The Vicar of Wakefield

Remembering Martin Luther King & Raoul Wallenberg: A Sermon for the Second Sunday after the Epiphany

2012-01-16T15:47:00.000-08:00

This week our nation and the world commemorate two of the greatest heroes of the 20^th century. The first, of course, is the Rev. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. In fact, King was born 83 years ago today. He was killed when he was just 39 years old—the same age as I am now, in fact, which in itself is sort of a reality check. While in his time Martin Luther King was a controversial figure with his fair share of detractors, history has remembered him as one whose vision and passion for justice and equality helped our country begin to be the kind of place that we should have been all along—a land of freedom and justice for all. Of course, we are not there yet. Even in the year 2012, with an African American president and racial discrimination officially illegal, we are still walking the long, twisty, and rocky path toward justice and equality, sometimes making great strides and at other times stumbling, or even getting lost along the way.

In some ways, I suppose, one could say that Martin Luther King was the right man, in the right place, at the right time. Like other important figures throughout history, he rose to the occasion when circumstances required it. Had he not been there, maybe someone else would have taken up his cause. But then again, maybe not. Certainly there were others—black and white—who struggled for civil rights, and had been doing so long before King was born, but he had that unique ability to inspire, to draw people in, and to help the people of our nation see how we are interconnected and how what happens to some affects us all.

King said, “All I'm saying is simply this, that all life is interrelated, that somehow we're caught in an inescapable network of mutuality tied in a single garment of destiny. Whatever affects one directly affects all indirectly. For some strange reason, I can never be what I ought to be until you are what you ought to be. You can never be what you ought to be until I am what I ought to be. This is the interrelated structure of reality.”

You know, the thing about Martin Luther King that has always inspired me most is how he translated his deep Christian faith into action. He did so with a clarity and power that seems unique. His devotion to the civil rights movement was rooted in and nourished by his Christian faith. And so I imagine that he would have strongly protested against the notion that religion and politics don’t mix. Because for King, as for many of the civil rights leaders, it was their faith in God, their belief in the liberation offered humanity through Jesus Christ and the promise of freedom and equality in him, that led them to fight so bravely for human liberation for themselves, their children and grandchildren, and all the future generations. We, today, regardless of our ethnic background, are the beneficiaries of their bravery, their commitment, and their hopeful and inspiring vision. As we continue their work in our own time and place, King’s words, his actions, and his vision are still providing inspiration and hope, here in the United States and across the world.

Less well known than Martin Luther King, at least here in the United States, is another hero of the twentieth century who is also being remembered this week. His name is Raoul Wallenberg. I wonder, how many of you have heard of Wallenberg? He was a wealthy Swedish businessman (who was educated in the United States) and served as a diplomat from Sweden in World War II. In particular, Wallenberg was a special envoy to Hungary during the later stages of the War, with a purpose of trying to find a way to save Hungary’s Jewish citizens while it was under Nazi occupation. The situation there was so bad that by 1944 as many as 12,000 Jews were deported from Hungary to concentration camps each day. Because Wallenberg had business dealings in Hungary and spoke Hungarian (as well as German, French, English, and Swedish) he was sent there by the War Refugee Board (established by President Roosevelt) to do something about the growing humanitarian crisis.

By the time of Wallenberg’s arrival in Hungary in 1944, over 2/3rds of the Jewish population had been deported to Auschwitz in the space of just a few months. Only 230,000 remained. He quickly got to work and issued protective passes supposedly authorized by the Swedish government to as many of the remaining Jewish citizens as he could. The passes suggested that these people were in fact Swedish citizens. Remember, they were in fact Hungarian Jews, not Swedes. The passes were illegal (Wallenberg produced them on a mimeograph in yellow and blue, with the Swedish three crown symbol in the corner), but they looked official enough to trick the Nazi and Hungarian authorities. He also rented 32 buildings in Budapest, which he established as Swedish extraterritorial safe houses. He hung large Swedish flags from the buildings and placed signs over the doors calling the houses “The Swedish Library” and “Swedish Research Institute.” Jewish citizens lived in these buildings in relative safety.

One of the drivers working for Wallenberg, recounted the Swedish diplomat’s actions upon intercepting a trainload of Jews about to leave for Auschwitz: “[Wallenberg] climbed up on the roof of the train and began handing in protective passes through the doors which were not yet sealed. He ignored orders from the Germans for him to get down, then the Arrow Cross men [the Hungarian fascists working with the Nazis] began shooting and shouting at him to go away. He ignored them and calmly continued handing out passports to the hands that were reaching out for them. I believe the Arrow Cross men deliberately aimed over his head, as not one shot hit him... I think this is what they did because they were so impressed by his courage. After Wallenberg had handed over the last of the passports he ordered all those who had one to leave the train and walk to the caravan of cars parked nearby, all marked in Swedish colours. I don't remember exactly how many, but he saved dozens off that train, and the Germans and Arrow Cross were so dumbfounded they let him get away with it.”

Estimates are that in less than a year Wallenberg may have saved as many as 100,000 people, more people saved than by any other person or institution in Europe during the war. By the end of 1944 the Soviet army had circled Budapest, although the Germans would not surrender. And then on January 17, 1945 (67 years ago this Tuesday), during the height of the German-Russian fighting, Wallenberg was summoned by a Russian general on suspicion of being an American spy. There are no confirmed reports of him after that date; although, many witnesses claimed to have seen and spoken with him. He was just 32 years old at the time of his disappearance.

Hungarian radio announced he died later in 1945 at the hands of the Nazis, while Russian authorities stated that he died in a Soviet Prison in 1947. It’s probable that Wallenberg was sent to a prison in Moscow. Unfortunately the Swedish authorities believed he was killed by the Nazis in 1945 and did little to find him or secure his rescue from the Russians, despite offers of exchange for Russian defectors. The actual circumstances of Wallenberg’s presumed death are still unknown—as late as the 1980s people claim to have seen him in prison. His personal effects were returned to his family by the Soviets in 1989. He was made an honorary citizen of the United States in 1981 (Only the second person so honored; the other was Winston Churchill); he was also made an honorary citizen of Canada, Hungary, and Israel.

Late U.S. Representative Tom Lantos, a Jewish native of Hungary who was saved by Wallenberg, said “During the Nazi occupation, this heroic young diplomat left behind the comfort and safety of Stockholm to rescue his fellow human beings in the hell that was wartime Budapest. He had little in common with them: he was a Lutheran, they were Jewish; he was a Swede, they were Hungarians. And yet with inspired courage and creativity he saved the lives of tens of thousands of men, women and children by placing them under the protection of the Swedish crown. In this age devoid of heroes, Wallenberg is the archetype of a hero – one who risked his life day in and day out, to save the lives of tens of thousands of people he did not know whose religion he did not share.”

What Martin Luther King, a black American Baptist, and Raoul Wallenberg, a Swedish Lutheran diplomat, have in common is their belief that ordinary people, people like you and me, can make a difference in human life. They weren’t old, standing in line, waiting to gain more experience. Wallenberg was just 32 when he was captured. Martin Luther King was just 39 when he was killed. And as we know, Jesus was just 33 when he was crucified. And like Jesus, they believed that human life, human dignity, justice, and equality are worth fighting for, and sometimes even worth risking your life for. And so, they were inspired by a belief that this world of ours can be a better place. They believed that all life was interconnected and that what happens to some affects us all. Most especially, they believed that they could make a difference. And that there wasn’t time to waste. But rather that God was urging them to action, right then and there.

Martin Luther King and Raoul Wallenberg wouldn’t accept excuses or take no for an answer. And neither should we. As we remember them and their witness this week, may we likewise be inspired to dream impossible dreams, stand up for justice and equality, and work for the day when, as Martin Luther King dreamed, all God’s people will be free at last.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

On Lutefisk, Princess Torte, and Resurrection: A Wedding Sermon

2011-11-15T07:03:00.000-08:00

Well, there are some things that you just never expect to do in life. And one of them is marrying your mother, or rather, officiating at your mother’s wedding. Then again, I’m sure that just a few years ago Mom and Jerry wouldn’t have thought that they would be getting married again, after having lost their beloved spouses in the space of just a few weeks. But here we are, and in an Episcopal Church in Massachusetts, no less. They even had to go to a Massachusetts court room to ask a judge for permission to marry. Mom and Jerry are living witnesses to the fact that life is always full of crazy twists and turns, with something new and unexpected around every corner.

And as it happens, those new and unexpected experiences can happen at any moment, even in the weirdest of circumstances—like a church lutefisk supper. I don’t know why, but somehow, lutefisk—that smelly, toxic Scandinavian delicacy made of codfish soaked in lye and then smothered in butter or cream--always seems to want to make an appearance when I start talking about Minnesota Lutherans, or at least when I talk about my mom, and she says doesn’t even like the stuff (though I have witnessed her eat it on more than one occasion). And today is no different since, as it happens, Mom and Jerry first took notice of each other when they and a group from their church were out on a field trip checking out other churches’ lutefisk suppers (why, I have yet to understand). By chance they ended up sitting next to each other, and looking down at their “appetizing” plates of white fish, white sauce, and white potatoes, my mom said to Jerry, “It’s never a good sign when the fish jiggles.” Flirting over lutefisk. Only in Minnesota.

So, it was lutefisk that brought Mom and Jerry together initially, and in a way, it’s lutefisk that brings them here to Emmanuel this afternoon. Now, of course, they had been planning to get married for some time, but they also really wanted to get out of Minnesota, since this weekend their church is holding its own second annual lutefisk supper (they were here last year for the first annual lutefisk supper, as well). That’s what Lutheran churches in Minnesota do for fundraisers. Now you know why I turned Episcopalian. We have wine tastings; they have lutefisk suppers. And as we approach Thanksgiving and then Advent, the Minnesota Lutherans are entering lutefisk season big time.

Garrison Keillor says, “Every Advent we entered the purgatory of lutefisk, a repulsive gelatinous fishlike dish that tasted of soap and gave off an odor that would gag a goat. We did this in honor of Norwegian ancestors, much as if survivors of a famine might celebrate their deliverance by feasting on elm bark. I always felt the cold creeps as Advent approached, knowing that this dread delicacy would be put before me and I'd be told, ‘Just have a little’.” Advent Lutheran Church in Maple Grove, where Mom and Jerry are active members, likes to beat the rush by holding their lutefisk dinner in November, so as not to conflict with other churches’ suppers. But since my mom is mostly Swedish and Jerry is mostly German, they aren’t so thrilled about this largely Norwegian custom. (Even my godmother Sara, who’s also here and is Norwegian, won’t eat the stuff). So, now you know what they gave up (or are escaping) to be married this weekend.

And I bet you thought you were safe, didn’t you, Mom and Jerry? What you don’t know is that we have a tasty surprise waiting in the parish hall! Actually, we don’t have any lutefisk here—you can tell by the fact that people aren’t running out of the church from the smell. But the women’s group seriously did offer to make it (along with a Jell-o-salad)! However, instead, the only Scandinavian delicacy, which really is a delicacy that everyone will enjoy, is a fabulous three-tiered Swedish Princess Torte. That seemed like a much more pleasant way to celebrate a wedding. And in honor of Jerry’s German roots, you’ll notice that most of the music in today’s ceremony is German—Bach, Pachelbel, Handel, Beethoven.

As much as we like to joke, more than lutefisk bringing Mom and Jerry together, it would seem more likely that it was God who brought them together after they each suffered the devastating loss of their beloved spouses—George and Jeannie--in December 2008. Who else but God could have arranged such a thing? Now, I have no doubt that if Mom and Jerry hadn’t met they each would have survived just fine. They both have lots of wonderful people in their lives—friends and family—who wanted to help them get through the trauma of loss. But, of course, life is not only about surviving. Life is really about living.

For Christians, for those who set their trust in Jesus, life is about living the promise and the joy of the resurrection each and every day. And, as we have to be reminded again and again, the resurrection that Jesus promises us is not only something that we experience after we die (though I certainly believe that Jeannie, George, and my Dad--Peter, are experiencing that joy even now), but resurrection is also, and just as importantly, something that Jesus wants us to experience each and every day on this side of life as well. That’s why he said, “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.”

And anyone who has seen the joy in Mom’s and Jerry’s eyes over the past few days can’t help but feel that together, in their relationship, they are experiencing the joy of the resurrection even now. Their happiness and love for each other is obvious—to their family and friends who have flown here to Massachusetts for this special weekend, as well as those back in Minnesota; to the judge at the courthouse in Quincy who was delighted to approve their marriage license request; and even to people sitting at the next table in an Italian restaurant in the North End. In a very real way, Mom and Jerry are living witnesses to the power of the resurrection.

Of course they know that every day won’t be as perfect as a beautiful fall day in New England. Much as we (and they) may like it to be, life together isn’t all smiles and Swedish Princess Torte wedding cake. Some days will probably feel a lot more like smelly old lutefisk. Because that’s just the way life is. But that’s also when that same resurrection faith will give them the strength, patience, and courage they will need to work through whatever problems they face, ever confident that joy is stronger than sadness, and that hope is always more powerful than despair.

So, here we are in another day on a twisty journey through life. And it’s a beautiful day. It's warm, the leaves are vibrant in their rainbow of colors; joy, love, and resurrection is in the air. I have no doubt that for Mom and Jerry, as for all of us, there will be many sharp curves, bumps in the road, and plenty of unexpected things around corners, maybe even a lutefisk supper or two. But the good news for them, and for us, is that they will have the love and support of each other as they walk along, arm in arm, strengthened and supported by their families, by friends, by faith communities here and in Minnesota, and most especially by the God who is constantly bringing us new and abundant life, the God who is the source of all love.

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

Singing a Song of the Saints of God: A Sermon for All Saints Sunday

2011-11-06T17:57:00.000-08:00

Today we celebrate one of the best days in our church year–the Feast of All Saints. It’s our annual opportunity to remember all those who have gone before us–the famous saints like Mary the Virgin and Mary Magdalene; holy monks and nuns like St. Francis and St Claire; priests and bishops like Augustine and Thomas Aquinas; and kings and queens, like Edward the Great and Elizabeth of Hungary. We also recall those who aren’t saints in the strictest sense, but nonetheless were people of courage and conviction–like Martin Luther and Martin Luther King.

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

The church, typically, has come to see the saints as people whose lives are complete and have been received into God’s greater glory. But you know, in the Bible, all Christians are considered saints–those who have died, certainly, but also those still living and sharing God’s love with the world. Personally, I like this expanded understanding–saints are not only the few who have survived a lengthy canonization process by the Roman Catholic Church, but really are the millions of people who have loved God and witnessed to God’s love for the world with their words and with their lives. And so when, in the Nicene Creed, we confess that we believe in the Communion of Saints, it is this ever-expanding group that I think of–the well-remembered saints, but also people like us, even including us, right here, right now.

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

For me, a few special people come to mind. Some have died, and some are still living. One, who comes to mind, is very much alive. His name is David Kiel. David was my church’s assistant pastor when I was in junior high and high school. (I’m sure he would object to being named a living saint, but since I’m standing here and he’s not, I get to name whomever I want.) David is a Texan, through and though. But for whatever crazy reason, he moved to cold and snowy Minnesota to go to seminary—maybe he thought that blizzards and below zero temperatures would build character and bring him closer to God. They say that suffering does that. However he got there, David came into my life when he was my church’s assigned seminarian—like Jessica was for us last year. And luckily, after he graduated and was ordained, the church was able to hire him full-time.

Pastor David (as we called him) focused a lot of his ministry on youth. We lived in a growing suburb, so there were always lots of youth. I think my confirmation class had 15 kids. And a few years later there were as many as 30 kids in each grade. Now, I don’t know if Pastor David liked youth work or not, but to me, he seemed like a natural. He was fun, funny, and he seemed to enjoy the kids he was ministering with. He even held youth events at his house on Sunday evenings—engaging in amusing banter with his wife Renee to entertain us. To be honest, I hated going to youth events, so my parents had to literally push me out the door (I think even locking it behind me). And since David and Renee lived just a couple blocks down the street, I had to walk to their house, even when it was 20 below outside. I usually had fun once I got there, but getting there was tough. (By the way, I would feel completely differently about our youth, who are not cliquish and are so much fun and accepting of absolutely everyone. I’d love our Emmanuel youth group! But that’s not how it was in Maple Grove—or “Maple Grave,” as I called it).

Well, I had a good, but not super close, relationship with Pastor David, until the summer of 1988. That’s when my life changed dramatically fashion after my father died suddenly after an accident. He was 38 and I was 15, just heading into high school. After that tragedy, Pastor David seemed to pay special attention to my brothers and me—perhaps at my mom’s request, or perhaps on his own, I’m not sure. Because he lived down the street he would occasionally drop in on us after school. Once, he came over and he tried to teach us how to cook dinner (with a Texas twist) for our mom—I’m not sure what it was, and I don’t think it turned out so well, but it was fun to have him there. He took us on a field trip or two to downtown Minneapolis for lunch. And he always seemed to ambush me when I got to church on Sunday mornings, waiting by the door, and asking me to acolyte because so and so hadn’t shown up. (The same kind of thing I do now!) Pastor David even brought me to his seminary in St. Paul once, which certainly planted a seed; although, it took a while to germinate and take root. In my junior year of high school he registered me for a high school students’ visiting day at the seminary. What’s really funny about that, though, was that before attending that event I thought I might be interested in the ministry. Afterward, I was certain it wasn’t for me. But you know what they say, never say never.

Like all people, even saints, David isn’t perfect. I remember once he got so upset with my rowdy confirmation class that he slammed his fist on the table, broke his wristwatch, and stormed out of the room and just left us in there for an hour, wondering what to do next. But on the whole, he was kind, generous, and patient. In a very real way, he helped me understand that God hadn’t died along with my father. What’s more, he helped me to feel and know that God was there for me—not so much up in the sky beyond reach, but through the people around me, in the saints I knew, in people like David himself. Well, my senior year of high school he announced that he had accepted a call to a congregation back in Texas. From there he eventually moved to Utah, and then to Iowa, and now he’s in Texas again.

We’ve stayed in touch a little over the years. Not a lot, but from time to time. One of the most meaningful times in my life was when he flew from Utah to Boston in a very snowy January to serve as one of my presenters for ordination. I always felt that if I ever were ordained I wanted him there. And so he, along with Bishop Harris, and loads of other clergy, laid hands on my head, and asked for the Holy Spirit to enable me to perform the ministry that God was still in the process of dreaming up. David and I were both a long way and a lot of years from the time when our lives intersected in “Maple Grave,” but the chords God had woven years earlier when my father died so tragically were unbroken. And I can say with certainty that I would not be up here this morning, as your priest and rector, if it weren’t for David Kiel. For me, he will always be one of the most special saints in my life, just as I know you have special saints in yours.

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

Unlike most of the well-known saints, chances are that we will not find ourselves anointed king or queen; none of us, I suspect, are rich enough to endow the building of majestic churches like Westminster Abbey. In all likelihood, won’t die of poverty or starvation in the desert. And probably, none of us will be martyred for our faith. But if that faith tells us anything, it is that we don’t need to be rich to care for the poor and the weak, we don’t need to be powerful to share the love of God, and we don’t need to be kings to build the kingdom of God. On this Feast of All Saints, may we be inspired by the examples of the saints all around us, and then shine just as brightly with the light and love of God, in this place and every place we go.

Let us pray,

Eternal Father, the God not of the dead but of the living: We give you thanks and praise for all the generations of the faithful, who, having served you here in godliness and love, are now with you in glory; and we pray, enable us so to follow them in all godly living and faithful service, that hereafter we may with them behold your face, and in the heavenly places be one with them, and you, forever and ever; all this we ask through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

Jesus, Judaism, & the Pharisees: A Sermon for the 20th Sunday after Pentecost

2011-10-30T10:56:00.000-07:00

For the past several Wednesday evenings our adult education sessions have been dedicated to discussing the book Yeshua: A Model Moderns by Leonard Swidler. I don’t want to speak for everyone, but I think that for the most part, people have enjoyed it; although, it’s not without its challenges. The purpose of the book is to uncover and present anew the Jewish roots and context of Jesus’ life and ministry. It’s something that I think we Christians know intellectually, but which we don’t understand as deeply as we could. So, this book, in its way, tries to help us grow to a deeper understanding of who Jesus was, who the people around him were, and how his life and teaching fit in his time and his society. Since everyone can’t be with us on Wednesdays, I thought that this morning I would share a bit of what we have learned.

The first thing you notice is that the author always refers to Jesus as “Yeshua,” the Aramaic version of his name. Yeshua is what people who actually knew Jesus would have called to him. I said quite a while ago, when I first mentioned this book in a sermon, that calling Jesus “Yeshua” all the time is a little annoying. I even wrote that in an essay in college, and now others at our adult ed sessions have started to agree. But I think the author’s purpose is positive—it helps to strip away all that we think we know about Jesus, so that we can discover more about the real life Jewish man who lived in Nazareth in Galilee some 2,000 years ago. By starting with calling him Yeshua, we have a clean slate for fresh, new discovery.

And what have we discovered? Well, first, what the name Yeshua means. It’s sort of a contraction: the “Ye” is an abbreviation for God’s proper name given to Moses: “YHWH.” The “shua” is the Hebrew word for salvation, which is not so much about going to heaven, but more about holiness and wholeness. For the ancient Israelites to attain salvation is to lead a full and whole life. So, if we put it back together again, Jesus’ name, Yeshua, means “YHWH [or God] is salvation; YHWH is wholeness.” And what’s especially interesting, really, if we are thinking about the Jewishness of Jesus, is the fact that through him, so many millions of people who are not Jewish have come to believe in YHWH, the God of Israel, the God who spoke to Moses on the mountain and who through Joshua (whose name is the older Hebrew version of the name as Yeshua) led the chosen people to salvation into the promised land, as we heard in our first reading this morning. Both Joshua and Yeshua/Jesus lead God’s people to salvation.

Second, we’ve been reminded in our study that like many other reformation figures, Jesus wasn’t trying to start a new religion. Jesus was Jewish. His family was Jewish. His friends and his disciples were Jewish. And really, almost everyone he encountered in his day-to-day life was Jewish. So, the focus of his ministry was not to abolish or supercede Judaism. Rather, he saw his ministry as being about helping people live Jewishly, as best they could. Jesus studied the Torah, the religious law, as well as the teachings of the prophets, and he interpreted what he studied so that people could understand and live in a more faithful way. In some respects, Jesus was more liberal than many (for example, healing on the Sabbath) and in other respects he applied a more strict interpretation, teaching that divorce in any circumstance is unacceptable. What’s more, if we read the gospels carefully it’s clear that Jesus’ mission was focused on the Jewish community, and not really on non-Jewish Gentiles like most of us. But from time to time Jesus did encounter Gentiles and for the most part engaged with them, and even healed some. But he didn’t focus on them. So, it was up to the disciples and early church leaders to debate on how to accept Gentiles into the new Christian community, since Jesus left no direct teaching on the matter.

