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
