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Look, in the sky!

Posted on February 27, 2012 by megancastellan

Friday afternoon, as I was trying to avoid writing my sermon by messing around on Twitter, I got a call from St. Andrew’s in Sedona.  The priest was stricken by the dastardly flu, and could I jump in for Sunday?

While I felt really bad for their rector, I love this church.  They are wonderfully friendly, have very good coffee, laugh at my jokes, and, most vitally, sponsor the Annual Rummage Sale.  This is a yearly garage sale for the church, and they invite Canterbury to come help pack things up when it ends…and take whatever they want, for free, from the leftovers.  (The tales of the findings at this sale have spread far and wide among the hipsters in Flagstaff.  Checkered blazers!  Suspenders!  Record players!  Such irony as has never before been seen.)  The students look forward to this sale ALL YEAR LONG.

So I was pumped to drive down the hill and jump in for 2 services.

I had to keep reassuring people that the fact I seemed to know what I was doing was not a product of divine intervention, but because the liturgy was written down!  (And I had done this before.)

Here’s what I said.

 

February 24, 2012

Lent 1, Year B

Mark 1: 9-15

 

When I was a college student, I decided to spend the summer I turned 21 living in the West Bank and East Jerusalem.  I had received a fellowship to ‘discern‘ my life’s work, and I wanted to go; I had never been before.  My experience of being outside the country was limited to 2 weeks in France with my grandmother, and a weekend in London.  So, I found a place to stay, I found a volunteer job, I found people to help me.  My parents weren’t thrilled, but they weren’t stopping me either.

Right before I left, a friend from college asked me if I was afraid.  I can’t recall what she said, but I think it was something along the lines of “People blow up over there; aren’t you scared?”

I thought about it.  I wasn’t scared for my physical safety.  I didn’t have a clear concept of that.  I was twenty!  I was magic!

I was afraid of something else.  I was afraid that I wouldn’t come back the same person as I was leaving.  Of losing the last of my comfortable notions about the world as a good, safe place, with cooler, wiser heads (which weren’t mine) prevailing in the end.  And I didn’t want that.  I was fine as I was, thank you very much.  I could see the rough outlines of the wilderness demons staring at me from the distance, and I was not keen on heading there.

But it dawned on me , as I was kicked out of my taxi on the way to St. George’s the morning I arrived, because the driver refused to drive on the Arab side of town–I pondered, as I tugged my giant flowered suitcase down the street, that this was really not up to me at all.  I had agreed to come on this journey, so I agreed to be shaped by the experience, scary or not.  If my “Yes” had been authentic, then it had to be complete–prospect of demons and all.

Because, really, you don’t get faith without freakouts.  Or, rather, you don’t get the pretty heavenly dove without then getting driven into the wilderness.

 

In Mark’s version of events, we hear again the story of Jesus’ baptism.  But in typical Markan fashion, what is a blissful, pastoral scene in Luke, and John, and Matthew, has elements of the traumatic here.  Jesus is no sooner baptised than the sky is ripped apart— this image which will reappear only at the crucifixion,  the Spirit swoops down on him and a voice booms out.  “this is my Beloved Son, with whom I am well pleased.”

and it’s this same descending spirit, we’re told, that immediately drives Jesus out into the wilderness.

One minute a dove, the next minute, a harassing, driving force.  The Spirit is both,  for Jesus in Mark’s gospel.  And his call to minister, to be faithful is not just enlivening, pastoral words of love and comfort– those words in a broken world lead him necessarily into a wilderness of demons and turmoil.

 

Because for Jesus to live into the truth of what is said to him at his baptism, then he must go to the wilderness. He can’t just dance around it.  If Jesus is going to live fully as God’s Beloved, and proclaim that all creation is beloved as well, then that mission will take him into conflict with the parts of creation that were broken. The parts of the world that don’t operate as if all of creation is good, or if all people are beloved by God.  Jesus will have to confront those forces, in some way, in order to live out his baptism.  He’ll have to go to the wilderness, and even to the cross.  Jesus’s mission encompasses all of it.

 

And we are not so different ourselves.  When we stand and say what we believe, we walk into wilderness too  When we proclaim our belief in a loving God who made a good creation, we have to confront the fact that there are currently parts of creation that don’t seem so good.  That are broken, and out of step.  When we assert our belief that Jesus came so that all would know the unending love of God, we must confront the fact that right now, there are systems at work which hurt the children of God, and make them feel unloved.

