The Ancient Things we Do: Mothering Sunday

In churchland we maintain some remarkably odd practices. Take Mothering Sunday, for instance. An odd name for Mother’s Day, I presumed? Nope. Last week my priest buddy, less green and more intense than myself, sent me a text announcing that I needed to find the small bottles of oil in the college chapel used for anointing the sick, the dying, and the newly baptized, and bring them to the cathedral to be refilled.

No problem, I thought to myself. Just grab those bottles and take them to the church. Wrong.

It turns out that Mothering Sunday is one of those ancient practices we continue to observe which look like it’s been pulled from historical fiction. As I followed my friend’s instructions, down to the finest detail, I felt like I was LARPing rather than doing my job. The process was fascinating.

The oils left from several years ago had gone completely rancid, sticking to the bottom of the bottle like old honey. Nothing new could be added until the old had been removed. I called my mentor. “You’re sure I can’t just pour this down the sink?” I asked, a little whiny. Nope. The oil had to be burned.

How does one burn rancid oil out of the bottom of a tiny glass jar, you’re wondering to yourself?? After several failed ideas and consultations, I came up with a solid plan. Squatting in front of my fire place, I carefully wiped out each jar with a rag and lit the rags on fire, consuming all the oil. As I watched the flame soar up from the earth, I felt like I was sitting on holy ground. Here was sacred oil, sent out into the world to be a blessing to the vulnerable, being returned to God in fire and ashes.

At the cathedral service, the new oil was blessed, that it would be comfort and hope to those to be anointed, spread out across our diocese in all the diversity of their homes and lives. I thought of how elemental it is to take something as common as oil and make it into something sacred which nourishes community and draws us into the life of the Holy One. And just as oil brings flavour to food and fills our bodily cravings, so now this oil is sent out to flavour our life in spirit.

This Christian tradition of ours, with its ancient rituals and mysterious rites, has an intriguing way of mixing the sacred with the profane, using the stuff of normal days to usher us into relationship with the Divine. Quite unlike the powerful top-down institution it has often become, the call of Christianity has always been to affirm the goodness of everyday life and to find God in all the small and normal places. There’s a reason our God took on humanity and pitched his tent among us.

In a culture where everything is disposable and even our most valuable possessions are made to break (as I write on a cracked computer screen!) there’s something life-giving about investing sacred qualities in physical things. Sure, I could have just dumped out my oil and no one would have known or cared. I could simply anoint a dying woman with oil from my kitchen. But when I am careful to return to the earth by fire that which has been consecrated for holy use, I am declaring my belief that God inhabits our time and space. God comes and dwells among us and uses the stuff of our lives to create life and mystery and hope.

In a world where even human beings are treated like commodities, the blessing of oil says that the simplest things are chosen and used by God. The oil is a tangible reminder that we are never alone in our journey or sickness or even in death- that the Holy One comes and dwells with us just as Jesus walked among us on this same dusty earth.

I’m struck by how the burning of the old and the blessing of the new mirrors my own messy life. That old oil can stick to me like crystalized honey sometimes, but it has to be burned away before it can be filled with bright new oil. The old might not be bad exactly, but it is not the best. It has grown stagnant and it is difficult to bless others with that old oil. But just as the Holy Spirit dwells with the sacred oil, so the Holy Spirit dwells with me, filling me up to be a gift which overflows Christ onto the world. It is not, of course, the oil that is sacred. The oil comes from Superstore! But it’s what God chooses to do with that oil that marks the story of our faith. And it's an ancient story.

Abraham, You, and the Pilgrimage of Faith

https://soundcloud.com/allison-chubb/pilgrimage-of-faith

dust. noun. the stuff of life.

I know there are lots of things I’m good at. But being mortal isn’t one of them. I like to think that I can do everything and please everyone, not taking rest and not making mistakes. I get frustrated when I’m tired or sick or in pain. I wonder why I only accomplished seven out of the 17 things on my to-do list.

And this, my friends, is why I have ashes smeared across my face this afternoon. Ash Wednesday is one of the few chances we’re given in our culture to stop and acknowledge our own mortality. I like to call it, dustiness. Yeah, I’m dusty. And that’s okay. You are too. Being mortal means being fallible and sinful and making mistakes. It means being tired and grumpy and needing to rest. It also means I will die.

Think about it: we spend most of our lives pretending we aren’t going to die. When a conversation around death arises, people tend to speak in hushed tones or discretely excuse themselves. Many families don’t even have funerals anymore, so averse are we to thinking and talking about death. The problem is, people still die and I am still mortal. Avoiding our own mortality leaves a hole of fear in our lives that we rush to fill with other things.

Today, however, I sit quietly and take it all in. My mortality, in fact, is a beautiful gift. We are like the lilies of the field, here today and gone tomorrow. And yet, not one bit of life is the same as another. There is something beautiful and whole and good in every bit of life we encounter. It is a fragile thing, like a cherry blossom or a newborn bird. It does no good to treat it like it will not be easily broken.

This is also why, historically at least, we fast today. It reminds us of all the things we rely on other than God. There's nothing like hunger to help us let go of the mirage of immortality. At the same time, by fasting we declare that we take our life from something more than animal-like needs. As humans, we are mortal like the animals but called to something more as bearers of the Divine Image.

Yet it is a mistake to make Ash Wednesday- and the ensuing season of Lent- into something about ourselves. Today we are called to repent of all the ways we mess up by turning again to God. But mostly are called to simply acknowledge who we really are and who God really is. It’s tempting to make Lent more about our own repentance, about a call to pull ourselves together and be better people. But with the ashes we are acknowledging that we cannot, in fact, be better people. We will always be mortal and we will always be sinful. So we come to the ashes again and again, proclaiming that it is only God who is the Creator, the Healer, and the Redeemer. All that is asked of us today is to tell the truth about ourselves and to allow God to enfold us once again in his loving care.

Don’t misunderstand me. Of course repentance means turning away from darkness and toward light. But even then, it is God who enables us, even as we remain very dusty people. We pray the ancient Psalm together:

 

For behold, you look for truth deep within me,

      and will make me understand wisdom secretly.

Purge me from my sin, and I shall be pure;

      wash me, and I shall be clean indeed.

Create in me a clean heart, O God,

      and renew a right spirit within me.

Cast me not away from your presence

      and take not your Holy Spirit from me.

As I sat in a midday service today, I was reminded of the prophet Ezekiel, taken in a vision to a valley of dry bones. His guide says to him, “O son of man, can these dry bones live?” And a baffled Ezekiel responds, “You know.” God promises to bring life to our dustiness, to make the dryness of death flourish with the greed of life. This is the mystery of our faith- and indeed, of life itself. All we must do now is declare ourselves dust.

Moving into Lent: Economics of Power

https://soundcloud.com/allison-chubb/economics-of-power-and

Living Between Times: Sermon on Malachi 3:1-5

I stumbled along the path in front of me as the night closed in on both sides. I can’t remember a night before or since being so black: holding out my hand in front of me, it disappeared into the darkness. I wondered where all the stars had gone. It occurred to me that if I stepped off the path now, I might disappear into the Canadian shied forever. I was at a chaplaincy retreat in a rural retreat centre and my cabin was unusually far from the main camp. I stopped, alone on the path, wondering what to do next. I couldn’t keep going this way, unable to see a thing in front of me. Salvation came in the form of my cellphone. The light was tiny and dim, but it was just enough to get me safely back to the cabin. In the morning, as the sun shone on the path as I walked back to camp, I had to laugh at myself for being so worried the night before. The path was so obvious in the sunlight!

This morning the Israelites find themselves stumbling through a similar darkness, wondering where God has gotten off to and how they can possibly reach their destination without his light guiding them. They have made the journey through the wilderness from exile in Babylon back to Israel, and after years of hard work, they have finished rebuilding their temple. But they remain under the control of the Persians, a fierce nation that was strong enough even to overthrow Babylon.

The Persians encouraged the returning Israelites to rebuild their temple, but it seemed to always be on Persian terms. The Israelites could have a sanctuary, but not a watchtower; an overseer but not a full order of priests. For decades the Israelites had been dreaming of the day they would return to their homeland, when their independence would be restored and God would be their king. They dreamed of the days of Jubilee, when the poor would be treated fairly and they could earn a living wage without having to give half of it back to the Persians in taxes.

But that day didn’t seem to be coming. It seemed to be a lost dream, because even though they’d finally returned to their hometown, things weren’t much better than they’d been in Babylon. There were still orphans living in the streets, single moms forced to work as prostitutes, warlords keeping an eye on everyone and taking the best of everything. “Where on earth is God??” They wondered. “Has he abandoned us here? Whatever happened to the “God of justice” who’s supposed to be always with us?” They seemed to be living in-between-times: between the glory days when the temple was full of laughing children and groups of young men studying Torah; and the promised future, when God’s messenger would come to restore his people and his temple.

When they were honest, though, the Israelites had to admit that they contributed to the problem about as much as the Persians did. They got tired of waiting for God to deal with the Persians, so they developed a few of their own strategies: just a little dishonest deal here, skipping the temple tithe there; cutting corners on the way of life God required of them just to get ahead a little. Living in between the glory of the temple’s past and the glory of its future seemed like wandering in the darkness, hoping for a little light to lead the way.

2400 years later, we once again find ourselves wandering between times. The Church in Canada, once filled with laughing children and curious youth, is closing more doors every week. We find ourselves longing for the days when our buildings were the hub of the community, brimming with activity seven days a week. A couple weeks ago I went on a tour of a church just up the street and heard stories about the 20’s and 30’s when there were 1500 people on the parish list and 200 teachers in the Sunday school. The parishioners filled the neighbourhood, and the needs of the community were the needs of the parish.

Yet by 1940, war brought exile to the community and just as the Israelites were sent off to Babylon, the young men of the parish were sent across the ocean to fight in Europe. When the war was finally over, the parishioners began moving to the suburbs and leaving the old church behind. The parish entered a long, dark, in-between time, when they longed for the days of the past and wondered what the days of the future would bring. As the neighbourhood became filled with poverty and violence, some people even ventured to ask the question others were thinking, the same one asked by the Israelites: “Where is the God of justice we keep hearing about?”

“But look!” Malachi says to the Israelites, “God has not forgotten you! During these times of darkness and uncertainty God strengthens you and leads you by a small but strong light- his promise to be faithful."

Malachi goes on to remind the Israelites of what God’s faithfulness looks like- God will send his messenger; the purity of temple worship will be restored; justice will reign (though it will not be easy, especially for the oppressors). But a prophet’s primary concern is never what is going to happen in the future. Malachi’s main point is to show his people that God’s promise to be faithful is light enough to guide them today, through the darkest valley and the most uncertain times.

Since the beginning, Israel’s relationship with God has been based upon God’s promise of faithfulness. He makes promises to care for them, to go ahead of them, to provide for them- all that is asked of Israel in return is that she remain faithful, trusting that God’s promises will carry her through.

In the book of Malachi we have reached the end of the Old Testament, and God’s promises of faithfulness will have to be enough to carry the people through for four hundred years, until Jesus is presented in the temple as the light of the world they’ve been waiting for. In the promise of the coming messiah, God takes hold of his people and does not let them go. For four hundred years they will be without another prophet, struggling to defend their temple, living in oppression under one foreign power after another. But they cling to God’s promise to restore Israel, knowing that it is enough. And even when they forget, complaining against God and taking matters into their own hands, God carries them through by those same promises as they move toward the coming messiah.

Today we celebrate the dedication of the baby Jesus in the temple, the light of the world long awaited by the people of Israel. But now we also find ourselves in a strange in-between time, wondering when Christ will return in glory to establish the kingdom of justice and mercy long ago promised to us. Sometimes we even dare to ask one another, “Where is the God of justice?”

The good news is that today the prophet Malachi comes to us to proclaim the same hope as he brought to the Israelites long ago. We have often heard that God is a God of covenant, which means that God communicates and sustains his people through his promises. The ancient feast of lights or candlemas, which we celebrate today with the presentation of Christ in the temple, is really a celebration of God’s faithfulness- his promise-keeping.

God does not leave us alone in the uncertainty of the future, but promises to carry us safely into the future just as he brought Israel through her uncertainty. “I will never leave you and I will never forsake you” he tells us in Joshua, “and I have plans to give you hope and a future” he promises to Jeremiah. Malachi reminds us that while the journey into the future we hope for is not an easy one, God’s justice will purify and refine us into the community we’ve been called to be.

So now that God has made the promise to bring us into the future and to care for us along the way, we are given the same choice as the Israelites. We can take hold of God’s promises and engage them, or we can sit back and wait for them to happen. As we wait for the promised messenger to arrive so that justice can be established, we learn that God’s promises are messengers for the in-between times. One way that we take hold of God’s promise to be faithful is by stepping out into an uncertain future by trusting in the God who promises to go there with us. The light of God’s faithfulness doesn’t promise to show us the entire path back to the camp; but it is enough to keep us going, trusting in the one who calls us to new adventures during these in-between times. And just as Israel grew and changed, learning more about herself and about God in the journey between Malachi and Jesus, may we also grow and be changed into God’s likeness.

The Darkness and The Light: Mental Illness and the Coming of Spring

I get excited this time of year when I realize that the days have started getting longer. Especially in Manitoba. There’s nothing like the feeling of getting up in the dark and going home in the dark and feeling like it’s never going to end as we drag by December 21^st, the longest day of the year. I make crafts.  I watch TV. I wait.
But today is January 22^nd and it’s still light out as I hurry for the bus after work. Even though many weeks of cold still lie ahead, I know the end is coming. The dark winter will be over, I will wear less than 6 layers in the morning, and I will wake with the feeling that it isn’t still night. Yes, summer is on the way.

Yet, thinking of the hope that comes with the longer days- even 5 and 10 minutes longer- reminds me of my friends, family, colleagues, and students whose days are not becoming any brighter just yet. The ones over whom mental illness has settled like December 21^st itself, that long and dark day which seems to never end. Apparently, we’re in sight of “mental health awareness week,” and I keep hearing a cheerful voice on the radio from Bell Network saying, “Fortunately, you can make a difference! Just text this number…” Every time I hear the voice, I find myself yelling back at it, “No! You can’t make a difference!”, annoyed by the simplicity of the idea that sending a text could somehow put an end to the darkness faced by so many dear ones.

The truth is, mental illness is on the rise at an alarming rate in this country- particularly among our students. Depression, anxiety, schizophrenia, bipolar disorder, PTSD, suicide… sometimes I feel like a walking DSM5 just because of the people I interact with and love on a daily basis. There seems to be an epidemic of hopelessness which refuses to be quarantined. Just as I cannot make spring come any faster, so do we seem utterly helpless in the face of the darkness of mental illness. Perhaps it is all the more confusing, since we Canadians have become accustomed to having a degree of relative autonomy and control, that something so debilitating can escape us. You’ve seen it. You’ve felt it too.

It is often at these darkest times that people find themselves stumbling into the strange world of faith, with its metaphors of dark and light, valley and mountaintop, wilderness and homecoming. Because mental illness is something quite outside our ability to categorize and understand, it is frequently with metaphors and bodily memory that people are able to trudge their way through it. Ideally, the world of faith forces people outside of themselves, so that they can see themselves as part of a bigger story in which light and darkness come and go and in which the light of resurrection always has the final say.

When we are overcome by our own darkness, Christ promises to be light for us. When we wander through the wilderness, lost and alone, Christ will be our homecoming. And when it seems like the darkness itself is caving in on us, God has promised to fight on our behalf.

It is a miracle of life that those who find themselves weakened by mental illness are often the ones who do community better than those of us who are self-sufficient enough to forge ahead on our own. They are often the ones with hearts big enough to love the stranger and forgive the unlovable. Because wisdom and endurance are developed in the wilderness. Sometimes, during cold Manitoba winters, we talk about how hearty and strong our ancestors must have been and I can see some of that hearty endurance in the courage of those who suffer the dark days of mental illness.
But while I’d like to say there’s some great purpose to the darkness, some greater good which will be worth it all in the end, that would be naïve. Sometimes, there is no endurance developed in the wilderness, but only chronic pain. It shouldn’t be. And when God’s kingdom comes in its fullness, such suffering will be no more. But until then, the Holy One really will be spring for us. And spring won’t be long now.

Epiphany Feast: Being World-Changers

I used to think that God was looking for people who could change the world. (Okay- most of the time I still do). We’ve all been inspired by the likes of Mother Teresa and Mahatma Ghandi, but my youth has been jammed full of these kinds of figures. When I was five it was my grandmother’s stories of heroic missionaries who cured the sick, wrote down languages for the first time, championed education, and connected the story of Jesus with the spiritual teachings of far-flung tribes in unheard of places.

When I was 12, it was Nehemiah rebuilding the walls of Jerusalem, the prophet Micah calling his people to care for the poor, and St. Paul heroically braving prisons and beatings and shipwrecks. At 18, I began looking to Paulo Freire, transforming an entire continent through the power of education; Heather Mercer, imprisoned in Afganistan; and my own uncle, born in Uganda to a family of 18, who now develops innovative ways for the poorest countries to grow more and better food.

When I went to Colombia to change
the world, I discovered new heroes.

God, it was clear to me, is looking for these kinds of people: giants who can really make a differencein the world, pulling it toward the place it was made to be, the world I’ve come to call “the kingdom of God.” But here’s the problem: when you or I stand beside such people we are lost in their shadows. When we set out to be Ghandi  or Freire, we are not becoming the people God is looking for. No, God is not looking for people capable of changing the world: God is looking for people who know they can’t change the world.

I know, it sounds ridiculous. God NEEDS us. We are God’s hands and feet. But two things have convinced me that these are the sorts that God is looking for: the realization that we are created for community, and the truth that God is the one who changes things, not me. Each of the people I’ve mentioned above as heroes were members of movements; large, extended communities that changed the world together. Not one of them acted on their own, and (to my knowledge), not one of them tried.

Why? Because these people knew that God is the one who changes the world; God is the one who builds the kingdom, the one who calls us to be part of what God is already up to. When I try to be the person who changes the world (whatever that looks like), I end up pulling myself away from community and from the movements God is already creating.

Tomorrow, we will celebrate the Feast of Epiphany, a season which reminds us that God shows up in unexpected places among unexpected people. In Epiphany, God is revealed to the world as a “light to lighten the Gentiles.” The significance of this can be hard for us to understand today, but the fact that it was Gentile wise men who brought gifts to the toddler Jesus is very important. The seers were not the types that might have been expected to be world-changers that day and neither was that their intention. Instead, they were merely doing their job, following their God, and working together. God asks no more- and no less- from you and me.