Remarks at the Solidary Shabbat, Temple Emmanuel of Wakefield, November 2, 2018

Solidarity Shabbat

Temple Emmanuel of Wakefield

November 2, 2018

Dear friends in faith and community,

It is an honor and a privilege to be with you here on this special, sacred, holy evening, as we remember, pray, and support one another in our grief and shock, and also in our love and resolve.

That so many of us are here from our diverse backgrounds, religious perspectives, and political affiliations proves, I believe, that what unites us—our common faith in the God who created and loves each one of us, our respect and even love for the wondrous diversity in our midst, and our hope for a future less divided—are bright lights shining in a world and nation that some days seem very dark indeed. The world, the nation, and Wakefield itself need this light, the light that God shines on the world through us, together.

A week ago many of us here tonight gathered at the other Emmanuel in town—my own church—to support each other following the devastating loss of the First Baptist Church building. As horrific as the fire was—and it was horrific, standing there with Pastors Norman Bendroth and Glenn Mortimer watching helplessly as the fire consumed the building, and as much as its loss leaves a massive crater in the center of Wakefield—we can be relieved that no one was seriously injured, thanks to our police and firefighters. The fire was contained to just the church building.

Our brothers and sisters at the Tree of Life synagogue in Pittsburgh can’t say the same. Their loss took beloved family and friends—who were fun and funny, passionate and faithful, lovers of God and lovers of God’s people. These beautiful, unique, wonderful people can never be replaced, and neither should they be forgotten.

As it happens, in Christian churches today, November 2, is traditionally observed as the Feast of All Souls, when we remember and pray for those who have died and now live in the fullness of God’s embrace. The eleven faithful Jewish martyrs killed on Saturday are surely among them—living at the center of God’s heart. And there, from God’s heart, they are urging us to be people of faith and love for each other. I know that because that’s how they lived.

The brothers, Cecil and David Rosenthal, were fixtures at the Tree of Life Synagogue. They usually sat at the back and welcomed visitors. They were like ambassadors, friends said. Dr. Jerry Rabinowitz was a well-respected neighborhood family physician who, in the 1980s, was unafraid to treat gay men who had contracted HIV. When others rejected them, including their own families, Dr. Rabinowitz cared for them and showed love and compassion. One former patient said that Dr. Rabinowitz was known to hold patients hands—without gloves—and embrace them when they left his office, providing human touch to people who were often isolated and alone.

Melvin Wax loved his grandson, his religion, and the Pittsburgh Pirates. He was always full of jokes. He was 87 and regularly the first to arrive for Friday evening and Saturday morning Sabbath services. Friends kidded him that he should have been a rabbi. Rose Malinger was 97, the oldest of those killed, and she loved her family above all else. She was the epitome of the caring grandmother, even at 97 preparing family feasts for the High Holy Days.

That’s just five stories out of eleven. Together, from the other side of eternity, they teach us how to live.

In my sermon on Sunday, preached following the fire at First Baptist Church and the day after the Tree of Life shooting, I said that God doesn’t give us buildings—however majestic they may be. They are the work of our hands and our imaginations. But God does give us each other, friends, family, neighbors, of different races and colors, traditions and backgrounds—Jewish, Christian, Muslim, Buddhist, gay and straight, Democrats and Republicans. God gives us each other to love, to heal, to care for. God gives us each other to hold, to dry each other’s tears, and to make us whole again. We can be that for each other. We need to be that for each other. Right here in this town. This is our time.

May God bless you and us all as we love one another.

Shabbat Shalom. May their memory be a blessing. 

The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD
Chair, Wakefield Interfaith Clergy Association
Rector, Emmanuel Episcopal Church of Wakefield

Finding Faith, Finding God: A Sermon Following a Fire and a Mass Shooting

If you were here several week ago, you may remember that I preached on the Book of Job, and how God tests Job’s faithfulness. In the book, Job suffers all sorts of afflictions as God waits to see if Job maintains his faith or if instead he curses God. Most of those around Job—his wife and friends—assume that he must have committed some dreadful sin to deserve all that comes his way—deaths of his children, sores all over his body, loss of his wealth and possessions. Through it all, though, Job refuses to curse God, while also refusing to confess to sins he did not commit. By the end of book, which we heard in this morning’s first reading, we discover that God is so impressed with Job that everything he lost is restored and then some—even new and improved children to replace those killed. Ultimately, Job lives happily ever after, for another 140 years.

People of faith study the Book of Job to try to make sense of why tragedy happens, especially loss, illness, and death. Is it punishment for something we may have done, or perhaps part of God’s mysterious plan? Or is it maybe just the random way of the world? To me, Job doesn’t give very satisfactory answers. Because I don’t believe that God sends afflictions and illnesses and the deaths of loved ones our way to test our faithfulness. I guess that’s one way of looking on the world. But it isn’t mine. It just does not sound much like the actions and practices of a God of love.

I think you would agree that the past week has been surreal. When we gathered for worship a week ago, we never would have thought or imagined that the landscape of our town and community would be changed so dramatically in just a matter of hours, by a strike of lightning. That lightning is something that some, like the characters in the Book of Job, might see as an act of God, as part of God’s plan, or perhaps a way to test our faithfulness. But I just can’t believe that. Tuesday afternoon I walked past the Baptist Church twice—to and from a meeting with an alumni officer from my college in Minnesota. As I walked past the large and imposing church I never would have thought that I would be back there again, less than two hours later, seeing it engulfed in flames.

