On Terror, Hope, and Resurrection: A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday of Easter

Last Sunday morning, when we gathered here for worship, none of us could have imagined the week that would unfold before us.  Do you remember what you were thinking about then, last Sunday?  School vacation week maybe, or watching the Boston Marathon?  Finishing up your taxes, possibly a Monday off from work, maybe a spring clean-up of your yard, or even a trip somewhere? Taxes were certainly on my mind—I knew I owed some, but wasn’t sure how much and dreaded finding out for certain—plus I had a lot of concern that my second box of completed thesis copies, which I copied and sent the day before, would make it to Toronto without incident, unlike the first box that got waylaid along the way. (It did make it, by the way, on Wednesday as scheduled).  I was also thinking about meetings to come and pastoral concerns and who knows what else.  

Well, the two homemade bombs at the Marathon changed all that—for most of us in a less profound way, mainly—but for others far more permanently, as they lost people they love and as some were injured unbelievably.  Since Monday afternoon we’ve all been on an uninvited and unwelcome roller-coaster of emotion: shock and fear, then a degree of resolve, inspiration and hope, and then more shock, more fear, more anxiety, and finally, Friday night, some sense of relief. 

My mother called me on Saturday morning, saying that I must feel good that it’s all over.  And I do.  Or at least I feel relief that the two suspects can’t hurt anyone else.  But of course, it’s really not all over.  There’s so much that we don’t know and don’t understand yet, if ever.  Unfortunately, it may be quite some time before our many questions are answered, the most important of which is simply: “Why”?  Why would anyone want to disrupt something as joyful and innocuous as the Boston Marathon?  Why would anyone want to indiscriminately hurt and kill people he or she didn’t even know?  Why here?  Why now?  Just, why?

And then when the photos and the identity of the suspects were revealed, we might have wondered, too, and we might wonder still, why young men like those we presume did these horrible acts—with their futures ahead of them—would want to throw their own lives away for seemingly no reason, along with those they hurt and killed.  A few moments of attention is all they got out of all of this, and even that wasn’t so glamorous.  Certainly they didn’t become heroes of anything or anyone.  The younger brother, especially, seems to have really had a lot to live for: a graduate of the Cambridge Rindge & Latin School, with a college scholarship, recently made a U.S. citizen, lots of friends, great sense of humor, even a nice disposition.  But the older brother, too, about whom the deeper concern is centered, had some good things in his life, too—extraordinary talent as a boxer, also talent as a musician, a family that loved him, even it seems, a wife and a two-year old baby.  Why throw all of that away for nothing good?

Surely these brothers didn’t think they could just return to their normal lives on Tuesday morning, without notice, as if nothing had happened.  And the presence of several bombs and explosive devices in their apartment would suggest that they didn’t really expect to, either.  Or at least one of them didn’t.  Maybe over time we’ll get answers, at least partial, to some of these questions that still hang over us.  Though, we’ll probably never really, totally, know.  And we’ll never totally be the same as we were on Monday morning, either. 

But in the meantime, we go on with our lives, because we have to.  Not the same.  Not untouched.  Not unchanged.  But still moving along, moving ahead.  I thought about that on Thursday morning—before the extraordinary dramatic events of Friday—when I was in downtown Boston following an early budget meeting at the cathedral.  Usually after these things I just head home on the subway—diocesan budget meetings are exhausting, especially when they start at 8 a.m.  But Thursday was an especially beautiful day and I didn’t really have to be anywhere in particular for a while.  So, I walked leisurely through the Boston Common and then down Charles Street on Beacon Hill—one of my favorite streets in the city.  It was so gorgeous that bright spring morning.  In fact, it seemed even more gorgeous than ever.  Flowers were starting to bloom, birds were chirping, I paid special attention to the unique majesty of Beacon Hill’s architecture.  It all was like a special gift from God.  Like I was in the most beautiful city in the world, or if not the world, then certainly the United States.  I’m not sure Boston is quite as beautiful as Stockholm, but it’s close.

In fact, I was so inspired by the day that I had decided to spend a bucket load of money at a Scandinavian antique shop I had stepped into the week before, to buy something I wanted but really didn’t need, to heck with my shrinking checking account, and thankful to be alive and able to enjoy life in this gorgeous city and determined not to let terrorism stop me from doing what I wanted.  As it happens, though, the antique shop was fortuitously closed.  So, instead of spending a small fortune that morning, I enjoyed a much less expensive coffee and almond croissant at the café next door—that seemed like an economical tradeoff.  And while I sat there, sipping my coffee, with a pretty tulip in a bid vase on the table, and looking out the window onto the bustle of Charles Street, I thought to myself, no bomb and no terrorist is strong enough to take any of that away from me, from us.  

