The Rector's Corner

Enjoy this slide show of Mike Dangelo's journey of ten enlightening and stimulating years at the Redeemer! 

Dearest Redeemer Family,

Summer's gentle breezes have given way to the crisp promise of autumn, and with it, the joyful return to our shared spiritual home. We trust your summer was filled with good times, holy moments, and the restful pause we all need to recharge our souls.

As the leaves begin their colorful transformation, we invite you back to the heart of our community, where faith, fellowship, and joy await.

Mark your calendars for our Kick-Off Sunday on September 8th! We'll gather for our 10 am service, followed by a delightful Welcome Back Picnic. Laughter, shared stories, and delicious food will set the tone for a vibrant season ahead.

This fall also brings exciting opportunities to deepen our connection with God and each other:

Choristers: Our renewed Choristers program for children 8 and up will meet every Sunday at 9 am. Let their voices rise in joyful praise!

Evensong: Bask in the serene beauty of Evensong at 5 pm, a moment of quiet reflection to close your weekend.

8 am Holy Eucharist: For those seeking an early morning connection, our 8 am service provides a peaceful start to your Sunday.

Whether you're returning from travels near or far, or simply easing back into the rhythm of fall, know that you were dearly missed and are eagerly welcomed back. Let's embrace this season with open hearts and joyful spirits, ready to walk together on the path of faith.

With warmth and anticipation,

Mike+

Dear Redeemer Faithful,

As I write this Holy Week invitation, I am preparing myself for a rite particular to the ordained, known in ecclesiastical shorthand as "The Chrism Mass". In the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts, the Tuesday of Holy Week is set aside as a special moment for priests and deacons to gather under the care of their bishops for the reaffirmation of ordination vows and the reception of holy oils (blessed by the bishops) for parish use throughout the year. These oils are for the anointing of the sick, the anointing of the baptized, and a variety of sacred, solemn, and intimate pastoral rites that arise over the course of a given year.

This Holy Tuesday is very different from others. Our Diocesan Bishop, the Right Reverend Alan M. Gates, will celebrate his final Chrism Mass as our chief pastor. It is a bittersweet moment as those of us who love and care for him will no longer have the same relationship with him as we once had. Sure, we will see him from time to time at diocesan events, but his time among us in this particular role is drawing to a close. I will miss him, but we are not left without hope. As we prepare to welcome a new shepherd, we are reminded that the work of the Church transcends any one leader, grounded in the eternal presence and loving-guidance of God. Together, in that grace we will travel this time of transition with faith and hope.

In the rite for the Ordination of a Priest in the Book of Common Prayer, a series of questions are put before the candidate. They include a commitment to respect the bishop, study the scriptures, offer the sacraments, pattern life in a holy fashion, pastor the faithful, and persevere in prayer. And at the end of these commitments, the bishop offers this prayer:

"May the Lord who has given you the will to do these things give you the grace and power to perform them."

It reminds me (every time I read them) that ministry, for both lay and ordained, comes from God. The grace that flows through ministry, and the power required to undertake and complete it, are sourced not through human hands but through Divine Love. God is at work directing and empowering the work of the Church, no matter who the bishop might be. The work of the Church is first the work of God, and without God, the work of the Church is both a misguided and misbegotten thing.

This week in the life of the Church serves as the lodestone for everything we say and do in the life of the Church. I offer no hyperbole when I say that this week is the defining reality for anyone who considers themselves a Christian and, by extension, the Church that Christians create by their common life. In this Holy Week, we are given the reminder of the extent of God's love; born of a human mother by the Holy Spirit, lived, preached, healed, loved, crucified, and raised from the dead on the third day. Christianity is born this week in the commemoration of the Last Supper, the Garden tribulation, the arrest and suffering, the crucifixion, the silence, and the eternal joy of the Feast of the Resurrection.