There have been dramatic and cataclysmic church fires in Wakefield before—previous incarnations of the Baptist church burned, twice, in ancient history. And then, most recently at St. Joseph’s Catholic Church in 1977. But I had never seen one. As I drove from our parish dinner in Lynnfield toward Wakefield center I saw that the sky was glowing red. And once I reached the town Common, I saw embers jumping in the sky and descending on us. Eventually, the crowd was moved further away in fear that the spire might topple to the ground. Pastor Glenn Mortimer of the Methodist Church and I stood there together, watching in helpless disbelief. Eventually I was able to found the cell number of the Baptist church’s minister and he joined us there, a trio of clergy watching as the roof caved in, as the windows glowed from inside and then shattered, as the flames engulfed this building that for 150 years had been the site of baptisms, weddings, and funerals; of prayers prayed and hymns sung; of meals shared, and education offered to the town’s youngest children.

To me, it looked and felt like the apocalypse. And, of course, I couldn’t help but think that the same fate could have just as easily befallen Emmanuel instead—if the lighting had struck in a different direction. Through it all, for me, the hope that night was the community gathered. The community that gathered to support each other; the community that prayed together. The community of people who held each other in our fear, sadness, and in our disbelief. God doesn’t give us majestic buildings, we create those ourselves. But God does give us each other. God gives us friends, and neighbors, and even sometimes strangers, who hold us, who dry our tears, and help us to see a new day.

The interfaith service we held here at Emmanuel Church on Thursday night was just the start of that important work. It certainly didn’t make it all better for our friends and neighbors who lost so much, in just a matter of hours. But hopefully it helped them, and us all, to feel, to believe, and to know that we do not walk through this life alone. Even in the midst of horrific loss, God sends us friends and neighbors to dry our tears and help us to see the light of new day.

The chief miracle of Tuesday night, I believe, was accomplished by brave firefighters and police, who ensured that the fire was contained to just the church and no one was seriously hurt. In fact, so contained was the fire that even the ornamental trees surrounding the church are still standing, which I marveled at when I walked past the rubble on Friday afternoon. On that same walk, I passed our Canterbury playground, full of kids playing exuberantly in the afternoon sunshine, glowing with the beautiful autumn leaves. That walk and the sound of the kids playing helped me to put everything in perspective. Even in the midst of sadness, we find life and love and joy.   

Thus, in every real way our local tragedy, dramatic and lasting as it is—leaving a physical hole in the center of town—pales in comparison to the loss experienced yesterday at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh, where 11 people were murdered. As we heard in the news, the gunman stormed in during the morning Sabbath observance, at which they were holding a dedication ceremony for a new baby—much like our own baptisms—and shouted that he wanted to “kill all Jews.”

Afterward, the head of the FBI’s Pittsburgh Field Office said, “This is the most horrific crime scene I’ve seen in 22 years … Members of the Tree of Life synagogue conducting a peaceful service in their place of worship were brutally murdered by a gunman targeting them simply because of their faith.” The Anti-Defamation League said that it was “likely the deadliest attack on the Jewish community in the history of the United States.” 

The gunman carried an assault-style rifle and three handguns. All legal so far as we know. On some social media site, he said that Jews are children of Satan, and seemed particularly concerned that the Hebrew Immigrant Aid Society was holding Sabbath services and helping to settle refugees in the United States, many in the Pittsburgh area. Just prior to the attack he wrote online: “HIAS likes to bring invaders in that kill our people. I can’t sit by and watch my people get slaughtered. Screw your optics, I’m going in.” Minutes later, 11 faithful people—gathered to pray, sing, hear God’s word, and give thanks for a new life—were dead.

We could see this as the action of one extremist maniac. And it was. But I can’t help but reflect on the fact that in my 10 years at Emmanuel Church we have witnessed the largest mass shooting in US history, not once, but twice—in 2016 at the gay nightclub in Orlando, when 50 people were killed; and then a year later, in 2017 when 59 people were killed at the Country Music Concert in Las Vegas. Also in 2017, 27 people were killed in the shooting at the Sutherland Springs Baptist Church in Texas. In 2015, 9 people were killed at a Bible study at the Mother Emanuel AME Church in Charleston, SC, by a white man who hated African Americans. We have seen the two of the largest school shootings in the past decade, too: at the Sandy Hook Elementary School in Connecticut, when 28 people were killed, and then again earlier this year at the Marjorie Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida, when 17 people—students and teachers alike—were gunned down. Of the 22 largest mass shootings in US history, 14 occurred in the last 10 years, and 5 in the last 2 years.

And lest we think that it couldn’t happen here, I’d note that on the news last night it was reported that there was yet more swastika graffiti found at the high school in Reading last week. In fact, in 2017 anti-Semitic incidents surged by 60% across the United States. New York had the most, followed by California, New Jersey, and then Massachusetts is fourth with 177 cases. The fifth highest was Florida with 98. Thus we know that hate lives and grows here, too.

