Taryn Mattice has served as a Cornell Chaplain for nearly three decades. She has been supported by five mainline churches in Ithaca. Months ago she announced her retirement. She richly deserves to do so, but it is sad to see her go. In addition to being an outstanding preacher: erudite, insightful, and down to earth, she has been a spiritual model and has led the students on numerous social justice trips through the years.
Here is her last sermon:
Last Sermon May 8, 2022 2 Thessalonians 5
What I’m about to read you is the very end of Paul’s first letter to the church of Thessaloniki. You’ll see he takes his sweet time, signing off. Goodbyes are hard.
“Finally, my sisters and brothers, he says, “Be at peace among yourselves. And we urge you, beloved, to admonish the idlers, encourage the fainthearted, help the weak, be patient with all of them. See that none of you repays evil for evil, but always seek to do good to one another and to all. Rejoice always, pray without ceasing, give thanks in all circumstances, for this is the will of God in Christ for you. Do not quench the Spirit. Do not despise the words of the prophets, but test everything; hold fast to what is good; abstain from every form of evil. May the God of peace himself sanctify you entirely, and may your spirit and soul and body be kept sound and blameless at the coming of our Lord Jesus Christ. The one who calls you is faithful, and he will do this.”
In the academic literature, this ending of Paul’s letter is called his “shotgun paraenesis,” because he’s quickly firing off one round of imperatives after another. Maybe he’s running out of papyrus, and writing in a cramped hand up the side, or the mail carrier is coming and he’s rushing to finish, just barking out “Rejoice always! Be patient! Floss!
I’m going to take Paul’s words here as permission to say important things in short sentences. And I hope you will too. When you say goodbye to a friend for the summer, or when those of you who are graduating take off in opposite directions . . . your last words to each other don’t have to be nothingburgers. (low voice) “Hey, take it easy.” Risk saying something important. Even if its quick.
So here goes. My shotgun paraenesis.
“Find things in your life that will make you cry.” I’ve got a little more papyrus here, so I’ll explain. A student once told me that he hadn’t cried since he was 10, “so that means I must be pretty happy, right?” “No,” I answered, “most truly happy people cry a lot. They find all kinds of things that make them weep. They read sad novels, watch hard movies. They’re fully in touch with the pain in their own lives and they take on some of the pain of the world. An alum told me she volunteers to go to court once a month to be an advocate for children in abuse cases. She just sits outside a judge’s chambers with them, armed with juice boxes and snacks and something for them to cuddle. “I have to hold it together while I’m there,” she says, “but I cry for two days after. . . It’s the best thing I’ve ever done.”
You know how good you feel when you’re physically in shape? (I kinda remember.) So it is when you use your heart often – it’s a muscle you know, and you feel better when you’re using it.
Jesus wept. And what sets Yahweh apart from a philosopher’s concept of God, is this incredible . . . pathos. Jealousy, anger, hurt, grief. All of it. The God of the scriptures is not the God of the Deists. Yahweh feels stuff.
All right. “Seek adventure.” You’re gonna get that on at least one graduation card, but let me explain what I mean. That thrill seeking impulse is strong in some people, maybe some of you – skydiving, rock climbing over cliffs, even grabbing microphones before crowds,– I think adrenaline junkies have a spiritual gift, though God knows the church does most everything in its power to discourage any association of risk-taking with faith-living. Look at how sedate we try to keep things around here. Your parents probably don’t love your adrenaline seeking behavior much either. But really.
Barbara Brown Taylor, who is an Episcopal priest, tells a story about her husband, who, though he is a Christian, took up with a group of Native American Sun Dancers. He returned home after a week with them of fasting, praying and dancing, followed by two days spent alone and naked in the woods with God. When he got off the plane back home, badly sunburned and 10 pounds lighter she says “his face leaked light. And he turned to me and said, ‘you make church too easy.” Find some adventure in your life with God.
Three. I’m going to borrow this one from Paul. Pray always. And you know, I keep saying I haven’t been as helpful to you with this as I wish I’d been. I’m still working on it myself. But here’s what I know. A lot of what we learn when we pray is how to be quiet. And we need to stop thinking that a relationship is constituted only by language. The closer we get to other people, the better our friendships are, the more silence those relationships contain. The people we talk to all the time are probably the people we don’t know well and don’t trust so much. So it is with God. You want to get to the point where you can just hang out together. My friend Ed always got to church an hour before the service began, just to sit in the silence with God. He loved it. And that is the fruit of a lifetime of prayer. Learning to pray is a lifelong process. And friendship with God the goal, not the starting point.
Another one: Fear not. Which you know is all over the Bible. But as I did on Easter, I want to walk it back a little. On Easter you heard Matthew’s story – about the women who left the tomb quickly with fear and great joy. And I told you then that Matthew seemed to be saying something about the absolute likelihood that these two things will travel together. So welcome a little Fear – just don’t let it get the upper hand.
See, the Bible says perfect love casts out fear – but my love has yet to be perfected, so I think what happens instead is that love and joy just have to refuse to let fear take up all the space. “Scoot over,” they need to shout. “We’re coming along!” Then fear has no choice but to quit hogging all the seats. I love the way Elizabeth Gilbert talks about fear. She says she doesn’t try to kill off her fear or go to war against it. Instead she makes space for it. “In fact,” she writes, “I cordially invite fear to come along with me everywhere I go. I even have a welcoming speech prepared for fear, which I deliver right before embarking on any new project or big adventure.” In her speech she uses the word “creativity,” but we could insert joy, or hope, or love. So her welcoming speech goes like this: “Dearest fear, Hope and I are about to go on a road trip together. I understand you’ll be joining us, because you always do. . . there’s plenty of room in this vehicle for all of us, so make yourself at home, but understand this: Hope and I are the only ones who will be making any decisions along the way. I recognize and respect that you are a part of this family, and so I will never exclude you from our activities, but still – your suggestions will never be followed. You’re allowed to have a seat, and you’re allowed to have a voice – but you are not allowed to have a vote. You’re not allowed to touch the road maps, you’re not allowed to fiddle with the temperature. Dude, you’re not even allowed to touch the radio. But above all else, my dear old familiar friend, you are absolutely forbidden to drive.”
Look. It feels like I’ve spent the better part of the last few years thinking that some of us should give a little more notice, a little more credit, to the voice of fear.
See, as probably one of the few Baby Boomers you actually know, I want to apologize on behalf of my entire generation. We’ve left you a mess. The planet is heaving. Our institutions – churches, schools, government – are starved for attention. There is just no way this next period of time is going to be easy-breezy. And yes, I know nothing has ever been perfect and still there are still beautiful, funny, wonderful things happening every day – but I can’t shake the feeling that more is going to be asked of you than has been asked of a generation in a very long time. And its going to demand a kind of seriousness my generation kept avoiding.
Right after January 6 last year, after the insurrection, I was in a room with clergy, and clergy? Well we were mostly saying what you’d expect us to say. We have a crisis of unity, we said. We really needed to understand more of where other people were coming from, we need to love more. And all of that is right. But to this day I carry some discomfort. What I was missing in that room was some apprehension of the depth of our situation. Which I understand to be that lies are winning. In another place Paul warned, “There will be times when people will no longer listen and respond to healing words of truth because they have become selfish and proud. They will seek out teachers with soothing words that line up with their desires, saying just what they want to hear. They will close their ears to the truth.” In Myanmar and Ethiopia right now – astonishing violence is taking place partially fueled by lies spread on social media. Let’s just say I’m not confident that the same phenomenon that led millions of Americans not to get vaccinated doesn’t threaten us in more dire ways as well. It seems to me that the Christian church needs to continue to preach about love – our standard, but it also better get fierce about telling and insisting on the truth.
Whenever we tune into a problem in some particular way – we are sometimes tuning in on a frequency we developed in childhood, in our families. What makes you respond to cruelty and makes me hypervigilant about lies – is likely what we’ve lived.
But I am also a student of history. All that academic work I did years ago on the history of the Holocaust, on the cultural developments of the 1930s in Europe that led every institution – schools, churches, governments – to lose their minds. Their purpose. Ringing in my ears is Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s line– he was a Lutheran minister in Germany -- "The failure of reasonable people is appalling; they cannot manage to see either the abyss of evil or the abyss of holiness."
What frustrated – that’s not a strong enough word – incensed! – this man who was finally executed by the Nazis – was the failure of good church-going Germans to comprehend both the depth of the evil they faced, or the possibility of holiness, of spiritual strength and courage in the face of it. He was talking about that vast middle of German society that could not see how bad things were, couldn’t even imagine it, nor imagine the possibilities of being God’s people, who with God’s help can defy evil. They mostly wanted to muddle along with their lives until, well until they couldn’t muddle anymore, because bombs were raining down on them and it was too late to do anything about it.
I have my issues with the word “evil,” but if it helps basically decent people come to grips with selfishness and dishonesty that is worse than they can imagine– maybe its useful.
So I guess that’s where I want to leave us today. With my encouragement that you find it in you to name the abyss – the rot, the ugliness, the lies, the sin --to use our word – that threaten God’s good world. And that you will also – be impatient with shallow religion, but push harder to identify and cultivate holiness – in yourself, and in our churches.
Well that’s not EXACTLY where I want to leave you. At the very, very end of Paul’s letter he gets personal. Not as personal as he does in other letters, but he does say, “Pray for us.” He asks for their prayers. This is not the Paul who swaggers, this is the Paul who is just as needy as his people are, and admitting it. And then he says, “Greet all the brothers and sisters with a holy kiss.” Whatever that was. But I take it to mean he signed off leaving them to each other’s care, intending that intimacy and real affection be cultivated among them.
And so is my hope for you. You who are remaining. That when a new chaplain arrives in the fall that person will find a little community of people intent on friendship between them, and with whoever else walks through those doors. You don’t have to aim for bigness to grow, you know, you just have to want friends. And I pray that chaplain will simply be folded in among you. Because for all of these years, that friendship with you and your predecessors is what I am left to treasure. All the remaining days of my life. Amen.