Finally, we’ve learned that Jesus was born at an exciting time in the development of Jewish religion. Various lay teachers, who became known as rabbis, were emerging, helping people to better understand and live their faith. One such figure was Hillel, who taught in Jerusalem from 30 BC until his death in 10 AD. He was known for his relatively liberal interpretation of the faith. He recognized brotherly love as the fundamental principle of Jewish moral law and said to a Gentile who asked him to give the essence of Torah: “What is hateful to you, do not do to your fellow: this is the whole Torah; the rest is the explanation; go and learn.” This teaching is reflected by Jesus, who taught that the first commandment is to love God and the second is to love your neighbor as yourself.

In fact, the author of our book even suggests that it is possible that Jesus himself learned at the feet of Hillel. Most scholars think that Jesus was born in about 5 BC. He would have been considered mature in the faith at 13 or so--by the year 8 AD, so we know for certain that Jesus and Hillel overlapped in time. And given the gospel story of Jesus going to the Temple in Jerusalem as a youth with his family, then at the very least it’s within the realm of possibility that the young Jesus encountered an aged Hillel there. But even if he didn’t directly learn from Hillel, Jesus almost most certainly would have learned from others influenced by Hillel. There are too many similarities in their respective teachings for it to be merely coincidental.

We’ve also learned that there was another Jewish leader and teacher at that time, whose name was Shammai. He lived from 50 BC to 30 AD and was stricter than Hillel in his interpretation of the Torah. He believed that only those deemed worthy could study the Torah and that Gentiles could not be converted into Judaism. In fact, he tried various ways to separate Jews and Gentiles and taught that those who went into a Gentile household would be deemed unclean. Hillel was more inclusive and thought anyone should be allowed to study religious teachings and Gentiles could convert if they chose.

Well, both Hillel and Shammai had followers, who formed schools grounded in their respective teachings and interpretations of the Torah. And, what’s especially interesting is that the teachers trained in these two schools of thought were known as “Pharisees.” As you’d expect, the followers of Hillel were more liberal. The followers of Shammai were conservative. But whether liberal or conservative, the Pharisees were laymen, who studied the Torah. While the gospels portray the Pharisees as hypocrites, that’s probably an exaggeration, at least sometimes. Because in some ways the Pharisees were quite avant-garde, in contrast to the more traditional Temple priests and Sadducees, accepting several “modern” ideas, like demons, angels, and the resurrection. The Pharisees urged people to live faithful, holy lives, especially after the destruction of the Temple in Jerusalem, when there was no longer a need for priests. And just as Christians speak of the “Priesthood of all believers,” the Pharisees believed in the “priesthood of all Israelites.”

Recently, some Jewish and Christian scholars have suggested, in studying the teachings in these schools of thought, that Jesus himself may have been a Pharisee, or at least very close to them--but firmly in the tradition of Hillel, not Shammai. That sounds weird and perhaps unsettling to Christians, I know, since the gospels almost always portray the Pharisees as the bad guys, hiding behind the shrubbery, ready to jump out to test and challenge Jesus at any moment. But, before we buy into a caricature, let’s keep an open mind and remember a few things.

First, as human beings we tend to get into the most heated arguments with those who are a lot like us—with members of our families or with people whose religious beliefs are fairly close to ours. Episcopalians and Hindus rarely have theological arguments; there’s just too much distance between us. But, liberal and conservative Episcopalians might really slug it out, because we share so much and feel that our opponent’s faulty views is some how hurting the faith we hold dear. The same was true of Jesus and the Pharisees.

Second, in Jesus’ time, the conservative Shammai Pharisees were more prominent, and the Hillel school was in the minority. Hillel’s thought later became dominant and is the grandfather of the rabbinic tradition in much of Judaism today, placing justice at the heart of their religion, but not until after the gospels were written. So, when the gospels write negatively of the Pharisees, they almost certainly refer to the Shammai group, while the occasional “good” Pharisees, like Nicodemus, are probably followers of Hillel. Of course, ultimately, whether Jesus is rightly identified with the Pharisees is speculation, but there’s no question that he shared much in common and better relations with the liberal Hillel group—including similar teaching, and antipathy towards the conservative Shammai school. We find a good example of Jesus’ arguments against the conservative Pharisees in today’s gospel, when he tells his disciples to do what the Pharisees tell them, because they teach the same things as Moses, not what they do, since they set very strict standards for everyone else, but then don’t do anything to help people live out these requirements.

You may have noticed in this morning’s gospel that Jesus mentioned phylacteries and fringes. Just to be clear, these aren’t special priestly garb, but actually were (and for some Jews still are) normal spiritual attire. The phylacteries are the small black boxes that Jewish men tie on their foreheads and arms with leather straps for morning prayers. They contain tiny scrolls inscribed with verses of the Torah. And the fringes Jesus mentions are just the tassels on prayer shawls. Sometimes you’ll see Orthodox Jewish men with fringes hanging out from the backs of their shirts. So, he was criticizing the Pharisees for being outwardly hyper-observant in following the religious law, really publicly obvious even, but failing to help the poor. And what’s more, since the Pharisees taught a kind of priesthood of all, it seemed wrong that they would then seek seats and titles of honor, especially in synagogues where all adult men were supposed to be equal.

One of the questions all this information raises is what was unique about Jesus? Why is Jesus so well remembered when other teachers are not? And if Jesus were really one of many wise Jewish teachers, how is it that people come to believe that he was the Son of God? The answer is simply that we don’t know for certain. But it’s clear that there was something so remarkably special about Jesus and the way he spoke and taught that people were drawn to him. People left their jobs and their families to be his disciples. They were drawn to his interpretation of the law and his unique, and I would say nearly fearless, approach to life. They sought him out for healing. They wanted to be touched and held by him. Even those who disagreed with him—the Shammai Pharisees—were somehow attracted to him and wanted to hear what he had to say, hiding behind the shrubbery to get a good glimpse of what he was up to.

And within a generation, significant numbers of Gentiles were so inspired by Jesus’ teaching and his story of life, death, and resurrection, that they risked their own lives to be baptized and claim faith in him. Because, of course, they realized that in teaching people how to lead faithful Jewish lives, Jesus was also teaching people how to live faithful human lives—to love God and love our neighbors, to heal the sick, to help those who are poor and in need.

Well, that’s some of what we’ve learned and discussed on Wednesday nights. It’s interesting stuff. It challenges our assumptions. It makes us think about our faith differently. And it encourages us to take Jesus and his teachings all the more seriously as we look to him, and ultimately to God, for salvation and wholeness of life.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

On Looking Back and Looking Forward: A Sermon for September 11

2011-09-11T10:56:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how you are feeling today, but I am a little conflicted. On the one hand, I am excited about the start of another wonderful program year here at Emmanuel, full of promise and hope for all that we will learn and accomplish together as God’s people in this wonderful place. But then, on the other, we can’t escape the fact that today is also the 10^th anniversary of the day that we have come to know as “September 11th,” and all that that dreadful day has meant and still means for us, for our nation, and for the nations of the world. So, somehow it seems that we are being called to hold or balance this conflicted mixture of thoughts and emotions in our hearts, thinking back on a tragic day seared in our collective memory, while also looking ahead to what we hope is a bright future.

You know, we often hear it said that September 11 changed the world forever. Certainly it has made a dramatic impact on the last decade, here in the United States and in many other countries and continents. Our faltering economy, heightened security concerns, especially for air travelers, and two long wars in Afghanistan and Iraq that have cost too many lives, are all signs that the events of September 11, 2001 are still impacting us in various ways. But in other ways, those of us who haven’t lost loved ones in the attacks or in the subsequent wars have probably moved on, not returning to where we were before, for sure, we can’t go back to life on September 10, 2001, but to a new “normal.” More alert perhaps, a little more suspicious of those around us unfortunately, but still picking up with our lives, raising families, going to Red Sox games, coming to church, smiling, embracing, loving, giving thanks for the gift of life, while perhaps a little more aware of its fragility and uncertainty.

Most people who were alive in old enough in 1963 say that they remember where they were when they heard that President Kennedy was killed. I think that’s true with regard to September 11, too. In September 2001 I had just started a new job. I had been working as a parish administrator in an urban church for a couple years after seminary, but that summer I applied for (and actually was hired) to be the Office Administrator for the Episcopal City Mission in Boston, at the headquarters of the Diocese of Massachusetts. I took up my duties right at the beginning of September. And I remember that I was swamped the first week, as the position had been vacant for some time. I thought I would never make it. But after a week it got better and by Sept. 11 I was settling in a little. And that morning, I got an email or phone call from a friend, saying that a plane had flown into the world trade center. Well, it sounded terrible, of course. But I thought it was a small plane that had an accident. But then, of course, more news came that another plane had it. And that they were large passenger jets, and that they had come from Boston.

I don’t remember how it happened, but just about the entire staff at the diocesan office gathered on the top floor in Bishop Tom Shaw’s office to see the news on TV—Bishop Shaw was on sabbatical in Turkey, but it was the only TV in the building. Of course we watched in shock as the towers fell right there on live TV. And then we heard about the Pentagon and rural Pennsylvania. How do you even begin to make sense of all that? There was a Eucharist in the cathedral that noon, presided over by Bishop Barbara Harris. I have no idea what she said, if anything. And after that, at 1:00 p.m., we were told we could go home. I remember that I felt safer in the diocesan office than I did on the subway to Jamaica Plain, but eventually I left. People on the subway cars were absolutely silent, reading special afternoon editions of the Globe and Herald, perplexed about how this could happen here, and perhaps like me worried that the subway, too, would find itself under attack. I was so thankful when I made it home safely. I didn’t want to go out ever again; although, I don’t know that I had ever felt the distance from my family in Minneapolis so greatly as I did that day. We had a prayer service at St. John’s Church in Jamaica Plain that evening, but I don’t remember anything about it really.

It’s interesting how seeing the news footage again, after all these years, brings back emotions that I had tucked away. I suspect the same is probably true for you. So much of it we haven’t seen in years, and you kind of forget how awful it really was. I’ve seen news clips of live coverage of the day that President Kennedy was assassinated, and it seems like the mood of shock, disbelief, and fear was much the same. Was it just one (or a few) people who would do these things, or was it something much wider and deeper? We’ve been told that in the case of President Kennedy’s assassination, it was just one man acting alone (though many question that). But in the case of September 11, of course, we have learned that it wasn’t just a few, it wasn’t even just the hijackers themselves, but an international network determined to bring western culture and civilization to its knees.

On the one hand we can be very thankful that our nation and the nations of the west have largely resisted the attempts to force us to succumb terror. We are more cautious, yes. But life, for the most part, has not come to a screeching halt. In that way, the terrorists have failed, and presumably will continue to fail, over and over again. The human spirit is just too strong and too courageous. But then on the other hand, we have entered into wars that seem to have no ending and that at this point make little sense, at least to me. I was watching the PBS Newshour not too long ago and they had an interesting piece about Afghanistan and what, if anything, the people there know about what happened here 10 years ago. Amazingly, really, few did. Their nation has been torn by armed conflict for a decade (actually much longer than a decade, but 10 years involving the United States), and yet many of the ordinary citizens have no idea what caused it, our part of the world is so far from theirs. When soldiers showed ordinary people pictures of the World Trade Center towers enveloped in fire and smoke, the Afghanis had no idea what it was, or even where it was. One man even asked if it was a photo of Kabul, since that was the only city he had ever even heard of. The solider narrating the piece joked: clearly the man had never been to Kabul, if he thinks it looks like New York City.

So, how do we make sense of that? How do we make sense of on-going wars that have brought so much destruction? It is believed that 2,977 innocent people were killed on September 11. It was horrific and we will never forget so much death and destruction brought in one wretched day. But in the 10 years since, 2,606 coalition forces have been killed in Afghanistan. About 24,000 Afghan forces have been killed. And anywhere between 14,000 and 30,000 Afghan civilians have been killed. I was not opposed to going into Afghanistan in 2001. I thought we should go after the Taliban and capture Osama bin Laden. But now, a decade later, enough is enough. That’s more than 50,000 lives lost. Sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, spouses, friends, whose faces will never be seen again, whose voices will never be heard again, whose touch will never be felt again. I usually shy away from politics in my sermons. But sometimes, we just need to say, enough is enough.

It’s interesting, isn’t it, that in today’s gospel lesson Jesus calls us to forgiveness. And not just once or twice, but over and over again. Not 7 times, but 77 times, or in some translations, 70 x 7 times (that’s 490 times, for each offence). In other words, an infinite number of times. As people of faith, Jesus tells us, forgiveness has to be at the center of our lives. Forgiveness has to define who we are. And why do you think that is? Well, we could say it’s in part because it’s what God wants. And that’s a pretty good reason. But I think it’s also because Jesus knows that it’s good for us. He knows that unless we embrace forgiveness, we will live forever torn apart, consumed by hurt and anger, and possibly revenge. If we don’t forgive, we can’t move on. If we don’t forgive, we can’t live.

I think that’s the point in the harsh parable that Jesus tells in today’s gospel. One who forgives is able to go on with his life. But one who isn’t, who can’t forgive, is forever tortured. In the gospel it suggests that God does the torturing, but I don’t think that’s exactly how it works. I think we simply end up being consumed by our own anger and hard heartedness. God doesn’t need to do anything to us, because we’re plenty good enough at torturing ourselves, sometimes without realizing it. And sometimes I wonder if our nation has fallen into that same trap, as much as many of us do individually.

But let’s be honest. Certainly, I have had trouble forgiving slights more times than I would care to admit, and I suspect that you, too have at least once or twice lingered too long over some offense and missed the love and grace extended by others. It’s what we all do. But you know what, maybe Jesus calls for such extravagant, infinite forgiveness because he knows that it will take some of us 77 or 70 x7, or even an infinite number of times for his message to really sink in. But when it does, when we understand how to forgive, how to let go, how to move on, how to look forward, and not only backward, we experience again the grace and love that allow us to live. We are set free. In a very real and present way, we experience the power of the resurrection, over and over again.

So, today, in our thoughts and prayers we, of course, remember the events of that September 11 a decade ago--when hijacked airplanes killed thousands of people, and set into motion a chain of events that we couldn’t have anticipated on September 10. We remember the lives lost. We remember the courageous souls—firemen, policemen, and ordinary citizens like you and me, who put their own lives at risk to save others. We remember also those who were left behind, grieving for fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, sons, daughters, partners, and friends. We hold them all in our hearts, and we trust that they are held in God’s heart, as well.

And while we are remembering that day, let’s also take time to remember a little further back, 2,000 years ago, when Jesus, God's Son, looking onto a world of broken lives and hurting hearts, looking onto a world as burnt and scorched as ours was on September 11, chose to embrace forgiveness, not revenge, and thus opened for us and for all people a future shaped by mercy, hope, healing, love, and new life. Because that's what forgiveness can do. That’s its power. It frees us to live. It frees us to look ahead, and not just back. It frees us to live now and in the future, full of hope and promise, full of new opportunity, full of resurrection.

May God give us all the strength, the courage, and the hope to forgive, and love, over and over again, so that we can live and grow, now and in the age to come.

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

Finding Hope in Norway

2011-07-23T20:24:00.000-07:00

With people the world over, I have watched the news coming out of Norway with horror. Friday's bomb attack on the government's buildings was terrible and surprising enough in a country as peaceful and progressive as Norway. But the calculated, cowardly, and simply inhuman slaughter of more than 80 youth simply leaves one without words. These youth, members of the Labour Party (equivalent to the Social Democrats in other European countries like Sweden, Denmark, and Germany) were Norway's future leaders, gathering for inspiration, skill development, and camaraderie. Their loss is a senseless tragedy for their families and friends, and also for the whole nation for generations to come. To put this situation into some perspective, Friday's death toll is in fact a higher percentage of the Norwegian population than the September 11 terrorists attacks in the United States.

Since Friday a picture of the terrorist has emerged. Not Islamic, a foreigner or anything of the like, Anders Behring Breivik is a 32 year old blond-haired, blue-eyed Norwegian. And yet in a way, he seems to be the Norwegian mirror image of the terrorists who have become all too well known in recent years, embracing an anti-immigrant and fundamentalist world-view, willing to kill indiscriminately in support of their twisted outlook; although, in this case Breivik's fundamentalism is Christian not Muslim. It can be just as dangerous.

In particular, Breivik seems to have been concerned that in opening its borders to those seeking a better life, Norway was losing its cultural identity. Thus he sought to silence voices of tolerance and progress, not only for today but for tomorrow as well. His ultimate goal was to incite a Norwegian revolution, to make Norway truly Norwegian again. Like the murderous fanatics in previous generations, he looked to the day when Europe would be cleansed of its ethnic and cultural diversity.

In a 1500-page manifesto recently posted on-line Breivik wrote: "Multiculturalism is a tool of Islam; it is a disastrous ideology of false 'nice' that is used to stifle critical thought and open debate. Multiculturalism is a complete failure as it is used by our enemies to destroy us. Multiculturalism must be destroyed." Despite his apparent hatred of Islam, he ironically identifies with al Qaeda elsewhere in his "manifesto" when he writes, "Just like Jihadi warriors are the plum tree of the Ummah, we will be the plum tree for Europe and for Christianity."

While Anders Behring Breivik has taken matters to a horrific, deadly extreme, his views regarding immigration and multiculturalism are becoming increasingly common throughout Europe. In 2010 the Sweden Democrats, a right-wing anti-immigrant party, were elected to the Swedish Riksdag for the first time ever. While still a very minor party, they hold more seats than the Christian Democrats and the Left Party. In Denmark, the Danish People's Party (likewise a right-wing, anti-immigrant party) has enjoyed a much closer association with the ruling coalition and has steadily increased its vote share to become the third largest party in the Folketing. The Finnish True Finns Party has likewise risen to prominence. In 2011 the party won over 19% of the vote (up from just 4% four years earlier) and earned 39 seats to become the third largest party in the Finnish parliament. The True Finns differ somewhat from their anti-multicultural Scandinavian counterparts in that they embrace a leftist economic policy, while still strongly conservative on social issues.

Thus it is that under the progressive, social democratic surface, the Scandinavian/Nordic countries are struggling with what it means to be increasingly diverse, multicultural and multi-ethnic societies. Observers of Scandinavia know that this has been true for some time, since at least the 1960s; however, the tempo has heightened in recent years with the rise of the internet and concern that welfare states do not have the economic strength to adequately support new immigrants as well as "ethnic" Scandinavians. Of course the vast majority of Scandinavians engage this struggle in the public sphere through respectful conversation and debate, abiding by the democratic process. However, combined with religious fundamentalism, and no doubt mental instability, the same struggle over what it means to be Scandinavian in the twenty-first century has led to deadly consequences beyond human imagining or comprehension.

The goal of a terrorist like Breivik is to generate such great fear that an open society like Norway closes itself off. This was the tactic employed by Hitler as well in his attempt to create a pure Europe, and thus far less successfully by right-wing extremists in the United States. But just as it ultimately didn't work for Hitler, it won't work for modern-day thugs like Breivik, either. Because for all of Breivik's apparent respect for Norwegian culture and Christian belief, he doesn't seem to understand that at the heart of the Norwegian (and Scandinavian) society and Christian theology is a profound respect for others, care for those who are less fortunate, and dedication to building a peaceable society in which there is room enough for all.

Alfred Nobel, the nineteenth century Swedish chemist who invited dynamite, was distressed when he realized that he would be remembered for discovering a faster way to kill. Thus in his 1895 will he established the various Nobel Prizes to celebrate and honor positive human accomplishments, and to be awarded without regard to nationality in the fields of chemistry, physics, medicine, literature, and peace.

Nobel was especially impressed by those who worked against militarism and war, and looked to make a contribution for the peaceful solution to international conflicts. Thus, he stipulated that the prize for peace should be awarded in Norway (at the time in political union with Sweden) because its history was decidedly less militaristic and more peaceful than Sweden's. In particular, at the end of the nineteenth century Norway's Storting (Parliament) was involved in efforts to resolve conflicts through careful mediation and arbitration. Nobel was impressed by this commitment and left a lasting legacy for the Norwegian people to honor and support it.

Speaking at the Oslo Cathedral on Sunday morning, Jens Stoltenberg, Norway's Prime Minister said:

"In the middle of all these tragic events, I am proud to live in a country that has stood firm at a critical time. I am deeply impressed by how much dignity and compassion I have seen. We are a small nation, but a proud people. We will never abandon our values. Our reply is: more democracy, more openness, and more humanity. But never naivity. No one has said it better than the AUF [Labour youth league] girl who was interviewed by CNN: 'If one man can show so much hate, think how much love we could show, standing together'."

It is this legacy and commitment to peace, and not fear-mongering murderous attempts to terrorize, that will give hope to the grieving people of Norway and the world in the days, months, and years to come.

Meanwhile in Massachusetts

2011-07-18T19:46:00.001-07:00

One of the pleasures of living in Massachusetts is the opportunity to welcome friends from other parts of the United States, Canada, and even Europe to this place so rich with history and meaning. Among my favorite destinations is always the John F. Kennedy Presidential Library & Museum. The way it uses artifacts and video footage to describe Kennedy's legendary presidency is nothing short of awe-inspiring. But that, of course, is because for many the Kennedy presidency itself was awe-inspiring, in its ability to speak to people across the world, in its ability to inspire young Americans, in its hope for a more free and just society. Kennedy's vision is as relevant today, 50 years after his inauguration, as it was then. Today, my friend Heather and I visited the museum and we were especially inspired by a moving poem written by Jacqueline Kennedy on the occasion of their first anniversary.

"Meanwhile in Massachusetts"

By Jacqueline Bouvier Kennedy

Meanwhile in Massachusetts Jack Kennedy dreamed

Walking the shore by the Cape Cod Sea
Of all the things he was going to be.

He breathed in the tang of the New England fall
And back in his mind he pictured it all,
The burnished New England countryside
Names that a patriot says with pride
Concord and Lexington, Bunker Hill
Plymouth and Falmouth and Marstons Mill
Winthrop and Salem, Lowell, Revere
Quincy and Cambridge, Louisburg Square.
This was his heritage -- this was his share
Of dreams that a young man harks in the air.
The past reached out and tracked him now

He would heed that touch; he didn't know how.
Part he must serve, a part he must lead
Both were his calling, both were his need.
Part he was of New England stock
As stubborn, close guarded as Plymouth Rock
He thought with his feet most firm on the ground
But his heart and his dreams were not earthbound
He would call New England his place and his creed
But part he was of an alien breed
Of a breed that had laughed on Irish hills
And heard the voices in Irish rills.

The lilt of that green land danced in his blood
Tara, Killarney, a magical flood
That surged in the depth of his too proud heart
And spiked the punch of New England so tart
Men would call him thoughtful, sincere
They would not see through to the Last Cavalier.

He turned on the beach and looked toward his house.
On a green lawn his white house stands
And the wind blows the sea grass low on the sands
There his brothers and sisters have laughed and played
And thrown themselves to rest in the shade.
The lights glowed inside, soon supper would ring
And he would go home where his father was King.
But now he was here with the wind and the sea
And all the things he was going to be.