These are all individual circumstances—one gunman hated Jews, another African Americans, another the LGBTQ community. Some had unknown motives. But together what they tell us is that something is wrong in our society. Something is wrong in our national life. Something is wrong in our very soul. We are broken people. Broken. Lost. Hurting. And we have to figure out how to make ourselves whole again. Rebuilding won’t be like in the Book of Job, when Job just magically got everything back and lived happily ever after. Instead, it will take work. Hard, human work. What’s more, it will take transformation. A transformation of human hearts.

Yesterday, addressing the carnage at the synagogue, the President reflected that the world is a violent place and that it would be better if places like the Tree of Life Synagogue had armed guards, who could take out would-be gunmen. He has said that about our schools, too. Maybe he’d even say it about us here at Emmanuel.

I remember when I lived in Toronto that many synagogues did have a police detail outside on Saturday mornings for their sabbath services. So, I suppose that’s an option. But what does that say about us as a people, if our churches, synagogues, and mosques, need to be guarded in that way? What does that say about who we are and what we value, if we have to live in a state of perpetual fear and lockdown? How will we share the good news of God’s promise of abundant life for all if those who come through our doors have to pass through metal detectors and armed guards?

Following the shooting yesterday, the Episcopal bishop of Pittsburgh wrote, “Human beings have moral agency. Someone chose to hate, and chose to kill. And now we are faced with a choice as well—to do nothing, or to reject this hatred in the strongest possible words and actions, and to refute in every way, in every forum, the philosophical foundations of anti-Semitism wherever they have gained a foothold in our churches and our society.”

Our own Massachusetts bishops added, “As people of faith, we also decry suggestions that the solution to such violence is further violence. For national leaders to suggest that the solution is for our houses of worship (and by extension our schools, our movie theaters, our shopping centers and our outdoor concert venues) to be armed fortresses is to abdicate responsibility for addressing the root causes of this scourge. We continue to insist that our grief and anger must issue not only in compassion and prayer, not only in increased vigilance and security, but also in continued advocacy for measures which will resist the religious and ethnic bigotry and easy access to lethal weapons which are among those root causes.”

I agree. Our faith can’t be in guns. Our faith has to be in God. And in each other. And you know what, I think we saw the answer on Tuesday night, even as the majestic First Baptist Church building became an inferno. And we saw it again on Thursday night, as we came together, right here in this church, in love and compassion, across our diverse faith traditions.

Among the most powerful moments for me on Thursday evening was Rabbi Greg Hersh reading from Isaiah: “Comfort, O Comfort my people, says your God. Speak tenderly to Jerusalem.” After the reading, he taught us a song in Hebrew, a song meant to heal broken hearts and lift downcast spirits. And so we sang together, in Hebrew. Think, for a second, about the profundity of that moment. Here was a Jewish Rabbi, offering words of healing to a largely Christian congregation, and to the Baptist congregation in particular, here in an Episcopal Church, urging us all to find hope and inspiration in our shared scripture and in our shared humanity. This is what we need. Not more guns. But more love. More understanding. More willingness to reach out beyond our people, to God’s people.

We were reminded on Tuesday evening that God does not give us buildings—even the grandest among them are impermanent. But God does give us each other. Family, friends, and neighbors—of different colors, traditions, and backgrounds—to love, to heal and care for. God gives us each other to hold. To dry our tears. And to make us whole again. So that all may experience full and abundant life. As Christians, as humans, this is our calling.

This is our time.

To God be the glory: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

"Eating the Children's Crumbs": A Sermon on the Syrophoenician Woman, the Notorious Ruth Bader Ginsburg, and God's Heavenly Banquet

It is interesting to me—maybe coincidental, maybe providential—that today, on this day of anniversary celebration this gospel passage, the story of the Syrophoenician woman and her encounter with Jesus, should present itself in the lectionary. I did not pick it, but perhaps it picked us. Despite how unsettling it can sound, it is probably my favorite story in the New Testament. It appears in slightly different forms in Mark, as we’ve just heard, and also in Matthew. So it comes up in the lectionary 2 out of every 3 years. I first preached on it on my third Sunday at Emmanuel, back in August of 2008, and probably 6 or 7 times since.

What more is there to say after 10 years? As it happens, I’ve had something of an exciting new insight after studying several commentaries this week. But before we get there, let’s lay the groundwork again—the context, the characters, what do they say and do, and why?

The first place we encounter this story of Jesus and his encounter with the Syrophoenician woman is here in the gospel of Mark—written about 66 to 70 AD, at the height of a Jewish/Gentile conflict that led to the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, and really a total leveling of Jerusalem as anyone knew it. Tensions were especially high, and there was a real belief among faithful people—Jewish and Christian alike—that the end of the world was coming. This end was both fearsome, but also hopeful, as it would usher in a new age under God’s Messiah. The Christians thought that Messiah was Jesus. The Jewish believers were not so sure. But they agreed that in the fulness of time the Roman Empire would not have the upper hand, despite its military and political strength in the present.

