This gem of a passage, tucked into Paul’s letter to the Galatians, offers helpful and encouraging words on this holiday weekend as we celebrate Independence Day and all that is good and true in our nation. Often, on the Sunday closest to the Fourth of July, I preach about the American Revolution and, in particular, how the Episcopal Church came to be—born or forged, as we were, in the crucible of that war. We are tied to England in our theology and rich traditions, especially the Book of Common Prayer, but we are also uniquely American. So much so, in fact, that our British cousins have difficulty understanding us. They don’t understand, for example, how it is that we elect our bishops. Bishops in England are selected by a commission, and ultimately appointed by the Queen herself, a direct chain from God, since they believe that kings and queens are divinely appointed and anointed—God’s chosen representatives on the throne. We prefer a more democratic approach. Though, each has its limitations. Democracy can be just as problematic as monarchy. The British are contending with the complexity of democracy just now in the aftermath of the European Union vote.
I’ve also sometimes talked about how
decimated the Episcopalians were in New England during and after the war. Most
of the Anglicans here were loyalists, so they fled to Canada or some went back
to England. In Massachusetts there were only two Anglican priests left in the
whole state at the conclusion of the war. Probably not too many parishioners,
either. This was Puritan, Congregationalist territory and the Episcopal Church
was suspect as the religion of the king. Maybe that’s why Emmanuel is such a
small church while the Congregational church in town in so large. Perhaps it
reflects our colonial heritage.
I’ve also talked about how, despite that
bleak New England history, in the Middle and Southern states things were
different and the Episcopalians often still called the shots. People you’ve
probably heard of, like George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Benjamin Franklin,
Alexander Hamilton, James Madison and even Betsy Ross were Episcopalian, at
least some of the time. Albeit with eclectic understandings and approaches to
religious faith.
George Washington, for example, was a
vestryman, but he never received communion in his adulthood. Martha always did,
though, perhaps on behalf of the whole family. Ben Franklin rewrote the Book
of Common Prayer to bring it closer to his own unusual faith (See here). Betsy Ross
was a refugee from Quakerism, expelled when she married an Anglican. And Thomas
Jefferson, well, he rewrote the whole New Testament, taking out the miracle
stories because he didn’t believe in them. When Jefferson ran for president New
England Congregationalists warned that if elected, he would confiscate all
Bibles and convert churches into temples of prostitution.
Like a number of people today, many of our
colonial forebears preferred a more enlightened or scientific approach to the
faith. You might also say that it was a somewhat more boring approach to
faith—since everything one believed had to be subject to easy or scientific or
verifiable explanation, with little room or justification for mystery. This was
so much true that in the earliest proposed version of the Book of Common
Prayer for the United States, they had wanted to omit the Nicene Creed from
the Communion Service, because it was too hard for people to believe in it, and
they condensed the psalms down to just a few. Ultimately, that proposed Prayer
Book failed and the church officially adopted a more traditional faith, but
with room for all sorts of questions and different interpretations. In the
process, they embraced as much, if not more, diversity of belief as we have
among us today.
Diversity of belief is not only at the
heart of the Episcopal Church. It is also at the heart of American society. In
fact, it is what we celebrate, really, on Independence Day. We celebrate the
freedom to worship God in whatever way makes sense to us, as communities and as
individuals—whether that’s with candles, chanting, and incense; with praise
bands and hands uplifted in prayer; in Jewish synagogues praying and chanting
in ancient Hebrew, thousands of years old; or even kneeling on carpets in a
mosque. Central to who we are as Americans is the freedom, the liberty, to
practice our faith and to speak to God and listen for God in the language of
our hearts. Our responsibility, as Americans, and especially as Americans of
faith, is to protect and preserve that freedom, that liberty, for others, and
ultimately for ourselves. Yesterday we learned of the death of Holocaust
survivor and Nobel Peace Prize winner Elie Wiesel. His life, his story, is the
most profound and powerful reminder and witness to how important freedom of
religion is for all of us, whatever our faith tradition, and how we have to
defend it on behalf of each other.
Related to that idea, I think, is the
belief, the value, that people don’t have to jettison their rich cultural
backgrounds when they make their home here. Of course it’s important to try to
live within the rules and structures of society—to follow the laws and such.
But there’s nothing wrong, and probably there’s much right, with being proud of
who you are, and where your family came from, and the traditions they brought
with them—whether that’s pasta and tomato sauce, haggis and bagpipes, bagels and lox, or Lutefisk and St. Lucia. As you know, I largely identify with my
Scandinavian heritage—Swedish and Finnish, that’s half of me. But I also have
German and Irish and English heritage. Each is interesting, and each tells a
story.
I had always thought that my ancestors, to
a person, arrived in the United States during the waves of 19th
century immigration. However, in doing research on Ancestry.com I discovered
recently that my Cadwell heritage goes back to the 1600s here in New England,
when the first Cadwell—Thomas—emigrated from Braintree, England and settled in
Hartford, CT. In fact, he married the daughter of one of the founders of Hartford.
His great grandson, John Cadwell, fought in the American Revolution for the
patriots. So I could apply to be a son of the American Revolution if I wanted.
I also discovered that on my mom’s side,
there was a German immigrant named George Kentner—something like my 5th
great-grandfather, who came to the American colonies as an indentured servant
in 1764. Eventually he earned his freedom and began life as a farmer in
Pennsylvania. When the Revolution broke out, he sided with England and fought
for the King. Ironically, he was captured and jailed in Hartford, CT—who knows,
maybe he crossed paths with John Cadwell there. Great-grandpa George won his
freedom by lying and saying that he would support the American cause. But he
didn’t. He fled to Canada to regroup with the Loyalist soldiers called the Butler's Rangers. After the war,
he and other German immigrants settled in a rural area of Ontario. They named
their town Matilda, after a daughter of King George III. She later became the
Queen of Wurttemburg in Germany. Eventually, a few generations later, after
things calmed down his family filtered back down into New York and west to
Minnesota and finally out to Oregon, where my grandmother was born. Thus, my
family tree includes patriots and loyalists alike, as well as later arrivals from
Sweden, Finland, and Ireland. I wouldn’t be who I am without that rich mix of
backgrounds. And you wouldn’t be who you are without yours—loyalists, patriots,
and later arrivals from Germany, Ireland, China, India, Italy, Mexico, and
Armenia, to say nothing of the Native Americans who were already here and those
who arrived in chains against their will.
That diverse combination of heritages and
races, stories, beliefs and values is all part of the American fabric. And what
a strong and durable fabric it is, too. The whole world is present here—every
race, every religion, every background. We have Democrats and we have
Republicans. We have socialists and libertarians, too. There are big sprawling
farms in the Midwest—as in my home state of Minnesota—and there are massive
cities teeming people speaking multiple languages and making a veritable
smörgåsbord of ethnic foods (“smörgåsbord” —that’s a Swedish word, by the way,
it literally means “sandwich table”—but now it’s part of our American English
vocabulary as well). This country is so different, and I would say so much
better, than anything our colonial ancestors could possibly have imagined when
they declared their freedom and independence in 1776. We might add that England
and Canada are a lot better, too.
Of course, it has not come to be without
considerable struggle, pain, loss, and war along the way. We have not and we do
not always live up to our full potential as a nation, as a people. Americans
have sometimes kept other Americans in bondage—physical, emotional, and
spiritual bondage. We have too often denied each other’s humanity and dignity,
despite the fact that we declared our independence with words that have echoed
through the centuries: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are
created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable
Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” We
have not and we still do not always live up to these ideals. In fact the author
of these extraordinary words didn’t live up to them himself, keeping his fellow
human beings in slavery.
And yet, that transcendent vision, idea,
and hope, first set to parchment by Thomas Jefferson so long ago, still calls
to us today. In particular, it calls us embrace what it truly means to be
American—which ultimately doesn’t have much to do with flying the flag or
colorful bombs bursting in air, though there’s certainly nothing wrong with
such acts of patriotism. Instead, it has everything to do with how we treat one
another, with how we uphold one another, and with how we welcome, respect, and
honor one another—not despite our differences, but because of them. Because
these differences make us who we are—as a people, as God’s holy people—in this
place, at this time. What an awesome calling it is. What a weighty
responsibility it is. But also, what an example we can share and leave—not only
for our fellow Americans, but for all people everywhere, longing for life,
longing for liberty, and longing for the ability to pursue happiness, in
freedom and in hope.
Let’s hear again those words from St. Paul:
“So let us not grow weary in doing what is right, for we will reap at
harvest-time, if we do not give up. So then, whenever we have an opportunity,
let us work for the good of all, and especially for those of the family of
faith.”
That’s our charge, today and every day— do
what is right, and work for the good of all—as Episcopalians, as Americans, and
most especially and most importantly, as the people of God.
So let us pray:
O God, you made us in your own image and
redeemed us through Jesus your Son: Look with compassion on the whole human
family; take away the arrogance and hatred which infect our hearts; break down
the walls that separate us; unite us in bonds of love; and work through our
struggle and confusion to accomplish your purposes on earth; that, in your good
time, all nations and races may serve you in harmony around your heavenly
throne; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD
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