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And one returned

Posted on October 18, 2011 by megancastellan

In the ordination vows, as all ordained folk know, there exists an infamous line: “you are to carry out all other duties that may be assigned to you from time to time.”  It’s in the Examination, during the Ordination of a Deacon, and, since ordination is an indelible mark, promises made here are boom!  Permanent!  It is an unassuming little promise, but as aged ordained folks will tell you, this is the promise where They Get You.  This is the promise that ends, five years later, with once-chipper-young ordinand fixing the plumbing in all 5 of the church’s bathrooms and wondering what on earth happened?

That’s the less-fun scenario.  That’s the story told by grizzled elders who, more than likely, did not go on CREDO retreats or pay attention in Fresh Start, so they did not take their most important Day Off.
The more-fun scenarios are ones like I’ve had:  improvising a funeral for a dearly-departed dead bird (RIP Davey).  Unpacking the theological significance of ‘Arrested Development’.  Being given a cat as a thank-you by a parish.
And the most rewarding of all: Periodically I get to be Official Church Presence at something.
This past week was Coming Out Week at NAU.  For the first time at NAU, the university also has an Office of GLBTQ Affairs to coordinate said week, and its activities.  (Give thanks, all readers.  Our president presumably saw a calendar, noticed it was 2011, and decided to Get somewhat With It.)  Two of my colleagues and I noticed this development with glee, and asked nicely if we could do something having to do with inclusive Christianity.  (For such a thing exists, don’t you know.)
The result was a brown-bag discussion this past Thursday, on churches that took an inclusive view of the GLBTQ community.  One of my colleagues had an emergency at the last minute, and couldn’t come, leaving me and my Lutheran colleague to hold down the fort.
I made cookies, and wore my collar, and heels.  (Because when you want to convince people that God does, in fact, love them, you should wear proof that someone thinks you capable to opine for God on occasion, and bring proof that someone loves them enough to bake them Diabetes in Disk-form.)
We expected that we’d get maybe 6 people.  We got over 20.  All talking, all engaged.  We talked for over an hour and a half.  Everything from “how do you approach that verse in Romans?”  to “how do you counteract the media image of Christians as Westboro Baptist?” It was an extremely thoughtful and earnest group of college students.
I didn’t say anything earth-shattering.  However, I did get to be the one to sit there in a collar, and say, “Hi!  I, as an Official Christian-type Person, would like to tell you that the church I represent does not believe that you are going to hell.  We believe strongly, in fact, that God loves you just as much as anyone else, and that happens to be quite a lot.  God actually created you just as you are, intentionally!   And if I am the first person to tell you this about God, then I’d sort of like to stomp on the former religious leaders in your life with the high-heeled shoes I have worn specifically for this purpose.”***
After it was over, and I was packing up the left over cookies, one girl stayed behind.  She came up to me and my Lutheran colleague and thanked us, “You’ve entirely changed my image of the church,” she said, “All I’ve heard before this was negativity and hate.  I didn’t think I would find a place that would accept me, but I heard something different today.  So I wanted to say thank you.”
Sometimes my job is complicated–budgets and funding sources and pastoral care issues and family systems theory.
Sometimes it is just simply awesome.
This was one of the simply awesome days.
***I DID NOT ACTUALLY SAY THESE THINGS.  I used other words.  And I did NOT threaten physical violence, to which I am opposed quite passionately.  PLEASE don’t actually stomp on people with high heels on.  I don’t advise it, no matter how whacked-out their theology may be.

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Have a Carrot.

Posted on October 11, 2011 by megancastellan

This week, in the morning, I was back in Holbrook.  They fed me chocolate cake and coffee, and told me stories about when their kids were younger, and lived in town, and went to church.  Now, they’ve all moved to Phoenix.  One is apparently dating a Cardinal!

In the afternoon, I did an “emergency animal blessing,” which is to say that I filled in at my friend’s church, since she had to fly back to the East Coast suddenly.  I was glad to do it–Animal blessings are common around St. Francis Day, in liturgically-minded churches,  and they are one of the perks of the priest-job.  Stand around outside on a pretty autumn day and pet dogs, cats, etc in the name of their Creator?  Yes, please.  And as this particular church has a healthy sense of fun about it, they had also provided ‘doggie snacks’ and animal games, complete with ‘doggie musical chairs.’  (God likes and endorses party games, including bowling, clearly.) Fun was had by everyone.

Clearly, I have an awesome job.