 

In other words, that pretty looking dove will end up pushing us into some uncomfortable seeming places.  Places where we have to look at things we’d rather not have to see.  Think about things we’d rather not have to think about– all the broken and chaotic mess of the world.  We’d like to stay happily on that riverbank, hanging out with John the Baptist, but eventually, like it or not, the voice of the Spirit pushes us on.

 

And really, that’s what Lent is for.  Lent is for spending time in that wilderness, that discomfort.  It is for taking time to examine how our world fails to match up with what we believe.  There are ways in which our world is broken.  There are ways in which our world is unjust, and there are ways in which we are broken, too.

 

Lent is when we stop and examine how well the way we live matches up with what we believe.  We say God loves unconditionally and without limits, and that we’re called to do the same–how are we doing on that score with the folks around us?  We say  we are called to forgive like Jesus forgave– how are we doing?

Our baptismal promises pledge us to respect the dignity of every human being, to see Christ in all people, and to work for justice and peace for all.  Do we live in a world that honors these promises of ours?

 

We won’t get it perfect.  But we are called into those uncomfortable places of conflict because we have been marked as beloved by God.  Because we, and everyone else, are so valued by God, that God has redeemed this world in the Incarnation, and God is perfecting the whole creation even now, and wants us to help out.  People of faith don’t get to sit back in safe denial on the riverbank. This is our chance to pitch in, in the various ways we’re called to.

 

When I got back from Palestine, after that summer abroad, I wasn’t noticeably different, not really.  Only a few things were different.

I had some trouble reading Middle Eastern history books for my thesis, because I got too emotional.  I got overwhelmed in the grocery store by all the food, laid out like a kaleidoscope.  I still can’t watch American news coverage of the Middle East. Small things.

 

But I would not trade that experience for anything.   I had assumed that being faced with the realities of poverty and violence in the world would make me an unhappier person, a colder person.  That didn’t turn out to be true.

 

Instead, ironically, I like to think I became a more driven, empathetic person.  I came back, determined to do everything I could to help, and then everything after that.  I was 20!  I was magic!

To my shock, the wilderness I had been skeptical of, the truth that I had been wary of, hadn’t erased me.  God was pulling me on, the whole time, and didn’t let me go alone.

 

So as we begin the journey of Lent, as we look towards our wildernesses, and we examine all the ways in which we are broken, the ways we fall short of who God knows us to be– be not afraid.  There is no brokenness so messy, no demon so wild, no wilderness so deep that the God who called in the first place is not there already.

 

Amen.

 

 

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Living with Ghosts

Posted on February 22, 2012 by megancastellan

 

Arizona has been a state for 100 years this month.  And it seems that the state legislature is attempting to set some sort of record in their centennial year.

