and prosperity we can depend on, even if we would be sure to declare such security as the equal opportunity for all. We still want our retirement plans and our health care and our out-of-season fruits and vegetables from the local grocer. What would happen if we really—and I mean really –put absolutely nothing higher than God?


This may sound overly pedantic, but this economic crisis we find ourselves in—and my personal reaction to it (panic)—has actually led me to reflect linguistically on the very name of God used by the ancient Israelites as it is recorded in the First Commandment. This God we are to place before all other gods is named with four Hebrew letters: YHWH.

YHWH is translated as LORD in most modern texts, but in its Hebrew form, YHWH is the unpronounceable, the mysterious, the holy. Because these letters are related to the Hebrew verb “to be,” modern theologians have declared YHWH as the “ground of our being” or as “the God who is.” In this interpretation, the God we are to worship before all other gods is ultimately indefinable--a dynamic mystery who will be whatever it will be, regardless of our human inability to make sense of it.


This is not good news in the midst of an economic crisis! The God we are to put before all other gods, the God to whom we make our highest commitment, the God whom we are to love with all our heart, soul, mind, and strength is an indefinable, dynamic mystery that we are not allowed to make any sense of? No wonder we just can’t seem to get it right!

At least the stock market has a number I can watch go up and down, at least a political party has a platform I can read and debate, at least the job has a paycheck I can deposit, at least the drugstore has cosmetics I can lather all over my face. These things make sense. They make me feel secure. A mysterious God with an unpronounceable name who refuses to be defined? Well, we’ve got more than enough uncertainty in our lives already, thank you very much. Why make it our highest priority!


But herein lies the paradox, at least in my view. It is this indefinable, dynamic, eternal existence that will in fact last forever. It is, in the end, the only thing that will last forever.

It is our financial markets and political parties and jobs and bodies that ultimately will fade, no matter how hard we try to fix them.

When we can put that truth before all others, when we can put that God before all others, when we can recognize that our security is fleeting and our control is ephemeral, only then can the ethics of our relationships with one another and ourselves—including our efforts at economic justice—fall faithfully into place.

And that is what the Ten Commandments are all about. Trusting only in this indefinable, dynamic, eternal existence so that we can stop manipulating the sky and the water and the earth into our own image and instead exercise faithful stewardship as caretakers of God’s abundance (Ex 20:4, modern interpretation). Trusting in this indefinable, dynamic and eternal existence so that we can practice a life-giving balance of work and rest, rather than panicking over what remains to be done or slipping into the sloth of believing our labor doesn’t matter (Ex 20:8-11). Trusting in this indefinable, dynamic and eternal existence so that we can honor the gift of human companions and seek their good, rather than treat them with contempt (Ex 20:12-17). Trusting in this indefinable, dynamic and eternal existence so that we can repent of ever misusing its name and pray for the grace to continue in trust (Ex 20:7).


It is so very hard to trust, so very hard to accept that the uncertainty we fear is, in fact, the divine stability. That the mystery we avoid is, in fact, divine truth. That the existence we worship is intangible, but the present reality is fleeting.

It is, however, the deepest spiritual truth . . . and one that we can also find comforting in these difficult times. This crisis, too, will not last forever. This moment, too, is not eternal. God is dynamic and indefinable, not confined to our fears, not pinned down by our panic. God can make all things new, and God is doing so in this very moment. God is still with us, being who God is, leading us from slavery to freedom, challenging us to live faithfully with one another. We can still turn from the false gods of security and power. We can still turn to the God of life. May this be our prayer in the days and weeks ahead. Amen.

Gusti Newquist

September 28--Hitting a Rock with a Stick

Text focus for this week:

Exodus 17:1-7 and Psalm 78:1-4, 12-16

(Additional lectionary texts for this week:

Philippians 2:1-13 and Matthew 21:23-32)

My mother has a black and white photograph hanging in the hallway of a three year old girl holding a two foot long stick. The girl’s eyes are wide with anticipation as she prepares to whack the brightly decorated papier mache llama hanging just to her side. She has been told there is a special treasure inside that piñata and that if she just hits it hard enough with her stick, then streams of candy—butterscotch and peppermints and Hershey kisses—will flow down like river. She really wants that candy.