He would build empires
And he would have sons
Others would fall
Where the current runs
He would find love
He would never find peace
For he must go seeking
The Golden Fleece

All of the things he was going to be
All of the things in the wind and the sea.

On Wheat, Weeds, Finnish Relatives & My Dad: A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday after Pentecost

2011-07-17T14:56:00.000-07:00

You may remember how last week we heard about Tricky Jacob and his older brother Hairy Esau. But if you don't, here’s a quick recap: There’s a man we read about in the Old Testament, Jacob, son of Isaac, and grandson of Abraham, who was a trickster who tricked his older brother—Esau—into selling his birthright for a bowl of lentil stew. He also tricked his father, blind old Isaac, into giving him the blessing that was meant for his brother. Well, since last week, we read that Tricky Jacob has run away from home, afraid that his stronger, hairier, more manly brother would take revenge for having been tricked.

So now, when we find him, Tricky Jacob is out hiding in the wilderness. He might even be ashamed of himself for his tricky, cheating ways, but for some reason he’s just not able to change his behavior. At the very least he’s worried that it will come back to haunt him. So, he’s sleeping in the wilderness, with nothing softer than a rock for a pillow, wondering what he’s going to do now. And God, well, he’s looking down on Jacob, aware of all his tricks, but still seeing something special in him. So God speaks to him in a dream, promising him the land, the Holy Land, as a new home for Jacob and his descendants. This, of course, is a promise that our Jewish brothers and sisters have taken very seriously ever since.

But if you listened carefully you’ll have noticed that God also promises something more, something that I think is much greater than any geographical land. God promises that through Jacob and his offspring all the families of the earth, that is, all people, will be blessed. It’s a fantastic, and often forgotten promise that we will all be God’s chosen people, each and every one of us. I wonder, did you remember or notice that part of the story? Unfortunately, it seems that people of faith–whether Christian, or Jewish, or Muslim, or almost anything else–have had a hard time grasping just what this means. For some reason we can’t seem to wrap our minds around the idea either that God would love us so much, or that God would love others so much, with the same kind of fervent and everlasting love.

So what do we do? We fight, we battle over who has the right to a particular plot of land we consider “holy,” we argue over who’s right, over who God loves and who God doesn’t love (at least not as much). And in the process we’ve somehow come to the conclusion that there is not enough: not enough land, not enough love, not enough grace or blessing to go around, even from the God who is the source of all grace, all blessing, all love. And you know what, Tricky Jacob thought that, too. That’s why he tricked his brother out of his birthright. Because he thought he’d be left out. But Tricky Jacob was wrong. And so are we. Like the ancient Israelites, we’ve spent all this time wandering very long and very far in the wilderness, very long and very far from the vision of humanity that God promises to Jacob, very long and very far from God’s promises to us of grace and blessing for all people. So, that’s our Old Testament reading for today.

But then, ironically, in contrast to this promise of a blessing for all families in Genesis, we’ve also just heard the gospel parable of the wheat and the weeds, which obviously is not so much about a blessing for all people, but about the separation of those who are holy from those who are not. Personally, I much prefer the Genesis passage. Even so, this gospel is, I think, one of the better-known passages, particularly for Christians of a certain perspective who are concerned with the purity of their faith community and who see evil and unfaithfulness all around them. They take comfort in the belief that at the last day the wheat will be separated from the chaff and the godly will, as Jesus says, “shine like the sun in the kingdom of the Father.”

But here’s the thing. That theological world-view is not one that I embrace. As I look out in our congregation, I don’t see any weeds. As in Jacob’s dream, I just see the people of God. And it’s not only in our congregation, but in every congregation, and even the whole world. But here’s what we need to remember. Matthew’s church community was a challenged one. It was struggling to discern who should be allowed membership. Should it include Jews only, or should Gentiles be members as well? If Gentiles are allowed, should they be required to convert to Judaism first? Would notorious sinners be welcome, or only those whose lives had been observed as especially pure and holy? And then, in addition to these questions, they had to struggle with the fact that it seemed they were no longer welcome in the synagogue. By confessing Christ and being members of his church, the Jewish Christians were excluded from traditional Jewish religious life. They were cut off from their spiritual and cultural heritage.

The result of this exclusion was the beginning of a distinct new religion and at the same time, the possibility of persecution by the Rome Empire. So, it wasn’t in any sense an easy time. People perceived enemies all around them. But Jesus’ response to this situation in today’s gospel is to say that despite our fears and our concerns and our hesitations, we shouldn’t worry about it. Because it’s not our job to decide who is welcome and who is not, who is holy and who is not. That decision, ever and always, belongs to God. Take comfort, Jesus says, because God is in charge. Our job is simply to live as faithfully and as fully as we possibly can.

As it happens, whenever I hear this parable, I am reminded of my own family. Perhaps like many of yours, my family tree has a variety of religious branches on it. All are Christian, but it is still quite diverse. We have Irish Catholics, German Lutherans, Swedish Lutherans who turned Episcopalian and then turned Baptist (quite the progression, isn’t it?). And there’s also Finnish Lutherans. A crazy mixed up lot. I’ve told you before about the very conservative Finnish Lutherans. Women in their church may not wear make up or curl their hair, no one is permitted to watch TV or go to movies or listen to popular music, dancing is forbidden. But they do drive cars, use computers, hold secular jobs, and their church even has a website (on which you can listen their 45 minute sermons!). My friend Heather, visiting today from Minnesota, actually knows some of these Finnish cousins of mine, so she can give you the low-down during our lemonade time.

My Grandma Ellen was a lifelong member of this church when she married my Irish Catholic grandfather. As was usual in those days, a condition of their marriage was that their children would be Catholic. But it was not to be. My grandparents had only one child, my father. And as I understand it, my grandmother actually kidnapped my dad for a few hours and had him baptized in her church (so that he was baptized “right”) much to my grandfather’s surprise when he got home from his own Sunday mass.

Because he grew up in a mixed faith household, my father was always a questioner. As a teenager he even took confirmation classes in both the Finnish and Roman Catholic churches. Can you imagine any of our youth being willing to do that now—go to two sets of confirmation classes? Dad ultimately was confirmed in the Finnish church. But he wouldn’t stay a member very long. For in high school he met my mother, who was a more mainstream kind of Lutheran. They were married at age 19 and joined a large more liberal church in Minneapolis. So far as I know, my father never looked back. But his Finnish relatives were very upset. They believed that my mother had led my father away from salvation. I understand that at one point along the way my mom suggested to my dad that they rejoin the Finnish church, to be closer to his family. His response: “Are you crazy?” 19 years of that church was quite enough. Although, when my brothers and I were naughty they sometimes would threaten us with going there. There is nothing like the threat of religious extremism to shape up young boys!

My father died very suddenly when I was 15–23 years ago this month. He was the same age as I am now, in fact. My dad’s many Finnish cousins attended the funeral, as family is very important to them. But we also could tell that they were convinced that my dad would not be rejoicing with the saints, because he wasn’t holy enough, or pure enough, because he had left their church and therewith, he had left the flock of Christ. He had been, in their eyes I suppose, a weed among the wheat. But my mother took comfort in the words of our pastor, who said “Well, won’t they be surprised when they get to heaven and find that Peter is already there.” And probably not only my dad, but Roman Catholics, and Methodists, and Episcopalians, Baptists, Jews, and Muslims, and lots of other people, more than we (and my relatives) can possibly imagine.

The fact is, it’s not up to us to decide who is in and who is out, who is holy and who is not, who is wheat and who is weed. Jesus urges us to put these thoughts out of our heads. It’s not our business. It’s God’s business. Of that, we need to let God decide, we need to let God be God. Our role, instead, is to live as faithfully and fully as we can. As Jesus’ disciples we are called to heal the sick, comfort the sorrowful, and work for the God’s kingdom, where all are called to live, “shining like the sun.”

I’d like to close with a reflection on Psalm 139, which we prayed together this morning. The psalmist writes: “If I climb up to heaven or make the grave my bed, God is there. If I take the wings of the morning or dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea, even there God will be.” That promise of God’s love and presence is for me, for you, and for all people. Jews and Gentiles, women and men, Palestinians and Israelis, Iraqis, Afghanis, gay people and straight people, Finnish Lutherans in Minnesota and Episcopalians here in Massachusetts. All of us. All of God’s people. All of God’s beloved, holy, splendid people.

As we gather here in this church, and as we go out into the world, let’s remember the amazing promises God makes to you, to me, and to everyone, as he has for thousands and thousands of years. All of us are created and loved by God, all of us are, as the book of Genesis reminds us, blessed by God, and all of us are called by God to live faithfully and fully, and to shine like the sun, filling the world with God’s light and God’s grace and God’s hope.

So, let’s do that. Let’s shine like the sun on this beautiful world of God’s, on this beautiful world of ours.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

Hairy Esau, Tricky Jacob, & the Purple Puzzle Tree: A Sermon for the Fourth Sunday after Pentecost

2011-07-11T10:16:00.000-07:00

I grew up in a fairly (one might even say very) religious household. There were two big disadvantages of that upbringing: one was a fear of the angel of death in the movie the Ten Commandments and the other was that I could never watch as many cartoons on Sundays as I would have liked. There were never very good cartoons on a Sunday morning anyway, usually just old “Hercules” cartoons from the ‘60s, but then I wasn’t too particular. When I was really lucky, “Speed Racer” was on. But it was never really possible to enjoy it, since our house—probably a lot like yours—was a flurry of activity on Sunday mornings, with everyone trying to get cleaned up, dressed, maybe a bowl of cereal or peanut butter toast, and then piled into the car.

But our crazy religious upbringing was more than just church. My brother Andy and I had religious toys and books, too. We had a great Noah’s ark with lots of animals and Noah & Mrs. Noah (my favorite toys before there were Star Wars figures), who engaged in all sorts of adventures, often involving the bathtub, unexpected whirlpools, and calamitous encounters with Mr. Bubble. We also had a great set of children’s books called The Purple Puzzle Tree. The books were kind of tall and skinny, and came with a record narration. The reason for the name, Purple Puzzle Tree, is because the books say that after humanity’s fall into sin, the world was like a jumbled up purple puzzle that has to be sorted out and put back together. They covered many of the major stories from both the Old Testament and the Gospels; although, I only had the earlier Old Testament ones—up through Moses, I think.

Of them, the one story that stands out very clearly for me is Jacob and Esau, about whom we heard in our first reading. I haven’t seen the actual book in a long time (probably 30 years), but I can still picture some of its fantastic artwork. This week, as I was remembering it, I went on line to see what I could find and, what do you know, the stories are reprinted (and modernized a bit). You can even buy them on DVD. The one about Jacob and Esau was called “How Tricky Jacob was Tricked.” Here’s how it begins:

Now an old man called Isaac and his clever wife Rebekkah were very special people in God’s purple puzzle tree. And one day they had twins. The first twin was hairy, just as hairy as can be. He almost looked like a monkey or a chattering chimpanzee. So they called him Hairy Esau. The second twin was a clever kid and people said, 'He's a trick.' But the tricks he started playing were a dirty cheating game. That's why they called him Jacob, a name that means 'He cheats,' or maybe 'He's a stinker,' because he lies and steals.

And of course it goes on from there. This morning’s reading from Genesis tells the first half of Jacob and Esau’s infamous sibling rivalry, how Jacob forced Esau to give away his birthright for a bowl of lentil stew. But it doesn’t tell the second half—the more dramatic story, of how tricky Jacob covered himself in fur and tricked their blind father Isaac into giving him the blessing that was meant for Esau. Do you remember that story? Here’s how the Purple Puzzle Tree tells it, in a more creative way than I can:

Now Isaac was a very old man and his eyes were very blind. So Jacob and his mother planned to trick the poor old man and try to get the blessing, a very special gift from God meant for Hairy Esau. Listen to Rebecca as she whispers in Jacob’s ear: ‘Jacob, make your hands all hairy, and put on Esau’s clothes. If you can trick the old man’s eyes, I sure can trick his nose.’

Then Rebecca cooked a juicy goat just the way that Isaac loved it, wild and hot and spicy. Next she took the best clothes that Esau kept at home and dressed up Tricky Jacob as if he were his brother. When everything was ready Jacob went to see his father who was very, very blind.

Then Jacob knelt at his father’s feet and let him feel the hairy skin wrapped around his hands and neck. ‘You know,’ said Isaac, ‘Your voice today sounds like the voice of Jacob. But your hands feel just like Esau’s hands, so I’ll bless you anyway.’ ‘My blessing,’ said Isaac, ‘is a promise from God to me that you will be the next important piece in God’s purple puzzle tree. You are now the chosen man in the puzzle of God above. For you will one day rule a nation and show them God is love.’

There’s more, describing how Jacob himself is tricked, but that concerns readings that we’ll hear over the next few weeks. I loved these books for their ability to share important biblical stories and make the characters come alive in ways that a four or five year old me could understand. I suppose it’s a funny thing to imagine kids reading Bible storybooks for fun, but my brother and I did, when we weren’t too busy watching “Hercules” and “Speed Racer.”

What I didn’t realize then, of course, are the various themes or threads that run through the Bible. How the stories are really very similar, even if the characters and details differ. And one of the ways they are similar, especially in these dramatic Old Testament stories, is how the one who is chosen, the star, if you will, like Tricky Jacob, is not who you would expect. In particular, you would expect, because it’s the normal way of things—thousands of years ago and probably still today to a degree—that the oldest son would be the hero or star. Certainly it was the case in ancient society that the eldest son would inherit the best and be shown his father’s favor.

But have you ever noticed that time and again in the Bible it doesn’t work that way--even going all the way back to the first brothers, Cain and Abel. Cain was the older of two, but God favored Abel. So much so that Cain grew jealous and killed Abel. Later, Abraham had two sons—Ishmael and Isaac. Ishmael, the older son, is sent off to die in the wilderness, while Isaac is cherished. Isaac, too, has two sons—Esau and Jacob. Isaac favors his oldest, Esau, but Jacob tricks his brother and his father so that the birthright and blessing are his. Jacob has several sons, but his favorite is the younger—Joseph—whom he honors with the famous coat of many colors. His brothers are so jealous that they sell him into slavery. Later, Moses, a descendant of their family, is the younger son—behind Aaron and their sister Miriam. King David is the youngest son of Jesse, and Solomon is a younger son of David.

If it didn’t sound so irrational, I would say that many of the Bible’s stories were written by malcontent younger children, getting back at their older siblings for having to endure years of hand me downs, and being jealous of having to stay at home when big brothers and sisters got to go out with friends. I, of course, am biased, as an oldest child. But the evidence seems clear: while younger children in the Bible trick their fathers and get birthrights that belong to their older siblings, first children are often portrayed as jealous murders or hapless idiots who sell their birthrights for lentil soup. They sell their younger, more popular brother into slavery and are subject to the angel of death.

So, what’s up with that? Coincidence, or something more? If there really is a theme running through these stories, what is it? What does it mean?

Well, I think it means that the people God chooses to help put the jumbled up puzzle of our world back together again are not who you would expect. God doesn’t make the obvious choices. God doesn’t pick the ones with the best resumes or all the obvious advantages. He doesn’t pick the ones with special training who are being groomed for greatness. Rather, he picks messed up, ordinary, average people. People a lot like us.

Throughout the Bible we read of some really bizarre, messed up characters, who help to bring God’s kingdom to life. Some, like Jacob, are tricky tricksters. Others are less than faithful to their wives (sometimes they are even unfaithful to their many wives). They are often jealous. They betray their loved ones and make disastrously bad choices. But that’s all okay. Because God sees in them something positive that those in the world around them don’t see. God believes that through these very flawed, very human people, new life will come and grow. As it happens, Jesus thought the same thing about his rag tag group of disciples—both those disciples 2,000 years ago, and his disciples here and now today.

These crazy, unexpected stories running through the Bible remind us that even though God chooses us, and has hopes for us, he doesn’t expect us to be perfect. God knows that we are going to make bad choices and find ourselves feeling jealous sometimes. We won’t always be as fair as we should. It’s probably not the way it should be, it’s not how it would be in a perfect world, but then the world is not perfect. It’s jumbled up, like the purple puzzle tree. However, so long as we know that we can trust God and put our faith in him, he will put his faith and trust in us, to help him put that jumbled up puzzle back together.

Here’s how the story of tricky Jacob ends in my old children’s book:

But God loved lousy Jacob, despite his rotten tricks and gave him twelve strong sons. And God gave Jacob that blessing to be his chosen man in the very special plan called the purple puzzle tree.

May we, likewise, be leaves, or branches on that tree that gives life to the world.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

Celebrating independence, 235 years later

2011-07-04T08:55:00.000-07:00

It probably comes as no surprise that Anglicans in the American colonies were conflicted when it came to the prospect of independence. Clergy, in particular, were forced to choose between the vows they had solemnly made at their ordination as priests of the Church of England and the hope of independence of their friends and neighbors. Many ended up fleeing to Canada or England. Some who stayed supported the struggle for independence, but others ministered to loyalists and even the king's armies. One such loyalist priest was Samuel Seabury, who ministered as a chaplain to the king's army. After the war, this former loyalist would be consecrated as the first bishop in the new United States.

The first American Book of Common Prayer was proposed in 1786. Strongly influenced by Latitudinarianism, it was unique in that (among other things) it omitted the Nicene Creed in the Communion liturgy, altered the Articles of Religion (reducing their number to 20), distilling the psalms to just 20, and including prayers of thanksgiving for American Independence. This Prayer Book was adopted by various dioceses, but never by the Protestant Episcopal Church as a whole. Indeed, it came under strong criticism for its deviation from the 1662 Prayer Book of the Church of England.

When the first Book of Common Prayer was adopted by the full Episcopal Church in 1789, many of the innovations of the proposed book were reversed. Notably omitted were the prayers in thanksgiving for American Independence. Many Episcopalians, and especially clergy, felt that they could not in good conscience offer these prayers, as they had been opposed to the Revolution. In fact, prayers for the Fourth of July were not added to the American Prayer Book until the 1928 revision.

235 years after the signing of the Declaration of Independence, it probably is safe for Episcopalians to give thanks for the blessings of this still young nation. In honor of this day, the following prayer from the proposed Prayer Book of 1786 is offered. Many of its sentiments and hopes are as appropriate today as they were in the days following the War of Independence.

O God, whose Name is excellent in all the earth, and thy glory above the heavens, who on this day didst inspire and direct the hearts of our delegates in Congress, to lay the perpetual foundations of peace, liberty, and safety; we bless and adore thy glorious Majesty, for this thy loving kindness and providence. And we humbly pray that the devout sense of this signal mercy may renew and increase in us a spirit of love and thankfulness to thee its only author, a spirit of peaceable submission to the laws and government of our country, and a spirit of fervent zeal for our holy religion, which thou has preserved and secured to us and our posterity. May we improve these inestimable blessings for the advancement of religion, liberty, and science, throughout this land, till the wilderness and solitary place be glad through us, and the desert rejoice, and blossom as the rose. This we beg through the merits of Jesus Christ our Saviour. Amen.

Who's Testing Whom?: A Sermon on the Binding of Isaac

2011-06-26T10:37:00.000-07:00

When I started seminary back in the stone ages of 1995 I became aware of a book that has shaped the way many read the Bible, or at least certain passages in it. It’s called Texts of Terror and was written in the mid-80s by a feminist scholar named Phyllis Trible. It focuses on biblical stories in which women are victimized, seemingly with the blessing of God. For the most part, these are stories that we don’t hear read in church, because they are so shocking, so far from how we would expect people of faith to act, and certainly far from how we would expect God to act.

Trible’s book has had a profound impact. She gave people license to wonder about whether the God that’s represented in certain stories really can be called God, or whether it is the construct of a people who valued (or disvalued) women and life in a very differently than we do today.

Trible doesn’t address the story of the Binding, and near sacrifice, of Isaac that we have just heard this morning, but I think it’s fair to say that it, too, is a “text of terror.” As you probably know, the customary interpretation is that God was testing Abraham, to see how much he loved God. God knew all along that he wouldn’t allow Abraham to kill Isaac (it says at the beginning of the passage that it’s a test), but he had to be sure that Abraham was worthy and that his faith was unflinching enough to become the father of God’s people. At least that’s what I’ve always been taught. But for a long time, I never gave it much thought, to be honest. Of course I knew that it was a difficult passage, but I was never too invested in it, one way or another.

But over time, my perspective about the Abraham and Isaac story has changed. I’ve moved from indifference to horror. Today, I am appalled by the suggestion that the God I am supposed to believe in behaves like a tyrant, playing with people and their emotions, testing their true loyalty, terrorizing them. Rather than love and compassion, rather than justice and hope, the God we find here is a lot like a medieval king, or maybe even the Southie mobsters in the news lately, demanding that people do whatever horrible thing they think up, to prove their faithfulness and allegiance. I know it sounds harsh, but it’s honestly the way I feel hearing the story of Abraham and Isaac.

And I would imagine that those of you who are parents feel just as strongly and probably exponentially more so. Just think: if anyone today were to act in the way that Abraham appears to have, claiming that God commanded that he kill his son, and attempting to do it, he would be locked up for life and we’d see coverage his trial on CNN. What’s more, it’s passages like this—calling people to swear unflinching allegiance to a god no matter what—that give rise to all sorts of fanaticism, in people like Jim Jones and his followers in Jonestown, the Branch Davidians in Waco, and most recently, of course, Al-Qadea.

The good news, though, is that the traditional interpretation of this passage is not its only or even its definitive interpretation. In fact, there is no definitive interpretation of any story in the Bible, because they are just that—stories. It’s up to us to figure out the meaning. So, maybe, there’s another way to read this story: a way that is less offensive and a little more hopeful.

Some of you may recall that when Anne Minton, your former interim priest, came back to Emmanuel last fall to lead a couple adult education sessions on Islam, she suggested that Christians and Muslims tend to read our respective scriptures in a way that our Jewish brothers and sisters don’t. We tend to accept things at face value, “what the Bible says is what it says” in a literal kind of way, while in contrast there’s a long tradition among Jewish rabbis of struggling with the text and finding new, different, and hidden meanings. It’s called “Midrash.” That Midrash tradition is really wonderful in that they are not afraid to argue with the text, to propose unusual readings, and even to wrestle with what it seems that God says. They try to fill in the gaps and imagine what was going on in the characters’ and God’s minds. They break a passage apart, especially a tough passage like today’s, so that some rays of sunlight can shine through.

Since the story of Abraham and Isaac was first a Jewish story, I thought we might look at what Jewish interpreters have to say. Now, many rabbis read it in much the way we tend to, as a test of Abraham’s faith. But others have suggested that there’s more, or perhaps that the test was different than we might first think. For example, some have suggested that Abraham must have been hallucinating if he thought that God would demand such a thing; others that it was God’s punishment of Abraham for abandoning his older son, Ishamael; some that Abraham really did kill Isaac, but that he was resurrected. And others still have argued that human sacrifice was so common in the age in which Abraham lived that the fact that God interceded to prevent it is what makes this story so profound, marking a shift in the way humans thought about God—toward a God who is appalled by senseless killing and human sacrifice, rather than demanding of it.