Earlier this year, the state passed a law (HB 2281) that cuts off up to 10% of the school district’s funding if the school provides any class that ‘promotes the overthrow of the US government, promotes resentment toward a race or class of people, is designed primarily for pupils of one ethnic group, or advocates ethnic solidarity.’ (a quote from the law.)
Shockingly, the one school district in the state that offers classes like this is the Tucson school district, which had a Mexican-American Studies program, integrating Latino history into its curriculum.  They also have a majority Latino student population.
And now that’s gone.  Under threat of losing $15 million dollars of funding from the state, the Tucson school board ended the ethnic studies program on February 1, and boxed up the offending books.  These included The Tempest, by William Shakespeare.  (Nothing gives kids ideas of revolution like ye olde English.)
All this, because the state decided children should not be exposed to any history other than the generic old-dead-white-guy variety. (Also, they really dislike Shakespeare.)
I went to a meeting in Flagstaff last week, about how best to show our support for the beleaguered, book-deprived students of Tucson.  It was heartening to see so many people so fired up.  And I knew going in about the issue, I knew about the legislature, I knew about the books, and the ethnic studies.
But nothing had prepared me for reading down the list of banned books, and seeing so many of the books I had read, and related to, as a teenager.  Two books by Sandra Cisneros, a book by James Baldwin, a book by bell hooks.  (I suppose it’s a small comfort that they appear to be equal-opportunity in their disdain?)
One of the fallacies about ethnic studies programs, or multicultural studies programs, is that, like the bluntly-written law suggests, they break people into ethnic groups.  That they only address people of minority status.  Teaching about Black History Month is only of interest to Black kids.  Teaching Women’s History is only important to girls.  Mexican-American literature is only valuable to Hispanic kids.
Which is ridiculous.
Teaching everyone’s history, everyone’s art, just insures that everyone gets to be a voiced part of the larger story.
I grew up in southeastern Virginia, in a neighborhood with a plantation marker at the end of my block.  History, of all sorts, was under my feet.  The story of the owners and the slaves, the story of the rebels and the Tories, the story of the native peoples and the colonists.  Everyone was already there.  The question was, who was going to get a voice, and who would remain silent.
The more stories that got told, the more stories I learned, the more I realized that I owed a debt to all of these people.  Not just the ones who looked like me, thought like me, or spoke like me.  My life, my world had been affected in some way by all of these diverse people: the ones who left powerful legacies, and the ones who died nameless.  All the little histories that get stuck in the margins were really bound up in the big, ‘master narrative’ of American history we like to tell.  You can’t tell one without the others.  They’re inter-dependent.
On Ash Wednesday, we pray the Litany for Penitence, which makes a point of talking about our interdependence, both on creation, and on other people.  We ask forgiveness for our abuse of creation, our prejudice toward others, and our exploitation of other people.  (Actually, read the litany sometime in the BCP.  It’s virtually all about what we’ve done to other people.)  As a rule, we tend to really hate dwelling on that part, because we like to believe that we are Individuals! (Complete with nifty Boot-Strap Lifting action!) We are all John Wayne all over here, rugged and needing no one, only casually strolling in to save the day*.
But this is not the case.  We’re social creatures, bound one to another.  We’re stuck together, all of us.  Your story is my story, and vice versa.  And to silence either one of us is to disfigure the story beyond telling.
So, for the next while, I’ll be working on the (unofficially-dubbed) “Flagstaff <3s Tucson” project, bringing attention and support to the banned ethnic studies programs in Arizona.  Call it a Lenten side-project.  I shall keep the blog updated as things progress.
In the meantime, I ask your prayers/thoughts for the kids down in Tucson and for all of us in Arizona.
* and building an airport, putting our name on it, not having any feelings….I’ll stop now.

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Rent, Transfigured

Posted on February 20, 2012 by megancastellan

In seminary preaching class, we had an assignment towards the end of term.  Thirty minutes before class, we were given a sealed envelope with a text in it, and a 3×5 card.

The assignment was to take the thirty minutes and come up with a 3-5 minute sermon based on the text given, and preach it in class.  (I’d like to see you try this, Top Chef people.)  The idea was that at some point in our lives, we would show up at church, all calm and happy, and be called upon to preach a sermon at the last minute.  Best to start practicing now.

My text was from Ezekiel, where the prophet addresses the people of Israel in the voice of God and says “I shall be your God, and you shall be my people.  And you shall be my people…” and something else happens in the verse, but all I could think of was Finding Nemo, and Dory speaking to the jellyfish:   “I shall call you Squishy, and you shall be my Squishy!”

Free association in the postmodern age can be tricky. And not without a sense of humor.

But, since the relationship between God and God’s people is, in fact, not unlike that between Dory and the jellyfish, it worked out.

This week, I read the texts (Elijah/Elisha and Transfiguration!) and all I could think of was that scene from Rent with the angry homeless lady yelling at Mark.

Now, this could have been because some friends of mine had been discussing it on Twitter earlier in the month.  Or it could be because God was messing with me.

Either way, each time I read Peter’s comment, and God’s comeback “This is my Son, the Beloved.  Listen to him!” I heard the Angry  Woman singing in my head.

If you know Rent, you understand the tension here.  Almost nothing in her scene is sermon-appropriate language.  But I couldn’t find another illustration.  Despite the fact that I was still really unclear why/how the Angry Homeless Woman was related to the Transfiguration,  I decided to take a stab at it.

Here’s what happened.

