On Crossing (and Breaking Down) Borders: A Sermon Following the Ascension

Anyone who travels internationally know what it is to cross borders. When I lived in Toronto I was always anxious returning, after a visit to the US. I had a study visa that granted entry, but you never know. The border guards were usually surprised when I stood at the desk and handed them my US passport. They’d ask my business in Canada and my usual response was “I live here,” leading them to study the visa, ask some more questions—because it was granted for an unusually long period (6 years)—but then eventually they’d stamp it, and I’d be let back in. As a white person with considerable privilege, I am rarely subjected to deeper questioning because of my racial identity, as countless others are.  

Our border crossings are nothing compared to what people around the world encounter as they seek new lives and safe homes. Many die as they make their journeys over water or land—they drown in leaky rafts, suffocate in transport vehicles, or even are shot as they try to leave one country and enter a new one. Upon arrival in new lands refugees and asylum seekers often are forced to live in prisons and detention centers as their cases are investigated. Sometimes, we’ve learned, children are separated from parents—perhaps never to be reunited. Border crossings can be occasions of joy and hope, or of fear and trepidation, and sometimes all of these at once.

This week, on Thursday, Christians around the world observed a border crossing of sorts on the Feast of the Ascension—when, it is believed, the risen Christ ascended into heaven, to take his place at the right hand of God. In a sermon a few weeks ago I suggested that in the earliest Christian belief the Easter resurrection and the ascension were more closely related, perhaps even unified. These earliest Christians believed that in the resurrection Jesus was raised and exalted to the heart of God. So, when Jesus appears to his friends on Easter day and following, he returns from God’s heart to confirm that he is not dead, and that in the resurrection God had unleashed a new power into the world: the power of life.

Over time those appearances were less frequent, leading Luke to tell the story of the Ascension in the Acts of the Apostles. But it’s not inconsistent with the earlier view, at least not necessarily. It may be that the Ascension essentially represents the final time that Jesus appeared among his friends in that way, closing that chapter of the resurrection story, while simultaneously beginning a new one—helping his friends to get on the with work of being his disciples; helping them to spiritually grow up; to be, really and truly, the risen and living Body of Christ.

It is there that we seemed to have struggled. Too often, we have come to believe that God is far away, even out of the way, rather than in our midst. How else could we abide by so much violence and chaos in our country and across the world? Another mass shooting in Virginia, leaving 12 dead. Children at the U.S. border kept in cages. People across the world targeted for their faith or race or sexuality. Would we allow such, if we believed that God were still here among us? Would we turn away from the cries of the poor, hungry, and oppressed if we believed that God was among us? If we believed that God lives among and in those on the margins?

Rather than going away, when Jesus ascended he crossed the border between humanity and divinity. In fact, he broke down the border between God and us—such that it no longer exists, at least not as it did before. While in the short span of his life Jesus was, we believe, the earthly dwelling place of God—teaching, healing, reconciling and inspiring—that dwelling now is us. He is not gone. He is alive and present in us and through us—still teaching, still healing and reconciling, still inspiring, in and through all who are baptized into his life. His life is our life. Our life is his life. He is not gone. He is here. Or, he can be.

This is a heavy calling. If we are to make Christ present, it requires that we live like Christ. That we love like Christ. And most especially, it requires that we cross borders like Christ—the borders of exclusion and discrimination, the borders that seek to divide color, gender, sexuality, language, economic status, religion, or national origin. It requires that we cross them. And then tear them down. Just as Germans of the 1980s tore down the Berlin Wall, piece by piece, reshaping their nation and the world.

As the Body of Christ, we likewise are called to reshape our nation and our world—tearing down walls and borders, drawing people closer and closer to God’s heart, and in the process defeating the powers of sin, and evil, and death. In other words, we are called to live resurrection. We are called to be resurrection. Not in a misty, other worldly way. But in a real way, in a human way, in a broken and bruised and crucified, and yet living way.

I believe Jesus left his friends’ sight so that they could live the resurrection life themselves. So that they could cross and overcome the boundaries of life and death. So that they could realize that who he was, is also who they (and we) are—God’s presence living and undefeated presence and power in and for the world. A power through which the borders and divisions of the old world—borders that exclude and promote death through guns, war, and hatred—are transcended, dismantled, and destroyed. As they are torn down, new and abundant life will flourish—the life and the power of God, unleashed in and for us and for the whole world.

Jesus said: “As you, Father, are in me and I am in you, may they also be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me. The glory that you have given me I have given them, so that they may be one, as we are one, I in them and you in me, that they may become completely one, so that the world may know that you have sent me and have loved them even as you have loved me.” 

The life of resurrection. The life of God. The Life of us. May we find it so. With God, may we make it so.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

Do You Want to be Healed?: An Easter Sermon After the Death of a Friend

“After Jesus healed the son of the official in Capernaum, there was a festival of the Jews, and Jesus went up to Jerusalem. Now in Jerusalem by the Sheep Gate there is a pool, called in Hebrew Beth-zatha, which has five porticoes. In these lay many invalids-- blind, lame, and paralyzed [waiting for the stirring of the water; for an angel of the Lord went down at certain seasons into the pool, and stirred up the water; whoever stepped in first after the stirring of the water was made well from whatever disease that person had]. One man was there who had been ill for thirty-eight years. When Jesus saw him lying there and knew that he had been there a long time, he said to him, ‘Do you want to be made well?’ The sick man answered him, ‘Sir, I have no one to put me into the pool when the water is stirred up; and while I am making my way, someone else steps down ahead of me.’ Jesus said to him, ‘Stand up, take your mat and walk.’ At once the man was made well, and he took up his mat and began to walk. Now that day was a sabbath.’ John 5:1-9

Every once in a while we have a choice for our scripture readings on a given Sunday. Usually the choice is with the Old Testament reading, or maybe the psalm. A choice of gospel, as we had today, is unusual. Earlier this week Julie asked me which to include in the leaflet and I picked the miracle story. It seemed more interesting somehow than Jesus’ farewell message to his friends. As the week has unfolded I’ve realize how significant that choice was. The story of the man healed at the pool of Beth-Zada has a lot to tell us.

The text doesn’t give us the diagnosis of his ailment, but seems to be a kind of paralysis, since he couldn’t get into the pool. There’s also missing portion of the gospel story as we heard it, which appears in some manuscripts: it says that an angel of the Lord is the one who stirs up the waters and gives them healing powers. That was omitted in our reading because not all early sources include it. And because it is a little fantastic. The place, though, was real. Archeologists found it in the 1960s. With five porticoes, to the northeast of the Temple. The idea of the pool—whether the water is stirred by an angel or some other source, perhaps a natural spring—is that only the first person who entered it after the waters were enlivened received the healing powers and was cured. Others had to wait until the next time.

Remember, this is in Jerusalem, just outside the Temple. And today’s event happens during a festival. You can imagine all sorts of pilgrims in search of healing (similar to Lourdes or Walsingham), likely a rush to get in first. And because this man was paralyzed and didn’t seem to have assistance, he always missed out—for as many as 38 years. One wonders whether he had family or friends who maybe could have helped him. Or maybe he lost them, spending all his time at the pool.

We might even wonder if he really wanted to be healed. In fact, Jesus asks him just that question: “Do you want to be healed?” The man doesn’t answer directly, but instead focuses on his inability to jump into the pool in time. The gospels rarely offer any psychological insights into the figures we meet. But we might conclude that he was stuck, paralyzed--physically, emotionally, spiritually. Why else spend so much time there at the pool? 38 years is a lot of life to lose, waiting for a miracle that might never come.

Like the man in the gospel story, sometimes we, too, get stuck. Even paralyzed. If not physically, then certainly emotionally, spiritually, mentally. Sometimes we cannot even imagine a different future for ourselves—whatever the problem is, a difficult job, a difficult relationship, a worry about our health, addictions, dark places and dark thoughts that hold us in their grip. We’d like to be healed or freed, but can’t figure out how to make it happen. Maybe, like the man in the gospel story, we feel that we don’t have anyone who can help us, or we are afraid to ask, or in some cases, we’ve become so turned in on ourselves that we’ve let the relationships that can give us life fall away.

Each of us has a different experience and reality, but the effect can be much the same. And like the man in the gospel story, we too are met by Christ, who asks us, as well, if we want to be healed. Do we truly want new life? Or, is it easier if we stay stuck, paralyzed, afraid? 

It’s interesting that when Jesus tells the man in the story that he should stand up and walk, the Greek word used can mean, simply, “stand up,” but it can also mean “resurrect.” I don’t think that’s a coincidence. Because I think Jesus is really telling this man, who had been so lost, so stuck, and so broken for so long, that he should be resurrected. He should live. He should be alive. The physical healing is important in the story. But far more, I think, is the spiritual healing—healing that leads to wholeness and new life. A life not spent waiting for a miracle by a pool, but instead lived in and with God, and hopefully in and with others.

Friday afternoon I learned of the unexpected death of our friend and parishioner Cathy Conboy when her husband Mark called. The news came as a shock to me, and to everyone I talked with on Friday. We’ve had more than our share of deaths of wonderful parishioners over the past 11 years, many of them proverbial pillars of the church, but something about Cathy’s seems different to me. She was younger, still active in her many ministries, looking forward to her daughter Alice’s high school graduation next week.

Cathy is someone who, like the man in the gospel, suffered with a sometimes debilitating physical condition. She lived with lupus for many years, and a long list of accompanying complications. Life wasn’t easy for Cathy. Sometimes it was very hard. It is not what she would have envisioned or chosen for herself—or for her family. And yet, unlike the man in this morning’s gospel story, Cathy did not put her life on hold while waiting for a miracle of physical healing. Instead, she chose to live. She chose to stand up and walk, when she could--to resurrect herself--drawing strength and courage from her family, her friends, and from her faith. Even in the darkest days, she showed us how to live and how to love. She showed us that physical limitations need not hold us back. She understood, probably better than those blessed with more robust health, that life has to be lived. Every day that we are alive is a day worth living.

It is astounding to think of all the ways that Cathy was engaged here at church, even as she struggled with her health: organizing our acolytes and serving on the worship committee for several years; serving on the mission commission—selling plants and flowers to support refugees and organizing a massive yard sale to support the people of war-torn Syria. She helped deliver carloads of backpacks and school supplies to Housing Families, and brought boxes of donated winter coats and joined a tour at Lazarus House in Lawrence. Cathy hosted coffee hours and often engaged in adult education sessions. She took watercolor classes and was active in a book group with her many friends. All the while she was raising her daughters, instilling in them faith and confidence, giving them the best foundation for life she could. When I visited her at Mass General two weeks before she died, she nearly glowed with joy when talking Mary and Alice. She was proud of their accomplishments, but even more for the people they are.

Cathy knew too well that life can be shorter than we’d like sometimes. And so we need to stand up and walk—not waiting for a miracle to happen to us and for us—but instead, grabbing hold of the full, wonderful, resurrection life that God offers each of us, even now, even when our bodies or spirits may not be as healthy or as strong as we would want.

“Do you want to be made well?” Jesus asked the man in the gospel. And he asks the same of us. The man in the gospel story didn’t really answer. But we can. Like our friend Cathy we can choose to be well, even in our limitations. We can choose resurrection. We can choose to pick up our mats, stand up and walk, into the future, into the life, that God has prepared for us.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell PhD

Reflections for the National Day of Prayer Interfaith Service

Reflections for the National Day of Prayer Interfaith Service

Following Terror Attacks in Sri Lanka and San Diego

Emmanuel Episcopal Church

Wakefield, Mass.

May 2, 2019

Thank you for your presence tonight as we come together on this National Day of Prayer. National Days of Prayer have been called for from the earliest days of our nation, as we have fought wars, discerned our future, and struggled with what it means to be American. Since 1988, the date has been established by Congress as the first Thursday in May. It is a reminder that we as a people are stronger when we come together, as we do tonight, under the providence and love of God. This is not a Christian observance, nor a Jewish one, nor Muslim or Buddhist. But instead is meant to unite us across our diverse and distinct faith traditions.

Tonight, we honor and remember, in particular, those killed on Easter morning in a horrific massacre in Sri Lanka, now Christian martyrs, and subsequently near San Diego as Passover came to its close, another American Jewish martyr, who took bullets to protect her rabbi. We also hold in our hearts those killed this week in Charlotte, North Carolina. While we don’t know the motivation behind the latter, we do know that religious hatred fueled the shootings in Sri Lanka and San Diego. Just as it did in Pittsburgh and Christchurch, New Zealand, and in so many other places across the world.