A contemporary Jewish scholar named Lippman Bodhoff, in Midrashic fashion, employs some creative thinking and suggests that perhaps God and Abraham are really testing each other—but not in the way you might think. To understand his point, we have to go all the way back, almost to the beginning of creation, and the story of the brothers Cain and Abel, Adam and Eve’s sons. You remember that Cain, who was jealous, killed Abel. God is appalled and decrees killing wrong. After the great flood, God reiterates that to Noah, saying: "Whoever sheds the blood of a human, by a human shall that one's blood be shed; for in his own image God made humankind."

Moving ahead several generations, today’s hero, Abraham, holds God to that standard when he intercedes for the people of Sodom and Gomorrah on the grounds that God’s plan to destroy the towns would have the consequence of killing innocent people. Abraham argues with God so persuasively that God promises to spare the towns if even five righteous people are found within them. Apparently there weren’t five righteous people, since God destroyed the towns anyway, but he did lead to safety the few who were righteous--Lot and Lot’s wife, and their daughters, though Lot’s wife turned into a pillar of salt when she looked back against God’s command.

That brings us to this morning’s passage in which it seems that God is requiring that Abraham show his fealty by sacrificing his beloved son. This really puts Abraham in a bind, since he knows that what God asks of him is actually against God’s laws, as declared to Noah. Does Abraham comply with God’s order, horrific as it is, or does he follow God’s law? Bodhoff suggests that Abraham knows that he can’t kill Isaac, but he also doesn’t feel that he can argue with God again. He doesn’t want to test his luck and insult God, but he hopes that God will change his own mind.

And so, Abraham puts God to the test. He thinks to himself, “I have found God and my tradition and experience have revealed Him and made Him known to me as an all-powerful, all-knowing, just and compassionate God. But I need to be sure that this is the God to which I truly wish to dedicate myself and my progeny and my followers for all time. If the God I have found demands the same kind of immorality that I saw in my father's pagan society, I must be mistaken. I must look further. To obey such a God is not a moral advance at all.” What he doesn’t know is that God is testing him, too. Only God isn’t really testing him to see if he’ll sacrifice Isaac, rather God’s testing (or tricking) to see if Abraham will refuse to do it, as he should.

After God’s command, Abraham is in no rush and takes his time getting around to it (he’s stalling, in other words). He has men accompany them on their journey, and when they get closer to the mountain he asks the men to wait for their return. Notice Abraham doesn’t say for “me” to return, but for “us” to return. It seems he planned to return with Isaac all along. As he and Isaac are making their way, Isaac asks where the lamb is for the sacrifice and Abraham responds that the Lord will supply it. Even at this late stage he trusts that God will not make him go through with this horrific plan.

Meanwhile, God watches in horror (just as we do) as Abraham makes his preparations. God wonders when Abraham will call it all off, when Abraham will fight back, like he did for the people of Sodom and Gomorrah. Abraham stalls for as long as he can, waiting for God to call it all off, wondering what kind of God he had come to believe in, what kind of covenant he had agreed to follow. It’s a divine game of chicken, really, with poor Isaac caught up in the middle.

Ultimately, God flinches first. He tells Abraham to stop, to drop the knife, untie Isaac, and sacrifice a ram instead. God knew, of course, that he would never let Abraham take things too far. God appreciates and honors Abraham’s loyalty, but is also perhaps disappointed that Abraham didn’t fight back, that he didn’t protect Isaac, that he didn’t reiterate God’s law against murder. In a sense Abraham actually failed that test.

But not really, because God didn’t know that Abraham was testing God at the same time. You see, Abraham had no intention of killing Isaac. To do so would break one of God’s laws. If God had not intervened when he did, Abraham planned to drop the knife and abandon this cruel, false god, in favor of the true God who is actually loving and caring, the God who is life-giving not life-taking. But Abraham never really thought it would come to that. And he was right. In the end, both Abraham and God passed the test, in spite of themselves, so much so that God blessed Abraham and Isaac, and their descendants became greater in number than the stars in the sky.

Well, is this Midrashic interpretation any better than the traditional one? I don’t know. But it is in keeping with an ancient understanding of God—who did not read human thoughts, but who could be bargained with, and who put people to the test. Really, he’s a smaller, more human-like God than we tend to believe in today. In any case, it helps us to consider this passage in different way. It’s no more official than any other interpretation, but maybe it’s less offensive, since we know that neither God nor Abraham were willing to see Isaac killed.

Like Abraham and Isaac, throughout our lives we are asked to make choices and swear allegiances. We are told that some authority, perhaps even God, wants us to act in a certain way, when deep down we struggle with how this could possibly be true. If you heard any of the debate about marriage equality in New York this week you might have noticed that several Roman Catholic lawmakers said that they struggled with their church’s teaching on the one hand and what they thought to be right in terms of justice and equality on the other. While senators came down on both sides, several bravely said that they ultimately chose justice and equality over the church. It doesn’t mean that they love God any less, but perhaps that how God speaks to them may be different than they have traditionally thought. In a way, that’s what this new interpretation tells us that Abraham did as well. He wanted to know if the God he had come to follow was truly a God of love and compassion or not. He wanted to know if God would support him, sustain him, and bring him abundant life, and not only him, but also his son Isaac, and for all who would follow them, or if the god he had come to believe in was no better than all the other false gods that people before him had followed. In the end, both he and God chose right.

And that, I think, is our test, too. It is up to us to decide if something is of God, or some other authority, telling us it is God speaking, urging us to do or believe something, but is actually far from what the true living God would want. Sometimes we may even find those other voices speaking to us through the church or the Bible. Often, those voices seek to divide and hurt us, and those we love. But here’s the thing. We like Abraham, like the prophets, like Jesus, believe in a God of love, a God of compassion, a God of hope, and we can know with confidence and assurance that the true God will never terrorize us or ask us to make choices that call us to hurt those we love; rather, the only commands that God gives us will come from love and result in love, they will come from compassion and result in compassion, they will come from hope and result in hope. We know that because that’s who God is, it’s how God acts, and it is who God wants us to be. That’s the God I believe in, and I hope you do, too.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

On Belief, Doubt, & the Nicene Creed: A Sermon for Trinity Sunday

2011-06-20T09:01:00.000-07:00

Some of you may remember that a few weeks ago I talked about how when I was applying for the rector’s position here I was also a candidate in a couple other searches. Those who are new to the Episcopal Church may not be aware that we follow a call process, by which the congregation selects its priest, rather than an appointment process where the bishop makes the decision for you (here the bishop has to approve the congregation’s choice, but doesn’t actually select the rector). You also may remember that I said I was disappointed when I was turned down for a glamorous position in Newton, after a somewhat disastrous phone interview.

Well, as it happens, that interlude was just as Emmanuel’s search process was picking up. So my distress didn’t very last long, because as I read Emmanuel’s search profile materials I started to be intrigued by this parish and most especially by what I read about your interest in focusing on adult education. That is such a rarity in so many churches, where there’s a strong education focus for children’s ministry (as there should be), but the adults are pretty much content with what they learned in church school or confirmation 20, 30, or 40 years earlier. But here, at Emmanuel, there’s a desire to learn and grow in faith. That’s why we came up with the tag line, “Come and grow with us” that we have plastered all over our building and printed materials. Because our deepest desire is to grow, not only in numbers, but also in understanding, in relationship with God, in community life.

So, a mission of mine has been to focus on adult education (along with worship and pastoral care). And we’ve had a variety of approaches and courses over the past three years—most recently on the Gnostic gospels. What I especially appreciate about these sessions is how open everyone is coming to a deeper understanding, not needing to agree with other necessarily, but certainly wanting to learn together and from each other.

Interestingly, conversations often veer back toward the Nicene Creed, I suppose since we recite it together every week. What does it mean? Why do we say it? Do we have to believe all of it? What if we don’t believe all of it? Since today is Trinity is Sunday, and since it’s really in the Nicene Creed that we find the Trinity articulated, I thought I might say a bit about the creed: where it comes from, why we say it, and what it might mean for us today. This might be a little dry, or a bit like an adult ed session (though unfortunately less interactive), but hopefully also interesting. And if it’s not, you can mentally work on your Father’s Day barbecue menu.

The Nicene Creed was formulated in the fourth century—the 300s—to articulate what Christians believe about God, Jesus, the Holy Spirit, and the Church. It came about as a result of debates and disagreements over whether Jesus was fully divine—in other words equal to God—or maybe not quite equal to God. And whether he was fully a human being, or maybe just looked like a human being. Emperor Constantine was concerned that Christians were so divided over these issues that told the bishops to figure it out and come to an agreement, and that’s what Christians would believe. It’s an understatement to say that it was an exercise of top-down authority. Ordinary people like us had no say.

So, the creed was worked out in the much the same way that Congress passes laws. It didn’t descend from heaven on a cloud and it’s not written in the Bible. In fact, the only place in the Bible that mentions the Trinity in the way we do as “Father, Son, and Holy Spirit” is this morning’s gospel. The bishops debated and argued and changed some words here and there to appeal to various groups, and then debated some more, and eventually came to the greatest agreement they could, with as many people as possible agreeing to live with whatever they decided on, but everyone was not always exactly happy.

The original version of the Nicene Creed was decided upon in the year 325 and was quite a bit shorter than the one we know. There was no mention of the Virgin Mary or Pontius Pilate. It actually didn’t even say Jesus was crucified. Or much of anything about the Holy Spirit. In it’s earliest form, it was simply an attempt to emphasize that Jesus was fully human and fully divine. But that wasn’t enough, and people started arguing that maybe the Holy Spirit wasn’t equal to God, so they called another council to deal with that issue, as well as to flesh out the finer details. They added those portions that we know, and finally approved it in the year 381. With that, the doctrine of the Trinity was born. And we’ve had it mostly as is ever since.

The purpose of the Nicene Creed was two-fold. First, it unified Christians, articulating what they believed (or should believe), especially about Jesus. And second, it was meant to exclude teachings, like Gnosticism, which the majority of bishops decided were wrong. For example, the Gnostics believed that the world was created bad, not by God but by a lesser being (obviously in contrast to this morning’s reading from Genesis in which we heard that God created everything and called it very good). The orthodox Christians won that debate and enshrined their belief in the creed when it says that the one God is the maker of all things, visible and invisible. The creed also excluded those who didn’t believe that Jesus was fully divine (Arians) and also those who didn’t believe that he was fully human (Docetists). In fact, anyone who couldn’t agree was thrown out of the empire entirely. I guess that’s one way to enforce unity, if a bit draconian.

In the 1630 years since the Nicene Creed was adopted Christians have been reciting it week by week all over the world, in our various languages. Roman Catholics, Eastern Orthodox, Lutherans, and Anglicans all say it every Sunday morning (and in some churches they even sing or chant it). As it was in the year 381, so today the creed is the single defining statement of the Christian faith. Everything else, really, is extra.

But here’s the thing: I know that some of us are able to recite it and believe every word, and some are not, feeling like they have to cross their fingers or take a deep breath during certain portions. Thankfully, it is no longer the case that any of us will be thrown out of the empire if we can’t agree to all of it. Nor will any of you be thrown out of Emmanuel Church if there are portions of it that you have a hard time saying. Even so, there are some find the creed to be exclusionary, because it tells us what we are supposed to believe, sometimes things that are very hard to believe. People even leave church because of it.

In my younger days I didn’t like it either, and I, too, had a hard time with several passages. But then, when I thought about it more deeply, I realized that in its own way the creed is actually kind of inclusive—or at least it can be. You know, when people come to Emmanuel, we don’t ask them what they believe or don’t believe. We don’t make any one sign a statement of faith. All we do here to confess our faith is recite the Nicene Creed. But if someone has a hard time with a portion of it, or if they don’t say part of it, that’s completely up to them. It’s no one’s business but his or her own. Maybe through reciting it together he or she, or you, will come to a greater appreciation and deeper understanding, and maybe not. But that’s okay, because if you’ll notice, it’s not necessarily saying that it’s what I or you as an individual believe, but what “we” as a church community together believe. What’s more, in the Episcopal Church there is no authoritative or official teaching to go along with the Nicene Creed. The Roman Catholic Church has a large catechism to explain everything, but we don’t. So, how we believe that Virgin Mary conceived or how the resurrection happened is open to a lot of interpretation. If you think about it, there’s actually a significant degree of liberality in that.

But just as important is the fact that what the creed covers is really very minimal. It basically addresses the Holy Trinity—who God is and how God relates to us—and that’s all. None of the other things the church gets so fussed about it is covered in any way. In 1996 the Episcopal Church determined that the Nicene Creed establishes the core doctrine of the church, which means that anything that falls outside the scope of the creed is open to debate, dialogue, and diverse belief and practice. This came about when some conservatives brought heresy charges against a retired bishop for ordaining a gay man to the priesthood. Well, the court of bishops who heard the case ruled that anything not related to the Nicene Creed could not be considered a matter of heresy. And of course the creed certainly doesn’t discuss who can be ordained (or married or anything like that), so the case was thrown out as without merit. It’s actually kind of ironic that the Nicene Creed, which was once used to exclude people, some 1600 years later was the basis for the church becoming more and more inclusive, and it has been ever since.

And so over the years, I have come to appreciate it more and more, both for what it says and what it doesn’t say. Today, I think of the creed as the skeletal structure of our faith. We each have bones and frames that look more or less the same, but the way we flesh them out, the way we bring them to life, is different for each of us. Some of us are tall, some short. Some thin, others not as thin as we’d like. Some have a deep rich skin tone and others like me are pasty white. And so it is with our faith. We take what has been handed down to us for nearly 2000 years and we interpret and express it in a multitude of ways. In fact, I would imagine that there are as many interpretations and expressions of the Christian faith as there are Christians in the world, and as there have been since Jesus called his first disciple. What unites us is not believing all the same things (because we never will), but sharing that common structure, that frame, the bones, which are really just beginning of a much deeper, richer, and livelier faith.

And you know what, that’s just as it should be. Because it is only together, when we all share our various and unique insights and perspectives, that we can truly come to who God is and how God is active among us. In fact, that’s why we have the doctrine of the Trinity in the first place, since God is known to us in diverse ways as Father, Son, and Spirit, as Creator, Redeemer, Giver of Life, as Mother, Liberator, and Friend. No single image is sufficient. We need them all.

So, the Nicene Creed is a wonderful start, expressing an ancient faith shared by Christians across time and space. But it’s always up to us to bring that faith to life in our own time and place. And that’s what we do here, when we pray and worship together, when we serve our neighbors, and when learn from each other. When we grow together in faith, spirit, and community.

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

On Endings, Beginnings, Graduations, & the Gifts of the Spirit: A Sermon for Pentecost

2011-06-13T09:22:00.000-07:00

I’ve been thinking a lot about endings and beginnings lately. I think that’s because of this time of year—the ending of a school year, for some even it’s even the ending of a school career with graduation season upon us. But then, of course, just when something ends, like high school, college, or graduate school, a new beginning is set before us as well—or at least the hope of a new beginning—whether that’s a job or more school in a different place. I suppose it’s not too profound to say that whenever we experience any kind of ending in life, we experience a new beginning at the same time. Whatever circumstance life hands us, there is always the hope of something new to follow.

Later this afternoon, my high school will be holding its graduation ceremony at the Target Center (the arena of the Minnesota Timberwolves basketball team) in downtown Minneapolis--the very same place that my own graduation ceremony was held 20 years ago when the Target Center was just a few months old. It’s hard to believe that it’s been 20 years on the one hand, but then on the other, it really seems like a foggy, misty life-time ago that I can barely remember.

Perhaps like you, sometimes I wonder, if I were to go back and look at my former, younger self, who would I find? A very skinny guy with a lot of insecurity and doubt, who didn’t always get along with his mother and new stepfather, who didn’t even have a drivers’ license and was tired of working for $3.85 an hour at the Dairy Queen, but who also looked forward to a future full of possibility. Most especially, I looked forward to going away to college, to starting over, to figuring out what my life should be all about.

What I definitely know is that I would never have expected that I would be here, in this place with you, 20 years later. When I graduated from high school, my plan was to go to college and major in German and Political Science, with a goal of being a German teacher, or if I was thinking really big, to work in international politics in Austria or something. But as it turns out, I didn’t end up majoring in either German or Political Science. Early on I discovered my deeper interest in religion; the college’s German department fell apart so I switched to Swedish (Minnesota is probably the only place in the country you can do that with no more than a blink of the eye!), I learned about the Episcopal Church, and my life was somehow set on a very different trajectory than I had planned when I donned my graduation cap and gown. My mother jokes that she sent her Lutheran son to a Lutheran college and he came out wanting to be Episcopal priest!

Our lives take many unexpected, bumpy, twisty, windy paths, don’t they? Sometimes there are forks in the road that force us to make difficult choices. We find roads closed that we had planned to take, sometimes we have to ask for directions, and we may even have to turn around and go back when we get lost. I suspect that for many of you, life has been much the same. And for those who are younger, thinking of graduation, college, jobs, and your own life’s future, you should remember that whatever plans you might have, whatever road you have mapped out today, may not be the one that God has planned for you. But that’s okay. It’s even as it should be. Because somehow, in some way, you will get to where God wants you to go, even if it may seem like you have to take more than your fair share of detours to get there.

One of my favorite people is David Brooks, a columnist for the New York Times and contributor to National Public Radio and the PBS Newshour. Recently he wrote a column for today’s college graduates. But actually, I think his insights apply to just about all of us. He writes:

Today’s graduates are told to find their passion and then pursue their dreams…. But, most successful young people don’t look inside and then plan a life. They look outside and find a problem, which summons their life. A relative suffers from Alzheimer’s and a young woman feels called to help cure that disease. A young man works under a miserable boss and must develop management skills so his department can function. Another young woman finds herself confronted by an opportunity she never thought of in a job category she never imagined. This wasn’t in her plans, but this is where she can make her contribution….

The graduates are also told to pursue happiness and joy. But, of course, when you read a biography of someone you admire, it’s rarely the things that made them happy that compel your admiration. It’s the things they did to court unhappiness — the things … that were arduous and miserable, which sometimes cost them friends and aroused hatred. It’s excellence, not happiness, that we admire most…. Most of us are egotistical and most are self-concerned most of the time, but it’s nonetheless true that life comes to a point only in those moments when the self dissolves into some task. The purpose in life is not to find yourself. It’s to lose yourself.

Well to me, that sounds an awful lot like something Jesus said to his disciples 2,000 years ago. They likewise followed a bumpy, twisty, windy road. For them, like us, there was no map, no GPS, no life plan. They must have wondered: Was there any kind of future in this disciple business or would it be better to try fishing, net mending, and tax collecting once more? Would their friends and family take them back? Would their employers? Or did the path they followed Jesus on prevent them from going back to the life they had known previously? And if so, where would it lead them now?

Of course they had that promise of Jesus that he would not leave them comfortless, that God would send the Holy Spirit to fill their hearts, sustain them, uphold them, and help direct their path. But until the Spirit came, during the time of waiting, it must have seemed like one more impossible puzzle, one more confusing mystery among many since the fateful day they decided to drop their nets, to give up their lives, and fish for people.

Eventually, of course, on Pentecost, the Spirit did come and filled their hearts. In the Acts of the Apostles we read that the Holy Spirit came like a rush of a violent wind and descended on them like fire, giving them the ability to speak in a multitude of languages. Of course, we can’t be sure if that’s how it really happened, or if that’s more of a dramatic, pictorial way of describing something that, like the resurrection, defies explanation. But however it happened, the disciples came to believe, in a new and different way, that indeed Jesus had not left alone, that there would be some guide or at least a light on their path, that God would uphold and sustain them through whatever lay ahead.

What’s interesting, though, is the fact that much like David Brooks’ suggestion about a finding a meaningful life today, the Bible never tells us that the life of discipleship became easy, even after the gift of the Spirit. We don’t read that suddenly it all became clear and smooth or that there were no more bumps or potholes in their road. In fact, the Bible tells us just the opposite. We read that those who chose to follow Jesus faced many, many trials and challenges—people didn’t listen to them and held them up to ridicule, some were imprisoned, and some were even killed for their faith, just as Jesus himself had been.

The gift of the Spirit didn’t prevent any of these trials. Rather, what the Holy Spirit did was empower them to face the great challenges of life, confident in the power and promise of God to sustain them through anything the world might dole out. It doesn’t mean that life wasn’t still hard or that they didn’t have serious questions and doubts, because they surely did. But it does mean that when they stopped, when they prayed, when connected again with the Holy Spirit that lived and breathed in them, when they drank from the Spirit, to use the language of today’s readings, they realized that their strength was in God and not in their own ideas, their own plans, or their own accomplishments. They realized that whatever happened on the road they followed, God’s light would shine on them and through them. And that, for them, was enough.

And it’s enough for us, too. Because the same Spirit that the disciples received in such a dramatic fashion on that Day of Pentecost 2,000 years ago lives on still, in us, today. The Spirit empowers us to be who God created us to be and helps us to fulfill whatever dream God has in mind for us. Sometimes, the Spirit even encourages us to consider challenges and opportunities that don’t even seem possible. I think that’s why Paul’s writes, “To one is given the utterance of wisdom, to another knowledge, to another faith, to another gifts of healing, to another the working of miracles, to another prophecy, to another the discernment of spirits, to another various kinds of tongues, to another the interpretation of tongues.”

In this, Paul reminds us not only of the diverse gifts that God showers on us in the Holy Spirit, but also, and I think more importantly, of the power of those gifts to literally transform us from the inside out, helping us to be who we could never have imagined, to take on tasks that we could never have imagined, and in the process empowering us to transform the world, in big and small ways, into the kingdom that God is bringing into being through you, through us, together.

Whatever your gifts may be, whatever ours are together, God gives us the energy we need to take on life’s challenges, to see that each day is full of new promise and new possibility, to work for transformation, and to make all things new. Like Jesus’ first disciples, we won’t always succeed. We’ll stumble more often than we’d like. Sometimes, we’ll find ourselves on roads that seem like dead ends or that lead to nowhere good. But then, just as we throw up our hands in despair feeling like we can’t handle any more, we realize that we already have what we need to get us through--a spark, a flame, God’s spirit, burning within us, giving us courage and power to face another day, to take on another challenge, to embrace another opportunity.

That’s what this day, this Pentecost is all about. It’s our reminder that God is ever and always with us: guiding us, challenging us, shining light on our path and in our hearts, and opening to us new possibilities, new hope, and new life, each and every day.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

Christ has died! Christ is Risen! Christ will come again!

2011-05-21T09:53:00.000-07:00

It is May 21, 2011 and some people around the world are busy preparing, and perhaps worrying, about the second coming of Christ today. Harold Camping, an evangelical Christian radio broadcaster in California has predicted that today is the day. His means of calculating the date is too complex for me to understand, truth be told. But somehow, his arguments are compelling enough to lead some to quit their jobs, others to go into hiding, and still more to wonder what exactly it is that Christians believe. I was asked a question about it all by a friend (also my former high school orchestra conductor, as it happens). Here is my response, with an extra dose of Anglican theology thrown in, since I am supposed to be on retreat working on my doctoral dissertation.