The three year old girl hits the piñata really hard, harder than she has ever hit anything in her life. She swings that long stick so hard, in fact, that she loses her balance and skids onto the concrete floor, scraping her hands and her knees.

No candy flows down from that pretty piñata. The only things she has to show for her valiant efforts are bruised up limbs and a deflated dream.

“There was never any candy in that stupid llama!” she screams at her parents in her distress. “You tricked me and now everyone is laughing at me. I wish I could just go home. I wish I had never come here at all!”

She stomps over to the corner and refuses to speak to anyone. Not to her mother, who tries to convince her there really is candy in that llama. Not to her father, who chastises her for acting like a baby. Not to her best friend, Susan, who brings her the stick and begs her to try again. This candy-loving, stick-whacking three year old has given up hope and refuses to pretend otherwise.


The ancient Israelite community we encounter in our text from Exodus this week has also given up hope, but on a much more spectacular scale than our piñata-challenged three year old. The ancient Israelites are literally wandering from one place to another in the wilderness between Egypt and the land of Canaan, never quite sure where they will end up next. They live “paycheck to paycheck,” which for them means gathering up frost-like flakes that fall on the ground each morning and a handful of quail each night. It is not much—not butterscotch or chocolate or even milk and honey—but it is enough to sustain them from one day to the next.

The industrious ones among them fear their luck may run out and want to save for the future. Maybe the manna won’t come the next morning! Maybe the quail won’t come the next night! But when they try to save the manna and the quail, it just turns to worms overnight. Day-to-day living is the only option in this barren desert.

The social climbers among them crave the stability of food and drink from their former lives in Egypt. Slavery is better, they say, than this uncertain existence. But the decision to leave has already been made, and they have no choice but to press ahead.

And so the ancient Israelites arrive at a new camp on a new day—sustained but worried, pushing forward but second-guessing—and realize there is no water for them to drink. And it starts all over again. “There never was any land of milk and honey calling us out of Egypt!” they lash out at Moses. “You tricked us and now we will die and our children and our farm animals with us. We wish we could just go back to Egypt. We wish we’d never come here at all!”


What do you do if you’re Moses, the reluctant leader of this rag-tag alliance? What do you do if you’re the parent of a three-year old who has never seen candy spill from a piñata? What do you do if you’re stuck in a day-to-day existence and don’t know how you’re going to pay next month’s rent?

“I will stand in front of you on a rock at Mount Sinai,” the Holy One offers to Moses. “I will stand with you in front of that papier mache llama,” says the parent to the small child. “I will stand with you as you go to that temp agency,” says our God to the laid-off social worker. “Hit that rock with the stick, and water will come out of it so that the people can drink.” Hit that rock with the stick and streams out of the rock will cause water to flow down like rivers.

Hit that rock with a stick, says our God to everyone who wonders how we’re going to survive in these uncertain times. Keep on hitting it, even though you’re blindfolded, even though others second-guess you, even though you second-guess yourself. I have led you out of your slavery, and I have given you manna and quail, and I will give you more than enough water, as if from the deep ocean. I have done it before, and I will do it again. And I will stand with you, even until the end of the age.

We don’t know when that papier mache piñata will finally break, we don’t know when that rent check will finally come, we don’t know when that stream will finally flow, but God is still with us, and we are still with God. May we trust it in plenty and in want, in certainty and in doubt. Amen.

P.S. Kelsey Rice Bogdan has graciously exited her role as MBS Blogger and passed on the duties to me! I'm Gusti Newquist, a June 2008 graduate of Harvard Divinity School and Presbyterian minister-to-be. I served as the MBS seminary intern from October 2005-May 2006 and am delighted to be back with MBS in this capacity.

