February 22--Alone With Jesus

. . . Jesus took Peter, James, and John up on a high mountain by themselves. While they watched, Jesus’ appearance was changed. His clothes became shining white, whiter than any person could make them. Then Elijah and Moses appeared to them, talking with Jesus. . . .

. . . Peter did not know what to say, because he and the others were so frightened.

Then a cloud came and covered them, and a voice came from the cloud, saying, ‘This is my Son, whom I love. Listen to him!’

Suddenly Peter, James, and John looked around, but they saw only Jesus there alone with them . . . (Mark 9:2-4, 6-8).



It is Transfiguration Sunday, and we have been here before. Some version of this story from one of the synoptic gospels proclaimed every year on the Sunday before the church enters the season of Lent. We take it for granted.

The disciples do not.


What Peter and James and John see on this high mountain alone with Jesus frightens them to the core. The disciples are so frightened, in fact, that they actually follow Jesus’ instructions not to tell anyone what they have seen . . . a command they have no trouble breaking earlier—and later—in Mark’s gospel. Even Peter, who is normally eager to express his opinion or make a prediction about who Jesus is and what the Jesus movement should be doing “d[oes] not know what to say” in this moment of terror. He can only tell Jesus, “It is good that we are here,” and then mumble something incoherent about making tents for the three luminous figures who have just appeared in front of him.

To these three disciples—who think they know Jesus pretty well by now—the transfiguration of Jesus, in which he takes his place among the giver of the Law and the prototype of the Prophets, is a terrifying experience. They spend the rest of their lives trying to make sense of it, not even telling the story until after “the Son of Man had risen from the dead” (Mk. 9:10).


To many churchgoers today, this story is commonplace, another one of those “miracles” we either accept on faith or explain away as an interesting metaphor for our own “mountaintop experiences” of feel-good spirituality. But there are a few people among us who have experienced something dramatically similar to this moment of transfiguration—this moment of seeing the human face of the living God right in front of us and being told to listen!—in all its glory and all its terror.


A good friend of mine felt it in church last Sunday . . . and no, she was not delusional! She just knew she was experiencing something deeply profound, something that felt like the voice of God telling her to listen, something that felt like a “call” . . . but she had no idea what it meant. She was afraid, but she was calm in her fear. It was as if something was falling into place, something was being revealed that was deeper than anything she had ever known, something was being asked of her even though she could not articulate what it was.

And after talking with her, I realized that it may actually be more important to focus on the moment after the transfiguration, as powerful as the original event may have been for the disciples and for my friend. Because when it is all over, when the voice of clarity fades, when the shimmering robes evaporate, Peter and James and John look around and see only Jesus, there, alone with them.


They do not understand that Jesus will die and that they will abandon him. They do not understand that this time “alone” with Jesus is so very precious . . . that it will not last forever . . . that they will become even more frightened than they have been just now.


But they are alone with Jesus, for just this brief moment . . . and I like to imagine that they are at peace, even though they have not understood anything that has or will come to pass. They simply know it is a big deal, that God is with them, and that they will not ever be alone without Jesus.


They will not ever be alone “without Jesus.”

It is a terrifying thing to confront the power of God that transcends the ages, to follow Christ to his death, to hear the voice of God demanding that we listen without clear guidance about what is being said.

But I would suggest that the power of the transfiguration, as it leads us into Lent, as it leads us into crucifixion, as it leads us through the lonesome valley of death and darkness and despair is that we will never be alone without Jesus. We will never be alone without the physical presence of God in our midst. We will never be left without some reason to hope, without some reason to trust, without some reason to expect a future resurrection.


With this assurance of God's eternal presence, then, may we enter boldly into this season of Lent, this time of repentance, this time of transformation, this time of releasing what needs to die within us and among us in order to allow the spirit of God to rise again. We are not ever alone in our calling.

Not ever.

Not ever.

Not ever.

Amen.



Gusti Linnea Newquist


(additional lectionary texts for this week: 2 Kings 2:1-12; Psalm 50:1-6; 2 Corinthians 4:3-6)


Dear friends, it is with great joy and a twinge of sadness that I announce my departure from these pages. I will be leaving Boston at the end of the month in order to accept God’s call to serve as the next Co-Pastor of St. Mark’s Presbyterian Church in Tucson, Arizona (pending the election of the congregation, the approval of the presbytery, and my subsequent ordination). I have been grateful for this time to share my thoughts with you and even more grateful to those of you who have shared your comments with me.

My sister Harvard Divinity School alumna, Elizabeth Fels (MTS ’08) will pick up the blog beginning next week.

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 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)

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.