Obviously there are some Christians who believe strongly in the triumphant return of Christ. The TV is full of them. However, they tend to think the May 21 prediction is nonsense, since Jesus himself says that no one knows the day and hour except the Father in heaven. But they believe it will happen eventually. Even mainline Protestants, who certainly don't emphasize such things, must believe in the second coming in some sense, since our liturgies are full of reference to it. In the Episcopal Church, Eucharistic Prayer A includes the congregational refrain "Christ has died. Christ is risen. Christ will come again." In fact, the liturgical season of Advent is specifically set aside for the preparation of Christ's coming, both as a baby at Christmas and also on the last day.

The earliest Christians, too, believed in the Second Coming. However, they thought it would happen in their lifetimes. St. Paul certainly did. That's why he advised against people marrying unless absolutely necessary. He thought we should focus on preparing ourselves spiritually for Christ. The gospel writers also thought it would happen sooner rather than later. Mark's gospel, in particular, really has to be read through the lens of one who thought that the second coming would be soon. There's lots of evidence for this. His gospel--the earliest--was written in AD 70, around the time of the destruction of the mighty Temple in Jerusalem. It was for Mark a sign of the approaching end times. Throughout his gospel, he uses the word 'immediately' often, emphasizing that there isn't much time to get his message out, or to be prepared. Thus, Mark avoids stories about Jesus' origins, such as the virgin birth, since for him that's so much less important than the future--he just wants to get to the substance of his gospel, sharing the Good News of the saving work of God in Christ. Finally and perhaps most interestingly, in Mark's original ending, there is no resurrection appearance, since he seems to believe that the resurrected Jesus will appear not on Easter morning, but on the last day when he comes again. He concludes his gospel by saying that the women who came to the tomb left terrified. Obviously, that didn't happen--or at least it hasn't yet.

The later gospels (Matthew and Luke use Mark as a model, but were written 10 to 20 years later) deal with the fact that Jesus hadn't come again as soon as expected by the Christians of Mark's era by telling us about Jesus' resurrection in more pictorial ways. Luke grapples with the fact that Jesus is not still physically on earth by describing his ascension into heaven. They write about the establishment of the church community and Luke describes the gift of the Holy Spirit on Pentecost, all to tide us over for the longer term until Jesus comes again. Even so, I don't think these later evangelists would have imagined we'd still be here 2,000 years later.

The toughest question is: what did Jesus himself think? Of that we can't really know, since each of the gospels is written from a post-resurrection, post-Temple destruction perspective. So, as a result, much of what we read, much of what Jesus says, is the gospel writers' attempts to craft a compelling story, rich with theological meaning, inspired by the events happening around them and most especially by their profound belief and conviction that Jesus is the Son of God who died on the cross and rose victoriously on Easter. It doesn't mean that what they write isn't true in a deep theological sense, even as it probably is isn't always historical fact. They believed this Gospel, this Good News, with every fiber of their being, and because they were confident that Jesus was the Son of God, they were also sure that he would come again, at some undetermined time.

However, what that means is that it is sometimes hard to discern what Jesus thought about such issues, or even *if* he thought about such issues. Presumably he did to some degree as it was a common first century concern, but we can't know for sure. Sometimes what Jesus says is really what the gospel writers say, inspired by their belief in Jesus as the Son of God. But sometimes it really is Jesus, too. Unfortunately, it can just be hard to figure out which is which.

Whatever is depicted in the gospels, I think that if and when Jesus comes again, it will not be a cataclysmic event for the world--with stars falling from the heavens and earthquakes and the like. Instead, I think it will be a reconciling event. Because I believe that Jesus came to bring peace, hope, and new, abundant life. There may well be judgment--either at the end of our lives or on the day of the second coming (whatever that may mean)--but in my imagination, anyway, we will do the judging of ourselves when we see from a new perspective the pain and hurt we have caused others. As we know, there's nothing more damning in the human experience that knowing how deeply we have hurt others. F. D. Maurice, the great nineteenth century Anglican theologian and my hero, described sin as “the sense of solitude, isolation, distinct responsibility.” He writes that one knows sin most fully when he realizes “how he has broken the silken chords that bind us to our fellows; how he has made himself alone, by not confessing that he was a brother, a son, a citizen."

But then, just as we grapple with that, we also have the opportunity to receive God's limitless grace, forgiveness, and love. Just because that's who God is and what God does. God doesn't force us to accept this love, of course. We can wallow in our guilt and pain and self-destructive ways if we want, but God certainly hopes we will choose the more life-giving path that is being offered us, and will wait on us for long as long as it takes. God will always be there holding out hands in love, waiting for us to drop whatever junk we may be carrying (guilt, pain, selfishness, whatever) so that we can reach back and be raised to new life.

All that said, I do think we should be ready for Christ's return, because it just might happen. We don't know when or how. But I believe that readiness doesn't come through doomsday predictions, but through loving and forgiving others, helping the poor, sick, and oppressed, living fully and abundantly, just as Jesus wanted us to do. If we do all that, then we'll be ready to meet Jesus, whether he descends on a cloud, or meets us around the next corner in the face of a homeless man, the cashier at the grocery store, or those we already know and love.

None of this is a definitive answer, of course, but it's what I think. Maybe I'll be dreadfully wrong. But if I am, I'd rather be held accountable for being too loving and too forgiving than not loving enough.

F. D. Maurice (who plays a starring role in my dissertation) wrote the following in his controversial book The Theological Essays in 1852. I think it is just about the best assessment of what we should believe and hope for, both now and in the age to come:

"If you take away from me the belief that God is always righteous, always maintaining a fight with evil, always seeking to bring His creatures out of it, you take everything from me, all hope now, all hope in the world to come. Atonement, Redemption, Satisfaction, Regeneration, become mere words to which there is no counterpart in reality.

"I ask no one to pronounce, for I dare not pronounce myself, what are the possibilities of resistance in a human will to the loving will of God. There are times when they seem to me—thinking more of myself than others—almost infinite. But I know that there is always something which must be infinite. I am obliged to believe in an abyss of love which is greater than the abyss of death. I dare not lose faith in that love. I sink into death, eternal death, if I do. I must feel that this love is compassing the universe. More about it I cannot know. But God knows. I leave myself and all to Him."

Enjoy your May 21, whatever happens at 6 pm. Jesus wants us to appreciate and embrace the gift of life. He wants us to abide in that abyss of love.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

On Anne Frank, Resurrection, & Baptism: A Sermon for the Second Sunday of Easter

2011-05-01T11:35:00.000-07:00

Today in Wakefield we celebrated the Second Sunday of Easter with two baptisms. This was the homily.

Most of you know that I like movies, and I like to talk about movies in my sermons. Usually, I talk about science fiction movies like Star Wars or Star Trek, because they played such a major role in my life as a kid--the vast, vast majority of my toys were Star Wars action figures, so those movies and its characters like Luke Sykwalker, Han Solo, Princess Leia, and Darth Vader, were my constant companions--I think I often even brought action figures to school in my backpack to play with at recess, and also just to have my heroes with me. I also liked the Wizard of Oz and quite a few musicals-- my parents liked them, too. So it might come as a surprise that it's not only fantasy or cheesy musicals that draw my attention. I also like serious movies that make me think. Movies that draw me in, identifying with the characters, sharing in their story.

When I was 12 or 13 years old I happened to see the old 1950s movie The Diary of Anne Frank. I don’t think I knew of her story before I saw that movie; although, I did know of the Holocaust, but perhaps without the personal face that Anne Frank gives us so movingly. My parents recorded it on TV and I was so drawn in that I watched it over and over again (I am one of those people who likes to watch movies many, many times, so I can catch all the nuances). Sometimes I wonder if that was such a good idea, when it came to Anne Frank, as it really scared me on the one hand, but it was also so compelling. Certainly it shaped how I look on the world.

You probably know the story—from reading the actual diary or seeing a production of the play or the movie. (As it happens, if you don’t know it, or if you want to see it again in the near future, our own parishioner Chip Sheeran is directing a production of the Diary of Anne Frank at the Amazing Things Arts Center in Framingham, opening this Friday. And, our super talented parishioner Emily Sheeran stars as Anne.) You may know that Anne and her family were Germans, from Frankfurt, but right after Hitler came to power they moved to the Netherlands, when Anne was 4, where they thought they would find a safe refuge. And for about 8 or 9 years they did—living comfortable middle-class lives, until 1940 when German troops rolled in and occupied that country, too. So they went into hiding in the secret apartment above Anne’s father’s office in a factory that made pectin and spices used in making homemade jams.

What’s interesting, from a dramatic, literary, and even human perspective, is how the story is really limited to what happens in the secret annex. They obviously hear about what’s going on outside, from the radio and the few helpers who bring them food and other provisions, but those in hiding never see that world, except when they take a peek through the heavy lace curtains or blackout paper that cover their windows. The adults try hard to give the younger residents as normal a life as they can—assigning books to read, math homework, and the like. But, of course, their lives are far from normal. The fear of being found out is never far away. A telephone call at an odd time, an unexpected knock on the door, or footsteps on the stairs on a Sunday fill them with terror. I can’t even imagine the strength of character and courage it must have taken them to live that way for 2 whole years, every day worrying that they might be discovered.

I read once someplace that when the authorities finally did find Anne and her family and marched them out to a Dutch prison camp, before sending them off to even worse places on the last train to leave the Netherlands, Anne—who was always so hopeful—actually expressed a sense of relief at being found. Not, of course, for the fate that would come, but a sense of relief for being freed from worrying about every knock or footstep, and relieve to be able to experience the pleasure of feeling the sunshine again and breathing fresh air. As you probably know, only Anne’s father survived the war. Anne and her sister Margot died of typhus in the Bergen-Belsen concentration camp, sadly, just a couple weeks before the British liberated the camp. Afterward, her father devoted his life to telling the story of Anne, her family, and fellow residents of the secret annex, giving us faces and lives that we can relate to on a deeper human level while we learn about the horrors of World War II and the hope and power of the human spirit.

So, what does this have to do with Second Sunday of Easter and our baptisms this morning? Well, when I first read this morning’s gospel, I imagined that the disciples who were locked away on that first Easter felt a lot like Anne Frank and her family. They were terrified. They were afraid of any knock or footstep outside, worried that like the SS 2,000 years later, the Roman soldiers would find them and crucify them, just like they had Jesus. After all, that’s why they scattered; that’s why Peter denied Jesus; that’s why the disciples weren’t there at the foot of the cross. The women were there, but the men fled. They were too afraid—not only for Jesus, but also, really, for themselves. And probably, their fears were justified. Because the authorities ruled by fear. Like the Nazis, the Roman rulers were not hesitant to use the sword, or the cross, to accomplish their goals.

Now, our gospel reading says that the disciples were locked away for fear of the Jews. That’s very misleading. Jesus was Jewish. The disciples were Jewish. Absolutely everyone they knew—Mary, Martha, Lazarus, Mary Magdalene, Mary Jesus’ mother, Joseph, absolutely everyone—was Jewish. Maybe the disciples were afraid of the Jewish religious authorities whom Jesus had upset, but then, they didn’t really have the power to do anything. So more likely, the disciples were locked away afraid of the Roman government. Because, you see, Pontius Pilate, the Roman governor of the area around Jerusalem, was a ruthless man. In fact, Caesar later removed him from office for being so over the top in terrorizing the people under his authority. The gospels sort of portray Pilate as being reluctantly caught up in the situation with Jesus, but that seems less likely as we learn more about who Pilate was. He wouldn’t have given the crucifixion of Jesus (or anyone) a second thought, if it would have kept the peace and kept him in power without news of a disruption traveling to Caesar in Rome. The problem is that by the time the gospels were written, especially John’s gospel, the church leaders knew that Rome had the upper hand, and they wanted to secure as much protection as they could from the government. They couldn’t portray Rome as the bad guys, so they shifted the blame for everything on not just the Jewish leaders but on the Jewish people. Unfortunately, we Christians have been dealing with the fallout of that shift ever since. Sadly, tragically, it’s part of what gave rise to Jewish persecution throughout history, including in Europe during World War II, including families like Anne Frank’s.

But you know what, in today’s gospel, as the disciples are cowering in fear, afraid for their lives, hope breaks in. Because Jesus breaks in. He literally breaks in, in fact, showing up in their locked room, saying “Peace be with you.” Peace. Do not be afraid. He tells them, in fact he shows them, that they have no reason to fear, because 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 will know that their life and the life of the world is really, truly, in God’s hands, despite how it may seem sometimes. 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. It doesn’t erase what happened earlier, it doesn’t make it go away—the wounds of Jesus’ crucifixion are still there, after all—but God takes it and is able in some mysterious way to bring new life.

And it’s that new life, that promise that we celebrate today as we baptize Kate and Madison. By baptizing them, what we are really doing is telling them that their lives are, in fact, in God’s hands, and that they are marked with the cross as Christ’s own forever. There’s nothing that the world can do to change that. They will forever and always belong to God. And time and again, God will work through Kate and Madison to bring wonderful new life to the world. That’s God’s promise for them, for us, for the whole world. It’s a promise that we saw fulfilled that first Easter 2,000 years ago when Jesus appeared to the disciples in their locked room, and it’s a promise fulfilled each and every time new life conquers fear, death, and despair.

Before I close, I want to go back to Anne Frank for a moment. I know it probably seems like a weird thing to talk about Easter and a Jewish girl who died in World War II in the same sermon. And sometimes, we may wonder how it is that these promises of new life are actually lived out when we see so much destruction around us, not only a generation ago, but today as we hear the news of Libya and Afghanistan and Iraq, the earthquakes and nuclear disaster, and even this week’s tornadoes in the south. But I believe, because I believe in Easter, that somehow, in some way, God really is working to bring experiences of the resurrection and new life into our lives and our world. Most especially I believe that God is doing that work of resurrection through us.

And consider this: Anne Frank, the girl who lived in hiding and simply wrote a diary has touched the lives of millions of people in the 60 years since it was first published. In fact, next to the Bible, her diary is the most translated and most widely read book in the world. By Jewish people, of course, but also Christians, and Buddhists, Muslims, Hindus, and people of no religion at all. Eleanor Roosevelt described it as “one of the wisest and most moving commentaries on war and its impact on human beings that [she had] ever read.” John F. Kennedy said, “Of all the multitudes who throughout history have spoken for human dignity in times of great suffering and loss, no voice is more compelling than that of Anne Frank.” And so it is that through her, and people like her barriers between people—whether because of religion or culture, or anything else—are broken down. Through her story we see the human spirit soar and transcend the terrors of the world. In her story, we find God’s promise of new, abundant life.

And you know what, it’s a promise shared by the whole human family, regardless of our religions or cultures. It’s a promise that we will make when we baptize Kate and Madison today, and it’s a promise that we receive each and every time we see signs of new life, of resurrection, of Easter in our world.

Jesus came and stood among them and said, "Peace be with you."

May that peace, joy, and new life fill our hearts, today and always.

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

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

Finding Resurrection in the Easter Garden: A Sermon for Easter Day

2011-04-24T17:02:00.002-07:00

In the name of our Risen Lord, Jesus the Christ. Amen.

I want to begin by saying yet again that it really is a pleasure and a delight to see the church so full this morning—so full of people, so full of flowers, so full of fancy outfits, so full of abundant, vibrant, new life. You know what, it feels a lot like Easter in here. Just like it should.

Easter really is a wonderful day—devoted to the celebration of new life—and it’s especially wonderful and welcome this year, coming as it does after our long, seemingly endless winter. You know that unlike Christmas or the Fourth of July, Easter is not always on the same date, nor is it just that it falls on the first Sunday in April or whatever. The day is actually determined by a rather complicated computation, decided by a group of bishops all the way back in the year 325: it’s the first Sunday, after the first full moon, after the vernal equinox. And, it can’t fall before March 21 or after April 25. So this year, being April 24, Easter is just about as late as it possibly can be. And it is nice, for a change, to be able to celebrate it without winter coats or the fear of an inopportune “resurrection” blizzard, with long awaited flowers beginning to rise from the ground, and the promise of another beautiful spring not long off.

I remember three years ago, when I was still living in Canada, in Toronto, Easter fell just about as early as it can in March, and we still had lots and lots of snow on the ground. It was an endlessly long winter, not unlike this last one. I had accepted Emmanuel’s call to be your rector a few days before—the Tuesday of Holy Week, I think. But I wasn’t here yet. You and I both had to wait a while, for the school year to finish and for me to move back to the U.S., and in fact for the congregation to vote to accept me. So I was celebrating what I figured would be my last Easter in Canada. And what I remember most especially about it was that my parish up there—Christ Church Deer Park—had this especially unique tradition: planting “an Easter garden” outside on the church grounds on Holy Saturday, right after the Easter Vigil.

The idea of the Easter garden was that when people came on Easter morning, or just passed by (the church is on the busiest street in Canada), they would see this wild and unexpected burst of flowers and new life, that seemingly grew up over night. Sounds really nice, right? Only, remember, it was winter still and there was lots and lots of snow, so it wasn’t real flowers that we planted, but these crazy tall plastic flowers--tulips and daffodils and daisies--made out of plastic cups and plates, of all things. They were totally fanciful, all red, blue, purple, and yellow. And, here’s the really wacky part (as if the plastic flowers weren’t wacky enough), since there was no unfrozen ground to be found, we planted the flowers in the snow banks. So, you can picture it, there we were, children and adults all together, after the Easter Vigil running around on a cold, dark wintry night, planting plastic flowers in four or five foot snow drifts, and then, for good measure, writing Easter messages, and drawing Easter eggs and bunnies on the sidewalks in pastel colored chalk.

I’ll always remember that night, because when I went to the parking lot to plant some purple flowers in a particularly massive snow bank, I discovered that my car had been hit—the tail lights were all smashed and the rear bumper was just sort of hanging on for dear life. Luckily, the woman who hit it, a parishioner as it happens, was standing there, trying to figure out what to do. You know, there’s nothing like a smashed car to dampen your Easter mood—both hers and mine. Thankfully, I was able to drive it home, but I took the bus to church the next day, since I was afraid the car wouldn’t make it in one piece.

And I have to confess, I was in an especially bad mood that morning—here it was Easter Day, I had a smashed up car, and I was waiting outside in the dark and cold for the bus at 6:00 in the morning. Not very Eastery. But eventually the bus came, and as it approached the church, I looked out the window, and what did I see? Three and four foot high mounds of snow, sprouting bright red, blue, purple, and yellow flowers. It was a sight so silly, and also delightful. Ridiculous and hopeful. Most especially, it was a sign of new, joyful life right there on a cold wintry morning. Even in my grumpy, not very Easter-like mood, I couldn’t help but be cheered and uplifted. The resurrection hit me just when I least expected it.

And I think that’s often the way the resurrection hits us, just when we least expect it. Certainly that was true of those who first discovered the empty tomb—Peter, John, and Mary Magdalene. Of course, when Mary Magdalene went to the garden on that first Easter morning, she didn’t see plastic flowers sprouting up from snow banks, and she wasn’t lamenting a smashed car or having to wait for a bus. Her grief was far more real, far more painful, beyond words. The pain of Jesus’ death cut through her heart like the soldier’s spear that had pieced Jesus side. And now, it was made all the worse by his missing body. She cried, “They have taken away my Lord, and I do not know where they have laid him.” Who would do such a horrible thing? Who would steal a body? It’s the kind of thing you might see investigated on 60 Minutes or Dateline NBC. But, of course, Jesus wasn’t really stolen. He was alive. He was transformed. He was right there, with her still.

But we read that Mary didn’t recognize Jesus at first. She thought he was the gardener. Maybe she just couldn’t see well from the tears in her eyes, or perhaps from lack of sleep after the horrific events of the days before—replaying the image of Jesus nailed to the cross over and over again. It would be hard any of us to sleep after watching helplessly as that horror happens to someone you love so much. But then again, maybe, that wasn’t it. Maybe, it wasn’t because of her grief that she didn’t recognize Jesus. Maybe, I would even say probably, it’s because Jesus had changed. Maybe, probably, in his new, resurrected state he was beyond recognition, comprehension, and certainly beyond explanation.

Whatever the resurrection was, whatever God did to bring Jesus back to life, he was transformed that morning. In their various ways all four of the gospels tell us that the Jesus that Mary and the disciples encountered on that first Easter morning was somehow different from the Jesus they knew before Good Friday.

Now, the gospels really aren’t very good at describing this change. And I suspect that’s because whatever happened in the garden on that Easter morning is far beyond anything that can be put into words or images. It’s something that can be witnessed, experienced even, but not described. Certainly it’s not enough to simply say that Jesus just woke up on the third day. That would be hard to believe, of course—especially for those who were there on Good Friday and saw his life and soul torn from his body—but we could probably, sort of, understand it; we might even be able to describe it. But Easter is more than that. It’s more profound, more meaningful, more transformative than that. For 2,000 years people have been trying to make sense of it, and for 2,000 years we have always come up short.

Some of you know how much I like to talk about Star Wars, especially it seems on days like Christmas and Easter. I don’t want to disappoint you today, so I’ll add that what happened on that first Easter morning is beyond even what the best science fiction writers like George Lucas or Gene Roddenberry could dream up. It was more amazing than anything we might read about in Harry Potter novels, or see on TV on Dr. Who or Merlin. And that’s because it’s so fantastic, it’s so amazing, so transformative, that only God could dream it up. And certainly only God could make it happen. Because only God can take death and transform it into life. Only God can take grief and transform it into joy. Only God can take fear and transform it into hope.

And as transformative as Easter was for Jesus, as amazing to behold as it was Mary Magdalene and Peter and the other disciples, it can be just as amazing and just as transformative for us. If Jesus’ resurrection in that beautiful Easter garden 2000 years ago is to have any meaning for us now, if the light of that first Easter Day so long ago is to shine as brightly today as it did then, we have to live it, too. We have to be transformed by it. We have to know and believe and trust that new life, abundant life, resurrection life, is as much a possibility for us here, today, as it was for Jesus, and for Mary Magdalene, and for Peter so very long ago.

Easter teaches us to believe in things that seem impossible. It tells us that what we see is not all that there is. It holds before us the hope of new life, abundant life, spring life, where before all we could see was winter, fear, and death. Most especially, and most importantly, the transformation of Easter encourages us, in fact it compels us, to roll the stone away and step out of the tombs of our lives, so that we can embrace new possibilities. So that we can be filled with hope. So that we can live the resurrection.

And you know what? We can start living that fantastic, amazing, dazzlingly bright Easter life right now. We don’t have to wait for some future time. We don’t need soldiers or angels to roll the stones away for us. We can do it ourselves, today, right here, right now. We can step, run, or even leap, out of the tombs of our lives, and we can live: freely, fully, abundantly. We can even plant crazy plastic flowers in snow banks if we want to. Because that’s God’s hope for us. That’s God’s dream for us. That’s God’s promise for us. Jesus was raised, so that we, too, will be raised.