 

February 19, 2012

7 Epiphany (Transfiguration), Year B

Mark 9: 2-9

 

In the musical RENT, a sort of modern read on La Boheme set in New York’s East Village, early in the narrative, the main starving-artist characters are hanging around a vacant lot late at night, observing a homeless woman being harassed by some cops.  She hasn’t done anything wrong–they just want her to pull up her tent-city dwelling and head somewhere else for the night, when one of the ‘artists’ comes over with his handy-dandy video camera (This is all set in the late 1990s, so forgive the absence of cellphones).

Realizing he’s being caught on tape, the officer heads off, and Mark, with the camera, turns to the lady he’s just ‘rescued,’ clearly expecting to be gratefully thanked, when she  instead starts cursing at him.

 

What, exactly, she screams at him is not church-appropriate language, so I shall heavily paraphrase.

Basically, she asks him who in the world he thinks he is, she didn’t need to be rescued in the first place, and she doesn’t exist just so he can make a new movie, or feel better about himself.

 

She stomps away.

 

See, this woman, She wanted to be engaged with.

 

She wanted to be listened to, not just seen, not just treated like a problem, or even a heroine.  She wanted to be listened to.

 

Peter’s comment in the gospel today up on the mountain is a very human one.  Very understandable response.  He’s all confused, clearly,  one minute he was out for a nice lesuirely stroll with his friends– the next, there’s a cloud, there’s a light, there’s visions of long dead prophets appearing.  He’s having a bit of a day.

 

So he’s overcome.  He’s blown out of the water by what he’s experiencing.  And he seizes on the first thing that pops into his head which possibly has bypassed the filter between brain and mouth– I know none of you have ever done this.

 

He says– “lord!  It is good we are here!  Let us build three dwellings for you!  One for you, one for Moses and one for Elijah!”

 

He doesn’t want to build mansions here– what he wants to build is more like tiny houses– or tabernacles.  It’s a word in Greek that gets kicked around in the OT anytime the people of Israel are out wandering in the desert, and want to build a resting place for the Presence of God.  It denotes something like a dwelling place , or a tent.

So Peter wants to build homes for Jesus , Moses and Elijah.  He wants to keep them there.  He wants to freeze the moment.  The moment is so overwhelming, so wonderful and inspiring and awe-producing that he wants to freeze it and stay with it forever.

 

Leave Jesus and Moses and Elijah living up there on the mountain top forever like living museum pieces.  Frozen.  Waiting.  Perfect and beautiful and lovely.

 

But Peter doesn’t get to do that because this voice comes from the heavens, and God says, “This is my Son.  The Beloved.  LISTEN TO HIM.”

 

I’d imagine it must be a pretty awesome experience for God to tell you to shut it, essentially, and that’s what happens to Peter.

 

Peter gets told, not to honor the stillness and perfection of what he saw, but to listen.  To engage.  To risk shattering the perfection of the image, and head back down the mountain.

 

Peter, really, I’m guessing, and most of us too, would have loved to stay up on the untainted mountaintop with those booths and Jesus, just hanging out, and staring.  It would have been great.  The Christ, with Moses, the giver of the law, and Elijah, the chief of the prophets, and you, to sit and absorb their wisdom, forever and ever, and just relish their nearness and their transcendence and the bliss of it all.

 

Because there’s not much better than a mountaintop experience.  Those moments when we feel God’s presence so close, and everything sort of sharpens into clear focus, and we get it.  Those are great; those get us out of bed on the bad days, those keep us going, those little glimmers of light in the darkness.

 

But those are also few and far between.  Life is not a mountaintop.  We don’t get to live up there in a booth with Elijah.  We come back down the mountain.  We live in the valley, for the most part, where things are murkier and dimmer.  After this scene on the top, Jesus and the disciples head down the mountain, and they head straight for Jerusalem.

 

These glimpses of God, this transfiguration wasn’t so much so Peter and the others could feel good about their life choices in following Jesus, really, and it wasn’t to cement their faith for the trials ahead.   They’re still going to wimp out in a few weeks.

 

These flashes of God we experience give further shape to our relationship with God.  They illuminate our wrestling in the dark.  Like flashes of lightening in a dark room, they cast light over what we’re already doing.  Visions alone don’t make a relationship– engagement does.  Listening does.  Visions only help explain what you’re listening to.

 

What keeps you going down in the valleys, between those mountaintop flashes of clarity, is engagement with God.  Listening.  Peter, James, John, they believed in Jesus before they saw him transfigured. They had a relationship with him, following him, listening to him, before Moses and Elijah appeared.  They absorbed his words his wisdom, they watched how he lived in the world, how he treated people.  They will continue to do that in the days to come, as the church forms.

 

What forms the church is not so much the blissful surety of the Transfiguration– it’s the plodding engagement of the valley. It’s the listening.  The listening that is sometimes hard, sometimes easy.  The listening we are called to do every day of our lives as we embody Christ  in the world around us.

 

As we begin to walk the valley toward another Lent, may we hear the words of God speaking to each of us, and calling us onward.

 

Amen.

 

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Down by the water

Posted on February 14, 2012 by megancastellan

I feel some sermons would be greatly enhanced by the selective use of music.

This sermon, for example, is fine.  I love the story of Naaman and the Downton Abbey-esque intrigue with the servants, and his meltdown over having to bathe in the (apparently really objectionable) Jordan River.

But I would like you to imagine the sermon as scored by the Decembrists and Gillian Welch:

See?  Epic sermon!!

 

February 12, 2012

Epiphany 6, Year B

2 Kings 5:1-14

In the Episcopal Church, there was no reading from the Old Testament in

the Eucharistic service until the 1979 prayer book, (otherwise known as the

‘new’ prayer book.)

Prior to this, Eucharist required only a reading from the Gospel, and a short

snippet of Paul’s letters, if you were lucky, or unlucky, depending on how

you felt about Paul.

The Old Testament really only got read during Morning Prayer…which was

fine, since Morning Prayer was what most people did most Sunday

mornings anyway. But as far as the Eucharist went, that primary form of

Christian worship, well, why on earth would need to read the Old

Testament then anyways? There’s no Jesus in that!

 

It’s been pointed out that in Christian history, we’ve tended to do one of two

things with the Old Testament: we’ve ignored it altogether, or we’ve just

crammed Jesus on in there, anyway he would fit, like that Marx Bros-

Night-at-the-Opera-stateroom-bit. Early Christian commentaries of this

reading talk about Namaan being cleansed by baptism! Though he didn’t

know it! And its a foreshadowing of John at the Jordan through faith!

 

One of the things I strongly believe is that, just as it is wrong to make an

idol of Scripture by freezing it in time, so it is wrong to entirely mangle a text

to death. Attempting to send Elisha and Naaman forward and back through

a time machine is a fascinating sort of violence, but it is equally impolite,

and destructive.

And what a great story we miss, if we reduce what’s happening here to

“Baptism!”

 

Naaman has been excelling in his job, as a general in the Aramean army,

when a minor inconvenience pops up: he gets leprosy. Now while you

might picture this as a dire circumstance in which pieces of Naaman start to

drop off suddenly as he’s on the battlefield one day– be not afraid.

Leprosy is basically a catch-all term in Hebrew for any rash, or

discoloration at all. “Leprosy” could come and go all the time. Much ink is

spilled in Leviticus on what to do in the event your house develops leprosy,

or what we would call–mold. So Naaman most likely has a rash. But even

so, it’s embarrassing for him, and throws a definite wrench into his army

career trajectory.

So he stews about it. Lucky for him, his wife’s plucky slave girl, lately

stolen from Israel on a raid, tells him all about this great prophet they have

back home who would definitely take care of that leprosy in a heart beat, no

problem, you bet.

And, it’s convoluted, but Elisha ends up hearing about Naaman from the

(defeated and annoyed) king of Israel and agrees to help the enemy

general. He sends word to go wash in the Jordan River.

And Naaman has a cow. An Ancient Near East equivalent of a temper

tantrum.

It’s a stupid, ugly river! He says, basically. And he couldn’t have come out

here himself? And I don’t have better rivers back in Syria?!?!

Naaman’s having a rough time.

Remember, Naaman is an Aramean, not an Israelite. Not Jewish. The fact

that he’s asking for help from a prophet of YHWH, and a king he’s just

finished defeating is very strange. This whole story is, in a sense, a death

spiral of shame for Naaman.

So far, he’s sought help from a slave girl, a defeated king, and a foreign

heathen prophet to cure his shameful skin ailment. Naaman has now hit

rock bottom, and to top it off, he’s being told to do something he finds

insultingly easy and beneath him.

