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

Reaching for God, Not Guns: A Wilderness Sermon for the First Sunday in Lent

In our gospel this morning we are invited to accompany Jesus, just after his baptism, as he is driven or forced or compelled—by the Spirit of God—into the wilderness, where he is surrounded by wild beasts, faces temptation, meets Satan, and receives the ministration of angels. Scripture tells us that he was there, struggling with Satan and doubtless with himself—for 40 days which, when you think about it, is a very long time to be left alone in the wilds of nature.  40 is a magic number in the Bible, recalling the 40 days and 40 nights of the flood during the time of Noah, the 40 days that Moses was on Mount Sinai alone in God’s presence, and the 40 years that Israel wandered in the wilderness.

I imagine that during his time in the wilderness Jesus felt and experienced the full range and scope of human emotion—fear, anger, despair, confusion, isolation, abandonment, but also love and comfort and strength. As presented to us in scripture it was, I think, a time of testing. Was he up to the task to which God was calling him? Did he have the strength necessary to take on all that would come his way?  All the loss, all the pain, all the illness, all the death—even his own?

Matthew and Luke go into greater detail about Jesus’ wilderness trials than Mark does here. In those other gospels we read about the various temptations Jesus faced—the lure of power and wealth, food to satisfy his hunger, the adulation of crowds, protection from harm. Jesus rejected these. He rejected easy answers. He rejected the promise of false security. He rejected anything that might have drawn him away from his own life in and with God, even in those moments, like here, when God must have seemed especially distant, remote, and far away.

This has seemed a lot like a week spent with Jesus in the wilderness. Yet another school shooting, indiscriminately and mercilessly killing 17 wonderful people—youth and adults alike—reminds us that as a nation, we are wandering in a deep and dark wilderness, confronted by hungry, howling wild beasts, and temptations of every kind. Where is God in this horror? Where are the angels, who bring comfort and hope? Where is the rainbow in the sky we heard about in our first reading this morning, offering the promise of new life after the dark and tempestuous storm?

I shared in my parish email on Friday that I didn’t hear about the shooting until I got home from a long day at here at church on Ash Wednesday. If I had known earlier, I likely would have preached a different Ash Wednesday sermon. Doubtless still focused on God’s love, but reflecting in a different and deeper way on the profound brokenness of human life, on such painful, horrific display this week. The whole thing is just beyond comprehension or understanding, or at least it should be.

Of the various tributes I have seen since Wednesday, I think the best was on the PBS Newshour on Friday evening. To close the show, Judy Woodruff shared photos and stories of each of the students gunned down on Wednesday: Jaime loved to dance, she said, and Nicholas was a swimmer and was looking forward to college. Aliana loved to serve, Judy said, finding ways to help people in need and volunteering after Hurricane Irma. Alex played the trombone, winning a state championship last year. His mom died when he was just 5. His brother, a fellow student, survived the shooting. Peter, aged 15, was in the Junior ROTC. His cousin said he would be friends with anyone. He didn’t care about popularity. Alyssa played soccer and was on the debate team, placing first in a debate tournament. Carmen, aged 16, was an active member of the youth group at St. Mary Magdalene Episcopal Church. Aaron Fies, an assistant coach and security monitor, had been a student at the same school years before. He looked out for students who got in trouble, struggled, or didn’t have fathers at home, offering them a positive role model. He died helping others find safety. These are just 7 stories out of 17.

17 lives ended for no reason. 17 sons, daughters, dads, students and teachers who will never come home again, never pick up another pencil, never read another book or swim another lap, never hug a friend, never again laugh or cry. Another mass shooting in a country that prides itself on being a nation of laws, a refuge of safety, a beacon of hope, freedom, and justice. 

How did we get here, into this wilderness? How do we get out?

Following the shooting, the Episcopal Diocese of Southeast Florida offered the following statement: “There are no words that can adequately give voice to the madness and the violence done to those gunned down, and to their families and friends so cruelly robbed of those they loved. There are no words to describe the pain of loss and grief, of shock and horror, of outrage and anger… Only the anguished cries that well up from the very depths of our being. There are no words to make sense of what makes no sense, and in the face of such senseless killing we are numbed and rendered speechless.”