Mary Magdalene went and announced to the disciples, “I have seen the Lord.” May we, with Mary, with the disciples, also see the Lord alive, then, may we live the life of resurrection ourselves, today, tomorrow, and always.

Happy Easter, my friends. Happy Easter. Alleluia! Christ is risen.

It is Finished: A Sermon on Good Friday

2011-04-22T22:31:00.000-07:00

In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

About 10 years ago, I took an unlikely job as the Youth Minister at Church of the Good Shepherd in Acton. I call it an “unlikely” job, because I had never really done anything in youth ministry before then and in fact I didn’t even like my own church’s youth ministry program when I was growing up. So the whole thing was really quite a stretch for me. But it was a good opportunity to develop some skills that were “dormant,” to say the least.

While much of my ministry there was exclusively youth related, I did have the occasional opportunity to branch out some, including preaching and serving at the altar. One of the opportunities to preach was at the town’s ecumenical Good Friday service—one of those infamous three-hour services focused on the “seven last words” of Jesus. Of course there are not really just seven words, but more like seven phrases, that the gospels tell us Jesus spoke from the cross. As much as I find our Anglican liturgy for Good Friday rich with meaning, I always liked that ecumenical service for the opportunity to hear the differing voices and perspectives of the various religious traditions in town.

For me, the most stirring of these last words have always been Jesus’ very last words: “It is finished.” I’ve often wondered, what did Jesus mean? Was he feeling complacent, or defeated? Did he mean that his life was finished? That his work was finished? Or something else?

As I’ve pondered these words this week, as I have thought about Jesus’ life and ministry, I think that what he must have meant is that he’s done what he can do. And that’s enough. The rest is up to God, and maybe even up to us. Jesus has loved as fully and freely as he could; he has taught what he could teach; he has healed those who were ill; he has opened his arms as wide as possible, even to the point of being nailed on the cross. He has done what he lived to do.

The question is, how will people respond? How will we respond?

Because, as we know, Jesus never forces anyone to believe in him. He never coerces us to accept his love. He doesn’t just heal people who have no desire for it. For good or ill, it is always up to us. It is up to us to say yes to Jesus’ love. It is up to us to accept the grace and the hope and the freedom he offers us. It is up to us to continue the work that Jesus devoted himself to—loving, healing, teaching, living for God.

You know, I can’t believe that Jesus lived the way he did—so openly, so passionately, so fully— that his life, his work, his very being would die up there, nailed to that cross 2,000 years ago. Instead, I believe that he knew that if his life were to have meaning, if everything that he lived for were to really take root and grow—it would have to be through his friends, through his disciples, through us. And so, it’s not enough for us to gaze up at him on the cross, his body broken, his life torn away—a horrific and jarring sight.

We are not meant to glory in Jesus’ death, nor even, I think, be appalled by it—though appalling it certainly is. We are meant to be transformed by it, taking up our own crosses each day and living in the way that Jesus lived. Loving in the way Jesus loved. Healing in the way Jesus healed. When he said from the cross, “It is finished,” he passed his ministry on to us. He had done everything he could do, as a man, and as the Son of God.

And he knew that we, together, his community, his kingdom, his body, could do even more. If only we are brave enough, if only we are daring enough to respond. Together, inspired by him, empowered by him, blessed by him, we, too, have the power to heal and teach and love, just as openly, just as fully, just as profoundly. When Jesus looked down from the cross on the world he loved, on the people he loved, he knew that he couldn’t do any more. But he also knew that his life couldn’t end there. He knew that it couldn’t and that it wouldn’t, because the seeds of his life, the seeds of new life, were planted in his friends, in us.

It is finished, Jesus said. And yet, through God, and through us, his work, his life, his love, live on and on and on.

Let us pray,

Lord Christ, who entered into your triumph by the hard and lonely way of the cross: May your courage and steadfast loyalty, your unswerving devotion to the Father’s will, inspire and strengthen us to tread firmly and with joy the road which love bids us take, even if it leads through suffering, misunderstanding, and darkness. We ask it for your sake, who for the joy that was set before you endured the cross, despising the shame, O Lord our strength and our Redeemer. Amen.

For Holy Week: A Reflection on Power

2011-04-18T08:44:00.000-07:00

In his Palm Sunday sermon, the Vicar of Wakefield shared a poem by the Rev. Judith Mattison, a retired ELCA pastor in Minnesota, who for a semester in 1993 was Acting Chaplain at Gustavus Adolphus College, when the Vicar was an undergraduate student there. Pastor Mattison was previously pastor at Mount Olivet Lutheran Church, where he was baptized, as it happens. Her poem is a perfect reflection on Pilate's question to Jesus: "Are you the King of the Jews?," as well as on our attempts to control our lives.

POWER

We try to control life
with well-constructed plans
investments
weather reports
and appeals to God
when all else fails.
Pilate thought he had power, too.
Pilate and we are wrong.
We have the only power
which God allows--
and freedom to respond,
but not to direct God,
the privilege of enjoying life
but not of numbering our days.
Pilate and the others--we--
crucified Jesus
a power play,
doomed to fail
so that we might live.

from

Walking the Way
Fortress Press 1986
(c) Judith Mattison

Going to Bethany and Finding Resurrection

2011-04-10T15:27:00.000-07:00

A Sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent

Do you have a special place that you go to for peace and quiet? A place for refreshment and renewal? Maybe a room in your home or a park? Is there a place that has special meaning to you? Maybe even right here at Emmanuel.

For me, there are several special places, hallowed ground as it were. One is my college campus in Minnesota. The chapel there has a unique beauty and on the grounds there’s a fantastic view of Minnesota River Valley that can take your breath away. When I go back there I usually drag someone along, like my brother Josh, who often is not as taken with the view as I am, especially when it’s 20 below zero and the wind is whipping across the hill (since I’m usually only there in December), but nonetheless, to me it is very special. I’d even say that I feel God there.

Another favorite place for me is the Bethany Convent of the Sisters of St Anne in Arlington. The Sisters are Episcopalian nuns. You might not have known that we have Episcopal nuns, but we do. Here in Massachusetts there’s the Sisters of St Margaret who have active ministries in Boston, Duxbury, and in Haiti. And the Sisters of St. Anne. They have a quieter ministry. Today there’s just 5 of them at the house in Arlington—three from the Philippines, one born in New York, and one from the Bahamas, but in the past they have had ministries in downtown Boston and Cambridge, in England and in China, New Zealand, the Philippines, in New York and Chicago. The Sisters are just about the kindest, most thoughtful people you could meet.

I went there to the Bethany Convent in Arlington for Mass most Wednesday mornings when I was in seminary. It was a bit of an undertaking, since the service was first thing in the morning and one had to fight Cambridge traffic to get there. I didn’t have a car, so I was always dependent on a fellow student, usually my friend Patti, or sometimes, I even went with a professor—Lloyd Patterson—who would drive in from Belmont, pick me up at the seminary in Harvard Square, and then take us to the Convent. He had to be there by 7:30 to lead the service, so we set off from the seminary at 6:45 or so. It was always something of a crazy ride, because Lloyd had rather slow reflexes and sometimes drove awfully close to the cars in front of us. We did always made it in one piece, amazingly enough, but not without a scare or two. As harrowing as the ride was, though, once you step foot in the chapel, none of that mattered anymore because it was like stepping on sacred, holy ground. The convent chapel and the gardens feel like they are literally infused with a century of prayer, with a century of hospitality, with a century of love.

After Mass, whoever was there was invited to join the Sisters for breakfast in their refectory. The menu was always the same—coffee, juice, cereal, toast, and Sister Gloria's soft-boiled egg. I never had the egg—I don’t like them much—which disappointed the Sisters. I usually had cereal, and maybe toast with their delicious ginger preserves. If you are preparing to be a priest, it’s hard to imagine a more special way of beginning your day: a Eucharist in a gorgeous chapel, followed by breakfast with your favorite professor, a friend or two, and 5 to 7 of the most delightful nuns you could imagine.

One of my favorite memories of the Sisters was the time that they asked me to drive them out to Springfield for Patti’s ordination. I stayed overnight at the Convent—they were quite worried that I wouldn’t wake up on time, since I don’t tend to follow their rigorous monastic schedule, so they wanted me close by for good measure. They made sure I was comfortable for the night with a healthy supply of cookies. And then after breakfast we all piled into their large van and sped on toward the ordination. It’s quite the image, isn’t it? A 26 year old me driving a van full of nuns along the Mass Pike. The Sisters still talk about that day, and it makes me smile every time I think of it.

Unfortunately, I haven’t gotten there to the Bethany Convent too much in the past few years. Arlington is kind of a pain to get to from Quincy, truth be told, and even a little bit from Wakefield. But it’s comforting, and even inspiring, to know that it’s there, that the Sisters are welcoming others, and sharing the love of God with all who come in their doors. Well, yesterday, I returned to this special place with the vestry for our Lenten retreat. There was another group there, so we didn’t have use of the chapel. But it was a fantastic sunny day and we were able to spend lots of time outside—writing letters to God, as it happens. I won’t share what I wrote, but what I will say is that I discovered as I sat out there on a hundred year old bench how the stresses of my life seemed to fall away as I breathed in the fresh spring air, and also how much I had missed this special place—the Bethany Convent.

As it happens, the Convent in Arlington is named after the village of Bethany, featured in this morning’s gospel. That Bethany, the original Bethany, was located just outside Jerusalem and was the home of other sisters—not nuns, so far as we know, but Martha and Mary, and their brother Lazarus. Like the Convent for me (and for many others), it would seem that the original Bethany was also a special place of respite, for Jesus. He went there for rest, refreshment, and renewal. To spend time with friends, where he wasn’t so much the amazing preacher, teacher, healer, savior of the world, but a friend, someone who was loved and cherished, just because.

In this morning’s gospel reading, however, we learn that Lazarus, Jesus’ dear friend, has taken ill. Desperate for help, Lazarus’ sisters sent for Jesus in the hopes that he could arrive in time, to help somehow. But he didn’t make it. Not even close. According to the gospel account, Lazarus had been dead for four days by the time Jesus got around to getting there. It’s sort of a weird story, because on the one hand Jesus seems to know that Lazarus has died and so takes his sweet time getting to Bethany, to make a point. But then when he finally gets there, he’s upset by the whole thing. In fact, John writes that Jesus wept, he was so distraught over his friend’s death. We don’t usually think of Jesus getting all emotional like that--like us--but in this case anyway, he did. While we don’t know any of the details of their relationship, Jesus must have loved Lazarus very much.

And, it would seem, he was so overcome by his own emotion and that of his friends Martha and Mary, that he summoned up the power in himself to bring Lazarus back to life. It’s kind of a funny thing, since we don’t read that Jesus raised everyone who had ever died. He probably didn’t raise his grandparents or aunts and uncles or the friends he had known in his village. While there are other accounts of Jesus raising people in various places, he certainly didn’t do it willy-nilly. But somehow, it would seem, Jesus couldn’t stand the thought of life without his friend, and so he literally broke the rules of life and death, at least for a time, and he gave Lazarus a second chance.

Unfortunately, we don’t know what happened to Lazarus after that. We don’t know if he just resumed life as it had been or if he was changed somehow through this amazing experience. We don’t know if he lived in a different kind of way or altered his priorities. We don’t even know how long he lived in this round two of life. But presumably, it wasn’t forever. Presumably, he’s not still here somewhere—a 2,000 plus year old man, walking around. In all likelihood he died again. Maybe the next week or next year, or maybe 20 years later. But eventually.

So, the gift of new life to Lazarus was a temporary thing, if you think about it in terms of his physical body. And that’s what we usually think of as the miracle in this story. But, I wonder if there’s more to it than just that. Because if the story is just about a guy who was brought back to life 2,000 years ago and then died again, it doesn’t really have a lot of relevance for us now.

But what if the gift of new life was something deeper and more profound than just his physical body getting up and walking around again? What if this gospel story, if you dig deeply enough, is not so much about Lazarus, but instead about how we are all called to step outside the tombs we lock ourselves in. What if this story is really about how we are each given the opportunity to embrace life and live fully, freely and wholly, filled with the love and spirit of God, if only we dare? What if it’s about embracing the call to resurrection even now, even today, even in Lent?

I began by sharing some of my experience at the Bethany Convent—a decade ago when I was a student, and again just yesterday. And as I reflected on the gift of being there in the sunshine yesterday, surrounded by vestry members and the wonderful Sisters of St Anne, statues of Jesus, Mary, and Angels, holy sacred buildings, squirrels, birds and purple flowers, I realized how often I fail to go to Bethany—and by that I don’t mean just the Convent (though I should go there more often for my own spiritual well-being)—but to a place of refreshment and renewal where ever that might be—the place that helps me to grasp and hold onto the abundant, resurrection, new life that Jesus wants for me, and of course, that he wants for all of us.

It’s so easy, in our busy lives, to get distracted, to fill our days with stuff—some of it important, but a lot of it probably not so important—such that we don’t have any room or time left for the really meaningful aspects of life—like love, caring, openness, peace, God. And the sad thing is, when we do that, when we let our lives get cluttered with stuff, we find ourselves ending up a lot of the time like Lazarus, dead and locked away in his tomb.

But it doesn’t have to be that way. In fact, God doesn’t want it to be that way. God wants us to live, fully abundantly, openly—not only in the last day at the end of time, but today, and tomorrow, and always. God wants us to take time out, to go Bethany, where ever that may be, to the special places of our lives that give us peace, hope, and strength, so that we can live, so that we can be who we were meant to be from the first day of creation.

I thought I would close with a quotation by Sister Olga, one of our hosts at the vestry retreat yesterday. In a book celebrating the 100^th anniversary of the Order of St Anne, she writes:

“In this twenty-first century world of shadows and fears, of hesitation to follow a dream, some things are luminously clear: a call from God, who knows each of us is whom he calls, and whose enthusiasm for what we are and what we can become is surely his greatest joy and hope.”

In our gospel reading Jesus said, "I am the resurrection and the life. Those who believe in me, even though they die, will live, and everyone who lives and believes in me will never die.”

May we, too, believe and then live, so that we can become God’s greatest joy and hope.

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

Celebrating Easter in February

2011-02-09T14:28:00.000-08:00

Today the parish in Wakefield said goodbye to one of its beloved saints, our dear Cindy Cook. May she rest in peace and rise in glory.

In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

There’s two things I’d like to say as I begin this morning. First, I don’t really feel qualified to preach at Cindy’s funeral. She was so special and she meant so much to you, and to me. Second, I want to say that I really would prefer not to have to be here today. Because if it were up to me, Cindy would still be here with us, sending her thoughtful pastoral emails, making phone calls, organizing the church’s schedules, preparing Wallie’s lunch, visiting her children and grandchildren, talking to her sisters on phone, loving us all very much, and being loved very much in return. That’s what I would like. And I suspect that’s what you would like, too.

Unfortunately for us, it didn’t work out that way. Unfortunately, cancer decided that it should have the upper hand, as it has with so many, many other people. And, I suppose, cancer probably thought that it did have the upper hand in this story, as Cindy grew less and less strong. But if it thought that, it was wrong. We know, as Cindy knew, that cancer wouldn’t win out in the end. In fact, it couldn’t win out. Because we know, and Cindy knew, that ultimately it is God who will win out. Each and every time. Even after being diagnosed more than two years ago, Cindy wouldn’t let cancer stop her. She refused to give into it; she refused to give up doing what she loved and what meant the most to her. Even after telling me just about a month ago that she thought she should step down from her various positions at church, she still actually did them! She served as a minister at communion, she made pastoral phone calls, and she even put together the February service schedule. She wouldn’t let go until she absolutely had to, and that was just about 2 weeks ago.

And so I believe, and I hope you do, too, that on early Friday morning, when Cindy left us, it was not because she was giving in to cancer, or because cancer finally had the upper hand, but because she was being lifted from it, because she was being freed from its power once and for all, by the God who has loved her and cherished her and supported her from the very start of her life, the God who was, and is, so very, very proud of all that she did in her 70 years—raising a family, supporting a church, bringing new life and new hope at every opportunity.

I wasn’t fortunate enough to have known Cindy as long as most of you. But I certainly wish I had. So, I wasn’t there on that special evening 50 some years ago, when a pretty young Cindy Downs and her girlfriends decided to go dancing at the Lake Quannapowitt boathouse. And who did she happen to meet there, but a dashing young man named Wallie, who asked her to dance. Now, the way he told the story at their 50^th wedding anniversary party, Cindy dropped her handkerchief in a not so subtle attempt to grab his attention as he passed by. I’ve heard conflicting reports about whether that’s a true story or not, but it sure is sweet.

What’s even funnier, though, is how that first encounter was cut short, when a very proper Miss Downs refused to take Wallie up on his offer for an ice cream soda at the Howard Johnson’s. She arrived with her girlfriends and she was loyal enough to leave with them, too. Of course they did eventually have that first date. And it turns out that Wallie’s and Cindy’s fathers were rival milkmen in Stoneham and Reading. So when Cindy told her dad that she met a dashing young man whose dad was also a milkman, Cindy’s father said, “You don’t mean Cookie’s kid, do you?” Well, thankfully, Cookie’s kid and the pretty Miss Downs found a way to get beyond their fathers’ rivalry to share a long and happy life together. By the way, she never went back to another dance at the boathouse. She didn’t need to. She found the man she’d dance through life with, and what a dance it’s been: three children, John, Jamie, and Debbie, five wonderful grandchildren—Logan, Erin, Cameron, Audra, and Genevive, friends too numerous to number, camping trips, grandkid’s sporting events, lobster rolls on the beach, trips to Arizona, coffee and doughnuts, church, love and love and more love.

Anyone who knew Cindy was aware that she put her faith and her love of God at the very center of her life—alongside her family. Cindy, perhaps more than anyone I have known, lived for others. She lived to serve. Not out of a sense of duty, not because she felt like she had to in a grudging way, but because she wanted to, because God sang out in her heart and soul, and she wanted to sing and share that song, with everyone she possibly could.

Cindy came into my life just two and a half years ago, when I accepted the call to be Emmanuel’s rector. I had met Wallie during the interview process, as he was on the search committee. And I clearly remember that at my interview with the search committee, several members were talking about Wallie’s wife, who did so much in the parish. What a dedicated woman, I thought. I hope, if I get this job, that I can live up to her standards. Well, as intimidated as I was, since then, Cindy has been my constant partner in ministry here, planning worship, administering communion, visiting the sick and aged, directing me where to go and who to see. And I know that’s true not only of me, but also of my predecessors, several of whom are here today. In fact, I recently learned that Cindy was the very first woman to be invited to serve at Emmanuel’s altar, way back in the tenure of Emmanuel’s legendary rector, John Thorp.

And ever since then, she has been at the center of this parish’s life, sharing the love and life of Christ with us through the sacraments, through her kind words, and perhaps most notably, through her presence at people’s bedsides. So, it really is hard to imagine Emmanuel without her. And thankfully, we don’t have to. Because although Cindy isn’t physically with us any longer, her love is certainly still here, her faith is still here, her example to service is still here. She is part of the Emmanuel story, the story of “God with us.” That’s what the word Emmanuel means, “God with us.” And Cindy exemplified that in a very special way, as she brought God to us here in church, in hospital rooms, and in our homes. And now, today, she is one of our very own saints, shining God’s light on us from above.

This past Sunday I mentioned in my sermon that when I was riding home on the subway after having given Cindy the Last Rites on Thursday I was reminded of a time, probably about two years ago, when I was coming home on the Red Line from the Mass General Hospital, having brought Cindy communion when she was quite ill following a bad reaction to her chemo treatment, and a young man sat down next to me and when he noticed that I was wearing a clergy collar and holding a communion kit on my lap, and he said to me, “Christianity is a foolish religion. It takes too much from people and doesn’t give anything back.” Well, I didn’t argue with him. I just said that I disagreed. For a moment, I suppose, I wondered about what he had to say. But then, I thought of Cindy, whom I had been visiting. And I thought, well Cindy doesn’t think it’s foolish, and in her case, our Christian faith does give back, again and again.

What we know, of course, is that as much as Cindy gave, she also received. Because that’s how giving works. Cindy knew that when we give freely and fully, we get back even more. Not necessarily in the sense of things, but in joy, in satisfaction, and in love. This past week I learned that Cindy was especially exuberant at Christmas time. John, Jamie, and Debbie once told her that she needed to cool it on the Christmas gifts for the grandkids, since she often gave more presents than Santa. So, being a little sneaky, she decided that she would only give one present to each child. Of course, each present was actually an extra large gift bag full of several individually wrapped treasures. She just couldn’t help herself. Because, you see, giving brought her so much joy—whether to her family, to friends, or to her community here at Emmanuel. And here’s the really great thing: we can all learn from her example of giving freely, fully, exuberantly even, and in the process we can find the same kind of joy and hope and strength that sustained Cindy so well, for so long.

And now, inspired by her life, with our hearts full of love, and gratitude, and joy, it’s time to say goodbye. Not forever, since surely she is waiting for us in one of those mansions that Jesus spoke about in today’s gospel, making sure heaven is in good order, no doubt scheduling things. But for now, for a while. And so we entrust her to God’s loving care and embrace. Confident that she is safe. Confident that she is secure. Confident that she is home. For Cindy, the promises of the God she loved so dearly and served so freely and so fully have been fulfilled. Her illness has been defeated once and for all, and she is free.

None of us knows for sure what happens to us when our lives are completed. But I believe that on Friday morning, when God reached down to earth and brought Cindy to himself, he did so with the greatest gratitude for all that she did to build his kingdom here on earth. I believe he held her, and thanked her, and said to her, “Well done, my daughter, well done.”

Of course we will miss her. Of course we wish she were still with us. We wish we could talk to her on the phone, or hold her hand, or sit next to her at church. But we also know that Cindy is now where she was always meant to be, from her earliest days as a young girl when she walked to church by herself, looking to find meaning, hope, and peace in her life. And today, she has. She has found a meaning, a peace and a hope that we can only imagine.

Today, as we celebrate Cindy’s life and remember all that she has meant to us and to so many in her 70 years, God’s promises of love and new life are held out before us like the empty tomb on a bright Easter morning. God promises, even as it snows and is bitterly cold, that spring is coming, and with it, new abundant life. God promises us, again and again, that in him all things are being made new. God promises us that he will bind up the broken hearted and wipe every tear from our eyes. It’s a promise that for Cindy has been fulfilled. You know, when I look out at this full church, I thought to myself, it feels like Easter. Well for Cindy, today, tomorrow, from now on, for ever and always, it is a bright beautiful Easter morning. And to that, what can we say, but Alleluia, Alleluia, Alleluia.