I invite you to take part in this great week of weeks. Join Jesus and his disciples as they travel to the Upper Room, to Pilate's chambers, and to the pain of Golgotha. This is an invitation to partake in the work of God, to immerse ourselves in the story that defines our faith and to witness firsthand the love that God has for each of us. And no matter how distant or ill-equipped we may feel to participate in this ministry we must remember that it is not we who guide and govern it. God is at work. God is moving in and through it. Divine Love empowers it, blesses it, and kneads it into the deepest recesses of our souls. And through our God-empowered prayer and devotion, grace will pour abundantly into our hungry souls. We need only say 'yes'.

"May the Lord who has given you the will to do these things give you the grace and power to perform them."

Faithfully and Fondly,

Mike+

The toolbox, a mere namesake in our household, represented something quintessentially Dad – an embodiment of good intentions without the handiness to match. His approach to fixing things leaned heavily on the expertise of neighbors, handymen, or virtually anyone else. Painting? Perhaps that was within his realm, to an extent. But actual repairs, constructions, or the artful employment of tools as our Homo sapiens ancestors intended? That was a different story altogether. Yet, there it was – a toolbox in the fullest sense of the word.

From what lingers in my memory, the toolbox was a sturdy steel Craftsman construction, its heavy lid secured by two simple clasps. Inside, a liftable tray revealed a deeper compartment, a sort of childhood cavern where myriad objects found their home. It functioned, for all practical purposes, as a portable junk drawer. Filled with spare screws, odd pipe fittings – eleven little copper elbows, with the twelfth now a permanent fixture under the kitchen sink – along with an assortment of twist ties and fasteners. However, the toolbox's real surprise lay in its sparse inventory: just two tools and both hammers. A hefty carpenter’s framing hammer and a rubber mallet. The rubber mallet's purpose remained a mystery, but the framing hammer, oh, it had its moments – a quick fix here, whack there, or a forceful adjustment to the immovable this or that.

This very toolbox, sparse as it was, likely sparked my own tool-fixation, a drive to be at least modestly handy. Sifting through Dad’s toolbox, recognizing its ineffectiveness, was a moment of awakening. Over the past thirty years, I’ve amassed an eclectic collection in my own toolbox – planes, rabbet and block, a spokeshave, cabinet scrapers, and not one, but three distinct hammers. My toolbox is a testament to preparedness, equipped for frequent troubles and even those unlikely to ever materialize.

Reflecting on Dad’s humble toolbox has led me to introspect about my Christian faith. I possess a broader toolset than many a believer – Greek and Hebrew, an expansive knowledge of historical periods and geographies, an understanding of theological nuances and church protocols. My spiritual toolbox is brimming. Yet, in the light of Dad’s simple, almost barren toolbox, I can’t help but question: is more really better?

In confronting life’s vast and varied challenges, from domestic upheavals to global crises, I often reach for my metaphorical toolbox. I ponder over the countless parish tempests in the proverbial teapots. Perhaps Dad’s philosophy, albeit with a different set of tools, holds a profound truth. What if, in the grand scheme of things, love is the only tool that truly matters? When one approach fails, perhaps all we need to do is reach back into that toolbox for another iteration of the same powerful, yet simple tool. Amidst all the complexities and strategies, the Christian toolbox might just need two tools, both fundamentally the same. When one seems inadequate, we simply try the other – a continuous cycle of reaching in, grasping, and beginning anew and always with love in hand.

Mike+

As you pass the vintage photograph on your way to the choir room, you are walking in the footsteps of a legacy that spans generations. Beginning with a men and boys choir at the turn of the 20th century, the baton has been passed through an illustrious array of faithful contributors. There was Craig, a teacher from the Chestnut Hill School who infused pedagogical grace; Cindy Johnson, whose keyboard artistry lifted spirits; the choral enthusiasm of Mary Reynders; Michael Murray's reinvigoration of the choristers program in 2016; and most recently, the effervescent John Meyer Spressert, who brought a blaze of youthful energy with his guitar. At Redeemer, music and youth have long been interwoven in a vibrant tapestry, each thread adding a unique hue to our community's spiritual fabric.

In the Anglican tradition, music isn't merely an aesthetic pleasure; it's a form of spiritual language. I would argue that the Book of Common Prayer 1979 and the Hymnal 1982 are not simply books but the reverberating heartbeats of the Episcopal Church. These texts bestow words of solace, acknowledgment of our human frailty, and our hope-filled joy, while also framing our Christian journey with hymns and anthems that resonate through time.

In my last letter, I announced the arrival of a Children’s Homily as part of our Sunday service—an endeavor that excites and, to be candid, terrifies me. But innovation doesn't stop there. We’re charting a refreshed course for music in Sunday School, thanks to Sarah Taylor (spouse of Nigel Potts). Every Sunday, towards the end of the Godly Play and Apostles classes, Sarah will shepherd our youngest from their Sunday School classes into the Children’s Chapel for a 15-minute musical journey. It will be fun, but it’s also intended to be a joyful exploration of our deeply rooted musical canon.

Many of our senior members speak eloquently about the spiritual depth hymns add to their lives, having absorbed them in school chapels long ago. As many schools have unmoored themselves from their respective religious traditions to steer more secular courses, local parishes are the last places remaining for children to recite the prayers and sing the songs of our faith.  If we don't acquaint our children with this sacred repertoire, are we not creating a chasm between the spiritual wisdom of our tradition and the souls of the next generation?

My ambition is to sow seeds of our hymnal heritage into the fertile ground of our children’s spirituality. And, as I am wont to believe and say more often these last years, "Faithful experiments are indeed good for the soul!"

In Christ,

Mike+

For those like me, raised in an atmosphere of fervent Christianity, the word "Jesus" is not so much a name as it is an ever-present companion, shaping the contours of life in both obvious and nuanced ways. My boyhood home was a fortress of religious piety, the kind that would send tremors of alarm through the editorial halls of The New York Times or The Boston Globe. Mention it to Twitter's legions of secular warriors, and watch how quickly you are pigeonholed into dated archetypes of religious dogmatism.

We were the epitome of Wednesday Night Prayer Meeting attendees: resolute in our creationist convictions, disdainful of premarital affairs, and fervently expressive about our personal conversions. The Jesus of my youth was a vigilant moral sentinel, inscribed into every facet of daily life, ensuring that we continually evaluated our ethical decisions lest we stray too far.

However, it was not until my college years and my sojourn into Episcopalianism that I discovered a different theological landscape, one that swapped the restricting moral gauntlet for an expansive meadow of divine affection. I encountered, within the pages of the Hymnal 1982 and the Book of Common Prayer, a deity whose affinity for humanity was not predicated on moral rigor, but flourished in the expansiveness of unconditional love. The God I met was less a surveillance state and more a boundlessly benevolent parent, reveling in the joys and follies of His earthly children.

This revelation comes at a fortuitous time as we approach the commencement of the Episcopal program year—a season of renewed devotion and community that, though time-consuming, offers something uniquely invaluable. My assertion is simple, yet profound: The Church is the lone institution in your life that seeks to reveal God's boundless love to you in a deeply personal way. Yes, the cacophony of life's responsibilities is loud, and the demands on our time are ever increasing. Yet here, in this sacred community, you will find the grounding for all other aspects of your life.

More than that, the Church could be the sanctuary that encourages you to discard what is toxic to your soul. And there, you'll find a different Jesus, not one of moralistic scrutiny or antiquated scientific beliefs, but one with arms outstretched and eyes beaming with love. He invites you in only to propel you back into the world—a world that stands in desperate need of individuals who are renewed, reconciled, and steeped in the boundless grace of God.

In this transformative journey from zeal to grace, I am reminded that the resonance of a name can evolve, reflecting the mutable landscape of our beliefs and experiences. Yet the name "Jesus" remains, not as an overseer of a moral fiefdom, but as a symbol of eternal, undiscriminating love.

In the heart of my backyard, nestled between the grandeur of a towering maple and the vibrant hues of a blooming hydrangea, sits a gift Faye gave me for Christmas last year. It's a rocking camp chair called the Nemo Stargaze. It is simply the most comfortable chair in the world; something between a hammock and a camp chair. That chair is an invitation to rest, to slow down, to embrace the sweet lullaby of a summer's breeze. The chair, in all its humble simplicity, symbolizes for me the concept of a summer sabbath. Yet, while it whispers of restful solitude, it also reminds me of the value of community and worship, and therein lies the paradox of the Christian sabbath.

Summer, in all its glory, tempts us to eschew routine, to embrace a life less bound by the constant ticking of the clock. It invites us to cherish sunlit mornings and languid afternoons, to find joy in life's simple pleasures – a ripe watermelon, children's laughter echoing through the neighborhood, the soothing rhythm of the ocean waves. This is the spirit of the summer sabbath; a time to rest, renew and reconnect with the divine rhythm of life.

But, just as a tree needs both sunlight and water to thrive, our sabbath time requires a balance of solitude and communal worship. Picture, if you will, our summer sabbath as a garden, fertile and waiting to be filled. Private reflection and rest are the seeds we sow, but public worship, the gathering of our Christian community, is the rain that nourishes those seeds, encouraging them to sprout and flourish.

Public worship is not merely an obligation to check off our spiritual to-do list. It's a vital lifeline, a time for us to come together as a parish community, to learn, to share, to uplift one another. It's where we sing our praises, voice our doubts, share our joys, and carry each other's burdens. It's in these shared moments that our understanding of God's love deepens, and we find the strength to carry this love out into the world.

As the summer unfolds, think of the church not as a place of duty, but as a sanctuary in the midst of life's hustle and bustle. It's a place to refuel, to be reminded of God's grace, and to reignite our spiritual fervor. And just as we need the Sabbath for rest, we need the church for renewal and reconnection.

This summer, I implore you to weave worship into your summer sabbath tapestry. Let the hymns fill your soul, let the words of scripture inspire you, let the sense of community uplift you. As we gather together in worship, we not only deepen our own faith but also help to nurture the faith of those around us.

The Stargaze camp chair in my backyard is inviting, but so too are the doors of our church. As you find time to rest and rejuvenate this summer, remember the importance of communal worship. The sabbath is a dance of both solitude and togetherness, and it's in that balance that we truly begin to embody the rhythm of God's grace.

You and I were created to both enjoy rest and engage in worship. Don't allow the allure of the summer sabbath to overshadow the power and purpose of shared worship. Both are critical ingredients in the recipe for a nourished and fruitful spiritual life. So, this summer, rest in your hammock but also rejoice in your church. Embrace the joy of both the silent whisper of a summer breeze and the harmonious hymn of a worshiping community.

Rev. Mike Dangelo +

From Rev. Mike Dangelo--

Dear Friends of the Redeemer,

I write to you this afternoon from a crossroad within my soul. On Saturday night as I was putting the final touches on my Sunday morning sermon, my phone (like yours) alerted me of the murder of ten black Americans at the hands of an angry and young white supremacist. Those murdered people just like us going about their daily routines providing for themselves and their children. Celestine Cheney, grandmother of six, was grocery shopping with her sister. Andre Mackniel was shopping for a birthday cake for his three-year-old son. Hayward Patterson was just waiting in his taxicab to pick up a shopper when he was murdered. This violence was horrific and numbingly predictable. It was that story we continue to hear about a mentally unstable young white man hatefully fueled to violence by racially charged lies and sentiments. And like all of these terrible stories, these murders were preventable. Had this young man's parents, his friends, his relatives, or his systems of education and justice acted in concert on the information they all had, these innocents would have been saved. I could not gather my soul in a way to address it, and I am still at a loss on how we might confront the sick sin of white supremacy that cancerously infects our national soul. What strikes me today is how American Payton Gendron is. Gendron hailed from Conklin, New York, a rural town on the border of New York and Pennsylvania. With a population of just over 5,000 people, Conklin's citizenry represents the kind of majority white small town America that is worlds away from the cosmopolitan and diverse worldviews of our East and West Coast realities. Relegated to the limited and narrowing economic horizons of much of America's hinterland, the positivity and possibility of upward mobility is being dragged down by factors far beyond our control. And, when the optimistic stories of America no longer move someone to hope and possibility, other narratives filled with lies and hateful sentiments begin their pernicious work of radicalizing the young and impressionable. There is no excuse for the murders committed by Payton Gendron, but the seeds of his hate were sown in the soil of isolation, watered by hopelessness, and fertilized with anger, cruelty and hate. These too were all preventable.

What then can an Episcopal Church and its community of Christians do in light of this great field of thorns growing in our midst? Every piece of our life as the Church stands against the forces that created Payton Gendron. We are a community. Isolation is inimical to us. We are called to gather from across the panoply of the human experience breaking the divisive barriers of economics, ethnicity, education, gender, sexuality, and all of the dividing walls that keep human beings apart. We are agents of the Gospel and its message of hope. We believe that in raising Christ from the dead, God has broken the power of sin and death that drag people into hopelessness. Ours is the most hopeful story that can be told. And, we are called to love. Love is not just avoiding behaviors that are wrong, it is actively seeking out those that are alone and estranged so that they might experience God's abiding love with and through us. Through God's own Gospel story and God's own Gospel love, we can and will starve the seeds of hate planted all around us.

From the Bishops of the Episcopal Diocese of Massachusetts

“Christ has broken down the dividing wall, that is, the hostility between us.” ~ Ephesians 2:14

Last Sunday’s reading from Acts explored ways in which Jesus’ followers came to understand that – in his teachings and in his salvific death and resurrection – Jesus was breaking down dividing walls of hostility and alienation. We do not need to tell you that this mission is not completed, that dividing walls endure, that distinctions are still bitter and deadly. We remain in the midst of our deep national reckoning with the dividing wall of racism, which is stubborn, systemic, and sinful. The weekend massacre in Buffalo displays yet again that toxic intersection of simmering racism, online indoctrination into white supremacist philosophies, and appallingly simple access to lethal weapons. 

“The loss of any human life is tragic, but there was deep racial hatred driving this shooting, and we have got to turn from the deadly path our nation has walked for much too long,” said our Presiding Bishop Michael Curry, in his May 16 pastoral statement. He called on us “to uphold and protect the dignity of every human child of God, and to actively uproot the white supremacy and racism deep in the heart of our shared life.” Likewise, Bishop Sean Rowe of the Diocese of Western New York – which includes Buffalo – urged prayer, “not as a substitute for taking action, but to prepare to do so. In the coming weeks, we will need to gather our resolve and raise our voices again against racism and hatred, and commit ourselves to freeing our nation from this epidemic of gun violence.” (Read Bishop Rowe's statements here and here.)

All around us old dividing walls are being shored up and new dividing walls constructed with bigotry, vitriol, and a righteous furor. May God grant us courage and strength to resist, refuse, and combat these sinful separations.

The Rt. Rev. Alan M. Gates
The Rt. Rev. Gayle E. Harris

From the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church

My heart is heavy with the news that a white supremacist gunman took the lives of 10 children of God in Buffalo on Saturday. I grew up walking distance from the scene of this hateful crime, and my friends and I used to ride our bikes around the neighborhood.  Buffalo’s Black community raised and formed me. I grieve with the city and people I love.

The loss of any human life is tragic, but there was deep racial hatred driving this shooting, and we have got to turn from the deadly path our nation has walked for much too long. Bigotry-based violence—any bigotry at all—against our siblings who are people of color, Jewish, Sikh, Asian, trans, or any other group, is fundamentally wrong. As baptized followers of Jesus of Nazareth, we are called to uphold and protect the dignity of every human child of God, and to actively uproot the white supremacy and racism deep in the heart of our shared life.

Please join me in prayer for the shattered families in Buffalo. Please also join me in expressing profound gratitude for the intervention by Buffalo police that likely saved many other lives. Even amid tragedy, even when manifestations of evil threaten to overwhelm, let us hold fast to the good.  It is the only way that leads to life.

The Most Reverend Michael B. Curry

Here is a video of Rev. Mike's 2021 Annual Report to the Parish, click here. 

Click here for the 2021 Annual Report.