September 21--How God Provides

Passages for this week:

Exodus 16:2-15; Psalm 105:1-6, 37-45; Philippians 1:21-30; Matthew 20:1-16

I have been thinking quite a lot lately about those hourly workers laboring in the vineyard who appear in Matthew’s gospel for this Sunday. I have been imagining what it might be like to begin a physically demanding job in the wee hours of the morning, to work hard all day, and then to watch other people who arrived many hours later receive the exact same payment that I did. I have been thinking that it makes perfect sense for people in this position to complain about the lack of fairness in the system, to feel cheated, to judge those who worked less than they did as slackers or cheats. Of course, if we are in this position and have been brought up to be good Christians, we might immediately reject this natural instinct of jealousy or self-righteousness as morally wrong . . . and instead adopt a paternalistic attitude toward “those less fortunate” who of course should be cared for, even though they didn’t really deserve it, and even though we would never be one of them.

At least this is what I imagine myself thinking about the story if I were still safely employed in a job I loved with more than adequate health insurance and a sizable pension plan with a matching 401 (k). Like many “hard working” Americans, I have been an overachieving workaholic all my life, easily falling into the trap of assuming I deserve to be compensated better than my colleagues . . . easily falling into the trap of believing I actually have earned everything I have achieved, rather than admit that at some level I simply may have happened to be in the right place at the right time when the landowner came around offering work at 6 in the morning. (Okay, maybe it's been closer to 9.)

I am no longer in that position, at least for now.

I have learned in this past week that it is an entirely different experience to read the parable of the workers in the vineyard from the perspective of someone seeking employment, swirling through a sea of uncertainty, scraping together temporary and part-time jobs, wondering when a more stable employer will stop by to pick me up . . . at 9am? . . . or noon? . . . or 3pm? . . . or—please God, at least let it be by 5!

From this new perspective, I have been imagining those workers waiting in the marketplace, alternating between confidence and doubt, knowing in one minute they have the skills and the desire to earn a decent living but watching the minutes and the hours tick by with nothing to show for it. Wondering if they would ever have anything to show for it.

From this new perspective, I have also been marveling at the generosity of an employer who would spend an entire day seeking out and then hiring everyone who wanted to work . . . and then providing all the workers with a wage that would support them through the next day, even if they did not technically “earn” it. And I've been thinking that perhaps if I could just know that 5pm would not pass me by empty-handed, I could rest and renew, rather than panic and fear. Perhaps if I could just believe that everyone in the marketplace would get hired eventually, I would faithfully discern the call of God, rather than descend into cut-throat competition with my equally gifted peers. Perhaps if I could just trust that I would receive what I needed when I needed it, regardless of when I started working again, I would actually be able to enjoy the marketplace in the meantime.


The kingdom of heaven, Jesus tells us in this parable, is like a person who owned some land and went out very early to hire some people to work in his vineyard. The kingdom of heaven is like trusting God’s eternal provision, whether we start working at 6am or 5pm or somewhere in between. The kingdom of heaven is like trusting a God who seeks us out, who pursues us from early morning and well into the evening, who dares us to shed jealousy and fear and pride and doubt in order that all may be fed and all may finally thrive. The kingdom of heaven is here with us now, as well as in the age to come.

And this is how God provides for us all. May we believe it, may we trust it, may we live it into reality in the days and weeks to come. In the name of Christ. Amen.

September 17--Practicing What We Preach

Here comes our good friend Peter, rocking the boat as usual. We’ve met him three times before in the gospel texts over the past six weeks, but we just can’t seem to get enough of him. So far Peter has progressed from an aborted attempt at walking on water to a dramatic confession of Jesus as the Christ . . . only to turn around and chastise his Messiah for telling the truth about his pending death and resurrection.

Our friend Peter just couldn’t leave well enough alone, even after all that. He had to follow it up with a question to Jesus about forgiveness.

“Lord, when my fellow believer sins against me, how many times must I forgive him?” Peter wonders. “Should I forgive him as many as seven times?”