Second, we need to remember that Mark, the author of the gospel, was himself Gentile. We know because he doesn’t always have a strong grasp of Jewish religion, culture or customs, even as he believed with every fiber of his being that Jesus was the Son of God. For a long time, it was believed that Mark was written in Rome, and that he was a disciple of Peter or Paul. That’s still possible, but in studying how the gospel is written, his concerns, geography as he understands it, increasingly biblical scholars have come to believe that Mark may have been from Syria, writing for Gentile Christians there. This will be important later, so remember that. The church in Syria grew when Jews and others fled Jerusalem with the Roman siege and went there as refugees—a tragic irony given that so many are fleeing from Syria as refugees in today.

When we meet Jesus in this morning’s story, he seems to be looking for an escape. The most recent action event in the gospel, prior to this passage, is the miracle of the loaves and fish, when Jesus fed 5,000 people. That story is key, too. It happened in a Jewish area, and people are clamoring to see him. He has become a celebrity. He’s no longer just performing a miracle here and there, the occasional healing for someone who needs it, but instead, he’s started reaching people on a massive scale. Jesus has become a religious and cultural rock star.

And as with all rock stars, the crowds and groupies get to be too much. So, he tries to escape—to the region of Tyre, which today is Lebanon. This is an important detail, because it’s a Gentile region. In other words, he trying to go where no one would recognize him. Incognito. Hiding out in a safe house. Unfortunately, his fame has preceded him. Such was the force of his impact that even in a foreign land, filled with people of a different religious and cultural backgrounds, he can’t escape notice.

Enter, then, the Syrophoenician woman. We read that she is a Gentile. In other words, she’s not Jewish. She doesn’t share Jesus’ religious or cultural background. But she knows that he can heal. And, well, she’s desperate. Not for herself, but for her daughter—who is possessed by a demon or an unclean spirit. We don’t know what the medical diagnosis for such a thing might be today, but for her and her daughter it was something awful. Probably beyond awful. And when you are desperate for help, you don’t really care who the doctor is—race or religion or background or whatever—if he or she can heal.

Jesus, unfortunately, is none too interested. Maybe because he was tired and grumpy, on vacation. Or maybe because he really believed that his mission, and God’s mission, was first and foremost to the people of Israel. Whatever it was, his response to the woman’s desperate plea to heal her daughter is, “Let the children be fed first, for it is not fair to take the children’s food and throw it to the dogs.”

There is no getting around the reality that his response was not only a rejection, but also an insult. Jesus called the woman and her daughter dogs—not worthy of the children’s food, not worthy of healing, not worthy of much.

Jesus’ response here reflects, in a sharp and vivid way, the tensions that existed between Jews and Gentiles in the first century, and particularly as Gentiles in the Roman Empire destroyed everything that faithful Jews held sacred. I have long believed that this passage makes Jesus look so bad that it must have really happened. Who on earth would make it up? But, maybe, it reflects even more the tensions of the 30 to 40 years after Jesus lived, tensions that resulted in the destruction of Jerusalem, and maybe less Jesus’ own words. Ultimately, we can’t know for sure.

But whatever the case, the real drama happens next, when the Syrophoenician woman, desperate to grasp whatever healing she can for her daughter, argues back. Now, notice that she doesn’t get in a shouting match—she is respectful, but also smart. “Sir” she says, “even the dogs under the table eat the children’s crumbs.” She doesn’t question Jesus’ sense of his mission, she doesn’t say anything negative about his people, she just asks for some healing as well.

As we know, we are in the midst of a Supreme Court nomination battle. Perhaps capitalizing on that, CNN recently aired its documentary titled “RBG” about Justice Ruth Bader Ginsburg. I thought it was fantastic—powerful and deeply moving. And to me, here, the Syrophoenician woman reminds me a lot of the “Notorious RBG,” as she’s often called—not so much as a justice, but earlier, when she was a lawyer in the 1970s, arguing cases before the Supreme Court, slowly and steadily chipping away at sexist laws—with her carefully chosen words, cutting like a laser through centuries of sexism and bias. She won 5 out of her 6 cases. Her last case as a lawyer before the Court was in 1978. At the end of her oral argument, Justice William Rehnquist asked her, “You won't settle for putting Susan B. Anthony on the new dollar, then?” Ginsburg later said she considered responding, “We won't settle for tokens”, but instead opted not to answer. Her late friend and much more conservative Supreme Court colleague, Antonin Scalia, said of her: “she became the leading (and very successful) litigator on behalf of women's rights—the Thurgood Marshall of that cause, so to speak.”

And the Syrophoenician woman, is much the same. She’s not asking Jesus to overturn centuries of religious and cultural difference in one fell swoop. And she’s not allowing herself to be offended by the comment about dogs, but instead stays focused. Like a litigator, she’s arguing carefully, precisely, for what she needs. In her case, she was willing to accept tokens or crumbs, so long as they healed her daughter. And they do.

Jesus is so impressed, that he heals the girl from a distance. He doesn’t need to touch or even see her to include her in God’s act of healing, restoration, and salvation. It is the most remarkable story. And it is the only time, that I know of, that Jesus is bested in an argument. Not by a Pharisee. Not by someone who shares his cultural or religious background. Not even by a man. But by a woman. A woman whose daughter has a demon. A woman who is a Gentile. A woman who is desperate.