As a side note:  this parable from Matthew about drove me spare.  I appreciate this run of RESPECT MY AUTHORITY!!! parables we’ve been having between Jesus and the authorities in the Temple in their broader context, but come on, now.  Matthew’s supercessionist tendencies get old really quick, and short of taking a homiletic time out to disavow this, it’s difficult to deal with, week after week.

And here’s what I did end up saying.

October 9, 2011

Proper 23

Matthew 22:1-14

In the days since the death of Steve Jobs, there’s been a revival of

heaven jokes, heaven cartoons. And among them my favorite: A man dies,

and he goes to heaven. St. Peter says to him, “Hooray! We’re thrilled

you’re here, welcome to heaven, your eternal abode, let me show you

around so you can choose where you’d like to live.”

They first come to an elaborate banquet hall, filled with delicious

smells, and fine china, as cheerful people chatted happily and ate their fill.

“What’s this?” asked the man. “oh these are the Episcopalians,” said St.

Peter, “mind your manners, but they throw a good dinner party.”

Next they came to a raucous dance party. Even from a distance, they

could hear the music and the sound of people dancing and clapping.

“What on earth?!” asked the man. “Oh, these are the Baptists. They’re

happy they get to dance now. Takes a while for the thrill to wear off.”

Finally, the man had seen everyone there was to see, all the

inhabitants of heaven, everyone you could think of– all joyful and

celebrating.

Then, off to one side, the man was surprised to notice a stone

house, all boarded up, with a wall around it, and a large sign that said

“Quiet! Keep Out! “. He wandered up to it. “Who lives here?” he asked.

“Shhhh!” said St. Peter. “that’s Jerry Falwell’s house. It’s been in there for

years. He thinks he’s the only one up here.”

It’s a funny story. Funnier, certainly, than the parable for today. This is the

third parable about the kingdom of heaven from Matthew that we’ve gotten

in as many weeks, each with some sort of twist, each preached by Jesus

as he’s in the Temple during the last eel of his life. Now, granted, parables

are supposed to be surprising. As one New Testament scholar put it, a

parable is a story that is drawn from normal, everyday events that shocks

you just enough to make you think.

Which is fine, but this one shocks you all over the place. First there’s

this king who wants to give a wedding banquet. But no one will come;

everyone blows him off for various reasons, so he gets so angry that he

invades the local town, kills the population and burns it to the ground.

A slight overreaction, perhaps.

Still desperate for this party, he then decides to do a sort of all out dragnet

operation, and sends his army to the streets of the capital and collects

everyone they can find– young, old, rich, poor, whoever, and force them to

come. Because come hell or high water, this king is having a party, gosh

darn it.

This being accomplished, the poor king is then most distressed to

discover that one of his forced guests has shown up without a proper outfit

on. It’s like the guy doesn’t even realize he’s at a party. So frustrated by

this is the king that he throws him out.

Who, after all, shows up to a party and doesn’t realize they are at

one?

And what sort of king is that desperate to throw a party?

Parables, like I said, are meant to shock. That’s how they work.

Frustratingly, they aren’t meant to answer questions– they are meant to

provoke them, which is probably why Jesus was so very fond of them.

And they aren’t literal. Which is to say that Jesus wasn’t recounting the tale

of an actual king with anger management and party-planning issues, or

giving advice on how to plan events, or rule an actual city-state.

He was trying to communicate something true about the nature of God, and

the nature of humans, and the nature of our relationship to God.

So, then, in this parable, what is striking is a king who really, really wants to

celebrate. To give good things to whoever he can, wherever he can find

them. He’ll drag them in off the street if necessary.

And a people who can’t seem to receive them.

Shhh. He thinks he’s the only one here.

What keeps us from receiving the grace of God? What keeps us from

showing up, ready for the party? What keeps us from realizing we’re at

God’s party?

Frequently, we blame it on stubbornness, pride, or arrogance. This mainly

happens when we are looking at other people, though. Other people are

the ones who should just get over themselves!

I have a hunch, though, that more often, what holds us back is not pride–

it’s guilt and confusion. It’s our conviction that we aren’t possibly good

enough to receive anything this gracious from God. Why should God be

kind to us? We are hopeless cases! We mess up, even when we know

right from wrong! This is so far from what we deserve– surely there’s a

catch. Surely there’s another shoe that will fall right on top of our heads.

Because that’s the way the world works.

So we end up like the man at the feast, confused and speechless before a

God who just wants to love us.

The good news for us is that God doesn’t give up. God chases after us,

time and time again, despite everything we do, and despite our persistent

denial of our own worth. Over and over again, God assures us that we are

loved beyond imagining, and there is not a thing we can do about it.

Whether we feel we are up to it or not, we are stuck in the unending love of

God.

Its like that old children’s book called the Runaway Bunny. In it, a baby

rabbit tells his mother that he is tired of being a rabbit, so he’s going to run

away. He tells her he will become a fish in the stream, so she replies that

she will become a fisherman to catch him. Annoyed, he says he will

become a trapeze artist in the circus, and she returns that she will be a

tightrope walker, and catch him. On and on it goes– he’ll be a sailboat, and

she’ll be the wind to blow him home, etc. Finally he gives up. Well, I guess

I’ll just be your little bunny, then, he says. Ok, she says. Have a carrot.

God’s love and grace aren’t going anywhere, and eventually, they will win

even over our stubborn guilt and unworthiness. So let’s open our eyes,

open our doors, and enjoy the banquet prepared for us.

Amen.

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Cliff Gardner gets a sermon

Posted on October 5, 2011 by megancastellan

Oh yes.  And even though I didn’t preach at the morning services, I did preach at the 5:30 Canterbury service.

And to my never-ending delight, I FINALLY got to use this story that I’ve wanted to use in a sermon since about 2001.

Here’s to you, Cliff Gardner.  I can’t get you a Congressional Medal of Honor, but I can cite your brilliance in a sermon.

 

October 2, 2011

Proper 22, Ordinary Time Year A

Isaiah 5: 1-7

Matthew 21:33-46

 

Philo Farnsworth invented the television in Provo, Utah in 1927. And

by that, I don’t mean that he was like Jonny Carson, and was the first really

entertaining person to appear on the TV back in ye olden days of very little

mass entertainment. I mean that he invented the cathode ray tube, and a

method to project moving images across a distance to a receiver.

But he’s not the important person in this story.

The important person in this story is Cliff Gardner.

Cliff Gardner was Philo’s brother in law, and one day, as Philo was tinkering

around in his workshop, Cliff saw the drawings that he was working from.

Now Cliff was like pretty much everyone else in Provo– he had no idea

what Philo was on about much of the time. Electricity was brand new and

confusing.

But there was one thing in those plans he recognized as familiar– one thing

he could get a handle on– glass tubes.

So Cliff moved into Philo’s backyard and set up a glassblowing shop,

because he reckoned that this weird project was going to require an untold

amount of glass tubes.

And that was something that even he could do.

He could make glass  tubes.

And while he had no idea about how electricity worked, or how to send tv

signals through the air, doggone it, he could make glass tubes.

Not fancy, not showy, not memorable, but it was what he had to offer, and

so offer it he did.

 

There’s something heroic about that: this impulse to offer what one has,

even though we are convinced that it isn’t much, or we aren’t sure it will be

valued, or we aren’t in perfect control of the entire project.

There is something heroic about that, mainly because the alternative is so

very bleak.

 

We have two vineyards in the readings tonight. And though it’s vaguely

possible that among a lesser congregation, eyes might have glazed over,

and brains might have fogged with all the talk of grapes and tenants and

landlords, I know yours didn’t, so it’s not necessary for me to tell you that

they are described sort of similarly for a reason.

 

And it’s probable that Jesus, being up on his Law and his Prophets, knew

this Song of the Vineyard from Isaiah backwards and forwards, and that

what he’s recorded as doing in Matthew is retelling and reshaping the

passage to suit his own purposes. He’s proof-texting the Pharisees, in

other words. (Again, the writer of Matthew is in a bitter fight with fellow

members of the Jewish community, and it comes out here. Think of church

fights about music, about moving the altar away from the east wall.  It’s like that).

And in both vineyards, some of the same things are happening. There is a

landowner. He loves the vineyard. He loves it enough to build it on good

soil, to weed it properly, to install a well, and a guard tower (dangerous

grape thieves about, evidently), and to lease it to some tenants.

and here’s where we run into some trouble.

Because the tenants promptly forget, in both cases, that the vineyard isn’t

actually theirs.

 

And in the Matthean retelling, they even resort to a whole lot of

violence. Pretty presumptuous for some squatters.

They get so invested in tilling the soil, planting stuff, harvesting the grapes,

stomping out some wine, that when the landlord comes and asks for his

harvest, they are outraged. “How dare you presume to take our grapes!

We worked hard for this harvest!”

Which they did. Hard working tenant farmers.

But their problem is that they entirely forgot the point of their labor. The

vineyard was never theirs to begin with. It was given to them to care for

and to shepherd, not to hoard. They didn’t build the protection wall, they

didn’t dig the well, they didn’t even send the rain or fertilize the soil. Here

was this wonderful garden, given as a gift. The question then becomes,

what will those who are given this gift do with it? Will they be good

stewards, or will they forget, and keep all the bounty for themselves?

It’s a fairly easy trap to fall into, this sort of amnesia, and it doesn’t really

matter what the ‘vineyard’ is. We start thinking that all the good things we

have are OURS! And OURS ALONE, through the virtue of our hard work

and dedication!

But really, nothing is ever that simple.

For example, my father is a rather good basketball player. Played college

ball, won the ACC tournament, went to the NIT, played pro in Europe,

drafted by the Celtics. And I could make the argument that he did all that

because he practiced free throws in the driveway as a kid, and worked

hard, and never gave up and was his own never-ending Disney movie.

 

Which would be true to some extent, but it would be overlooking the fact

that he had incredibly supportive parents, who could afford to send him to

college, the sort of college that wins stuff, a high school coach who took an interest in him, and most of all,

the fact that he grew up in a family of small giants, all of whom are over 6 ft

tall.

None of us live in a vacuum. We are products of communities, and

products of history, and products of context, every one of us. In a sense,

we are all landlords to each other.

But most of all, we are tenants to God. Every step, every breath of air on

this fragile goldilocks planet is done at the whim of the God who gave it life.

Our very being is the slimmest chance in a universe full of long shots, and

when we lose sight of that, we start to forget that we are tenants at all.

So for all of us tenant farmers down here, my question to you is this: look around you. What is your harvest going to be?  And who will you give it to?

 

 

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Requiem in pax

Posted on October 5, 2011 by megancastellan

It’s fall in Flagstaff.  Or, more precisely, since I turned on the heat this morning, and snow (!) is forecast for tomorrow, it’s the beginning of winter.

And while that means nice stuff like pumpkin lattes, turning aspens, and my endless scarf collection, it also means, as I have learned from time in parish ministry, that people tend to die.

My mother has been a hospice nurse all my life, and so I grew up around death, and am not unfamiliar with its rhythms–people die around holidays, around days of importance to them, and around the changing of the seasons.  When I was first starting out in ministry, one of the weird ideas I had was that somehow, I would get more used to this rhythm of losing people.  (Then CPE happened, and that’s another story.)

Turns out, no one ever gets used to it.  Each loss is unique, and that’s just all there is.  In the past month, we’ve had two sudden deaths, which is tough on a community.  This time, however, it was one of those stalwart couples whom everyone knew, and who died within weeks of each other.

On Sunday, I got to celebrate all three services at Epiphany, and it’s our practice to dedicate the Eucharist to the recently deceased.  Usually, I don’t know the person who has died.  I haven’t been here that long, and frequently, the memorialized person is a relative of a parishioner.  This week, however, it was someone that I saw almost every week, sitting out in the congregation.

But using the ancient prayer for the dead (May their soul, and the souls of all the departed, rest in peace, and rise in glory), and then going into the eucharistic prayer language about how we “join with the saints and angels and all the heavenly chorus” was an interesting experience.  Because now I had named one of the heavenly chorus–like watching a sporting event on TV and realizing you know someone in the massive crowd.

We’ve held onto the communion of saints idea for centuries for this reason, I suppose.  It gives words to the idea that no one is really gone from our congregation–they just move positions a bit.

 

 

 

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Basic Anglican Texts 101

Posted on September 30, 2011 by megancastellan

Sorry this is so late. The past few weeks have been chaotic and filled with colds that consumed everyone on campus, and emergency conference calls.
In any case, last week I preached all three services at Friendly Local Episcopal Church (whose website now links here. Hi, y’all!)
The rector was on some extremely well-deserved vacation, so I got to sub in, with the help of Friendly Retired Lutheran Pastor.
Here’s what got preached.
(For reference, I also include the following: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5Xd_zkMEgkI&feature=youtube_gdata_player ).

September 25, 2011
Ordinary Time, Proper 21
Matthew 21:23-32

​In that foundational text of traditional Anglicanism known as “Monty Python and the Holy Grail”, at one point, early in the movie, King Arthur strikes up a conversation with a peasant named Dennis and his elderly female companion, regarding the inhabitant of a far-off castle. Dennis doesn’t know who Arthur is, or why a king has appeared suddenly in their field. When the old woman asks Arthur how he got to be king, since she didn’t vote for him., he explains about the Lady of the Lake, holding aloft Excalibur from the depths of the water. The scene gets quiet, a choir sings off in the distance, everyone sort of stares off into the middle distance. Clearly this story is important.
​But Dennis is unimpressed. “Look, strange women lying in ponds distributing swords is no basis for a system of government! Supreme executive power derives from a mandate from the masses, not some farcical aquatic ceremony!”
And in one fell swoop, the legend of the sword in the stone crumbles into hilarious pebbles. Arthur is enraged, and poor Dennis gets whacked about the head and neck by a belligerent king, yelling “come and see the violence inherent in the system! Help, I’m being repressed!”
​Though, he’s right. And through our 21st century eyes, something as purely by chance as swords! Or birthright! Seems like a ridiculous reason to wield authority.
​So what does give authority? Because that’s a question that still gets people going. From Arthur beating the snot out of Dennis,(the violence inherent in the system!) to the bloodletting in the GOP debates these past few weeks, to Jesus versus the temple priests, who gets authority and why is always a contentious issue.
​Look again at the gospel—we’ve skipped ahead in time a bit—this encounter with Jesus and the priests is during what we consider Holy Week. Jesus has entered the city of Jerusalem to great acclaim and attention. He went into the Temple and threw out the moneychangers and the guys who sold the animals for the sacrifice—caused a bit ruckus there. He went around saiying that the Temple would get destroyed, ripped to pieces, and he would personally rebuild it in three days. These aren’t things you do if you want to win friends and influence the folks in charge.
​So the priests,, in charge of the Temple system, decide to figure out just who this guy Jesus is. Where does he get off saying and doing all this?
​And Jesus, never one just to give a simple answer to a simple question, shoots one back. “I know my authority—where did John get his authority from?”
​And what follows is an interesting bit of political huddling. The temple leaders are in a tight spot. They’re facing a crowded city. That loved the martyred John the Baptist, so they don’t want to say anything against him, or destroy the saintly image he had earned. However, they didn’t want to be too nice to John, since the guy who had him killed was also the person who kept them in power. And was insanely paranoid.
​It’s tricky.
So they give up. And Jesus lets them off the hook.
​But notice that there’s something missing from their analysis. At no point in what we’re told of their deliberations does anyone say, “maybe this question isn’t about us. Maybe it’s about John.” Maybe it’s about John, and the crowd themselves, and the people that the priests are supposed to be serving the in first place. Maybe it’s not actually about us.
​Granted, that wouldn’t have solved the very real political issues they were still facing. And Also? This is the gospel of Matthew here. Matthew has never won any prizes for an unbiased portrayal of the temple authorities, or any non-Jesus Jewish character in this story.
​But for these characters, as described by Matthew’s gospel, authority is very much about maintaining power for yourself. They can’t answer the question about authority themselves, ironically, because their own is so twisted back on itself. It’s so self-focused. And really, who, hearing this story, thinks, yes! I want to follow these people!
​Jesus on the other hand does things differently. It’s not that Jesus eschews authority or power—you don’t go around announcing the destruction of your national capital if you are afraid of power.
​He just uses it very differently. Even the parable he tells—for both of the sons, the goal is to do the will of their father. Not theirs. Both sons seem a bit inconsistent and have problems telling the truth, but one ends up on the right page…just because he loves his father, and in the end, he thinks of his father, not just himself.
​And that’s what it comes down to. Jesus’ authority comes out of love. Love of the people he came to serve and to lead, and love of the God who sent him. It was that love that people responded to, and it was that love that gave him the authority to do the things he did, love for the lepers he healed, love for the outcast he welcomed, and love for the temple authorities he challenged.
​Love gives authority. But, not just any sort of appearing-on-daytime-talk-shows-love. The sort of self-emptying love that Paul describes in Philippians. That’s the sort of love that flows from God, and that’s the sort of love that empowers us to go out into the world in God’s name to serve as God’s hands and feet, here and now.
​As Christians, that’s the only sort of authority we have. We don’t have magic powers, we don’t have trained assassins, we don’t have secret knowledge. We have self-giving, self-emptying love. Love so strong that even death and hell don’t contain it. We have that.
​So when it comes right down to it? If what we do truly proceeds out of that love?
​We need no other authority.

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