Jesus answered, “I tell you, you must forgive him more than seven times. You must forgive him even if he wrongs you seventy times seven” (Mt 18:21-22).

I think it might be easier to walk on water.

Forgiveness is one of those thorny theological concepts for those of us who claim to pursue God’s justice in the world and who have been appalled by the misuse of this powerful spiritual discipline. We know far to well that the immediate call to forgive an abuser, or those who commit genocide, or even an older sibling who ceaselessly taunts a younger one can trivialize the deep suffering and legitimate anger on the part of those who have been wronged. As L. Gregory Jones points out in Embodying Forgiveness: A Theological Analysis, “Christians have too often supported forgiveness, love, and forbearance while failing to acknowledge the moral force of anger, hatred, and vengeance” (244). To the contrary, anger can actually serve a moral purpose, as a protest against injustice and as a commitment to our inherent human value in the face of dehumanizing acts. And when our efforts at forgiveness suppress bitterness, rather than restore right relationships, we can inadvertently strengthen the hand of those who do harm but do not seek to change their ways.

But as I re-read Matthew's text for this week, I'm starting to think Jesus had some of this complexity in mind when he offered his parable in response to Peter’s question. A modern day version of that parable might go something like this:

The kingdom of heaven may be compared to a loan officer who decided to demand payment in the midst of a sub-prime mortgage crisis. A homeowner who simply could not pay the debt was brought before the loan officer, who ordered foreclosure. So the homeowner begged the loan officer, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you everything.” And out of compassion, the loan officer decided not only to stop the foreclosure but to cancel the entire loan altogether!

But that same homeowner went straight to his brother, who owed him a thousand dollars, and demanded repayment. His brother pleaded with him, “Have patience with me, and I will pay you.” But the homeowner refused and garnished his wages until he could pay the debt. When the homeowner’s family members saw what had happened, they were angry. They told the loan officer what had happened. The loan officer said, “You selfish jerk! I forgave you an entire home loan because you pleaded with me, but you couldn’t forgive a thousand dollars from your brother?” And in anger, the loan officer placed the house on auction the very next day.

Forgiveness in this parable is all bound up in power and fear, rejection and hypocrisy. What might have become a reconciliation and new life for the homeowner and his brother instead turned to disaster for them both. What might have led to a more compassionate lending practice on the part of the mortgage company turned into anger and retrenchment. All because the homeowner couldn’t share the wealth. All because he couldn’t forgive even one time.

Perhaps Jesus tells us to forgive one another seventy times seven times because he knows we won’t get it right the first time, or the second time, or the seventh time. I think Jesus knows that there is no “forgiveness light switch” that we can simply flip up or down. It’s a lifelong journey of naming and confronting evil and suffering, both that which is done to us and that which is done by us. In the meantime, we participate in an ongoing community of confession and repentance and reconciliation, sharing the truth of our lives with others who help us always turn toward healing and wholeness. And our family of faith holds us accountable when we are not able to give even a small portion of the grace we have received. And our God remains faithful even until the end of the age.

So I hold out hope that we can keep trying to walk on water, that we can keep trying to forgive one another, that we can keep trying to ask for forgiveness ourselves. Not as a particular moment in time but as a daily discipline and a divine gift. Not as a way to pacify pain or to overlook injustice, but as a way to transform it into a new reality. This is our Christian walk. May we move forward with courage and faith. Amen.

Gusti Newquist

P.S. Kelsey Rice Bogdan is on vacation this week.

September 7—Discipline and the Disciple

"If another member of the church sins against you, go and point out the fault when the two of you are alone. If the member listens to you, you have regained that one. But if you are not listened to, take one or two others along with you, so that every word may be confirmed by the evidence of two or three witnesses. If the member refuses to listen to them, tell it to the church; and if the offender refuses to listen even to the church, let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector. Truly I tell you, whatever you bind on earth will be bound in heaven, and whatever you loose on earth will be loosed in heaven. Again, truly I tell you, if two of you agree on earth about anything you ask, it will be done for you by my Father in heaven. For where two or three are gathered in my name, I am there among them.” –Matthew 13:15-20

When I was in college, several friends of mine went to a large and very popular church near campus. I remember hearing a story once about how their church had used this passage to handle an incidence of adultery within the congregation. The church leaders attempted to talk with the man in private, and when he refused to give up his affair, they brought him before the entire church one Sunday and publicly cast him out of the congregation. There’s no doubt that they took this passage seriously.