Let us pray,

O Thou Lord of all worlds, we bless thy name for all those who have entered into their rest, and reached the promised land where thou art seen face to face. Give us grace to follow in their footsteps, as they followed in the footsteps of thy holy Son. Keep alive in us the memory of those dear to ourselves whom thou hast called to thyself, and grant that every remembrance which turns our hearts from things seen to things unseen may lead us always upwards to thee, till we too come to the eternal rest which thou hast prepared for thy people; all this we ask through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

A sermon for the Baptism of our Lord

2011-01-10T12:46:00.000-08:00

The Vicar of Wakefield was recently invited by Dean of Student & Community Life Clarence Butler at the Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge to return to the School and preach and celebrate on the occasion of EDS's commemoration of the Baptism of our Lord. This was the first time that I had ever been invited to celebrate in St. John's Memorial Chapel, and my first sermon delivered there since I graduated in 1999. It was a pleasure and an honor to be back in this special and sacred place, where 4 years of my life were spent in discernment, prayer, and song, and also in admiration at all of the amazingly faithful people who taught there and had gone before me as students.

St. John's Memorial Chapel
Episcopal Divinity School
Cambridge, Mass.

January 10, 2011

In the Name of the God who creates us, redeems us, and gives us life. Amen.

Matthew writes: "And a voice from heaven said, 'This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased'.”

Well, it seems that the shepherds and the wise men have gone home, and we are once again standing along the banks of the Jordan River, as John baptizes those coming to him in search of repentance and new life, just as we were a month ago as Advent began. But this time, Jesus himself is among the crowds, seeking this baptism. In the space of just a few days, we have passed over Jesus’ infancy and youth, and we find him here now as an adult, ready to begin his ministry. I always have hard time letting go of Christmas. I like twinkling lights and sparkling trees. I like carols and bows and garlands. But, of course, we can’t stay in the stable, gazing upon the tiny baby, forever. Jesus grows up and he has so much work to do.

The reason for this very quick shift in focus is probably because the Bible tells us little about Jesus’ growing up years. The only biblical story we have of Jesus’ youth is his family’s visit to the temple when Jesus was about 12. You, of course, know that story–Jesus wanders off from his family, and when they leave the temple area they are shocked to discover that he is not with them, because he is busy teaching the elders about the laws of God. Like any good parents, Mary and Joseph are not amused. While we in the church believe that Jesus lived without sin, I don’t think this means that he was an easy child to raise. Certainly if this story is any indication, Mary and Joseph must have had a rough time of it. You who are parents can probably understand their consternation–he was always thinking that he knew more than everyone else; he wouldn’t keep his mouth shut; he wandered off on his own; he didn’t really seem to think that the rules that applied to everyone else applied to him. Hmm. Does that sound familiar? So, when Mary and Joseph agreed to the angels’ proposition that they raise God’s Son, I suspect that they had no idea what sort of messes they would be getting themselves into.

I remember once when my brother Andy and I were separated from our parents. We were on a family vacation to the Black Hills in South Dakota—I grew up in Minnesota, so it was just the next state over. And one of our stops was at Mount Rushmore. I was probably 7 or 8, Andy two years younger. So, there we were, blissfully walking along; and rather than actually paying attention to where we were, Andy and I were busy looking into our View Master Viewers–do you remember those? You would put round color slides into them and hold them against your eyes as you clicked a leaver on the side and watched slides of any and everything imaginable. Being crazy little kids, Andy and I were probably looking at slides of Mt. Rushmore, rather than appreciating the real thing—or maybe it was Star Wars or our favorite super heroes. In any case, somewhere along the way we were separated from our parents. As I remember it, I think that the sidewalk took a fork and my folks went off in one direction enjoying the view of Rushmore, and Andy and I in another, our faces firmly pressed against our View Masters.

You might think that this would be especially scary for two boys by themselves. The funny thing, as I remember it, though, is how calm Andy and I were once we discovered that we were lost. With hundreds of tourists around, there really was no way that we would be able to find our parents. So I told Andy that we should head back to the car and wait there. Our parents, of course, were very panicked that we had been kidnapped and spoke with a ranger, who suggested that they, too, should go back to the car, because, they said, that’s usually what kids do when they get lost. My mom says she was certain that we would never think of such a thing on our own, but when they got to the car, sure enough, there we were, waiting for them. Our parents were at once relieved and terrified, and angry and proud.

I suspect that for Mary and Joseph, too, life was like that a lot–they never knew what Jesus would be up to next. And given his inability to conform to the world around him, they probably never stopped worrying about him, even after he was an adult. I imagine that long after Jesus moved out on his own, his mother dreaded the news she would hear–the people he’d upset, the things he would say, the places he would go, the sketchy people he associated with. They must have wished, often, that Jesus were an ordinary child like any other. Why couldn’t he be like that nice young Benjamin down the road? He was always so well-behaved.

While we can easily imagine Mary and Joseph’s frustration, we don’t really know how Jesus thought of himself in his early years. I doubt Mary or Joseph would have tried to sit him down to explain it all, in the way that parents explain the birds and the bees. Besides, I’m not so sure that Jesus would have believed that he was the Incarnate Son of God anyway. He may have grown into such an understanding over time, but probably not at first. The idea was so anachronistic that no one would have even thought it a possibility. God was too big and human beings too small.

And so, we don’t know what drew Jesus to be baptized by John. Obviously his profound faith in God and God’s redemptive power played a major role. But we don’t know if Jesus thought that he needed to baptized; if perhaps he was a disciple of John, like so many of his contemporaries; or if he was just an adventurous sort who thought he’d try it to see what would happen.

What we do know, however, is that like all the other pilgrims in the wilderness, Jesus waded into the river and had flowing water poured over his head, submitting himself to God’s love and grace and mercy. He dedicated himself to living in God’s kingdom. Only, when Jesus was baptized, something extraordinary happened. God spoke in a clear voice and declared who he was: “This is my Son, the Beloved; with whom I am well-pleased.” Or if you prefer Mark’s earlier version (which offers more of a private message for Jesus): “You are my beloved Son, with you I am well-pleased.” Now, I don’t think this meant that Jesus finally had it all figured out. I don’t think he suddenly saw the trajectory of his life with crystal clarity. But I do think that after his baptism, Jesus saw his life and his life’s purpose in a new, deeper way. The frustrating little boy, who couldn’t keep quiet and wandered off had grown into a man who understood in a way that he couldn’t have before what his life would be all about.

Most especially, Jesus understood that his life was not meant to be lived solely for himself, but for others, and through them, for God. He understood that he would be called to make difficult choices, that he would have to go to uncertain and even frightening places, that life would never be the same, for him, or for anyone in the world. And you know what? Our baptisms mean the same thing. When we are baptized, God claims us as beloved sons and daughters, too. God calls us to make difficult choices and to go to uncertain and even frightening places. God tells us that our lives will never be the same. Because, like Jesus, through baptism we are transformed.

When I was a student here at EDS, I discovered the great nineteenth century Anglican theologian Frederick Denison Maurice. I hadn’t heard of him until I was in Carter Heyward’s Christology class my first term, and she suggested I read him. It was a suggestion that changed the trajectory of my life, sort of like a re-baptism for me. Fifteen years later, Maurice is my constant companion--a major figure in my Ph.D. thesis at the University of Toronto, as well as my model for ministry, combining a pastoral ministry with a life in the academy. He was a theological hero of the founders of this school as well, inspiring generations of ETS, PDS, and EDS students and faculty. He even has a window here in the chapel. I used to sit across from it and contemplate his wise (if often unclear) words. So I thought it would be appropriate to conclude by sharing some of Maurice’s thoughts regarding baptism, which he described as the “sacrament of constant union,” meaning that in baptism we are ever united to God in Christ and through him, to the whole human race and even the whole universe.

He preached (and please excuse the non-inclusive nature of his nineteenth century language, but do appreciate the inclusive nature of his thought): “Each of us is baptized as a sign that his life is not in himself but in Christ, and Christ gives us His Holy Spirit in baptism to testify that we are united to Him, and are the sons [and daughters] of God in Him, and have power to do the work He gives us to do.” And elsewhere he writes, “Men are told that they are made in the image of God: how could it be that they knew not. Here is [God’s] express image, not shown in the heavens above, nor in the earth beneath, but in a man.… In [Christ] we find how humanity has been a holy thing, though each man felt himself to be unholy…. In [Christ] it is proved how humanity us meant to have a dwelling with God.”

These have been inspiring words for me. Of course, I suspect that since you are here at EDS you already know these insights, even if you aren’t familiar with F. D. Maurice, as yet. You are preparing yourselves to do the work God gives us all to do in baptism, as beloved sons and daughters, just like Jesus--to go to those difficult, frightening places, whether in the inner city or in the hospital room during CPE, or maybe even just searching the depths of your own soul in prayer. We, too, are called to live in and for the kingdom of God. And with Jesus, we can be confident that all those we touch, all those we minister to, and all those with whom we share the love and grace and mercy of God, will be likewise transformed–transformed more and more into the wonderful, holy people that God wants them to be, into the wonderful, holy people that God wants us all to be together, as F. D. Maurice says, dwelling with God.

Matthew writes: "And a voice from heaven said, 'This is my Son, the Beloved, with whom I am well pleased'."

May we, like Jesus, hear God’s voice speaking to us, and be inspired and challenged to be God’s beloved sons and daughters, this and every day. Amen.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

An Anglican Sermon on Martin Luther, the Reformation, and Zacchaeus the wee little man

2010-10-31T16:18:00.000-07:00

When I was growing up, we had something of a family ritual in my house around bedtime. Well, we actually had two rituals. First, my brother Andy and I would do everything we could to avoid going to bed. Asking to watch another 10 minutes of TV, usually. Or taking a really long time in the bath. Or suddenly engaging in some very exciting play with our Star Wars figures. And invariably, my parents would tell us to “stop stalling” and get to bed. Somehow, I suspect that this ritual wasn’t unique to the Cadwells in Minnesota.

But after we gave in and actually got ready for bed, it was prayer time. As I recall we didn’t say prayers absolutely every night, but often enough. Sometimes my parents came into our rooms, and sometimes we went and hopped into their bed, so we could all be together. We didn’t really say prayers for people or things. Instead, we tended to sing songs from Sunday school. My mom was a Sunday school teacher, so she knew all the songs, and I think my dad did, too. We usually sang two or three songs together, and then said the Lord’s prayer and ended with “Now I lay me down to sleep.” I know it sounds really cheesy, like we were right out of the von Trapp family in the Sound of Music, but it’s true!

My favorite song was about Zacchaeus, the character in this morning’s gospel. Maybe you know it, too. “Zacchaeus was a wee little man, and a wee little man was he. He climbed up in the sycamore tree, for the Lord he wanted to see. And as the savior passed that way he looked up in the tree. And he said, ‘Zacchaeus, you come down. For I’m going to your house today. For I’m going to your house today’.” Usually, when we sang it both in Sunday school and at home there were hand actions, too.

I can’t say that when we sang this song I knew a whole lot about wee little Zacchaeus or why Jesus went to his house. We just knew that whoever he was, he was really short, he knew how to climb trees, and he also knew about Jesus. Somehow Jesus knew about him, too. Well, this morning’s gospel fills in the blanks. Zacchaeus was a tax collector. In fact, he was the chief tax collector, which in the first century was an even more unpopular job than working for the IRS would be today. Because you see, in those days tax collectors went around and collected whatever tax the Roman Empire required, but then they would take some additional extra finds for themselves. And sometimes they took a lot extra funds for themselves. But there was no one to stop them, as they were part of their society’s power structure. They were an integral part of the system that the Roman Empire used to try and keep people down.

That’s why we hear such frequent negative references to tax collectors in the gospels. They were the epitome of the corrupt bad guys. The worst of the worst. And yet it seems that Jesus actually spent a lot of time with them. He forgave them. He even invited them into his closest circle of friends. In fact, the disciple Matthew, after whom I am named, was a tax collector. And so was Zacchaeus, the wee little man. It obviously wasn’t the best move in terms of Jesus’ public relations, especially among the religious people who thought that hanging around with the wrong kind of people would somehow rub off on them, but it’s what Jesus did. Over and over again.

Why did he do that? Why did he associate with such unpopular, even hated people? Why hang out with tax collectors, who cheated other hard-working people out of their money?

Well, first we know that Jesus was almost never too concerned about popularity or what other people thought. He absolutely didn’t care about that. In fact, I think Jesus associated with, hung out with, these people in part because they were so hated. I know that sounds weird. But you know, the tax collectors (as well as the prostitutes and whoever else that was unpopular), they were shunned by their society. Nobody liked them or treated them with any sort of respect, except maybe out of fear. And so they dug their heels in, and since they were treated so badly in the first place, they gouged people in collecting taxes. In a way, the tax collectors like Zacchaeus made others pay for being so mean. Which only made people hate them more.

But Jesus wouldn’t be caught up in that vicious cycle. Jesus broke the cycle by telling Zacchaeus that he will accept him, and even befriend him, just as he is. It didn’t matter to Jesus how rotten a life Zacchaeus’ had led. It didn’t matter to Jesus that Zacchaeus had no other friends. It didn’t matter to Jesus what he had done. Jesus just wanted to be with him, he wanted to spend time with him, to accept him, for no other reason than, well, just because.

Now of course as a result Zacchaeus says that he will change his ways. He promises to give half of what he has to the poor and he promises to repay four-fold anything he has taken dishonestly. But that doesn’t come first. Notice that Jesus doesn’t say to Zacchaeus, “if you fix your life I’ll be your friend” or “if you shape up, I’ll love you.” No. With Jesus, the friendship, the love, and the acceptance all come first. Just because. Just because that’s what Jesus does.

Today, October 31, is of course Halloween. But it is also the 493rd anniversary of the day when a German monk and priest, Martin Luther, nailed his 95 theses (basically complaints or arguments) on the door of the castle church in Wittenberg, lighting the fire that became the Protestant Reformation. He did it out of frustration with the prevailing mood in the church of his day, which seemed to require that people earn (or even buy) their salvation. In those days, before you could be forgiven of your sins, you had to do all kinds of special things. First, you had to confess your sins to a priest. Then, you had to maybe say Hail Marys or undertake other spiritual exercises. People were even encouraged to buy a piece of paper from a priest that would assure that you or your relatives would be freed from purgatory. The worst offender in that regard was a priest named Johannes Tetzel, who famously said: “When the coin in the coffer rings, the soul from purgatory springs.” Hearing this, Luther was appalled, even as he struggled personally with feeling that he had not done enough to merit God’s forgiveness and love.

So, he decided to engage in a scholarly debate with the church hierarchy—that’s what he 95 arguments were for—to begin a debate with the church leaders. Luther was actually a very conservative man. He didn’t want to start his own church. He really just wanted to fix the abuses he saw. But the pope and the bishops weren’t too keen on an upstart monk from a backwater German town telling them how to run their church (plus they needed the money from the sale of the indulgences to pay for St. Peter’s Basilica in Rome) so eventually, the only option for them was to excommunicate Luther when he refused to back down. Only, what happened was that others heard about him. They read what he wrote. And many, many people thought Luther was right—even some kings and princes thought he was right. So, they left the Catholic Church (which to that point really was the only church) and they started their own.

At the time, they didn’t call it Lutheran (or even Protestant). It was called Evangelical—meaning simply gospel-based. And like wild-fire, it spread throughout Germany and then into the Netherlands and Switzerland and Scandinavia and, eventually, to England, where it took on a unique character, blending the important insights of the Reformation teaching, with a more Catholic sensibility in terms of worship and church life. We, in the Episcopal Church, are the inheritors of that unique English way of being church.

But wherever it went—whether England or Germany or Scandinavia--it was always based on the idea that you can’t earn your salvation. There’s nothing you can do to make God love you. It doesn’t matter how good, or bad, your life is, God loves you anyway. That’s what we mean by “grace.” It’s unearned, unmerited love and acceptance. The phrase you often hear with regard to the Reformation is “justification by grace through faith.” You are “justified”—meaning, God loves you as if you haven’t sinned, even though you know you have, even though God knows you have. And all you have to do is accept it, have faith that he does so. Of course from a legal perspective it’s totally wrong. It’s unfair and unjust. But, it’s what God does. Just because.

What Luther discovered in reading the Bible—especially in the letters of St. Paul—was that God is not really like a judge who keeps track of each and every wrong. That’s what many of the medieval Christians believed, and to a certain degree it’s what the church wanted them to believe. Rather, Luther discovered that God is really like a parent, a Father, who loves us in spite of what we do, just as our own parents do. Our job, like Zacchaeus’ in today’s gospel passage, is welcome God into hearts, just as he welcomes Jesus into his home. That’s the faith part of justification by faith. And when we do, we are set freed from the chains of our sin. We realize that we are loved, we accepted just as we are with all of our faults, and in response, we are able to break the cycle of pain and hurt that we inflict on others.

When you boil it all down, that’s what the Reformation was all about—understanding and appreciating God’s love, shown in Jesus. Accepting God’s love. And then, being transformed by it. So that we are free to love in return. That’s what today’s gospel passage is all about, too. And, when you think about it, it’s what the whole of our Christian faith is all about. Being loved, accepting that love, and then loving in return. It’s pretty simple and it’s pretty wonderful.

I thought I would close this morning with a prayer by an Anglican theologian and bishop named Brooke Foss Westcott. He actually lived in the 19th and 20th centuries, not the Reformation era. But I thought the prayer was a good one in summing up what this morning’s gospel and the Reformation ideals were all about. So, let us pray.

O Lord our God, in whom we live and move and have our being, open our eyes that we may behold your fatherly presence always with us. Draw our hearts to you with the power of your love. Teach us to be anxious about nothing, and when we have done what you have given us to do, help us, O God our Saviour, to leave the issue to your wisdom. Take from us all doubt and mistrust. Lift our hearts to you in heaven, and make us to know that all things are possible for us through your Son our Redeemer. Amen.

© The Rev. Matthew P. Cadwell

Bishop Spong and his Manifesto

2010-10-21T20:50:00.000-07:00

The Vicar of Wakefield hasn't been blogging lately, primarily because life in the parish has been very full. However, I recently received a message from a colleague in Toronto which made me think I should post again. He forwarded a year-old statement by the retired Bishop John Shelby Spong regarding the church's seemingly endless and increasingly tedious debate on the place of gay people in its common life.

As usual, Bishop Spong is strident. He is convinced that he is right. He doesn't provide room for debate. That's Bishop Spong's way. And in this case, I think he is right.

I don't read Bishop Spong much these days. I basically stopped reading him about 15 years ago. Although, I have heard him speak a few times since then and about 10 years ago I nervously preached a sermon at the MIT chapel when Bishop Spong was in the congregation. But although I am not attracted to his books today, there was a time when he was very important to me. In fact, I read everything he wrote that I could get my hands on. I was brought up with a very traditional faith, with which I was increasingly uncomfortable. So for me, Bishop Spong presented a fresh and open way of understanding the Bible, God, Jesus, and humanity. He presented it all in a way that made sense. When I look back on his books today I find that Bishop Spong's questions and concerns are no longer my questions or my concerns. But, as I reflect on it, it's probably because I read books like Rescuing the Bible from Fundamentalism, Living in Sin, and Born of a Woman that I was able to move beyond those questions of "fact" (how this or that miracle or fantastic story is possible which at one point were so challenging for me) that he spends so much time with, and into my current preference for trying to understand what the church or the Bible is trying to convey to its audience through a particular passage or story.

With regard to the place of gay and lesbian people in the life of the church, Bishop Spong has been a pioneer. There's no question about that. Admittedly, sometimes it seems as if he lead the way in part to draw attention to himself. He definitely seems to like attention. Nevertheless, I am grateful to him. In some part I am Episcopalian and a priest because of him--because of his writings and his challenging the status quo and his doing what he thought was right when others were more hesitant and his refusing to back down--and for that I am very thankful. The bishop's statement on GLBT issues follows. Perhaps others, reading his powerful words, will be likewise transformed by his insight and leadership as they learn who they are, whose they are, and how much God loves them. Bishop Spong is right. It shouldn't be up for debate.

A Manifesto! The Time Has Come!

by Bishop John Shelby Spong
Oct 15, 2009

I have made a decision. I will no longer debate the issue of homosexuality in the church with anyone. I will no longer engage the biblical ignorance that emanates from so many right-wing Christians about how the Bible condemns homosexuality, as if that point of view still has any credibility. I will no longer discuss with them or listen to them tell me how homosexuality is "an abomination to God," about how homosexuality is a "chosen lifestyle," or about how through prayer and "spiritual counseling" homosexual persons can be "cured." Those arguments are no longer worthy of my time or energy.

I will no longer dignify by listening to the thoughts of those who advocate "reparative therapy," as if homosexual persons are somehow broken and need to be repaired. I will no longer talk to those who believe that the unity of the church can or should be achieved by rejecting the presence of, or at least at the expense of, gay and lesbian people. I will no longer take the time to refute the unlearned and undocumentable claims of certain world religious leaders who call homosexuality "deviant."

I will no longer listen to that pious sentimentality that certain Christian leaders continue to employ, which suggests some version of that strange and overtly dishonest phrase that "we love the sinner but hate the sin." That statement is, I have concluded, nothing more than a self-serving lie designed to cover the fact that these people hate homosexual persons and fear homosexuality itself, but somehow know that hatred is incompatible with the Christ they claim to profess, so they adopt this face-saving and absolutely false statement.

I will no longer temper my understanding of truth in order to pretend that I have even a tiny smidgen of respect for the appalling negativity that continues to emanate from religious circles where the church has for centuries conveniently perfumed its ongoing prejudices against blacks, Jews, women and homosexual persons with what it assumes is "high-sounding, pious rhetoric." The day for that mentality has quite simply come to an end for me.

I will personally neither tolerate it nor listen to it any longer. The world has moved on, leaving these elements of the Christian Church that cannot adjust to new knowledge or a new consciousness lost in a sea of their own irrelevance. They no longer talk to anyone but themselves. I will no longer seek to slow down the witness to inclusiveness by pretending that there is some middle ground between prejudice and oppression. There isn't. Justice postponed is justice denied. That can be a resting place no longer for anyone. An old civil rights song proclaimed that the only choice awaiting those who cannot adjust to a new understanding was to "Roll on over or we'll roll on over you!" Time waits for no one.

I will particularly ignore those members of my own Episcopal Church who seek to break away from this body to form a "new church," claiming that this new and bigoted instrument alone now represents the Anglican Communion. Such a new ecclesiastical body is designed to allow these pathetic human beings, who are so deeply locked into a world that no longer exists, to form a community in which they can continue to hate gay people, distort gay people with their hopeless rhetoric and to be part of a religious fellowship in which they can continue to feel justified in their homophobic prejudices for the rest of their tortured lives. Church unity can never be a virtue that is preserved by allowing injustice, oppression and psychological tyranny to go unchallenged.

In my personal life, I will no longer listen to televised debates conducted by "fair-minded" channels that seek to give "both sides" of this issue "equal time." I am aware that these stations no longer give equal time to the advocates of treating women as if they are the property of men or to the advocates of reinstating either segregation or slavery, despite the fact that when these evil institutions were coming to an end the Bible was still being quoted frequently on each of these subjects. It is time for the media to announce that there are no longer two sides to the issue of full humanity for gay and lesbian people. There is no way that justice for homosexual people can be compromised any longer.