The bishop of the diocese offered a brief further reflection, saying: “We bring our longings and convictions for a different future. What happened at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School is not the world as it ought to be, or as it needs to be, and we who follow Jesus accept the responsibility for being partners with God to bridge that gap between what is and what could and ought to be.”

“We who follow Jesus accept the responsibility for being partners with God to bridge that gap between what is and what could and ought to be.” I believe he’s right. I believe that it is precisely our call, as Jesus’ followers and disciples—to be partners with him, and partners with God, in bridging that gap—so that what could be and ought to be becomes what is. In real life. Not just in dreams. Not just in hopes. Not just in thoughts and prayers, however sincerely offered.

So for me, the question is what do we do? How do we act? How does God want us to act, to partner with Christ, with God, to transform the world?

I don’t have all the answers. Though I certainly have convictions about guns and safety, especially when it comes to semiautomatic, military style weapons—which have mass killing as their primary purpose. I don’t see how they have any place in civilized society. In 1963 the prototype for these weapons was presented to President John F. Kennedy, for military use, and he rejected them, not seeing the need. They were introduced in 1964—the year after Kennedy was assassinated, by a man with a rifle—for use in the Vietnam War.

The same kind of weapon was used in the Sandy Hook school shooting, and in the Pulse Night Club in Florida, and in the concert shooting in Las Vegas, and the church shooting in Texas last year. When a disturbed person wants to kill masses of people, whether in a nightclub, a concert, a school, or a church, it seems that this is the weapon of choice. That the military feels the need to use such weapons is bad enough. But there’s no reason for them to be in our homes and on our streets, purchased legally by 19-year-olds. If you can’t buy a beer but you can buy a weapon capable of killing so many in a matter of minutes, there is something wrong in our priorities, something wrong in our values, something wrong in our humanity.

And so, at some point, like Jesus, we will have to emerge from the wilderness in which we find ourselves. We will have to take on the tempting, seductive powers of death. We will have to partner with God and fight for life. We will have to fight for our very souls, and for the life of all of God’s people. We have to reject the temptation of thinking that someone else will do it, or that it couldn’t happen here, to us, to the people we love and care for. And instead understand that a part of us all dies when lives are so senselessly taken.

The present sad state of our life together as a nation does not have to be our story or our reality. We can reach for God, instead of guns. We can help each other be well. We can be people of hope and life, instead of death and despair. We can be. We should be. We need to be, if we want to be fully human, fully alive, fully free. And so, at some point, we will have to leave behind and finally reject the temptation of believing that we will find our strength and security through arms and war, instead of through the far more powerful gifts of healing and new life offered us in faith, in community, in Christ, in the life of God.

You know, Jesus used his time in the wilderness to overcome fear, to confront demons, even Satan himself, and to fight back temptations of many kinds. He used that time to emerge stronger, more faith-filled, more deeply grounded, centered, and rooted in God. He used that time to become even more the Son that God wanted and needed him to be. And I wonder if maybe, hopefully, we can use and utilize our time in the wilderness in which we find ourselves in much the same way—so that we, too, can emerge strong, faithful, committed, and full of hope, full of the life, full of the love and Spirit of God.

And so, like Jesus, we pray. We pray so that we can act. We pray so that we have strength. We pray to find hope. And we pray so that, like Jesus, we are filled with the life and power and Spirit of God. The life and power and Spirit that, through you, through us, will change the world.

May we find it so. May we make it so.

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

 © The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

They Lived Not Only in Ages Past: An All Saints Sermon

One was a soldier, and one was a priest, one was slain by a fierce wild beast…..

Today we celebrate one of the best days in our church year–the Feast of All Saints. Besides the really big days—Christmas and Easter— All Saints is one of my two favorites, along with Epiphany. It’s our annual opportunity to remember all those who have gone before us–the well-known saints like Mary the Virgin and Mary Magdalene; St. Francis and St George who slayed the dragon. We also recall those who aren’t saints in the strictest sense, but nonetheless were people of courage and conviction–people like Martin Luther and Martin Luther King. 

We remember as well those who are less famous–not so much remembered by the church at large, but who nonetheless had a deep and profound faith: our own loved ones, those who worked for the building up of the church, even right here, who helped this parish to grow and flourish. Every culture, age, and place raises up its own saints—people whose hearts are aflame with the light of God, and who by their words and actions are able to draw us, as well, closer to God’s radiant light.  

The church, typically, has come to see the saints as people whose lives are complete and have been received into God’s greater glory. But in the Bible, all Christians are considered saints–those who have died, and those living and sharing God’s love with the world. I like this expanded understanding–saints are not only the few who have successfully completed a lengthy canonization process, but really are the millions who have loved God and witnessed to God’s love for the world with their words and with their lives.

Given this expanded understanding, I wonder, can you think of any saints you have known personally? Are there people in your life, now or in the past, with a special ability to draw others into the heart of God? Who seem to put the needs of others before themselves? Or who stand up against oppression so that others can know the peace, hope, and healing that God intends for us all? Do you know anyone like that?  Do you know any saints?

For me, a few special people come to mind. Some have died, parishioners we have known and loved right here at Emmanuel, and some are still living. One such, for whom I give thanks, is the Rev. Jane Gould, the rector of St. Stephen’s Church in Lynn—but notably only through today, her last Sunday in the parish. Because very soon she’s moving on to St. Luke’s Church in Long Beach, California. I think Paul LaSpina remembers Jane from their days at Church of the Epiphany in Winchester. One infamous Jane in Winchester story has her as a young and very pregnant priest going into Labor at the altar on Easter Sunday morning. If I remember the story correctly, she made it through the service and to hospital before the baby came.

Yesterday, at our diocesan convention, we honored Jane for her tireless, visionary ministry in our diocese, and it only seems appropriate for me to honor her this morning, as well, because her impact on my own life and ministry has been nothing short of profound. The perfect reflection for an All Saints celebration.

I first met Jane just about 20 years ago, when I was in seminary and in search of a field education internship site. At the time, Jane was the Episcopal Chaplain at MIT, and that chaplaincy seemed especially interesting to me—it is a combined Lutheran-Episcopal ministry and at the time I was 25, so not far off in age from many of the students. I knew nothing about math or science, really, which ended up being fine. That time and place in ministry was absolutely life-changing for me, and Jane was a big part of that, along with the interesting, geeky, unusual students, whom I came to love. What I especially appreciated about Jane, besides her always fun-loving nature, was the respect she showed her students—whether the MIT students for whom she was their pastor, or me, her intern. Although I was just 25, without much experience, she treated me like a fellow minister and was enthusiastic about my ideas, which undoubtedly were half-baked some of the time. I can honestly say that the two years I was at MIT was the most fun I have ever had in ministry.

Most important, as I reflect back on it, was Jane’s philosophy that interns like me should have some ministry all their own, without a supervisor looming in the background. Mine was a Bible study. I lured students there with free pizza and soda, or pop, as I call it. It started out rather slowly. I think the first week only one or two students came. But over time, it grew to as many as 20 or more, each week. Can you imagine, 20 MIT students leaving their labs and math problems for pizza and Bible study on a Monday night? Jane let us use her office—students sat in chairs, on the sofa, on the floor. After studying the gospels of Mark or Luke, we moved on to the epistles, with a series called “Pizza, Paul, and Pop.” They were never too convinced by Paul, I am afraid. His arguments just weren’t logical enough for MIT students, but we had fun. Jane wasn’t there for it, unless I was sick or had to be away on occasion, but as a good mentor, she created the space for me to flourish.

It was while I was at MIT that I first applied to be accepted into the ordination process here in the Diocese of Massachusetts. I was turned down. The bishops and the Commission on Ministry didn’t really give a reason—I think mostly it was my age—but it was absolutely devastating. Jane was, for me, a tower of strength—consoling, encouraging, and prodding me along, helping me make the right choices for the future. She was close to our late Bishop Tom Shaw, and I have no doubt that she advocated behind the scenes, so that eventually I was accepted a few years later. When the time finally came for me to be ordained at the cathedral, Jane was one of my presenters, standing alongside me. A few years later, she visited Emmanuel on what was, I think, my third Sunday here—9 years ago—to show her support. What a gift.

Jane’s ministry at MIT was powerful and profound. She mentored divinity students like me. She coordinated a program called the Technology and Culture Forum, drawing together people from across the university and beyond to consider issues of ethics and science. She was a caring pastor to students in what must be the most difficult and competitive university in the world. She encouraged the Episcopal and Lutheran community there to participate in the Common Cathedral homeless ministry on the Boston Common one Sunday every month—sharing in worship, making sandwiches, being present and exposed to the realities of life on the streets.

Not long after I left MIT, Jane did, too—moving on to an even more challenging ministry in Lynn, where she has been for 17 years. St. Stephen’s is a unique place—it’s a grand old building, though not as grand as it once was. It houses the whole kingdom of God. On Sunday mornings they worship both in English and in Swahili. They are the home to refugees from the Sudan, and Spanish-speaking youth in their Kids in Community summer camp. Recently, they’ve begun a Kids in Community after school music program, and they opened their doors to a program called “Be You”—a youth group for gay, lesbian, bisexual, and transgender teens. Knowing of the high suicide and homelessness rates of these teens, the parish wanted to provide a safe space for them. It took time for the teens to trust that a church would welcome and not judge them, but now it’s home. Hearing that the Lynn Public Schools had eliminated summer school for elementary-age children, the parish organized college-age mentors and committed volunteers to provide tutoring in literacy and math, so that the most vulnerable students would not lose grade levels during the summer. While Jane would never take sole credit for these extraordinary ministries, they undoubtedly are due to her leadership and vision which, just like back at MIT, is always focused on lifting others up, helping the people of God to claim their own ministry, their own discipleship, and their own voice.    

In our diocese—at conventions and whenever people gathered—Jane pushed and prodded on issues of justice and inclusion, whether it was about racial justice, equality for women and LGBT persons, or against gun violence and poverty. Wherever there was a microphone, you could expect Jane to be there. And most importantly, you could be sure that wherever Jesus stands, Jane Gould would be standing alongside him, speaking truth, challenging powers, lifting up God’s people. I know for a fact that I would not be here with you today if it were not for Jane. She is my hero. She will always be one of the most special saints in my life, just as I know you have special saints in yours.

You know, we often say that “so and so” is no saint, or that we are not saints. When we do that we make a disclaimer about our lives or suggest that because we are not perfect, God wouldn’t choose us to spread his love. But this, really, is messed up thinking. None of the saints were perfect—not Mary, not Paul, not Peter or Francis. They were, and are, all human. But they also knew that whatever their frailties or shortcomings, God still needed them. God still wanted them. God still used them–to live holy lives, to spread the gospel, and to shine with the light of Christ. And through their examples, they call us to do the same, right here, and right now.

Yesterday, at our diocesan convention, Bishop Gates ended his address by sharing the words of Jonathan Daniels, a seminarian from Episcopal Divinity School—30 years before me, 20 years before Jane Gould. Daniels was martyred in 1965 in the civil rights era. I shared the some of the same piece with you this summer, on the anniversary of his death. It makes sense to reflect on Daniels’ words now, again, on All Saints Day. Describing his ministry in Alabama, he wrote:

“This is the stuff of which our life is made. There are moments of great joy and moments of sorrow. Almost imperceptibly, some men grow in grace. Some men don’t. The thought of the Church is fraught with tension because the life of the Church is caught in tension. For the individual Christian and the far-flung congregation alike, that is part of the reality of the Cross.

“We have activists who risk their lives to confront a people with the challenge of freedom and a nation with its conscience. We have neutralists who cautiously seek to calm troubled waters. We have men who are willing to reflect on the cost and pay it. Perhaps at one time or another we are all of these. Sometimes we take to the streets, sometimes we yawn through interminable meetings...  Sometimes we confront a posse, sometimes we hold a child.  Sometimes we stand with men who have learned to hate, sometimes we must stand a little apart from them. Our life in Selma is filled with ambiguity, and in that we share with men everywhere. We are beginning to see as we never saw before that we are truly in the world and yet ultimately not of it. For through the bramble bush of doubt and fear and supposed success we are groping our way to the realization that above all else, we are called to be saints. That is the mission of the Church everywhere. And in this, Selma, Alabama is like all the world: it needs the life and witness of militant saints.”

Daniels was killed a few months after writing this, shot while saving a fellow civil rights activist. If our faith tells us anything, it is that we don’t need to be rich to care for the poor and the weak, we don’t need to be powerful to share the love of God, and we don’t need to be kings to build the kingdom of God.

On this Feast of All Saints, may we be inspired by the examples of the saints all around us, and then shine just as brightly with the light and love of God.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

You Shall Not Kill: A Sermon on Guns, the Ten Commandments, and Human Flourishing

Back in the olden days, in the foggy mists of time, when I was growing up and going to church, it always felt like an all-day activity: first Sunday School for an hour, and then church for a second hour. My mom taught Sunday school herself, so we were in our classes while she taught hers. We’d go to coffee hour in between, and then attend the later service for the second hour. I admit that I would have preferred to stay home sometimes—watching cartoons in my pj's—but that was rarely an option.

I was one of those kids that preferred being in the church service itself, over Sunday School classes. Not that I paid attention to the sermons much, but I always appreciated the music and liturgical action. I guess that’s why I do what I do today! One aspect of Sunday School that I really didn’t like was memorization work. We had to memorize lots—the Lord’s Prayer, the Apostle’s Creed, and the Ten Commandments. Usually, our teacher would give us a line from the prayer, creed, or one of the commandments that we were supposed to memorize over the coming week. If we did and could recite the line the following week, we’d get a star or something. We don’t emphasize that so much today. But it was the thing then, 30 or 40 years ago. What I really don’t remember from those Sunday School days, though, is if our teachers ever gave us any context or content for what we were learning. You know, did they ever tell us what the prayers or creeds or commandments mean? If they did, it wasn’t in much detail. Mostly, I think it was just memorizing.

When it comes to the Ten Commandments, some of the themes are rather adult—like adultery. We wouldn’t have understood what that was about when kids learning the lines. Though, interestingly, that’s the Commandment Moses is pointing to in the stained-glass window above the altar. It makes you wonder just what the congregation here was dealing with in the 1950s and 60s. Others hit very close to home at any age—like honoring your Father and Mother—my parents loved to emphasize that one at particular moments. And the last one about coveting what it is your neighbor’s used to strike awfully close to home, too. Still does, sometimes.

Further removed from the real-life experience of most of us—whatever our age—is the one commanding us not to murder or kill, depending on the translation. It’s interesting that it’s even included among the top 10 dos and don’ts. The others deal with more every day temptations and struggles, while thankfully for most of us killing another human is beyond the pale. But it must have been something that people struggled with in ancient days. Indeed, any read through the Bible makes clear that the impulse to kill has infected the human heart from the very start—beginning with the brothers Cain and Abel, sons and Adam and Eve; down to Moses—who himself killed an Egyptian; to the tenants in this morning’s gospel parable, reflecting the crucifixion of Jesus himself.

Something in the human heart and soul, some seeds of violence and hatred are so deeply planted and deeply rooted, that God felt the need to inscribe on tablets of stone, for all to see and know, that this is absolutely not how we are called to live. Murder, killing, like adultery, covetousness, and faithlessness are as far from God’s design for human life as anything.

For those of us instilled with the values of faith—whether Christian or Jewish, and doubtless from other traditions as well—this should be obvious. But, of course, it’s not. Increasingly, we seem to live in a society that considers murder and killing ordinary, routine, and even expected, if not exactly okay. Last Sunday’s mass murder, we might even call it a massacre, in Las Vegas, is just the latest example of what has become all too commonplace in the United States over the past years.

Last week it was at a country music festival, last year it was at a gay night club, the year before an African American church in South Carolina during Bible study, and five years ago an elementary school in Connecticut. What’s next? Who’s next? We learned over the past week that the shooter in Las Vegas had also considered a music event in Chicago and even Fenway Park as possible sites for his killing.

Whatever the motivations—whether hatred caused by racism or homophobia, or mental illness that would lead one to target school children and their teachers, or even an indiscriminate hatred of people in general and the perverted thrill of power—it is a manifestation of those seeds of violence, hatred, and division planted in the human heart, and nurtured and watered by a culture, a society, that seeks always to divide people into categories of us vs. them, me vs. you, instead of all of us together.

I’m sure this tendency is found across other nations and societies. Clearly it is, or we wouldn’t find examples of the same actions in scripture, as in this morning’s gospel parable of the tenants in the vineyard killing the owner’s slaves and son. But for some reason, it seems particularly alive and acute here in the United States. Perhaps it’s because the nation was born in the crucible of revolution, with guns drawn and a shot heard around the world. Or perhaps it’s because our early financial system and economy was undergirded by slavery—both in the north and the south—which relied on violence to rip people from their homes, chained them in ships, and then sold them to the highest bidder. Human beings treated like property that you could beat, starve, kill. And perhaps it is because the expansion and flourishing of the nation could only come with the bloody acquisition of land and power at the expense of those native peoples who were here first—pushing them further and further out, starving, killing, and massacring along the way.

Whatever it was or is originally, there is something in our national identity, even still, that seems to idolize violence and even murder. Just consider the fact that inscribed in our American constitution is the right to bear arms. Now, some would argue that the original meaning of that right has been perverted over the years—since in its original context it was focused on the ability of a dispersed populace to organize into a militia, in the event of attack from foreign powers. We don’t need that today, with a proper military and police force and all the rest.

But even if you are of the view that the American right to bear arms is absolute and must be preserved, surely one would have to recognize that the framers of the constitution couldn’t have imagined semi-automatic machine guns that could indiscriminately injure hundreds and kill nearly 60 people in a matter of minutes. After all, the guns they knew were muskets. There is no conceivable reason that an individual should have ready access to such instruments of death and terror. That militaries have and use them are bad enough—also in violation of God’s commandments. But ordinary citizens, people like you and me, with full arsenals in their homes—serving no purpose but the potential murder of fellow citizens, fellow human beings—is to me, beyond comprehension.

I imagine it is beyond comprehension to God as well—the God who spoke through the prophets and came among us in Christ Jesus, to teach us a different way. Indeed, Jesus was himself killed by the powers of evil and death. By the hatred which so infects human hearts. And in his death, Christ showed us the power of love. He showed us the power of life. He showed us that retaliation, armaments, and weapons are not the instruments of human flourishing. The instruments of human flourishing are love and hope and trust. What’s more, in raising Jesus from death, God broke the human cycle of violence and hatred. God showed us, through Jesus, that there is another way, a better way. A way that leads to fullness of life.  

As some of you know, I was very briefly in Minnesota over the past week. It was perhaps my shortest trip there ever—just Thursday to Saturday. So, I didn’t have much time for visiting. I went primarily for the meeting of the National Scandinavia Advisory Board at Gustavus Adolphus College, of which I am a member. I can’t go to all the meetings, but I try for one or two a year. At Friday’s meeting, we were joined by a number of students—some who studied in Sweden last year and reported to us on their experience, and others who are from Sweden, studying in Minnesota for the semester or year.

It was particularly interesting to hear of the experience of the Swedish students. They were impressed by how friendly and welcoming everyone is. They universally felt supported in their studies—despite being unprepared for the amount of weekly homework expected of them. But they also said that some of them were worried about coming to the United States, or in some cases, their families were worried about them coming here. Because there is a perception across the world that the United States is a dangerous place. That people are randomly and routinely shot here. We think of the US as a place of liberty, freedom, and hope—the land of the free—and yet, others from other lands worry that they might even be shot as they step off the airplane upon arrival here.

Thankfully, we know that would be highly unlikely. Even so, many in this country do live in dangerous circumstances. And random acts of hatred and death are all too common—not only on a massive scale as in the horrific events of Las Vegas last week, but also as children are hit and killed by stray bullets on neighborhood streets. Something has to change. For the sake of our nation and its people, something desperately has to change.

In my mind, that change has to come through bipartisan work to change gun laws. I realize there’s no way to get all guns out of the hands of all bad guys. But that sad fact should not stop us from making it harder to access weapons that are built for the sole purpose of killing people, in many cases on a disturbingly massive scale, as we witnessed last week. We have to move out the realm of political bickering and grandstanding, worrying about lobby groups and special interests, and instead worry about human life, and human flourishing. We have to mend the fabric of our national life, moving us away from a culture of death to a culture of life. After all, that’s what the Ten Commandments are all about—moving God’s people away from a culture of death to a culture of life. That’s what Jesus’ life was all about as well.

And the good news is, we can all embrace this work and this calling—whether we are men or women, young or old, liberal or conservative, Republican or Democrat, whatever our background, race, color, sexuality. In fact, we need all our voices, speaking and acting in love, for each other and for our world. Those of us who follow God in Christ have the perfect model, with laws, commandments inscribed not only on stone, but on our hearts. They can guide us to fullness of life.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD