Changed from Glory into Glory: A Symbol of the Best of Us

 

The Revd Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD
The Old North Church, Boston
Memorial Service for Queen Elizabeth II
September 18, 2022

Changed from glory into glory, till in heaven we take our place, till we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love, and praise.
 
This final line from Charles Wesley’s glorious hymn may be among the most sublime in Christian hymnody. And particularly fitting as we gather this morning, with heavy hearts and hopeful spirits, to gave thanks for the extraordinary and singular life of Her Late Majesty Queen Elizabeth. For she, too, has been changed from glory into glory, taking her own place in heaven, no longer wearing an earthly crown but instead an heavenly one.
 
I suspect that like me, you found yourself washed by waves of emotion at news of the death of Her Majesty 10 days ago. While we know that no human being lives forever, somehow this time always seemed long in future and this human immortal. Queen Elizabeth had such an abiding, even eternal seeming presence. Just two days before, Her Majesty had accepted the resignation of one Prime Minister and welcomed the next. In the photos from that day in Balmoral Her Majesty appeared especially radiant—no crown or robes of state to distract from a deeper, inner light. Upon reflection, perhaps Her Majesty was anticipating the even greater glory to come on Thursday. Perhaps the glory from heaven was shining through even then, had we only known.
 
It has been moving reading and hearing reflections on Queen Elizabeth’s impact on individual lives. A friend in Toronto, who claimed not to be a royalist, shared a photo on Facebook of a letter she had received from the Queen’s Lady in Waiting, dated 1979. The Lady was commanded (that’s the word used) to thank my friend for the picture she drew as a kindergartner. It’s incredible to think how many such letters must have been sent over 70-years. To children (and adults) across the world, creating lasting bonds of affection.
 
Her Majesty’s more recent adventures with James Bond and tea this summer with Paddington Bear, and their shared appreciation for marmalade sandwiches (we now know what the Queen kept in her handbag all those years), endeared her to young and old alike, when age prevented her from being as publicly visible as she and we might have hoped. The long ques filing past Her Majesty’s coffin, sometimes 24 hours waiting, testify to the profound place Her Majesty secured in the hearts of a rainbow of people, diverse in interests, beliefs, languages, races, and political persuasions.
 
I read or heard somewhere that in Her Majesty’s 70-year reign, Queen Elizabeth is estimated to have met over 2 million people, with a special, unique power, to make them feel special. We know that was true here at Old North. Her Majesty’s visit in 1976 is held in our collective memory as one of our proudest, most significant moments. Many outside our community find it especially ironic, given this church’s role at the start of the American Revolution. That, too, is a proud moment, to be sure. But in visiting, Queen Elizabeth brought a unique kind of magic that she alone possessed. She shone a special, radiant light that has remained with us these 46 years.
 
In announcing the death of Her Majesty, the U.K.’s new Prime Minister Liz Truss reflected that the Second Elizabethan Age had ended, stating that Queen Elizabeth was the rock on which modern Britain was built. The first Elizabeth reigned 44 years. The second, 70 years, overseeing some of the greatest changes and evolutions in world history. Many of them positive, as people across the globe, of different colors, races, and backgrounds claimed right to self-determination, a beginning in the long reckoning with colonialism (this church and its complicated history being one manifestation), important work that has really just begun and will be ongoing far into the future; as women, following the example of the Queen, among others, asserted rights to equal leadership; as science and technology enabled us to soar into the farthest heavens; as we built a new global community and enduring alliances following two devastating world wars. Even the seeming intractable hostility between Britain and Ireland have calmed in the Queen’s time.
 
We’ve also witnessed and created unprecedented environmental destruction. It is fortunate that both King Charles and Prince William are devoted to using their energies to conserve what we can of our natural world, before it’s too late. Their shared passion demonstrates how the monarchy can evolve, finding meaning and impact in each new era, just as Her Late Majesty’s parents, King George VI and Queen Elizabeth, gave inspiration and hope as the world was plunged into devastating war. In each successive age, these servants have demonstrated the power of their high calling, which comes not through legislative means, but through example.
 
Doubtless there were multiple occasions when Her Majesty would have wanted to speak out on issues of importance, perhaps even contradicting the positions of her governments. With Prime Ministers as diverse as Churchill, Wilson, Thatcher, Blair, and Johnson there must have been moments of personal disagreement. Her people, too, might have wished, sometimes, that the Queen had taken liberty to speak on issues of significance. But the Queen understood her role, her calling, to be a different one.   
 
Among the most eloquent statements following the Queen’s death was that of Sir Kier Starmer, leader of the Most Loyal Opposition in the House of Commons. I’d like to share from his statement:
 
Nobody under the age of 70 has known anything other than Queen Elizabeth II on the throne. For the vast majority of us, the late Queen has been simply the Queen. The only Queen. Above all else, our Queen. As we mourn her loss, we should also treasure her life. Our longest-serving and greatest ever monarch. Above the clashes of politics, she stood not for what the nation fought over. But what it agreed upon. In crisis, she reassured us. Reminding us that we are all part of something that stretches back through time. A symbol of the best of us….  Every time I had the privilege to meet the late Queen, she would ask the most searching questions because she wanted to understand the lives and struggles of her people. And as Britain changed rapidly around her, this dedication became the still point of our turning world. An example that taught us that whatever the challenges we face, the value of service always endures.   
 
“She stood not for what the nation fought over, but what it agreed upon.” That truth, in particular, has stayed with me. It points to the value of the modern monarchy as it has evolved, and why so many find themselves feeling tremendous loss for someone they hadn’t met or certainly known, but who held a place of inspiration, strength, hope, and example at the center of life. As Sir Kier, says so beautifully, the Queen was a symbol of the best of us.
 
While we did not know Queen Elizabeth’s inner thoughts, what she thought of her several Prime Ministers, the many US presidents she knew, or political debates over seven decades, she did share her Christian faith, through televised Christmas addresses. Addresses not prepared by Her Majesty’s government, but rather expressing her own faith and conviction. In these speeches Her Majesty’s sought to share the inspiration, comfort, and hope that characterizes Christian faith at its best. In 2000 the Queen said: “To many of us our beliefs are of fundamental importance. For me the teachings of Christ and my own personal accountability before God provide a framework in which I try to lead my life.” And in 2014: “For me, the life of Jesus Christ, the Prince of Peace… is an inspiration and an anchor in my life. A role model of reconciliation and forgiveness, he stretched out his hands in love, acceptance and healing. Christ’s example has taught me to seek to respect and value all people, of whatever faith or none.’”
 
Assured of Her Majesty’s deep faith, we can be confident that she was received into the glorious arms of the God she followed and sought to serve so steadfastly, as Queen, as Defender of the Faith and Supreme Governor of the Church, as a disciple and follower of Christ. While we won’t have the blessing of seeing her again, Her Majesty’s memory and example of service and devotion, from the beginning of her life to the very end, will stand as inspiration for us all, as we follow our own unique callings and lead our own lives of faith and service.
 
In our Platinum Jubilee celebration a few short months ago, I shared a reflection by Boston Globe columnist David Wilson from the time of Her Majesty’s visit to Boston. He suggested that Queen Elizabeth was “a thread of fine gold in the often-shoddy fabric of our unruly times.” In her life, in her reign, Her Majesty was a golden thread woven into different eras and cultures. Even as there is great hope for those who will follow, none of us will see her like again. And so, we join Paddington and those who loved the late Queen in saying, “Thank you, for everything.”
 
May Her Late Majesty Rest in Peace and Rise in Glory. And may we be inspired by her example. 

Changed from glory into glory, till in heaven we take our place, till we cast our crowns before thee, lost in wonder, love, and praise. 

Amen.
 
© The Revd Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

Focus on Faith: Embracing Life and Counting Our Blessings

Wakefield Daily Item

Focus on Faith

The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

Emmanuel Episcopal Church

Last weekend I attended a going-away party. Only the person going away, my friend Diane, isn’t leaving in the usual sense. She isn’t moving. She is dying. Of brain cancer. It is the same kind of cancer that Senators Ted Kennedy and John McCain had. It was discovered last Christmas, when she was in San Francisco to celebrate with her family. She had faced breast cancer a few years ago, and was enjoying good health when this blow came. She had some memory loss and then suddenly started having seizures. After surgery her doctors told her that the cancer is at stage IV. They thought she might have 10 to 24 months to live.

Diane is 59. She has lived all over the world—in the Midwest and New England, in Montreal, and in India for over 20 years. She has a PhD in religious studies that she completed in the Netherlands. In recent years her work has focused on dismantling racism, teaching white people like me how to understand the effects of racism at work in my life and in our society. She works with churches and synagogues, with community groups, and even cities and towns. She helps us understand that our lives are intertwined and deeply connected. Her life has been a bright light.  

While the cancer is arrested at the moment, thanks to some trial medications, Diane knows that there is no cure. So, while she could handle it, she invited her friends and family to be with her for one grand autumn night. There were 50 or more of us in her back yard—people from every race and background. Many were Christian, while some were Jewish and others Buddhist or Hindu. Together we were eating an Indian feast and sharing stores of life and love and loss. We began in the daylight and stayed until it was very dark. We were reminded that all of us there, at that moment, were alive. And that while we live we have much to teach and learn from each other about the amazing gift that life offers us each day, even when it’s hard. Maybe even especially when it’s hard.

Finally, after many had shared reflections of sadness and joy, as we were enveloped by the night, Diane spoke—reflecting on her life and relationships. We couldn’t see her, but we could hear her calm, peaceful voice. She shared love. She shared gratitude. She shared some sadness, too. And she shared hope. Hope for herself. Hope for her friends. Hope for the world she has known. I can’t imagine how hard and unknown life must seem to Diane right now. But I also know that she is a woman of profound faith—in God, in the power of life, and in the amazing community of friends that she has built in the time that she has. Some of us, many of us, likely won’t see Diane again. This was our chance to say goodbye. But we can know that we shared our love with her and that, eventually, she will carry that love with her into the heart of God.

For some of us, our days are short. And for others they are long. Regardless of length, the gift and the challenge are the same: to embrace life while we can. Most especially, to embrace the people we are blessed to share it with. As we begin this beautiful fall season, I invite you to reach out to the people you are blessed to share life with. Give thanks for them. Gather them around you if you can. Share your love. Allow them to love you in return. And then, accept God’s love as well—a love that created you, that seeks to fill your soul, and that promises always to draw you back to God’s heart.

We are told that we should not count our blessings. But maybe we should. Maybe we should count them, and be thankful for them. Not because they are so few, but because they are so many. Because these blessings give us life.

Do not be afraid: A sermon on El Paso, Dayton, Immigrants and the Treasures of Heaven

Jesus said to his disciples, “Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom.” And then he says, “Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

Do not be afraid. It is the most repeated phrase in the Bible. 

But... it is not easy in a world like ours. It is not easy, sometimes, a lot of times, not to be afraid. Last weekend, our nation suffered two more mass shootings. In El Paso, Texas, a gunman broke into a mall and targeted Mexicans and people of Hispanic descent, killing 22. Just because he thought they didn’t belong in this country. Because he thought they didn’t deserve to live. Because his heart and soul were infected by racism, and because he had access to weapons that can kill. Less than 24 hours later, in Dayton, Ohio, another gunman killed 9. His motivation is less clear, but it seems that his heart was infected by sexism and misogyny. He was suspended in high school for making a "rape list" of classmates he wanted to sexually assault. He even killed his own sister.

Then, on Wednesday this week, the US Immigration and Customs Enforcement raided a number of food processing plants, detaining as many as 680 undocumented workers. The single largest ICE raid in US history. Notably, it came on the first day of school. So that when kids came home, their parents were gone. The employers weren’t arrested for hiring undocumented workers, just the people working in hot smelly jobs that most of us would not want.

I have to be honest. I don’t see Jesus in any of this. I don’t see Jesus in guns, whether automatic or semi-automatic, or even handguns. And I don’t see Jesus in separating children from their parents, and tearing people away from their work, their homes, and their communities. For a nation that claims to live “under God, with liberty and justice for all” we have a lot to learn. About justice. About liberty. About America. And most especially about God.

Did you notice, in our first reading from Isaiah, that it mentioned the infamous cities of Sodom and Gomorrah? Cities destroyed for their sinful ways. It has long been assumed that those sins were sexual, and often people have understood it to be about homosexuality in particular. But that’s not the perspective of the Bible. When, in the Old Testament, as in Isaiah, these places of greatest sin and abomination are mentioned, it is in relation to how they (and we) treat people. How we treat strangers and those in need. How we show hospitality.

Hear, again, what Isaiah says: “Wash yourselves; make yourselves clean; remove the evil of your doings from before my eyes; cease to do evil, learn to do good; seek justice, rescue the oppressed, defend the orphan, plead for the widow.”  For Isaiah, for Jesus, and for us, this is the path to life, to blessedness, to receiving the kingdom that God intends for us. Not through guns, not through racism, misogyny, xenophobia, and so much else that infects human hearts, but justice, rescue for the oppressed, support for the most vulnerable in our midst.

In fact, as Isaiah clearly says, God does not even want our “thoughts and prayers” if they are not accompanied by justice and care for the most vulnerable: for immigrants, for strangers, for widows, orphans, and anyone who is oppressed: “Bringing offerings is futile; incense is an abomination to me. New moon and sabbath and calling of convocation--I cannot endure solemn assemblies with iniquity…. When you stretch out your hands, I will hide my eyes from you; even though you make many prayers, I will not listen; your hands are full of blood.”

Jesus said: “Do not be afraid.” And then he said, “Where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.” They go together, I think. Refusing fear. Turning away from it, and then setting our hearts on the things of God. On the people of God—the wonderful, beautiful, extraordinary people that God has made. Of every language, race, color, background, orientation, and ability.

One of the ways that I believe we set our hearts on the people of God, is by hearing their story. So, here are some of the stories of the people of God. (Adapted from the Washington Post article). 

For Jordan (aged 24) and Andre Anchondo (aged 23) of El Paso, Saturday was meant to be a day of celebration. The couple had just marked their first wedding anniversary. In 2018, Andre left the family auto-repair business to set up his own shop, Andre House of Granite and Stone. In his free time, he built a house for his young family, laboring under the Texas sun hours at a time. Jordan was a stay-at-home mom. The couple was ready to show off their new house. Friends and family were invited to a big party, but the Anchondos never made it. Jordan’s sister said that based on their baby’s injuries, it appeared that she died while trying to shield the 2 month old from the shooter. “He pretty much lived because she gave her life,” her sister said.

Elsa Mendoza, aged 57, was a teacher and school principal who lived and worked in Mexico. She was in El Paso visiting family. She stopped by Walmart to pick up a few things from the grocery section, leaving her husband and son in the car. She never emerged from the store.

Her expertise was in special education, but she was principal of an elementary school with a range of students. She was known for her optimism. “Mendoza “used to say, ‘Things done with love are done better,’ and she was always ready to help."

Javier Rodriguez, aged 15, was among the youngest killed in El Paso. He was just weeks away from starting his sophomore year of high school. “He was such a loving boy,” his aunt, said. Soccer was a major part of Javier’s routine at in school. He came to school early to play with friends, skip lunch to practice with the varsity girls team, and then head off to his own junior varsity training in the afternoon. “This boy was like as an energy bunny,” his coach said. "And for him, it was nothing but soccer.”

Gloria Márquez, 61, was born in Mexico and moved to the U.S. more than two decades ago. Her first two children were born in Mexico, her second two in the States. “The kids were everything to her,” said John Ogaz, her companion of 11 years. When Ogaz, a US citizen born in El Paso, met Márquez, he was living in a trailer. Márquez earned a modest income as a health care assistant for elderly patients and helped him move into a home. They considered each other husband and wife, though they never formally married. They lived together in El Paso, surrounded by children and grandchildren. On Saturday, Ogaz and Márquez went to Walmart together. They split up minutes before the shooter entered the building, she heading to the ATM and he waiting for her at McDonald’s. For five hours, he called her phone from the parking lot.

At 90 years old, Luis Juarez had lived the American Dream. He immigrated to the United States, became a citizen, bought a home and made a career as an iron worker. He and his wife of 70 years, Martha, raised a family that included seven children, 20 grandchildren, 35 great-grandchildren and eight great-great-grandchildren. Before retiring, he had helped erect many buildings in El Paso and Los Angeles. Luis’s family remembered him as generous, understanding, hard-working and curious. “We are celebrating the life of an American who served to build our country,” his family said. They expected him to live to 100. “We were looking forward to many more years and that was stolen away from us,” the family said.

The stories of those killed in Dayton, Ohio are equally moving. Students, parents, friends out for a night together. (Details here). To say nothing of those detained last week in the immigration raids, people looking for a better, safer, more secure life for themselves and their children.

I don’t know what the answer is to the increasingly disheartening and even frightening time in which we live. I don’t know how we respond to Jesus command, “Do be afraid, Little flock.” Unless it means that we are being called to turn our backs on the fear that leads to racism and sexism. Turn our backs on the fear that leads us to rely on guns for our safety. And, turn our backs on the fear that leads us to think that there is only room here—in the church, in the country, in human life, for those who are somehow like us.

We are called to turn our backs on all of these, which like moth and rust destroy our nation and eat away at our souls. And instead, we are called to store up for ourselves the treasures of heaven. The treasures of life—and not only for us, but for all whom God has created and loves. When we do, I believe we will discover that there’s no end to the possibilities in life, and no limit to the joy and love and abundance offered us. God offers us even the whole of the kingdom of God.

Jesus said to his disciples, "Do not be afraid, little flock, for it is your Father's good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give alms. Make purses for yourselves that do not wear out, an unfailing treasure in heaven, where no thief comes near and no moth destroys. For where your treasure is, there your heart will be also.”

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

You are the Light of the World: A Homily for Cathy Conboy, Psy.D.

“You are the light of the world,” Jesus said. “Let your light so shine before others that they may see your good works and glorify your Father in heaven.” 

These are words that have inspired Christians for 2000 years. In 1990, they inspired Cathy and Mark, who chose them as the gospel reading for their wedding. And now, today, they inspire us as we come together in love to celebrate Cathy’s extraordinary life, and entrust her to God arms.

Cathy most certainly was, and still is, a bright light in a world that sometimes can seem very dark. And like the light that Jesus called her and us all to be, Cathy shone not to exalt or draw attention to herself, but to give life and hope to others—to her family and friends, to her patients, and to many she helped but never met. 

Cathy understood, probably better than most, that we need to summon the strength and the courage to embrace each day and each moment (and sometimes wrestle with each day and moment), to wring every drop of life from the time, the relationships and the abundant gifts we have been given. Cathy understood that if we are to be lights to the world, whatever our challenges, we can’t stay hidden away, in a room or under a bushel basket as Jesus says, but rather out and alive, burning brightly for others to see.

Of the many stories that Mark, Mary, and Alice shared with me, a few stand out as being the epitome of Cathy. The first, is how Mark and Cathy met—their first day in grad school, back in 1984, standing in line waiting to register. That night they went on a double date to a disco kind of place. Mark asked Cathy if she wanted to dance. Only she said, “I don’t dance.” So, Mark asked if she wanted a drink. Only she said, “I don’t drink beer.” Then he said, “You don’t have much fun, do you?” Not the successful first date.

In fact, they got in a fight and didn’t see or talk to each other for several months. Until they realized that for them there were no better matches out there. Whatever spark they felt in that first meeting was still there. So, thankfully, they tried again. Anyone who knew Cathy, even later in life, can recognize her in that story. She could be stormy and opinionated. She had strong feelings about, well, practically everything. And she had a spark, a light, that shone in the darkness.

When I asked Mark what he might say about Cathy’s impact on him, he thought for a while and then shared this: “what I admired the most about Cathy was her strong will. She is one of the few people who have been consistently able to stand up to me and get me to change my mind or do something I didn’t originally want to… especially when we disagreed about matters she felt were important. She stood her ground.” And then he added, “By being her partner and supporting her I could help the world (animals, children, the poor, the needy, promote cruelty free cosmetics, recycling, condemn mean spirited politics, etc.)…. Being her husband made me a better, more complete person.” That’s quite the testimony. Quite the legacy. Quite the light.   

Mary and Alice, I think it’s hard for children, of any age, to know how much your mom loves you. How devoted she was to you. Even before she met you. I don’t think any daughters could possibly be more cherished and valued than you have been. Your mom and dad traveled across the world to find you, to meet you, and give you a home—not only here in Massachusetts, but most importantly in their hearts, in your mom’s heart. Mary, from a video sent from Russia, you enchanted your parents with your personality. And Alice, you started out undernourished, and look at you now. Look at both of you now—so beautiful, so stylish and poised, with so much life ahead of you.

I was so deeply moved to hear how Mary, your first morning with your mom, in St. Petersburg, was Mother’s Day. She awoke that Mother’s Day as a mom, for the first time. And the last day you both shared with her was also Mother’s Day—a visit she awaited with such anticipation. She didn’t want you to see how sick she was. But she did want you to know how much she loved you, and loves you still. You were the lights in your mother’s life. The brightest stars in her sky. She didn’t have as much time with you as she would have wanted, but she certainly prepared you for your own lives—so that you, too, can be lights to the world. Allow her to shine through you. If you live like she lived, if you love like she loved, if you care like she cared, you mom’s legacy will be long and bright. So very bright, just like you.

We shouldn’t forget that Cathy was also a person of deep faith. Church was important to her. This church. Where she worshipped and raised her girls. Over the past decade she organized the acolytes (not an easy job sometimes—but two of her acolyte alumni, John and Ian, are serving with us today, a testament to her ministry). She participated in weekly adult education sessions—sometimes arguing with me about theological topics, and sold plants and flowers to support refugees. She organized a yard sale which raised over $2000 to support the people of Syria in the most war-torn area of the world. And most recently, she was deeply concerned about the plight of immigrants at the border.

Cathy’s faith shaped her worldview. It also, I think, gave her courage as she lived with her complex health. Each week we quietly prayed for healing as she came to the rail for Communion. And while her lupus wasn’t cured through those prayers, she was strengthened to meet each new day. Firm, I think, in the knowledge that her life was always in God’s hands—the same God who created her and lit that spark of life in her soul.

And just as Cathy came here each week in faith, so we come today. In faith and trust. Firm in the belief, and not just belief, but the knowledge, that Cathy’s lives still. That she is still in God’s hands. And even more, she alive now, and forever, at the center of God’s heart. Waiting for us, of course, for that time when we are reunited. And in the meantime, she is there encouraging us, inspiring us, to continue her work and share in her passions and convictions: for children and refugees, immigrants and victims of war. For animals and our fragile, broken and beautiful earth. For all those who have no one to defend them. All this from her place at the center of God’s heart.

All goodbyes are hard. And this one especially. Cathy was too young. Her family, depended on her too much. Her friends and her church, too. I miss her. I miss her smile. Her laugh. Her honest and unvarnished opinions. But most especially her caring. Her deep love for everyone, and her passion for justice. She leaves a whole in our hearts. And yet, we know through the example of her life and her faith, her strength and fortitude, that she would want us all to live. That she would want us, like her, to wring every drop of life we can out of the time we have. Enjoying music and the Jersey shore. Loving our families and friends. Caring for the earth and its people. Trusting in the promises of God. Promises that for Cathy are fulfilled.

Jesus said, “You are the light of the world… Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” Cathy answered that call. She lived it. And now, today, from God’s heart, she shines through us, so that we too might bring light to others. Let’s do exactly that. Let’s make her proud and shine a light of hope in the world that is very dark.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell, PhD

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