I remember feeling rather ambivalent about the whole thing at the time. Certainly I’ve never been okay with adultery, and kicking people out of the community for sin is found in scripture—in addition to this passage, there is the common refrain found in Deuteronomy, “ So you shall purge the evil from your midst” (Deut. 13:5, 17:7, 19:19, etc.), and Paul’s rhetoric on the contaminating effects of sin in 1 Corinthians 5. At the same time there seemed something rather harsh to me in simply throwing the man out of the church. Granted, I didn’t know this situation from the inside, and perhaps pastorally, such strong consequences were necessary for the person to acknowledge his own behavior. But I wondered how likely it was that this man would ever begin to address the broken relationship and hurt that his actions had caused if he were summarily cut off from his faith community. If the lines of dialogue were closed, how would the offender ever grow? How would the offended ever heal?

When I looked again at today’s lectionary passage in Matthew, a passage upon which many such protocols are based, I realized that Jesus’ rules for church discipline aren’t about punishment or rejection. Nor are they meant to preserve unity in the church at the cost of disagreement or diversity. Rather, they are all about relationships within the community. Notice how, in verse 15, the question is posed as “If another member of the church sins against you…” (italics mine). Now, those two little words set the tone for the entire passage. If they are not there, then the passage can be taken to address generic activities that contradict the church’s moral or ethical code. In some ancient sources, these words are indeed missing from the passage, suggesting such a general interpretation.

But if the two words are part of verse 15, as other ancient sources attest, then the entire passage becomes all about holding my Christian sibling accountable when her actions have broken our relationship. For in this the Apostle Paul is right—“a little yeast leavens the whole batch of dough” (1 Cor. 5:6), and the bitterness and anger that results from an open wound between two people eventually poisons the whole community. So in this interpretation, Jesus’ plan sets up a way for the community to address broken relationships so that justice and reconciliation can take place. For when the community comes alongside one who has been wronged, confronts the breach, and calls for justice, it is not about enforcing uniformity of doctrine or belief. It is about being a disciple of Jesus—for just as Jesus came to heal humanity’s relationship with the Creator, members of his church are called to heal relationships with one another. And that healing cannot take place if we don’t address our brokenness with honesty and authenticity.

Yet what if someone refuses to acknowledge his wrong and try to mend fences? Is that the point at which we cast him out? In the past, when I’ve read the words, “let such a one be to you as a Gentile and a tax collector” (v. 17), I assumed that this was meant as a rejection of the offender. But as New Testament professor Mark Allan Powell points out in his commentary on Matthew, Jesus is saying quite the opposite—Gentiles and tax collectors were the outsiders of the Jewish community, to be sure, but they were also some of the people Jesus most persistently reached out to during his ministry. Treating someone as a Gentile and tax collector is not a call to cut off the wrong-doer, but a call to deeper and more persistent engagement with that person. For ultimately, the goal is unity—a reconciling unity, in which Christ himself is present among us (v. 20). And that requires not uniformity of opinion, but uniformity of loving, grace-filled care toward one another.

Our business as a church, then, is not about casting out and cutting off. But at the same time, it isn’t about discreetly overlooking the broken relationships within our community—from the petty fights and painful betrayals buzzing within local congregations to our failure as a Christian faith community to love and serve all humanity. Reconciliation cannot happen without justice, just as justice is empty without healing and reconciliation. And in Jesus’ discipline for the church, he gives us a practical, everyday starting point for practicing both.

Kelsey

PS-- The image above is of the Zaccheus story, one of the most famous stories of Jesus reaching out to a tax collector to bring him to discipleship.