So, what do we make of that? Well, remember how I stressed the emerging consensus among scholars that Mark was written in Syria? That’s significant because the Syrophoenician woman was, herself, Syrian. She is from Syrian Phoenicia. Thus, it seems to me that she may really be the gospel’s embodiment of Mark and his own community. They know that they are not Jewish. They don’t share the same wonderful history and culture as Jesus and his disciples, going back to David and Moses and Abraham. But, Mark believes, with the Syrophoenician woman, that they are worthy of being included in the new community of faith and discipleship that is growing now. God, they believe, is breaking in, and making all things new.

You’ll remember, too, how I said that this story happens just after the feeding of the 5,000 with the five loaves and two fish. First that multitude was fed. Now, the woman and her daughter have been fed with their crumbs. And soon, in the next chapter, while Jesus is still in a Gentile area, he will perform another miracle, and feed 4,000 more people, this time with seven loaves and a few fish. Seven, notably, is a symbolic number for completeness. And so, the gospel shifts—exclusion falls away and all people, of multiple diverse backgrounds and languages are included as recipients of Christ’s miracles, and more importantly as guests in the heavenly banquet.

The pivotal figure in helping to bring that change is the woman from Syria, a Gentile, of Syrophoenician origin, whose daughter had a demon. The healing of her daughter—the crumbs they receive—are really the foretaste of the wider and even more diverse and inclusive banquet that is to come. She is a hero of the Gospel. She’s the notorious Ruth Bader Ginsberg of the Bible, if you will, helping to bring change, little by little, step by step, chipping away at bias, exclusion, and discrimination.

So, there you have it—one of the most interesting, challenging, perplexing, and also hopeful passages in the Bible. As I said earlier, I used to think that the Syrophoenician woman’s story was included in the gospels because it had to be—it was known to be true, even if it was a little embarrassing to Jesus. Now, I more think that it’s there even more as an encouragement to Mark’s community and also to us. It’s a reminder that even if you sometimes feel left out, or alone, or desperate, even if you feel excluded or discriminated against, whatever it may be, God’s love, God’s embrace, and God’s kingdom includes you, too. Sometimes you may feel that you only get or only deserve crumbs under the table. But you should know that eventually, and even soon, you will feast at God’s banquet table. Whoever you are. Whatever your background—age, race, gender, orientation. All are part of the rainbow dream of God. That’s the good news. In fact, that’s the great news. That’s the Gospel of Jesus Christ.  

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

Growing into the Full Stature of Christ: A Sermon on Ten Years of Ministry

In reflecting on the power, authority, and call given us in baptism St Paul writes: “The gifts he gave were that some would be apostles, some prophets, some evangelists, some pastors and teachers, to equip the saints for the work of ministry, for building up the body of Christ, until all of us come to the unity of the faith and of the knowledge of the Son of God, to maturity, to the measure of the full stature of Christ.”

There’s a lot packed into that one rather long sentence. St. Paul really liked long, run-on sentences. But I love that passage because it recognizes that we each have our own role to play in the unfolding work and life of God’s kingdom. It recognizes that we each have our own unique gifts—bestowed on us in baptism—for bringing God’s kingdom to life. And that our role is to enliven and strengthen the Body of Christ. So that we all grow, together, into the full stature of Christ.

Isn’t that something? Paul actually believes that together, as a community of baptized people, we have the ability, the power, and the call to grow into full stature of Christ. In other words, we—as a community of faith, transformed in baptism—are Christ for the world. That what Paul means when he says that Christ ascended to fill all things. Everything that Jesus was didn’t stop or disappear 2,000 years ago—but instead was passed on to those who believe in him and follow him. All the love, all the healing, all the teaching, the building of community—it was all passed on to us.

Now, of course, none of us is Jesus individually. Individually, we could never be who he was, who he is. I know I can’t be. I mess up way too often. I think about myself too much. And so far, I haven’t figured out how to turn water into wine or feed 5000 people with five loaves of bread and two fish. But together, as a body, as his body, we are Jesus’ on-going life.

It’s an awesome call, responsibility, and gift—one that I don’t think we appreciate or understand often or fully enough. But in fact, that’s what Paul and the whole of the New Testament is trying to convey. They are trying to get us to believe that we are who God has empowered us to be, in baptism, and nourished by the sacrament of Holy Communion— the bread of life that is Christ himself.  

If you are on our email list, or perhaps on Facebook, you will have seen my mention of the fact that August 1 marked my tenth anniversary as Rector of Emmanuel Episcopal Church. Ten years. It’s hard to believe it’s been that long. I was just 35 when I started—ordained for 4 years. I had more of a Canadian accent then. I was definitely thinner. And if the photos we have of that time are any indication--such as the one in the parish hall--I had a lot less unauthorized gray hair then. But I don’t totally blame it on you all. Not totally.

But you know, I wasn’t the only one who looked a little different. So did the church. Back then, in August of 2008, the exterior of the church and rectory sported a lot of peeling paint. And the inside, well, the walls were all white—or mostly white. They had last painted been in 1980 when Olga Packard was Senior Warden. I think it was done as part of the 100^th anniversary celebration. There was a very large hole in the ceiling—with paint and plaster that regularly fluttered down, like the Holy Spirit, so that the altar guild had to vacuum each Sunday before services. Of course, we had the old lights—examples of which you can still see in the Main Street Narthex. And most notably, there were choir stalls where the altar is now, with a wall of wood in the front separating the choir and chancel from the congregation. The change in chancel and altar arrangement was not uncontroversial. As many of you will recall, it’s something the congregation studied at various points going back to the 1990s when the Rev. Steve Ayres was rector.