Unfortunately, religious faith—meant to provide life and hope—has become for some a weapon. This is not new. Just look to the history of the crusades, or the inquisition, the Reformation or the Holocaust. Consider Northern Ireland, too. Somewhere along the way many have come to believe that only those who look like them, live like them, and pray like them, deserve God, and even deserve to live.

But here’s the problem with that perspective. Whenever we limit acceptability to those just like us, we end up excluding everyone but us. Because no one believes in exactly the same way. No one lives in exactly the same way. And often times, even those we love find themselves drawn in new directions. Your Catholic daughter falls in love with a Protestant. Your Orthodox Jewish son discerns that he is gay. Your Democratic mother marries a Republican. A Muslim family moves next door. Your uncle announces he finds life in practicing Buddhism. We are all different. We are all unique. And from a faith perspective, we believe that God made us all—in our rainbow of diversity.

And so, our unity as a human family—a Christian, Jewish, Muslim, Buddhist, Hindu, gay and straight, Native American and African American, Swedish and Italian and even Irish family—our unity must be deeper than our outward appearance or the prayer books we use. Our unity must even be deeper than the many names we use for God. Rather, from a faith perspective, we have to realize that our unity is in God and from God, in the humanity we share.

We’ve got to figure that out, we’ve got to live it. Because we can’t afford to lose more sons and daughters of faith to brutal violence. We need them. We need their witness. And we can’t afford to lose any black brothers and native sisters, or LGBTQ sons or daughters to violence or suicide. We need them. God needs them. God needs us all. God must. Because God made us all.

And so, tonight we come together in faith, in sorrow, and also in hope. Hope that our prayers, and then our action, will help to transform this dark and all-too deadly world into something else. Something filled with light and love. It starts here. And it starts with us. Right now.   

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

On Doubt, Faith, and New Life in Christ: An Easter Sermon for a Good Friday world

Easter, as we usually think of it, is about life and joy, flowers, bunnies, chocolate and jelly beans. And those are all great. We need more joy and chocolate in life. And everyone loves bunnies. But the thing about Easter is that behind the joy, or perhaps alongside it, is also sadness, fear, uncertainty, and doubt. Because, of course, a big part of the Easter story and the discovery of the empty tomb is all that leads up to it—the cross and denials, the confusion and doubts, and hiding in fear behind locked doors.

So, while on Easter morning we smile and get dressed up, we break into the chocolate and jellybeans, there is often also a sense with the disciples, tucked in the back of our minds, of wondering how these wonderful stories of resurrection and new life could possibly be true. Jesus’ friends struggle, and so, too, we, because we know first-hand that pain and death, grief and loss are all part of human life, in seemingly great and endless abundance. While the more positive, hopeful, joyful aspects of the Easter story often seem elusive and harder to verify.

I have been reflecting on all of this a lot this week, as we’ve learned more about the horrific terror attacks in Sri Lanka on Easter morning. Suicide bombers killed over 250 people in churches and hotels as families gathered to celebrate with joy the promise of new life in Christ. Catholic church services were cancelled in Sri Lanka today, while Anglicans were urged to use an abundance of caution in deciding whether or not to gather. And then, yesterday, we learned of a shooting at a synagogue near San Diego, killing one and injuring others as the Jewish community completes their Passover celebrations. It was six months to the day from the shootings at the Tree of Life Synagogue in Pittsburgh. The 19-year old gunman cited as inspirations the Tree of Life shooting, as well as the mosque shooting in New Zealand, Hilter, and even Jesus.

Jewish targets, Muslim targets, Christian targets. All human targets. And we feel helpless to stop the violence, helpless to stop the hate. We can understand why the disciples locked their doors. Afraid of going out, afraid of letting anyone in. Afraid of life.

But, the gospel tells us and our faith tells us, even as the doors are locked, even as the disciples are afraid for their lives, hope breaks in. Because Jesus breaks in. He literally breaks into their locked room and their locked hearts, offering peace. “Peace be with you,” Jesus says. Peace. Do not be afraid.

Jesus tells them, in fact he shows them, that they have no reason to fear, because ultimately God is in charge—not the religious leaders, not the soldiers or Pontius Pilate or not even Caesar. But God. Jesus appears to them that Easter evening so that they know that their life and the life of the world is really, truly, in God’s hands, God’s crucified and risen hands, despite how it may seem.