I will no longer act as if the Papal office is to be respected if the present occupant of that office is either not willing or not able to inform and educate himself on public issues on which he dares to speak with embarrassing ineptitude. I will no longer be respectful of the leadership of the Archbishop of Canterbury, who seems to believe that rude behavior, intolerance and even killing prejudice is somehow acceptable, so long as it comes from third-world religious leaders, who more than anything else reveal in themselves the price that colonial oppression has required of the minds and hearts of so many of our world's population. I see no way that ignorance and truth can be placed side by side, nor do I believe that evil is somehow less evil if the Bible is quoted to justify it. I will dismiss as unworthy of any more of my attention the wild, false and uninformed opinions of such would-be religious leaders as Pat Robertson, James Dobson, Jerry Falwell, Jimmy Swaggart, Albert Mohler, and Robert Duncan. My country and my church have both already spent too much time, energy and money trying to accommodate these backward points of view when they are no longer even tolerable.

I make these statements because it is time to move on. The battle is over. The victory has been won. There is no reasonable doubt as to what the final outcome of this struggle will be. Homosexual people will be accepted as equal, full human beings, who have a legitimate claim on every right that both church and society have to offer any of us. Homosexual marriages will become legal, recognized by the state and pronounced holy by the church. "Don't ask, don't tell" will be dismantled as the policy of our armed forces. We will and we must learn that equality of citizenship is not something that should ever be submitted to a referendum. Equality under and before the law is a solemn promise conveyed to all our citizens in the Constitution itself. Can any of us imagine having a public referendum on whether slavery should continue, whether segregation should be dismantled, whether voting privileges should be offered to women? The time has come for politicians to stop hiding behind unjust laws that they themselves helped to enact, and to abandon that convenient shield of demanding a vote on the rights of full citizenship because they do not understand the difference between a constitutional democracy, which this nation has, and a "mobocracy," which this nation rejected when it adopted its constitution. We do not put the civil rights of a minority to the vote of a plebiscite.

I will also no longer act as if I need a majority vote of some ecclesiastical body in order to bless, ordain, recognize and celebrate the lives and gifts of gay and lesbian people in the life of the church. No one should ever again be forced to submit the privilege of citizenship in this nation or membership in the Christian Church to the will of a majority vote.

The battle in both our culture and our church to rid our souls of this dying prejudice is finished. A new consciousness has arisen. A decision has quite clearly been made. Inequality for gay and lesbian people is no longer a debatable issue in either church or state. Therefore, I will from this moment on refuse to dignify the continued public expression of ignorant prejudice by engaging it. I do not tolerate racism or sexism any longer. From this moment on, I will no longer tolerate our culture's various forms of homophobia. I do not care who it is who articulates these attitudes or who tries to make them sound holy with religious jargon.

I have been part of this debate for years, but things do get settled and this issue is now settled for me. I do not debate any longer with members of the "Flat Earth Society" either. I do not debate with people who think we should treat epilepsy by casting demons out of the epileptic person; I do not waste time engaging those medical opinions that suggest that bleeding the patient might release the infection. I do not converse with people who think that Hurricane Katrina hit New Orleans as punishment for the sin of being the birthplace of Ellen DeGeneres or that the terrorists hit the United Sates on 9/11 because we tolerated homosexual people, abortions, feminism or the American Civil Liberties Union. I am tired of being embarrassed by so much of my church's participation in causes that are quite unworthy of the Christ I serve or the God whose mystery and wonder I appreciate more each day. Indeed I feel the Christian Church should not only apologize, but do public penance for the way we have treated people of color, women, adherents of other religions and those we designated heretics, as well as gay and lesbian people.

Life moves on. As the poet James Russell Lowell once put it more than a century ago: "New occasions teach new duties, Time makes ancient good uncouth." I am ready now to claim the victory. I will from now on assume it and live into it. I am unwilling to argue about it or to discuss it as if there are two equally valid, competing positions any longer. The day for that mentality has simply gone forever.

This is my manifesto and my creed. I proclaim it today. I invite others to join me in this public declaration. I believe that such a public outpouring will help cleanse both the church and this nation of its own distorting past. It will restore integrity and honor to both church and state. It will signal that a new day has dawned and we are ready not just to embrace it, but also to rejoice in it and to celebrate it.

Women, Ordination, and the Radical Fringe

2010-07-29T13:41:00.000-07:00

Some years ago, before I had even heard of a town called Wakefield, I began to think about a vocation in ministry. In fact, all through high school and college I toyed with the idea. I even went to a high school student visiting day at Luther Northwestern Theological Seminary in St. Paul. But it wasn't until my junior year of college that I really began to think that this might be an option for me. So, I wrote to several of the seminaries of the Episcopal Church to find out what I would have to do, first to be admitted and then to pursue ordination.

Especially interesting to me was the varied responses I received. A few just sent me a catalogue. One sent me a copy of the canons, and a couple of the seminaries were very helpful. Interestingly, they were the schools closest to me: Nashotah House and Seabury-Western Theological Seminary. Nashotah House sent an encouraging letter and several back issues of their alumni newsletter, along with a catalogue. Unfortunately, when I read the Nashotah catalogue, I realized it probably wasn't the place for me. It had a quotation by a female graduate who said something on the order of "It's not really as bad for women here as I had expected." Not exactly a ringing endorsement. Seabury-Western was really great. They even called me. I'm not sure how they got my number, since I didn't include it in my letter to them. I guess they phoned the college to find me. They were very nice, but as I spoke with the admissions director, she made a comment about how Seabury served "the broad mainstream" of the Episcopal Church, and not the "radical fringe." Having always been liberally inclined, I wasn't sure what to make of that. I wasn't sure if I'd fit in there, and I thought that perhaps where I really belonged was the fringe. So, I gave the Episcopal Divinity School in Cambridge a second look, despite the lack-luster initial response to my inquiry.

I can't imagine having studied anywhere else. As it turns out, I was never as "fringy" as some there. In fact, my New Testament professor told me once that I was among the most conservative students there. I'm not so sure about that. But I definitely tried to learn from all of the voices and perspectives I could. I guess that's why I am so interested in the concept of comprehensiveness.

But as much as I have a concern for maintaining a delicate balance in the church between the various views, one of the issues I am rather uncompromising on is the ordination of women. I was born as a Lutheran and women were already pastors by the time I came into the world. Women were approved for ordination in the Episcopal Church and the Anglican Church of Canada when I was less than 4. And Anglicanism had its first woman bishop when I was 16. So, it seems strange to me that this issue is still being debated, as it is across the Anglican Communion.

Today, July 29 is the anniversary of the first ordinations of women to the priesthood in the Episcopal Church. It happened in 1974. But not officially. Rather, it was an "extraordinary" or "irregular" event (some might and did call it illegal). On that day in 1974, in the city of Philadelphia, the face of ministry in the Anglican Church was forever changed. Eleven women deacons were "irregularly" ordained by three retired bishops. It was irregular, because neither the Episcopal Church, nor any church in the Anglican Communion, had yet approved women’s ordination; although, one courageous woman, Florence Li Tim Oi, had been ordained in Hong Kong in 1944, but was subsequently asked not to serve as a priest and was not recognized in other parts of the Communion. After years of working tirelessly to change the church through the usual power structures by appealing nicely to the men in power, by working through the democratic processes of synods and conventions, and after being turned down again and again, these 11 women and three men who were committed to living out the Gospel of Christ in its fullest sense decided to stop being polite and took matters, literally, into their own hands.

On this anniversary, I would like to share their story. The late Suzanne Hiatt, one of the 11 women, and the primary organizer of that historic event reflected on it in a letter to women working for ordination in the Church of England, published as "July 29, 1974--Kairos as Paradigm Shift," in No Easy Peace: Liberating Anglicanism, ed. Carter Heyward and Sue Phillips, (Lantham, MD: University Press of America, 1992).. This is an abridgment of what she wrote:

When we arrived at Church of the Advocate at 9:00 a.m., the feast of Ss. Martha and Mary of Bethany, it was already two-thirds full. The church is a barn of a building, holding in excess of 2000 people. We had contingency plans in case of a riot or an interruption of the service. There was a basement room where we met to vest and to take the oath of conformity and where we planned to reassemble (bishops and deacons), in case of emergency, to finish the ordination. Because the opposition was so shrill and violent, I was sure we had chosen the right course. I think we all felt the same steely determination that morning.

By 11:00, the church was packed--standing room only--and the press and TV cameras were adding to the general bedlam, heat, and excitement. Paul Washington, the rector of the church, quieted the crowd and began the proceeding with an eloquent welcome. He compared our situation to that of a pregnant woman - the church says it's an inconvenient time to have a birth, but the baby comes when its time is here. This analogy was followed by the opening strains of the hymn, 'Come, Labor On.' The accident of juxtaposition produced a roar of laughter and on that note the procession began, led by crucifer Barbara Harris, Warden of the parish, and later first woman bishop in the Anglican Communion.

The procession was slowed by people pressing in to embrace us and sustained applause and cheering when the bishops emerged. I remember my lay presenter shouting over the din, 'They're going to do it. They're really going to do it. The Holy Spirit has grabbed them by whatever hair they have left and they're actually going to do it!'

The sermon came first. The preacher, Dr. Charles Willie, an African American layman and Vice President of the Episcopal Church’s House of Deputies, spoke of justice delayed as justice denied and made the obvious parallels with Martin Luther King and the civil rights movement.

When the time came for objections there was a line of black-suited clergymen. When all had their say, the bishop who was presiding read a simple statement to the effect that we had weighed our action carefully in the light of Gospel imperatives and were not dissuaded. The opponents left after making their objections.

Then the ordaining began. About a hundred priests joined the bishops for the laying on of hands - the line stretching to the back of the church. The press contributed much pushing and shoving and flashing of cameras. The spirit of the day was high excitement and delirious joy. We had been prepared for just about anything, but the outpouring of love and support from so many people was astonishing. It was a sign that the time was right--a truth we'd sensed but now knew beyond doubt.

The ordination was only the beginning of 18 months of intense struggle. It was followed by a special meeting of the bishops, declaring the ordinations so irregular as to be invalid. Afterward we began functioning as priests whenever and wherever we could. Prior to that August meeting we had refrained from priestly ministry to give them a chance to decide how to deal with us. When they refused, we felt we had no choice.

A year later in 1975, four more women were ordained irregularly in Washington, DC. Women's full ordination was officially approved in the U.S. in 1976, and the 15 women ordained irregularly in '74 and '75 were fully accepted as priests. There were some who argued that the women would have to be re-ordained, as the first ordinations were not valid. The women obviously disagreed, and argued back that by ordaining them a third time, after their diaconal and priestly ordinations, it would not make them priests but, in fact, bishops! The men in power definitely didn't want to go there, so they were accepted “as is.” The Anglican Church of Canada also began ordaining women to the priesthood in 1976, watching events in the U.S., but without the catalyst of such revolutionary actions. Actually, Canada began ordaining women legally two months before the U.S. By contrast, it took the Church of England another 20 years, approving women’s ordination in 1994, and only now debating whether women can be bishops.

There are many Anglicans who look to these 11 women as prophets and pioneers. Others, even some who approve of women’s ordination, are still frustrated by this dramatic action, which broke the rules so precipitously. Anglicans, it seems, are by nature rule bound.

The author of this reflection, Sue Hiatt, and two of the other women ordained that day--Carter Heyward and Alison Cheek--were among my professors at the Episcopal Divinity School, part of that radical fringe. They have had a profound impact on my life, my understanding of Christian discipleship, and my own sense of what it means to be a priest, as I know they have for others as well. Bishop Ann Tottenham (retired suffragan in Toronto) told me once that she was opposed to women's ordination until she met some of these pioneering women, who obviously changed her mind. And consider the result: A small, radical movement that began with 11 women and three retired bishops ushered in a new age in our church, one which now, three decades later, includes thousands of women clergy, 25 women bishops across the world in the United States, Canada, Cuba, Australia, and New Zealand, including Bishop Gayle Harris, who ordained me, and even the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church.

I can't imagine the Church without the ministries of these women, and especially the women who have shaped my own ministry: pastors, field education supervisors, professors, bosses, rectors, bishops, and friends. On this anniversary day I say to them congratulations and thanks. And most especially I ask God to continue to bless them.

On churchgoing

2010-07-20T12:06:00.000-07:00

One of my favorite things about Sunday afternoons is the opportunity to listen to Garrison Keillor's radio program "A Prairie Home Companion" as I drive home from church. Unlike previous vicars of Wakefield, I live some distance, which has its advantages and disadvantages. One of the advantages is that it gives me the opportunity to take time out, breathe, and listen to music and interesting programs. Being a Minnesota native, my favorite radio show is Keillor's. He has a wonderful ability to connect me with my "homeland," even when I am so far from there.

This past Sunday, July 18, Keillor's show was a patchwork quilt of previous clips--something that's to be expect in the mid-summer, I suppose. As I was driving, he shared a beautiful piece on "Churchgoing" by the late John Updike. Keillor first read this on air just after Updike died in January 2009. I didn't hear it then, but I am glad I did this week. Here it is:

from Churchgoing

There was a time when I wondered why more people did
not go to church. Taken purely as a human recreation, what
could be more delightful, more unexpected than to enter a
venerable and lavishly scaled building kept warm and clean
for us one or two hours a week and to sit and stand in unison
and sing and recite creeds and petitions that are like paths
worn smooth in the raw terrain of our hearts? To listen, or not
listen, as a poorly paid but resplendently robed man strives to
console us with scraps of ancient epistles and halting accounts,
hopelessly compromised by words, of those intimations of
divine joy that are like pain in that, their instant gone, the
mind cannot remember or believe them; to witness the
windows donated by departed patrons and the altar flowers
arranged by withdrawn hands and the whole considered
spectacle lustrous beneath its patina of inheritance; to pay, for
all this, no more than we are moved to give-surely in all
democracy there is nothing like it. Indeed, it is the most
available democratic experience. We vote less than once a
year. Only in church and at the polls are we actually given our
supposed value, the soul-unit of one, with its noumenal
arithmetic of equality: one equals one."

--from "Churchgoing," from Pigeon Feathers and Other Stories, 1962, pp 249-250

I imagine that this is why a lot of us go to church. We go because there we are connected with something that just doesn't make logical sense, and yet, is very real. In church we are filled with that "divine joy" Updike writes about. The stained glass, the flowers and resplendent vestments, the old words and ancient creeds, they all connect us with something deeper and more profound than we find in our ordinary day to day lives. Or at least that's true for me. And maybe it's true for you as well. The church has its faults, there's no question about that. But it is also special and holy and sacred. It warms the heart. It fills us with divine joy. Most especially, it gives us life.

If you care to hear Garrison Keillor read this passage in his own distinctive voice, you can do so here.

Rediscovering Anglican Comprehensiveness

2010-07-13T23:07:00.000-07:00

The recent Pentecost letter to the Anglican Communion by the Archbishop of Canterbury and the response by the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church have led to numerous reflections on blogs and various internet sites. Some hail Archbishop Williams’ fortitude in working to defend the historic faith and practice of the church in the face of Western modernizing tendencies, particularly regarding sexual ethics and the common mind of the world-wide Communion. Others, particularly in the United States, have taken great comfort and pride in the forcefulness of Presiding Bishop Jefferts Schori’s pastoral letter, in which she has sought to describe how the Episcopal Church has come to its current decisions and practice vis a vis sexuality, particularly in approving the consecration of a second partnered and openly gay bishop. Interestingly, both the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church appeal to the voice of the Holy Spirit as guiding the unity of the Communion and/or the prophetic but undeniably divisive actions of the Episcopal Church’s leadership.

As thoughtful and skillfully written as these primatial epistles are, it is easy to find fault with both letters. In the case of the Archbishop of Canterbury, he seems to place unity of belief and practice above all else, while failing to recognize that there is already a profound diversity within the Anglican Communion. In practice, his emphasis on unity likely serves to enshrine the most conservative perspectives, while minimizing or rejecting new perspectives and practices that arise in various contexts. If the church is to grow and adapt to new contexts and new situations, including new understandings of holy living in the contemporary world, a more open approach is undoubtedly necessary.

Toward that end, I would argue that some provinces of the Communion should be allowed a generous degree of freedom to explore these new developments and practices in the context of the Christian community, and then after a time be given the opportunity to share the results of this period of testing with the wider church. If certain provinces aren’t given this freedom, how else will the wider church ever know if it can move in a new direction?

The example of liturgical revision may be helpful here. The Episcopal Church did not just leap from the 1928 Book of Common Prayer to the 1979 Prayer Book over night. Rather, there was a long period of trial spanning several decades, beginning with a few parishes interested in the Parish Communion Movement and expanding to dioceses and the wider church. In 1976 a new Prayer Book was provisionally adopted by the General Convention, but even then was subject to a three-year trial period. Following that book’s final adoption in 1979, other churches of the Communion began to experiment with the prayers and liturgies found in it. It was not an immediate process and while the “radical” revisions of the 1970s are common across the Communion today, there remains a vibrant and lively diversity of practice in the world’s Anglican churches, some preferring the traditional language of our heritage, others embracing contemporary liturgies, and a great many striking a delicate balance, offering both within the same faith community.

While not “officially” approached in this way, the Communion’s handling of the issue of women’s ordination to all three orders of ministry largely has followed this path as well. A few provinces of the Communion adopted the practice in the minority, much to the dismay of many, only to be followed by more and more after they had seen the undeniable fruits of women’s ministries in those few contexts that led the way. Had the Anglican Church of Canada and the Episcopal Church in the United States been denied the opportunity to experience women’s ministries in the 1970s, the Church of England likely would not be debating the best way to adopt the practice of consecrating women as bishops today.

The fact of the matter is, the Anglican Communion has often held such open views when member churches have desired to push the boundaries of traditional practice. It has never required that all member churches come to the same conclusions, but rather has allowed for a significant degree of ambiguity, even with regard to very significant theological, moral, and liturgical issues. The recent attempts to clamp down on diverse practices with threats of punishment and exclusion are simply foreign to the long-standing ethos of comprehensiveness that has been so vital and life-giving within Anglicanism.

That said, Presiding Bishop Jefferts Schori’s Pentecost letter defending the actions of the Episcopal Church presents problems of its own. She is right to criticize the unprecedented centralizing tendencies of the Archbishop of Canterbury in his letter (and though unstated, in the work toward the adoption of the Anglican Communion Covenant). She is right to defend the autonomy of the Episcopal Church while desiring to maintain its strong “bonds of affection” with the churches of the Anglican Communion. However, her appeal to the Episcopal Church’s Baptismal Covenant is not theologically strong enough to justify her defense of the church’s actions, in my view. And as others have pointed out, her appeal to the Church’s history is not always accurate.

There is an unfortunate lack of theological grounding in the Presiding Bishop’s letter and also in the Episcopal Church’s regular appeal to justice as a defense for its actions. There’s no denying that a deep and abiding concern for justice has been a central facet of Christianity since the earthly ministry of Jesus and before him in the voices of the Hebrew prophets. However, for the concept of justice (which can be interpreted variously, depending on an individual’s or group’s point of view) to attain its most compelling meaning it needs a strongly articulated theological foundation. For many Anglicans, especially those inspired by the ethos of comprehensiveness, that theological foundation is the Incarnation.

The Presiding Bishop would have been on firmer footing if she had instead drawn more deeply from the rich well of the Anglican theological tradition, and especially the theologians of comprehensiveness, such as Richard Hooker, F. D. Maurice, B. F. Westcott, and even Charles Gore. In their own ways and contexts, each argues for the unity of the church in the face of diverse practices. For them, the central unifying force is nothing less than God incarnate in Jesus Christ. In and through the Incarnation of Christ, diverse persons, practices, and beliefs are ultimately reconciled and transcended. In and through the Incarnation of Christ humanity finds its true meaning—justice, love, peace, compassion, and unity in diversity.

In 1893 B. F. Westcott wrote (excuse lack of gender inclusive language):

“However feebly we realize the fact, the truth, of the Incarnation, we find in it the inexhaustible spring of brotherhood. No difference which finds its expression in terms of earth can stay it. In this sense also, ‘brothers are brothers evermore.’ We spell out the Divine message little by little in thought and action, but the most rudimentary apprehension of its meaning brings home to us that man is bound to man, in virtue of his humanity, by that which is infinitely stronger than anything which tends to separate one from another: that in the reckoning of the great account the loss of one cannot be another’s gain…. We may be filled with shame and compunction for innumerable inconsistencies, failures, sins, but the motive which we have once felt loses nothing of its claim on our obedience. Christ—such is the formal confession of each one of us—took me to Himself when He took humanity to Himself, and I owe myself to those with whom He has united me.” The Incarnation and Common Life, pp. 24-25.

Of course this idea presented so well by Westcott did not originate in the Anglican divines. It goes back to St. Paul, who argues that in Christ there is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female. This is not to say that these differences disappeared (men and women aren’t neutered after all), but that in Christ, through whom and in whose image we all are made, our true and lasting unity is discovered, even in the midst of our inherent diversity. In Christ, we recognize who we are and who our neighbors are, whatever differences may exist among us.

Generations of Anglican divines have elaborated on this foundational Christian principle to present it afresh in new contexts and situations, many of them as marred by division as we find ourselves today. It’s lamentable that their inspirational work has not been better utilized (by the Archbishop of Canterbury, the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church, and others) in defense of the embattled Anglican ethos of comprehensiveness and even more importantly in defense of today’s diverse practices and beliefs. Ultimately, the differences among us, vast though they sometimes seem, reflect the quest of every one of us to discern truth and holiness in our age as we attempt in imperfect ways to live the bold life of Incarnation in the Body of Christ.

The Post the First

2010-07-12T19:40:00.001-07:00

So, until about 5 minutes ago I maintained that blogs are self-indulgent. I enjoy reading various blogs from time to time, but I never thought much about putting up one of my own. And I can't help but think that excessive blogging has contributed to the very polarized Episcopal Church and Anglican Communion that we know today. It's just too easy to compose sharply worded epistles to the world and to spend time and energy criticizing those with whom we disagree. None of that seems to serve the greater purpose of building up the Body of Christ.

So, this blog will endeavor to build up, rather than tear down. An appreciation of Anglican Comprehensiveness will be the theological and ecclesiastical bias employed here (coincidentally, that's the focus of my thesis, too). There will probably be lots of quotations from theological giants like Richard Hooker, F. D. Maurice, Charles Gore, A. G. Hebert, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Norman Pittenger, and the like. The occasional sermon may find its way here. And for a bit of levity, an appreciation of all things Scandinavian (except Lutefisk) will be featured, too.

The title, by the way, is taken from the 1766 novel of the same name by Oliver Goldsmith. It was a particular favorite in the Victorian era. I'm a Rector not a Vicar and I minister in Massachusetts not England, but the title is too perfect not to use. A parishioner gave me a copy of the book on my first day in the parish, so I feel a special connection with it. And my spiritual director always begins our sessions by asking "How is the Vicar of Wakefield," so I've begun to identify with it; although, I hope I'm somewhat less daft than the Rev. Charles Primrose, the novel's title character.