In fact, our beloved late sexton Gus Surette once told me a story about the altar set up. He said that one week in the 1990s Steve Ayres asked him to help move the choir stalls out so that the space would be open and an altar could be set up, in much the way it is now. Gus warned him that it wouldn’t go well, but Steve persisted. The next Monday, after church that weekend, he told Gus he’d better put it all back.

15 years later, we were more ready, after study, consultation, and trial. We were helped, especially, by the vocal support of beloved parishioners who had devoted their lives to the ministry and well-being of this parish—Bill Hausrath and Cindy Cook. Cindy, unfortunately, didn’t have the opportunity to see the final product. She died several months before the project started. But she requested that any donations in her memory go toward the chancel renovation fund. I think Cindy’s support and vision, more than anything, led us to make this significant and, I think, beautiful adaptation. So when you see it, you should think of her.

And in a way, that’s really appropriate. Over the last couple weeks, I’ve visited the parish archives in search of some details on our endowment funds. To do so I had to read a lot of old vestry minutes. And in them, from the 1970s, I found the notation for the time that Cindy was first licensed to serve as a Eucharistic Minister and Lay Reader. It happened around the time that women were first being ordained in the Episcopal Church—which I spoke about in my sermon last week. I don’t think Emmanuel was quite ready for women priests, yet. But the Rev. John Thorp and others saw the wisdom in expanding the liturgical and sacramental ministries of the parish beyond men.

And so, they chose Cindy Cook—the first woman authorized to administer the chalice and lead Morning Prayer in this parish. I don’t know that she thought of herself as a trail blazer—Wallie could tell us for sure—but she was, in her own dedicated kind of way. Among the greatest honors of these last years was the opportunity to share in ministry with Cindy—at the altar, in homes and nursing homes, and then, finally, in her own hospital room on her last days. Being there with Wallie and Cindy and their daughter Debbie on Cindy’s last day is a memory and experience that I will hold and cherish always.

Indeed, being invited to share in those holiest of moments at the end of life has been an experience beyond words really—with Lorraine Topple and Dorothy Dale, Midge Roberts and Barbara Smith, Cindy Cook and Bill Hausrath, Bob Elkins and Joyce Elliott, Bob Bent and Olga Packard. So many saints. So many giants of this parish. I sincerely wish each of them were still here with us in the usual, physical way. But I also wouldn’t trade those sacred, holy moments of being with them as God drew near for anything. And even now, they are models to us—each in a different and unique way--for how to live and how to love, how to serve and truly be the Body of Christ as Paul calls us to be. They show us through the example of their lives how we can grow into the full stature of Christ.

In keeping with this morning’s epistle, I should offer a reflection or two about ministry at earlier stages of life, too, in baptism. Parishioners have sometimes said that I come into my own during baptisms. And it’s kind of true. In part because I just love holding all those babies. I don’t have kids of my own, so it’s my chance to get some baby time (without all the responsibility of parenthood, of course). But it’s also the opportunity to celebrate the fullness of God’s love and blessing—in as exuberant a way as we Episcopalians can manage. Every now and then I’ll look out on a Sunday morning and think—I baptized Tess and Nicholas, Nic and Gianna, Henry, Abel and Ivy. And also Wendy and Hugo, and David and Morgan Peterson.

I didn’t baptize Sean and Steve DiGiambattista—Bishop Shaw did those baptisms in 2013, on his last visit to Emmanuel. That was the most remarkable day—as the bishop sat on the floor with the kids by the font, as he invited them to bless the water with him (something I’ve done ever since), and then shared with us his reflections on his life of faith as he lived with brain cancer. I learned so much about the power of prayer and faith that day. Faith and prayer didn’t cure Bishop Shaw’s cancer—he died about 10 months after his visit with us. But they enabled him to face each new day with courage and with hope. We were so blessed by him that November day. I was so blessed to share that day with him. He, too, by his words and witness and example helped us to grow into full stature of Christ.

Totally different, but equally powerful, was the Easter Vigil in 2016, when our new Bishop Alan Gates joined us. It was just his second Easter in our diocese and he chose to spend it with us—I am still astounded by that, when he could have been at Trinity Church in Copley Square, Church of the Advent, or Emmanuel Church on Newbury Street. On Facebook Michael Jewer wrote that that service was one of the most powerful he had ever experienced anywhere. What I loved about it, especially, were the several parishioners who chose that occasion to be confirmed and received—empowering and emboldening them for lives of ministry.

Normally confirmations are focused on youth (which is always fantastic) and usually held in the front of a church, but these were in the back, at the font, by candlelight—connecting the confirmations and receptions to the power and call of baptism. It was beyond sacred and holy as we all as a community, as the Body of Christ, prayed for God’s spirit to stir up and burn in the hearts of parishioners who are already leaders in the church--Eric and Audra, Sue and Wendy, Lisa and Melanie. They demonstrated for us that whatever our stage in life we can deepen and grow in our relationship with God, we can reach the full stature of Christ.