Easter is God’s way of telling us that there’s nothing that the world can dole out, however fearful, however horrific, that God can’t transform into something better. Now, that transformation doesn’t erase what happened earlier, it doesn’t make it go away—the wounds of Jesus’ crucifixion are still there—but God takes it and is able in some mysterious way to bring new life. We just don’t always know what that new life will be, or how it will look. It likely will be different than life before, just as Jesus is different after the resurrection. But it’s no less real.

But we have to believe, or maybe the better word is trust, in the truth and power of resurrection. Speaking personally, I have to believe and trust in Easter and resurrection, because without that belief and trust, all we are left with is Good Friday. And, because I believe that God is always more powerful than evil, that God is more powerful than death, and that God is more powerful than the many Good Fridays that we exact on the world.

Now, like us, it seems that Jesus’ friends and disciples didn’t come to this belief or trust immediately. That’s essentially the meaning behind the Thomas story. It can take time. And sometimes we want proof. We want proof that this faith of ours is not just a fairy tale. We want proof that it’s really real. It’s okay to struggle, especially in times of grief, trauma, and disorientation. Sometimes, like the disciples, we may not even recognize when the new life of resurrection is standing right in front of us. If you remember last week’s Easter story, the same was true for Mary Magdalene in the garden on Easter morning, until Jesus called her by name, until she dried her eyes and saw him standing there, with her, in her grief and doubt and love.

But hopefully, eventually, like Mary and like Thomas, we realize that the love of God is breaking in and breaking through—helping us to see and believe in new ways. In deeper ways than we could have imagined or known. Hopefully, eventually, we realize that God’s Easter love is transforming us, from the inside out, into something new, something different, something more alive—even as each day brings its own new manifestation of Good Friday.

I said in my Easter sermon last Sunday that the resurrection is not only, or simply, or even mostly something that happened to Jesus a long time ago. It is something that happens to each and everyone of us. Resurrection is the promise and reality of our life in and as the Body of Christ. It is the reality that life is stronger than death. That love is more powerful than hate. And that God lived and lives still in the midst of us—giving us life and hope, courage and joy.

I’d like to close by sharing from a sermon preached by the Rev. Richard Q. Elvee—my college’s chaplain from 1962 to 2000. He had a special way about him—his words, his enactment of the liturgy, his Thomas-like scepticism and embrace of questions more than answers. In a sermon called “A Doorway in Time”  he preached:

“Today Jesus comes into the human heart through a doorway in time, a doorway, not to the past, but to a level of reality freed from time. When we hear, ‘Peace be with you” in this church today, a presence comes through the door. This is the upper room. The hands once opened to Thomas are opened to us. The Resurrection is always beginning again; we do not have to find it by a search of the past. It is an experience here and now if we begin to live in the Lord’s peace. …for God is the beginning and the end of every time and every place, so that in the midst of this mysterious life, which entails so much suffering as well as joy, the doorways yield silently to the One who comes with peace, lives and dies in us, is never absent from the room again.” 

That’s the promise of resurrection: that God is never absent from this room, from our rooms, again. As we gather today, allow God to break in. Allow God to show you the wounds of the world, to fill your heart and your soul with love and new life. Allow God to transform you with Easter life. And then, allow God to shine through you to give new, resurrection life to others. Because this Good Friday world needs that love and that life. It needs God, shining through you.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

Christ is Risen: A Sermon on Mary Magdalene, Easter Eggs, and the Power of Resurrection

Do you know where the very first Easter egg came from? I’ll give you a clue. It was not from the Easter Bunny. He hopped along later. No, the original Easter egg, practically 2000 years ago, was brought by none other than Mary Magdalene.

According to an ancient story, Mary Magdalene had an audience before the Roman Emperor, Tiberius Caesar, a few years after the resurrection, to him to tell him about Jesus, and the unfair treatment he’d received from the imperial governor, Pontius Pilate, who had Jesus crucified. But, Mary said, Jesus had risen from the dead and had appeared to her and his disciples.

Now, anyone who appeared before the Emperor was supposed to bring him a gift. Mary’s was a plain, ordinary egg—a symbol of the resurrection, like the tomb which will be broken open with new life. When she came before the throne, she held out the egg in her hand and greeted the him saying: “Christ is Risen!” (Just as we said this morning).