Of course, that all was before the later drama of Thursday and Friday: President Obama’s visit and the inspiring Interfaith service, then the FBI’s release of the pictures of the suspects, followed just a few hours later by the murder of the MIT police officer, the carjacking, chase, horrible shootout in Watertown, and then the lockdown, manhunt, and finally capture.  I admit that some of that the joy, inspiration, and resolve I felt on Thursday morning on Charles Street was tempered again by a degree of anxiety and fear as I watched what was going on in Watertown, and I wasn’t even in the lockdown area.  Those of you up here in and around Wakefield were even further away from the nexus, but I imagine there was a good degree of anxiety here, too.  How could there not be?  I can’t begin to imagine what the people of Watertown must have been feeling through it all: hearing the gun fights, explosions, and opening their homes to SWAT Teams, to say nothing of the man who found the younger suspect in his boat.  The very thought of that discovery makes me absolutely ill. 

But even on Friday, as our doors were locked and we watched SWAT teams and armored trucks roar through city streets, streets we know and have visited, where friends and family live, we found ourselves struggling against fear and paralysis and struggling toward life.  I was heartened, in particular, by emails, text messages, phone calls, and Facebook posts from friends and family all over the country and the world, checking up on me, to see if I were okay.  I suspect that you had similar experiences of friends and family reaching out in love and concern.  I had wonderful, thoughtful messages from people I hadn’t heard from in a very long time.  Even in a time of stress, anxiety, and fear we find the hope of new life, abundant life, Easter life breaking through and breaking in.

Because, of course, that’s what Easter is all about.  It’s about hope that breaks into fear, joy that overcomes sadness, and life that is stronger and more powerful than death.  And that, surely, is what we have experienced here in Boston this week—hope, joy, and new life.  It doesn’t make the marks of the crucifixion go away—they never will totally go away—especially for those who lost limbs, or much worse, beloved family members and friends whose lives were torn away.  But even they, too, who were most affected by the bombings and the horrible aftermath will smile again—not because the suspects have been apprehended, that’s only a small part of it, as the families of the victims have said so eloquently and painfully—but because they have to, because we all have to, we all have to smile again, because God is always taking that which is dead and broken and transforming it into something new, something hopeful, something alive.  Because God is always taking us and transforming us.  Because God is always taking every day turning it into Easter.

You know, just as the people of Watertown, Boston, and Cambridge were in their locked homes this past Friday, on the very first Easter morning some 2,000 years ago, after Jesus’ crucifixion, the disciples, too, were locked away, afraid that the authorities would come after them.  They feared any knock on the door.  They feared that they would be next.  The world as they knew it seemed to be crumbling around them, turning to madness.  Of course they were even more isolated, since they didn’t have TV, Internet, Facebook or Twitter to keep them updated on what was happening outside.  But even so, into their fear, into their locked rooms and into their locked hearts, the resurrected Christ appeared.  He said to them “Peace be with you.” He said, “Do not doubt, but believe.”  And he said, “I am the Good Shepherd.  I love you.  I’ll be with you.  I’ll hold you.  I’ll care for you.  And I will raise you up.  I will give you eternal life, and you will never perish.  No one will snatch you from my hand.  And I will wipe every tear from your eyes." And as he breaks into our locked rooms, and into our locked hearts, and into our locked lives, he says the same to us: Peace, Love, Care, Life.  Thanks be to God. 

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

What transformed doubt into faith and fear into joy?: A sermon for Easter Day

It’s wonderful to see you all here on this beautiful spring morning, when we celebrate and receive the love and promise of God: a love that was longed for throughout human history, from the moment of creation, and is so powerful that even the cruelty of the cross could not defeat it.  It’s encouraging to see the church so full, to have everyone dressed in their Easter finest, to be surrounded by beautiful flowers and wonderful music. It helps, too, after this long winter season that spring finally seems to be on its way, as evidenced by the brave purple crocuses bursting into new life on the church grounds.  They started springing up here at Emmanuel earlier this week, anticipating our Easter celebrations by just a few days and reminding us that new life, resurrected life is coming, slowly but surely.

And, you know, it’s wonderful to remember that it’s not only Emmanuel, inside and outside, that’s so full of life and vibrancy this morning, but churches all over the world.  Because today, people in countless languages and cultures, from any number of denominational backgrounds, are gathering with those they care for most, in the communities they care for most, to celebrate the fulfillment of God’s dazzling promise of new life, with music and flowers, with Alleluias and Easter eggs, with jellybeans and chocolate bunnies, and the real Easter bunny, and all sorts of joyful exuberance.  By the way, our kids here this morning, and their parents, can look forward to some of that exuberance a little later with the Easter egg hunt outside, just don’t stomp on the pretty little crocuses.  They’ve worked hard and waited a long time to come to life.  It’s their Easter, too.