There’s so much more than could and should be said—reflections on fantastic adult education Bible studies and amazing parties. Reformation 500 with the Mad Bavarians and the choir hosted Oktoberfest was just beyond fabulous. So many parishioners came out and supported my mom and Jerry when they were married here in 2011, giving them a proper wedding celebration despite their semi-elopement. Somehow in there I completed my PhD dissertation—that was five years ago already. You’ve endured countless Star Wars, Minnesota and Sweden references in sermons. To say nothing of lutefisk. And even in the last few months you have provided me with a beautiful new home.

These have been extraordinary years. A decade of life and love. More loss than seems fair sometimes. And so much joy. So much discipleship. So much God—here with us and in us, guiding us and helping us to be his Body, his life, in the world. And through it all, God has been helping us to do just as St Paul says: to grow into the measure of the full stature of Christ. That’s our call and our goal: yesterday, today, and all the days to come. And so, as we have said for the last decade: Come and grow with us.

To God be the glory: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

On David and Bathsheba, #MeToo, and the Ordination of Women: A Sermon for the Tenth Sunday after Pentecost

I had expected this morning to be preaching on the miracle of the feeding of the five thousand. It is one of the greatest hits of our Christian tradition. But then I reviewed the lessons and discovered that we would be hearing the story of David, Bathsheba, and Uriah the Hittite this morning. From one perspective, it is one of the “juiciest” stories in the Bible. From another, it is one of the most appalling. Either way, it is the biblical equivalent of a soap opera, filled with lust, deception, abuse of power. It demands our attention and reflection.

Like many people in power, David is a complex figure. The Bible describes him as especially handsome. And he must have been, because it almost never says that about anyone else. We have no idea what Adam looked like, or Abraham. It never describes the Virgin Mary or even Jesus. We do know that Esau was hairy. And that Joseph (the one with the Technicolor Dream Coat) was handsome. But David gets the full treatment: it says that he was ruddy, had beautiful eyes, and was handsome to behold. It’s interesting that sometimes in the Old Testament women are described as having beautiful eyes, but David is the only male so described. And while we don’t really know what is meant by saying he was ruddy, it likely means that he had a lighter or redder complexion than most of the people around him. Perhaps with red or auburn hair. So, he stood out—the Robert Redford or George Clooney or Brad Pitt of his biblical day.

On top of that, he was a successful warrior—killing the giant Goliath while he was a youth.  (Often, in art, David is depicted as being naked in the battle, no less, emphasizing his physical features). He played the lyre (like a harp), so he was artistic. According to long tradition he is the author of the psalms. And, he was anointed above all others as God’s chosen to be king over Israel and Judah. In other words, he is about as beautiful, strong, and alluring a person as the Bible can imagine—hence the famous Michelangelo sculpture—the epitome of youth, strength, and beauty. 

David is also deceptive, power hungry, lustful. When we meet him this morning, it is spring and he is supposed to be off fighting a war, like all good kings. Don’t you like that description? “In the spring of the year, the time when kings go out to battle.” It sounds like the start of a fairy tale. But David’s not in battle. He stays at home, lounging on his couch, while his men are off fighting for him. There’s a clue about his character. And bored one afternoon, he rises from his couch and decides to go for a walk across the roof of his palace, to see what he can see.

And what he sees is beautiful Bathsheba, the wife of one of his leading soldiers, off at battle. She’s bathing herself. Whether she wanted to be seen or not, we do not know. But despite learning that she is married to one of his trusted men, David decides that he just has to have her for himself. It’s not clear in the text whether Bathsheba a willing party or not. In any case, it wouldn’t have been easy or even possible for a woman in her circumstance—with her husband away in battle—to fight off or deny the king. And soon we learn that Bathsheba’s pregnant.

So now what, King David?

Well, David tries to get her husband Uriah home, with the hope that a quick, happy reunion of husband and wife will cover up the fact, and neither Uriah nor anyone else would be any the wiser. Only, Uriah refuses to return to his home, to enjoy the company of his wife, while his men are at battle. The contrast between Uriah’s sense of honor and duty and David’s couldn’t be any starker. The next day David gets Uriah drunk in the hope that his moral sense would be lowered, but with no success. Uriah will not be tempted.     

Feeling defeated, and demonstrating his true ruthlessness, David sends Uriah back to battle with a letter to his General Joab. In the letter, which Uriah carried himself, David ordered that Uriah be placed at the front of the worst fighting, and when the enemy armies advanced, Joab’s men were to retreat, leaving Uriah exposed and left for dead, a sitting duck. All because David saw Bathsheba and she was beautiful. All because David wanted what wasn’t his. All because David used his power and influence, over Bathsheba, over Uriah, over Joab and his armies, to cover up his adultery, lies, and abuse of power.

If were this a contemporary story it would fit in perfectly with the #metoo movement and the real life stories of sexual harassment and abuse. Sometimes, to make the story less appalling and, it must be said, to denigrate women Bathsheba has been portrayed as a vixen who lured David in—the 1950s blockbuster David and Bathsheba starring Gregory Peck and Susan Hayward is one example. Another, more recent, is a series of books by an Evangelical Christian author named Liz Curtis Higgs titled Bad Girls of the Bible. Bathsheba is not in the original, but she appears in the sequel Really Bad Girls of the Bible. In the author’s defense, she does note that there is debate about Bathsheba’s willingness or interest in submitting into David’s desires. But then she runs with the idea that Bathsheba never really said no and that somehow she was complicit.