Only the Emperor said to Mary, “How can anyone rise from the dead? That’s as impossible as that egg turning red.” And suddenly, the story goes, the white egg in Mary’s hand turned a deep red. It was the first colored Easter egg. As a result, we often see pictures of Mary Magdalene, especially in Eastern Orthodox icons, holding a red egg. (Now, when you see an Easter egg, whether real or chocolate, you’ll know that they are not only fun to eat, but also a sign of the resurrection, going all the way back to Mary Magdalene).

Mary Magdalene is often called the apostle to the apostles, since it is she who first proclaims the extraordinary story of Jesus’ resurrection. In fact, as we read in the gospels, Mary is the first person Jesus appears to on Easter morning. There was something extraordinary about Mary’s faith and her willingness to set aside her fears and her doubts, to share the good news of God’s love and power—to Jesus’ friends, to the Emperor, and now to us here today. “I have seen the Lord,” she tells us. “Christ is risen.”

But, she didn’t believe right away. At first, Mary was perplexed, sad, even and depressed. She doubted. Not only had her friend been killed, but his body was missing. Her life was falling apart. Deep in her soul, she probably felt as if she had been crucified with Jesus. We can probably relate. Sometimes we feel confused and depressed, sometimes we doubt, and it can seem as if our world is falling apart. Deaths of people we love. Unwelcome or uncertain health diagnoses. Work struggles. Family struggles. Challenges that lead us—like Mary—to question and to doubt. Not only about God, but about ourselves.

In fact, as we read in the gospel account, Mary was so sad, so depressed that she didn’t recognize Jesus when he appeared to her. There are abundant theories about that—one being that maybe, probably, Jesus looked different after the resurrection. Another theory is that she didn’t expect to see Jesus—who would? I don’t really expect to see my father who died years ago. You don’t expect to see people you love who are no longer here. We wish we could. We dream of them. But we know they are not going to appear before us. That’s not how things work. Not in real life.

But even more, I think Mary didn’t see or recognize Jesus because of her grief. Her eyes were filled with tears. Her heart was broken. And when we feel that way, it takes a lot for good news to break in. The shell of the egg can be hard indeed. The stone is heavy and hard to roll away.

As we read the story, it was only when Jesus called to Mary, when he addressed her by name, that she realized he was there with her. Only when he touched her soul—in the same way he had before the horrible events of the last days—that she believed he was alive. Only after she looked up, and dried her eyes, did she feel the power of God’s love—love for her.

Here’s the thing: The resurrection is an event that happened long ago, in a garden in Jerusalem. And it happens every day, every moment, every time we, like Mary, hear God’s voice calling us by name and inviting us to live. Telling us that we, too, are loved. That we, too, are alive in him and with him. That’s what Jesus did for Mary in the garden. And it’s what he does for us. The resurrection is God’s way of transforming us, from the inside out. Because Jesus didn’t rise for himself, but rather so that we, too, might be raised. So that, like Mary Magdalene, we might have the power and the courage and the conviction of saying that we have seen the Lord.

Let’s go back to the story of Mary Magdalene and that first Easter Egg. Now we don’t know if it’s really true. It’s a fantastic story. Maybe hard to believe. But then, so, too, is the resurrection. So, let’s imagine it is true. When Mary went to the emperor to say that Christ is risen, she wasn’t only reporting an amazing miracle that had happened to Jesus. It was a miracle that happened to her, as well, and to Jesus’ disciples, and to all people. Mary was telling the emperor that God lives. In Christ. In her. And in us. And no emperor, no king, no illness, no crucifixion, not even death itself can defeat the power of life in God. The emperor didn’t believe Mary. But we can. And we don’t need the sign of an egg turning red to know that her testimony is true.

God is alive in Christ and God calls to each of us by name, like Mary in the garden. God offers us hope when we are afraid, peace when we are anxious, and the gift of faith, even when we doubt. Most especially, God offers us life. New life. Abundant life. Resurrection life. Life with Christ. Life in Christ.

“Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, ‘I have seen the Lord’.” May we also see, and then proclaim, with her and all the faithful, “Christ is Risen!” Alleluia. Amen.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

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