As much as his skin disease is a problem– so is his conviction of his

specialness. So is his conviction that all these people who so far have

helped him, can have no real help he could possibly need.

The tipping point for Naaman comes when he has to acknowledge, in

however small a way, that help might come from foreigners, not from

himself. And healing might come from a really dirty foreign river.

 

Annoying as it seems to him, his salvation comes from the people he

dislikes, from the actions he considers beneath him. And it’s when he

finally admits the thing he’s been afraid of all along, that he’s healed.

 

Because, my hunch is– Naaman spends so much time in this story insisting on his

specialness, his high status, precisely because he’s petrified it isn’t actually

true at all. He’s a high-ranking general, but anyone with leprosy was an

immediate outcast, seen as cursed by the gods.

He’s not really special at all– if anything, he’s the reverse. And he’s trying

hard to cover it up his conviction by denigrating everyone else.

 

What is it that convinces us that worth is zero sum? That in order for me to

be right, everyone else has to be wrong. In order for me to be valuable,

everyone else has to be worthless.

It’s a sort of panicked mindset that blinds us to so much.

This story of Naaman is one that Jesus will tell when he preaches his first

sermon in Nazareth– how in the days of the prophets, Elisha was sent to

no one in Israel but a foreign general. His point is actually that the love of

God is not zero-sum at all, but all inclusive,

But the crowd listening to Jesus becomes enraged, and tries to throw him

off a cliff, because they don’t like the suggestion that their God could love

foreigners and heathens too.

And thirty five years or so ago, this isn’t even a story we would have read,

out of the conviction that the scriptures Jesus cited could have nothing to

say to us. Because if we were right as Christians, then we were special,

and the Hebrew Bible was only competition

But if we have faith in the infinite, and abiding love of God for everyone, like

we say, then we can’t compete for value and for truth like prizes. God loves

us, completely unconnected to our accomplishments, or intelligence or

wealth of sarcasm,much to my chagrin. And however much God loves us,

that’s precisely how much God loves everyone else. This is not a contest.

We have already won.

The prizes are here all around us, once we come to truly believe it and go

to the smelly old river, and

Finally take a bath.

Amen.

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Dick Vitale surely has some strong opinions on this

Posted on February 10, 2012 by megancastellan

March Madness, for the uninitiated, is the national NCAA basketball tournament which takes place each spring.  It features, not just basketball games, but betting pools, brackets, and inane color commentary, delivered with way too much passion for the subject matter at hand.  (“You have to understand, Larry, that whoever wins, that’s who has put the ball in the hole the most. And that’s just what Georgia Tech needs to do here today.”  “That’s EXACTLY RIGHT, Tom. GENIUS.”)

It is a very popular event.  I follow it intermittently so that I avoid entirely alienating my basketball-playing relatives.  (I can’t run, dribble, shoot, or even pass, but gosh darn it, I can explain the difference between zone and man-to-man defense!)

And so it gives me great pleasure that there is now some ecclesiastical equivalent.  Somewhere my greatest well of inane knowledge can be channeled in service of competition!    Hooray!  I finally get to fill out brackets too! (See?!  Geeks do run the 21st century!!!)

The way it works is this:

You go here: Lent Madness’s website.  (Or, if this poses problems for you, I have also put their convent widget over on the side, see?)

Print out a bracket.  Fill it out with your picks for each match up, all the way to the GOLDEN HALO!!!!

As Lent begins, people will vote for their favorite saint in each matchup.  The polls with remain open for a given amount of time.  (More here.)  The ‘winning’ saint continues to the next round, until finally, ONLY ONE REMAINS.  ::insert triumphant, Olympic music here::

Each day, on the Lent Madness website, guest writers will offer their perspectives on the saints in the poll.  If it’s been a while since you’ve flipped through Holy Women, Holy Men, or you’re under the impression that Episcopal saints are all ancient, plaster-of-paris  renditions of holiness, then really, you should try this. (If only for St. Brigid, who once turned a lake into beer, to slake the thirst of her abbey.  Total badass.)

Canterbury at NAU will be posting our brackets in my office, with a prize for the overall winner, and another prize for the most correct picks.  (Already, the trash talking has begun on Twitter.)

So join us!  Whoever said spiritual disciplines couldn’t be awesome?

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