And it’s true. We don’t read that she ever said no. But would it have mattered if she had? The power differential was about as wide as it could be—a woman whose husband was off at war on the one hand, and the king on the other. It is a story of sexual harassment and abuse, possibly rape, definitely abuse of power, and sin in the most explicit way possible—leading to adultery and even murder—all in the person of David, handsome, ruddy, and with beautiful eyes, whom God had anointed. It’s quite the fall from grace.

So what does this ancient story say to us today, beyond it being a juicy biblical soap opera? Well first, I think, it’s a reminder that it’s not only today’s politicians and celebrities who take advantage of women and then try to cover up their actions—leading to lost jobs, trials, special council investigations and even presidential impeachments. It’s been happening for thousands of years. This doesn’t make it okay, but points to the long struggle for human liberation and flourishing. We all have work to do, to ensure that abuse and victimization are eradicated.

Related, is the reminder that even the greatest of heroes are fallible, sometimes spectacularly so. And often access to power leads to ever greater transgressions. I think we can all imagine people we have thought of as heroes, only to learn later that they have feet of clay. The story of David and Bathsheba is a reminder that shouldn’t place our trust in them. We should place our trust in God. In fact, God warned the people that kings were a bad idea. Later in the biblical text we will learn how David was punished by God for his callous, self-centered actions. In fact, this event with Bathsheba and Uriah will mark and follow him all his days.  

Third, I think this biblical story reminds us that we need to listen to the real-life stories and experiences of women and girls, in particular. As the biblical text is written, Bathsheba has no agency. The story is not told from her perspective. This doesn’t mean that we can’t or shouldn’t imagine what she was thinking and feeling. In that way, she’s like women throughout history—too often subjected to the whims and desires of powerful men, or just ordinary men. Real people, with real hopes and dreams, real fears, real emotions, bodies, hearts and minds.

For the sake of our full, shared humanity, we need to hear the voices and know the experiences of women who have faced harassment, abuse, and discrimination. Hopefully, the #metoo movement of today will have a long-lasting effect on truly transforming hearts and minds. That so many have felt empowered to come forward and share their experiences of abuse is a sign, I hope, that a new day is dawning—one that Bathsheba could probably never have dreamed possible so long ago.

Coincidentally, today, July 29, marks the 44^th anniversary of the first ordinations of women to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church. Like the women speaking up today about their experiences of harassment, abuse, and discrimination, the first women ordained to the priesthood had to fight to be heard. They had to break the rules in order to break open the church. Those ordinations were controversial because the church had not approved ordaining women. In fact, it had been voted down twice—although, there was no church law explicitly forbidding either.

Deciding they had waited long enough, the women organized and convinced three retired bishops that time was right. And so, in the Church of the Advocate in Philadelphia, 11 women were ordained to the priesthood. 2,000 people were in the congregation. The Senior Warden of the parish was none other than Barbara Harris, who served as crucifer, carrying the cross in procession. She, of course, later was ordained herself and eventually elected bishop here in Massachusetts.

The preacher that day was Dr. Charles Willie of Harvard (and husband of Mary Sue Willie who served as organist and director of music here at Emmanuel for over a decade). In his sermon Dr. Willie said, “it is a Christian duty to disobey unjust laws… It was an unjust law of the state that demeaned the personhood of blacks by requiring them to move to the back of the bus, and it is an unjust law of the church which demeans women by denying them the opportunity to be professional priests.” The ordination, he said, must be celebrated “not as an event of arrogant disobedience but as a moment of tender loving defiance.” Following the ordinations, the House of Bishops held a crisis meeting and declared them so irregular as to be invalid. But a year later, four more women were ordained in Washington, DC.  And by 1976, the General Convention of the Episcopal Church changed the canons to explicitly authorize the ordination of women. Doubtless it would have taken years longer had it not been for the act of defiance in 1974.

I would note that three of those women ordained in Philadelphia were among my seminary professors at Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge: Suzanne Hiatt, Carter Heyward, and Alison Cheek. So their story and ministry is part of my story and ministry, too. And I draw strength and courage from them.

Bathsheba and Mary Magdalene, Mary and Martha of Bethany, the Syrophoenician Woman, the Hemorrhaging Woman, Mary the Mother of Jesus, the Philadelphia 11 priests, all call us to listen, to act, to tear down structures and behaviors that diminish and inhibit human flourishing. Now is the time, so that no more women or girls are forced to say, with Bathsheba, “me too”.

It seems appropriate on this day, in particular, to conclude with the prayer dedicated to the first ordinations of women to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church. You’ll notice that it could easily apply to any who speak up and speak out, bring God’s good news to life.

Let us pray:

O God, you poured your Spirit from on high to bless and summon these women, who heard the strength of your call: Equip, guide, and inspire us with wisdom, boldness, and faith to trust you in all circumstances, hear you preach new life to your Church, and stretch out our hands to serve you, as you created us and redeemed us in the name of Jesus Christ, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God everlasting. Amen.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD