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I had the honor of preaching to the Annual Fall Clericus gathering of West Missouri.  It was the Feast of St. Theresa of Avila, and we were meeting at the Benedictine Abbey in Conception, MO.

I freely confess the following:

–I did indeed sneak out one night and drive half an hour away to the nearest bar so I could watch the Royals win Game 3 of the ALCS.

–Benedictine hospitality does not appear to extend to their WiFi network.  If I had a dollar for every seminary student who refused to allow me on the network, I’d be rich.

–The seminary chapel did withstand all my girl cooties when I preached there.  It appears unharmed, and even the vestments I borrowed pulled through.  Yet another mighty breakthrough in ecumenical relations!

Here’s what I said.

Rev. Megan L. Castellan

October 15,2014

St. Theresa of Avila, doctor of the church

Matthew 5

Diocesan Clericus

There aren’t a lot of saintly doctors in the church.  Theresa of Avila, whom we are remembering today, is one of the four female doctors of the church—in Roman Catholicism, sort of a graduate level beyond just sainthood, into more awesomeness.  And she’s up there with Catherine of Siena, Therese of Liseux and Hildegard of Bingen. 

Clearly, she is amazing. 

A mystic from an early age, like Catherine of Siena, to experience Christ was all she wanted.  She wrote about the ascent of the soul to union with God in “The Interior Castle”—a masterwork for anyone of the time in medieval Spain.  She described her passionate love affair with God in such compelling terms that her journey has become a model for Christians seeking the Divine ever since.  From her we learn about prayer, about meditation, and the possibility of the redemption of suffering, and about God’s unceasing, undying, yearning to be with the world God made. 

Now, sometimes, we conceive of spirituality as being a discipline that draws us apart from the world, as something “other,”  something “over there”, safe and removed from the troubles that plague us, but here is the truly staggering thing about Theresa:

The more Theresa grew in union with God, the deeper she went into the Divine Presence, the more involved in the world she became.  The more troubled she became by the corruption that plagued the institutional church, the more she agonized over the poverty and need that surrounded her, and the more she worked to alleviate all of it.

During her lifetime, Theresa traveled all over Spain, and founded 17 different monasteries, for women and men, wrote a new rule of life for a new monastic order, undertook major reforms so that the clergy under her care actually lived out their vows of service and prayer, and so irritated the entrenched powers of the institutional Church that she was the subject of a couple different persecutions by the Spanish Inquisition.

Her spirituality was a very salty one.

This image of salt and light that Jesus gives us is very evocative—it conjures up a lot.

But in particular—salt is absolutely no good on its own. 

Salt does no one any good if you’re trying to eat it straight, or if you keep it neatly in a corner out of sight.  Salt only works when it’s suffused with something else.  Likewise, light only works when the waves reflect off of something and hit your eye. 

Spirituality needs to translate into action in the world.  The spirituality of the gospels, the spirituality the Church offers must address directly! the hurt and pain we see in the world.   

Because many times we do separate them.  How many times when we talk about ‘feeding people’ from the pulpit we’re talking about ‘feeding their souls’?  How many times when we talk about ‘healing people’ or ‘reconciliing people’ from the pulpit we’re talking about doing it on a spiritual level, on an emotional level?  How many times when we talk about ‘saving the world’ are we talking about doing it on a metaphysical level? 

And understand, Not for any malicious reason, no, we do it out of habit, I think, or because that’s how we grew up hearing these subjects addressed.  For a long time, now, that is how we have talked in this tradition of ours.  We have used spiritual language at times as an escape.  As a distancing technique from the pain that surrounds us in the world.

But Jesus reminds us, and Saint Theresa reminds us, that a true relationship with God never draws us out of the world without drawing us into it—first. 

Because When a hungry crowd came to Christ, he didn’t just tell them to pray harder, he fed them.  Then he preached. 

When sick people came to Jesus, he didn’t tell them to accept hisownself as their Lord and Savior—he healed them.  When the poor and the oppressed came to Jesus, he didn’t tell them to hope for something better in the afterlife, he condemned the religious and political systems that had left them poor in the first place.

So we cannot spiritualize our way out of our discomfort when we are confronted with the pain and brokenness of this world. 

The gospel we preach has to reach out to address the real pains the real problems of the people in our pews, in our streets and in our state—otherwise, it is not the gospel of Jesus.  It is not the gospel of the Incarnation.  It is neither salt nor light for this world.

And you know, and I know, we don’t have to look far to find the brokenness in our churches and in our community.  We know that the pain of grief is a familiar companion for many who sit in our pews.  And we see problems crying out for solutions each and every time we turn on the news or walk down the street.

My friends, we are ministering in a time of Ebola outbreaks in west Africa, threatening whole populations—and now here in the US. So what do we say?

We minister in a time of an unprecedented gap between the rich and the poor in this country, which widens by the hour, and eats away at everyone caught in the middle.  What do we say?

We minister in a time and in a place where young black people in our communities are disproportionately getting shot and killed by police.  Michael Brown.  John Crawford.  VonDerrit Meyers—and those are just the well-publicized ones, and that’s just since mid-August.  And so we are watching as our own state of Missouri is compared to 1960’s era Mississippi for it’s abject failure to carry out a clean investigation.  What do we say, as the church in this place?  How are we salt?  How are we light?

My friends, it is our call and our privilege to care for the spiritual lives of those in our charge.  But we are only doing half of that job, if we do not connect the spiritual yearnings of the people who come to us, with the practical challenges of this world. 

  That is, after all, exactly what Christ did in the Incarnation—broke down the barriers between the human and the divine, and erased forever that which separated the earthly realm from the heavenly. 

So now, our task, as we follow in the Way of Christ, is to echo his words, and echo his actions—bringing the salt and light of the Gospel of Christ to bear on every injustice and every sorrow this world can bring to us until finally, with God’s help, everything all seasoned, all darkness banished. 

We have the salt.  We have the light. 

We just have to be brave enough to use them. 

Amen.

Rev. Megan L. Castellan

September 26, 2014

Ordinary Time

Philippians, Matthew

I have my diplomas hanging neatly on the wall in my office.  They’re both in Latin, which isn’t usual anymore, and they’re both giant, so they’re fairly intimidating. To most people, they would suggest I know things.  Hah.

But I will never forget flying home to Williamsburg to finally be ordained a deacon, during my final year of seminary, and I was so excited, because this meant that I HAD FINALLY GOTTEN THROUGH ALL THE HOOPS OF THE ORDINATION PROCESS, of which there were many.

My plane landed, and I walked up to the rental car counter, and I went to sign to pick up my car—and the charge was 4 times what I had been told over the phone.  “Well, yes.”  said the man behind the counter.  “See, you’re only 24.  You can’t rent a car without an additional $50 per day fee for being underage. So It’s 12.50 per day, plus $50 surcharge.”

Authority comes from some pretty strange places.  Is my point.

And we sort of know this instinctively, right? Some people earn authority, some people are granted it, and some people have authority thrust upon ‘em, to mess with Shakespeare.

Some people have authority by virtue of their office—if you don’t obey your general in a battle, you’ll get court-martialed.  (Or shot.) This is not because your general is necessarily smart, or a nice person, so much as that is the way the army works.  By virtue of being a general, that general gets obeyed. 

Some people, on the other hand, are obeyed because they are so gosh-darn nice about it.  The charisma just comes off of them in waves, these people.  They are what we aspire to be.  So we flock around them in droves, hoping some of the magic will rub off on us.  (This is more or less how branding campaigns work—think of any sports star or movie star selling athletic star selling shoes, or watches or cologne.  It is not that Lebron James has any expertise in how Nikes work—it is just that we all want very badly to believe we will one day be as famous and cool as Lebron James.)

These are forms of authority that work just fine for the most part.  So long as you understand and accept their limitations, they work great—you should probably not seek legal advice from Katy Perry, for example.

But they do have limitations.  There are times when they fall short.  What happens when the general gives a bad order, and we know it?  What happens when our boss asks us to do something we know is unethical?  What happens when those charismatic people we look up to, do horrible things—-yet keep being charismatic?

(And I haven’t even mentioned Congress.)

We need to be careful who we let have authority over us.  Because not all authorities can be trusted all the time.  We need to be careful and ask questions.

And in their defense, that’s what the temple authorities are doing in this conversation with Jesus.  They wanted to know where on earth his authority came from.

Because goodness knows, he didn’t have an office, and he didn’t have diplomas, and he hadn’t studied anywhere to become a learned rabbi, so he didn’t have authority of the office.

He only had a few followers, and they were a pretty rag-tag, unimpressive bunch—some people liked him, but a lot of people didn’t, and also he smelled pretty bad, so he didn’t really have authority of charisma

Yet he went around acting and speaking about God like someone who knew, deep in his bones what he was talking about, so they were curious—where did it come from?

From his feet.  it came from his feet.

Jesus could speak of God’s love and forgiveness with authority because he didn’t talk about it, he walked the walk.  He had the authority of his feet.

He doesn’t just describe God’s healing power—he healed the sick.

He doesn’t just describe God’s wish for peace—he reconciled people in conflict.

He doesn’t just describe God’s love—he included the outcast and he loved people where he found them. 

Whereever he went, whatever he did, he embodied the way he spoke about God.  His actions gave authority to his words.

So, as followers of Christ, where does our authority come from?  When we speak, do we rely on the power of roles, on do-it-because-I-say-so, on everyone-else-is-doing-it?  On authority of being the boss, being the parent, being the oldest?  Being the coolest, being the better liked?

Or does our authority stem from something deeper? Does it come from our feet?

Because as followers of Jesus, our authority should come all the way from our feet—it should come from how the words we say match our actions—how we live out what we preach.  How we daily walk in the path that Jesus trod before us.

Our authority should come all the way up from our feet, from the self-emptying, loving way of Jesus that we follow in the world. 

Because that’s the sort of authority that lasts—that counts—that hits the road and keeps walking.

This was the week that the end of the Joseph saga in the lectionary coincided with the Ray Rice/NFL horror show.

The long-reviled RCL lectionary has been earning its stripes this year as week after week, I wished that I could finally just preach on something relaxing, like God’s unconditional love for kittens!  Only to have another headline slam into the biblical texts with that stomach-twisting crunch that signals you have to gear up to Say the Hard Thing.

This week, it was trying to preach about forgiveness in the middle of a domestic violence mess–in which some pretty warped concepts of forgiveness had been trotted out into the public conversation again.  The church has long been guilty of condoning (and enabling) patterns of domestic violence–both through our silence, and, at times, through our outright complicity.  So preaching about forgiveness–what it is, what it isn’t, is no small matter.

Here’s my take.

Megan Castellan

September 13-14, 2014

Ordinary Time

Genesis 50, Matthew

Desmond Tutu came to speak at my seminary the first year I was there.

What I remember most about this, is two things.  The first is that I bumped into him in the hallway of my dorm when I was taking out the garbage early that Saturday morning, and he turned to me, and said, quite chipper, “Oh,good morning!”  Like I was the person he most wanted to see in that moment. I was so freaked out, I almost dropped garbage all over the feet of the living saint who defeated apartheid.

The second is a comment he made in his speech to us. He was talking about reconciliation, and what he witnessed in South Africa post-apartheid.  He talked about the dynamics of the Truth and Reconciliation commission, and how that had worked, and everyone was impressed, but in describing the mechanics of how reconciliation and forgiveness works, he commented.

He pointed out it’s not as easy as it sounds.  “If you steal my bicycle, and later you come to me and you ask for my forgiveness, I can forgive you, but unless something changes—it’s cheap.  I need to lock up my next bike so you can’t steal it, at least.  Or I need you to give me back my bike, maybe.  Forgiveness and reconciliation only work if you give back my bike.  “

—Forgiveness, like grace, is one of those words we toss around

—but Arb. is right.  We frequently use it cheaply.  I’m sorry.  Oh I forgive you!  That’s supposed to be the response to make the apologizing person feel less guilty.

—That’s not actually how forgiveness works.

—In Jesus’ parable, people are going to freakin’ jail.  Jail, guys.  JAIL. 

—And note, in Joseph’s story, as well.  It’s more complicated than a simple, I’m-a-nice-person-I-forgive-you. 

-Joseph’s brothers sold him into slavery.  They beat him up, and threw him in a pit, and told his father he was dead.  That’s not great.  That’s some insane abusive behavior right there, even for the mythical characters of the ANE.

—And afterwards, Joseph’s life is not fantastic.  He is sold to Potiphar, whose wife attempts to entrap him with false accusations. 

—Potiphar sends Joseph off to jail, where he sits for a couple years. 

—So though he eventually ends up as governor of Egypt, let’s not forget his initial family situation was not pleasant.  And it came with consequences.

—Then his brothers show up and ask for 1.  Forgiveness!  They feel bad for that whole you’re dead, we almost killed our father (also a lunatic, btw), and they want to make amends.

2.  But mainly food.  They want food, since Egypt has food, and Canaan doesn’t have any.

—So what does Joseph do?

—He gives his estranged family food.  And he embraces them.  And he sends for his aged father (who, really, I’m shocked the man hasn’t had a HUGE heart attack by now.  Kid’s dead!  No he’s not! )

—But please notice:  This isn’t cheap grace.  This is bicycle forgiveness.  This is forgiveness with a change.  In both these situations—Jesus’ parable and the story of Joseph, forgiveness comes only with real change.

—At no point, in this reunion scene, does Joseph volunteer to return home to Canaan with his brothers.  At no point, does Joseph volunteer to rewind the clock, and make everything just like it was when they were little.  At no point, either, does Joseph apologize, or try to explain away what his brothers did.  They did bad things, and he says so.

—Forgiveness can happen here because something has changed. You have to move out, you have to move on, whatever that looks like.  The offense has to end, with no risk of going back, before you can forgive. 

—if nothing changes, then forgiveness doesn’t work—you’ll just keep doing the same thing over and over because it’s what you know.  it’s not until the circle breaks that you get a chance to stop and evaluate.

And it can’t be hurried.  Forgiveness only comes when it’s ready.  When you’ve stopped living in that particular moment, either literally, or just emotionally.  You have to move on, in all ways in order for forgiveness, in order for reconciliation to work. 

Because most of all, forgiveness is a gift of God.  Forgiveness is ultimately a work of the Spirit, where we can lean into the love of God for one another, and we can release the hurts done to us.  We get to forgive, in those moments where we see we have come so far due to the love of God, and there’s no longer any point in carrying the burden of anger or resentment anymore—however justified, because it’s not helpful.

[Ending]

(I preached this on August 31.)

(Still works.)

Rev. Megan L. Castellan

August 30-31, 2014

Ordinary Time, Proper 17

Exodus 3

[how do you know what you read on social media is the truth?  Walter Cronkite is dead—there is no ONE OBJECTIVE ANSWER out there waiting for us.  Everyone has their own side of the story, whether we like this or not.]

[transition to…] 

Moses just wants to be a little Switzerland right this moment.  He’s having an identity crisis, of sorts, and of all people, he gets to have one.

Because, if you think back to what you recall either of a Charlton Heston movie or from watching the Prince of Egypt—Moses, when he was born, was saved from a genocidal pharaoh by his sister, Miriam, who stuck him in a basket and floated him down the river.  The Pharoah’s daughter found him, and adopted him as her own, saving him a second time.

So Moses had grown up with a foot in both worlds—the world of the Pharoah’s palace, all prestige and privilege, and the world of the Israelite slaves who made that world possible in the first place.  He’s had access to both worlds, to both places.  So he grew up with two identities—Moses the prince and Moses the Israelite slave. 

They were in conflict, to be sure, both sides of that particular story, but he was managing to balance them, apparently.

Everything was going fine it seemed, until one day when Moses was grown up and he ran into an Egyptian task master beating an Israelite slave. 

All of a sudden, these two identities are in conflict, these two sides of the story are standing opposed to each other.

Moses intervenes and kills the guard.

Well, whoops.

He panics, and flees out to the wilderness, because Moses does not want to pick a side.  Moses wanted to hang onto being a prince, but being a sort of cool prince who understood what was really going on, but still with all the power and the money, and the stuff. 

Moses wanted the best of both worlds, but killing someone was probably going to mess that plan up.

Now, Wilderness is where the people of God go in the scriptures when something weird is going on.  It’s the neutral space, it’s the space of retreat and where you head to rebuild, even though it’s not hospitable.  But it’s also where God usually came and found you.

Which is what happens.

As we hear in the reading today, Moses is tending some sheep when he sees the burning bush, and he hears God call his name.  And God sends him back to Egypt—not as a prince in a palace this time, but as something entirely different.  As the leader who will save the Israelites from oppression. 

In other words, God wants him to pick a side.  And God wants him to give up some things, like power and privilege and some things that go along with it.

Hiding out in the wilderness of neutrality doesn’t cut it—you have to figure out where you stand.  Where God is calling you to go in the stories of today.

because yes, there are always many sides to each story. And yes, God loves us all, everyone.  God loves everybody.  And that has always been true.  God loved the Egyptians and the Israelites. God loved Pharaoh and Moses and Miriam and Aaron and their mother.

And it is God’s love that calls on them.  It is that very love that makes God receptive when the beloved Egyptians start enslaving the beloved Israelites.  It’s that very love that causes God to say to Moses— “I have heard the cry of my people Israel, and I have come down here to set them free.”

God’s love means God comes down, means God picks sides.  God loves the Israelites, so God calls Moses to free them from slavery.  God loves the Egyptians, so God calls Moses to convince them that holding people in bondage is not the way to go.  God’s love for humanity means God gets involved in the story.  God doesn’t stay neutral—that’s not how love works.  Love wants the fullness of human life.  Love wants the fullness of justice and righteousness and peace for everyone involved—and that’s not a thing that’s neutral—and so that meant the Israelites couldn’t be slaves anymore.   Because God’s love forces God to come down on the side of the oppressed, the powerless and the helpless.

Desmond Tutu said once If you are neutral in situations of injustice, you have chosen the side of the oppressor. If an elephant has its foot on the tail of a mouse and you say that you are neutral, the mouse is not going to appreciate your neutrality.

Our pretended neutrality doesn’t serve the love of God.  It doesn’t serve God’s call to us.  And God doesn’t let us stay there. 

God called Moses out of his desert of neutrality, out of having the best of both worlds.  Out of his Egyptian palace and into his role as a leader for an oppressed people. 

And God calls us the same way.  God calls us to take sides, to take sides thoughtfully, to take sides in love.  To side with the poor, the powerless and the oppressed when we see injustice in this world.

So what we have to ask ourselves is where is God calling us now?  Here in Kansas City, here in Missouri, where is God calling us to go?  What desert is God calling us to leave behind? 

For starters, I can tell you that although the tanks are gone from the streets in Ferguson, the basic situation hasn’t changed.  The officer who shot Michael Brown still hasn’t been charged, the original prosecutor remains in charge of the case, the police still have a whole mess of riot gear and tanks and tear gas at their disposal, and not a whole lot has changed. 

Except, in the three weeks since he died, two more young black men who were also unarmed have been killed by police officers around the country.

So what is it that God is calling you to do in this situation? 
Do you need to sign a petition, do you need to have a hard conversation with your friends, with your coworkers, do you need to go to a march, do you need to email the governor?  Do you need to do some research into the history and context of race relations in St. Louis and law enforcement? Do you need to listen to people with first hand experience of dealing with the police while being Black in America?

What are you being called to do here in this moment?

Because we are being called to something. Whenever we as people of faith find injustice, we are called to do something.  We are not called to complacency, we are not called to run to the wilderness, we are called to do something. 

We just have to listen for God’s voice, remember God’s love, and know that God is with us.