But, all of these good and hopeful things don’t mean that Easter, in its own way, isn’t sometimes a difficult celebration to grasp and understand, since at its center is a story, a miracle, that requires us to believe in something that science and nature tell us is impossible—that one who was dead is now alive.  In fact, one of the online commentaries I was reading this week in preparation for this morning was titled rather bluntly, “If it’s not hard to believe, you’re probably not paying attention.”  Because the story of Easter is hard to believe.

That’s why the resurrection is a matter for faith and not science.  No one can prove the resurrection by science or logic or any other means.  And no one can explain how exactly it happened.  Even the Bible doesn’t try to explain it.  If you notice, it tells us stories of the resurrection, of how people heard the angels’ message and encountered the risen Christ, often when they least expected to see him.  But the Bible never explains how it happened, or what exactly happened—the stone is already rolled away and the tomb empty by the time the women arrive early on Sunday morning.  In fact, the gospels present the resurrection as something that’s very hard to understand—maybe even the hardest thing in the world to understand.  And yet, it’s the centerpiece of our faith.

One of the aspects of the various gospel accounts of Easter that I really appreciate is the fact that in every case the people who come to the tomb are surprised, perplexed, and don’t know what to believe.  You’ll notice that when they encounter the empty tomb and hear the angels’ say that they should not seek the living among the dead, they never immediately shout out joyfully “Alleluia!” or “Praise the Lord” or “Christ is Risen,” as we have done so exuberantly this morning.  No, instead they’re afraid, perplexed, shaken to the core.  They don’t know what to believe.  In fact, they can’t believe. 

Our Bible translation this morning says that the disciples thought the women were engaging in “idle tales” when they came and shared the news of the empty tomb and the resurrection. That sounds a bit like they women were gossiping maybe, but the original Greek could also be translated to mean that they thought the women were delirious or crazy. I suspect that when it actually happened in history the men really did think the women were off their rockers, delirious, or nutty.  I kind of like that, actually.  Not that the men thought the women were nuts, that’s a too little stereotypical and sexist (a reminder that the gospel was written by a man), but I like that the gospel stories of that first Easter Day are so honest, so human.  They might even be the most honest parts of the Bible, filled with doubts and fears and anxieties of so many kinds.  So, if you’re having trouble with this resurrection business, with these seemingly fanciful, idle tales, take heart and know that those who knew Jesus in person felt the very same way.

So then, what changed?  What transformed doubt into faith and fear into joy? 

Well, we can’t know for certain.  But here’s what I think.  I think that when the disciples—both the 12 apostles that we know the most about, like Peter, James, John, Andrew, and the rest, and the others, including the women in today’s gospel, Mary Magdalene, Joanna, and the rest—when they joined Jesus in his ministry of teaching and healing and touching and loving, they were yearning for something, anything, they were willing to try something, anything, to give meaning and purpose to their lives.  Life was so hard for them, extraordinarily hard, and they felt so beaten down by it, that they were willing to break any and every rule and assumption and convention to live in a different way, in a deeper way, in a Jesus way, in a way that was connected to God and each other. 

And Jesus, in his life and ministry, helped them to make that connection.  In fact, they believed that he was that connection—the bridge—between God and human life.  That’s why they followed him. That’s why they left everything and risked everything and endured everything, to be with him, to learn from him, to love him and to be loved by him, to find something really real and truly true in their lives.  And then when Jesus was crucified they thought that the bridge between God and themselves was broken, torn down, destroyed.  And their resulting grief was so profound, so searing, so shattering, that they forgot what Jesus had told them about the new life, the abundant life, the resurrection life that was to come.  They forgot it, or maybe they remembered it put they it aside as a fanciful dream, nonsense, and focused instead on what they knew to be really real and truly true: pain, loss, and death.

But eventually, not right away, but eventually, and amazingly, as they heard the angels’ message of good news, as they saw the empty tomb, as they searched their hearts and souls, they came to the realization, the belief, the conviction, that the only really real thing in life, or at least the most real thing in life, must be something that most people find unreal, just as Jesus himself had taught, showed, and lived, each and every day.  They realized, as Jesus had taught, that life is stronger than death, that hope is more powerful than despair, and that God always, always conquers evil.  And through that belief, and remembering Jesus’ teaching and the witness of Jesus’ life, they were able to believe in the resurrection as well.  In fact, they had to believe in the resurrection.  They had no choice but to believe, and no choice but to trust, and no choice but to know, that Christ is risen.  He has to be, because there’s no other option.

And the same is true for us.  If we try to understand the resurrection or explain it or submit it to the proofs of science and logic we’ll always be left disappointed.  There is no explanation; there is no proof.  And I suspect there never will be.  But on the other hand, if we search our hearts and souls we might just discover that the Easter story, and the promise of resurrection are actually quite easy to believe, not because of science or logic, but simply because we trust in the promises of God.  Because like the disciples who followed Jesus some 2,000 years ago we, too, believe that life is stronger death, that hope is more powerful than despair, and that God always, always conquers evil. 

And if we believe those things, well, then, a belief in the resurrection, a belief in Easter, a belief in new and abundant life, is not so hard to come to and grasp to after all.  In fact, if we believe those things—that life is strong than death, that hope is more powerful than despair, and that God always conquers evil—then we must believe in the promise of resurrection as well—not only as a great, miraculous thing that happened to Jesus some 2,000 years ago, but as something that God does among us all, each and every day, as we live in God’s love and as we live in God’s hope. 

That resurrected life, that Easter life holds us and sustains us, when life is hard and when it’s pretty good, too. It gives us courage to lay aside the struggles of the past look to tomorrow with hope and confidence. And it reminds us, as does this wonderful spring morning, with its beautiful flowers bursting into life, that what we see is not all that there is.  And that promise, that reality, each year and always, every Easter, leads us to shout with great joy,

Alleluia! Christ is Risen.  Happy Easter.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

Focus on Faith: On Presidents, Immigration, & the American Dream

The following was written for the Focus on Faith column in the Wakefield Daily Item.  

Earlier this month, as I was visiting my family in Minneapolis for our Christmas celebrations, my mother and I took a side trip to St. Paul to undertake some research at the Minnesota Historical Society Library.  Included in its archives are old church records, immigration and citizenship records, birth and death records, 150 years of newspapers, and more.  Our mission was to find information on my great-grandparents who emigrated from Sweden around 1890. 

While we didn’t find everything we were hoping for, especially details on where in Sweden my great-grandmother was born, we did find church and state records on their marriage in a Swedish Episcopal Church in Minneapolis 1899 and their U.S. citizenship applications.  The latter documents, especially, are dramatic.  In them, my great-grandparents stated their desire to become naturalized United States citizens and therefore renounced their allegiance to the King of Sweden and Norway (as the two Scandinavian kingdoms were joined at that time). 

Seeing those documents, with my great-grandparents’ signatures, made me wonder if the decision to come to this new nation was difficult for them, if they ever thought of their previous homes with longing, or if they embraced with joy all of the challenges and the opportunities that life in America presented.  I suspect they lived with a combination of these varied emotions, but over time settled well into the new realities of life here, seeking to make a better life for themselves and their children than they knew in their far away homeland.

I was thinking about my immigrant great-grandparents earlier this week while I was watching President Obama’s inauguration.  I was thinking of how our nation has evolved since 1890 and how the American dream of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness, the promise of a land in which all people are created equal, that drew my ancestors across the ocean to this place is still burning in the hearts of American citizens and immigrants alike today.  I also thought of how hard-fought the realization of that dream and promise has been for many and how the struggle is on-going for others.  Whatever our political persuasions, the inauguration of President Obama and the vision he articulated for an America that includes all of God’s people who call this nation home is one that I believe should draw us together. 

In a particularly eloquent moment in his inaugural address the president reminded us of the struggle to realize opportunity and equality in our nation, invoking the memory of the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.  President Obama said: "Not out of mere charity, but because peace in our time requires the constant advance of those principles that our common creed describes; tolerance and opportunity, human dignity and justice.  We the people today declare that the most evident of truth that all of us are created equal--is the star that guides us still; just as it guided our forebears through Seneca Falls and Selma and Stonewall; just as it guided all those men and women, sung and unsung, who left footprints along this great mall, to hear a preacher say that we cannot walk alone; to hear a King proclaim that our individual freedom is inextricably bound to the freedom of every soul on Earth."

We may, and probably will, differ on the best way to create the unity and freedom that lies at the heart of the American dream, but goal of one people and one nation—made of different origins, faiths, genders, ages, sexual orientations, races, and even political persuasions—can,
I believe, help us transcend the disagreements that have been so fractious in recent decades and guide us to look toward an American future shining brightly with promise and hope.  As a Christian and priest, I would add that it is the future that God hopes for us and will enable us to bring to fulfillment, together, if we rely upon him for help.       

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell