Of Mice and Jesus
(Easter 7C, May 16, 2010)
“What must I do to be saved?”
(x2)
This question, asked of Paul
in today’s reading from the book of Acts, rings throughout history as a
common cry of humanity. What must I do be saved? What must I do to truly feel
free?
Today’s account of Paul and Silas
as they evangelize their way through Europe is really a story about slavery and
freedom, captivity and redemption. Here, we find accusations of ownership, real
jail cells, shackles, and a quest on all sides to either strengthen or loosen
the ties of oppression. It is a story in two parts.
First, the slave girl with a
gift of “divination,” or fortune telling, who followed Paul and Silas for days,
proclaiming, “These men are slaves of the Most High God, who proclaim to you a
way of salvation.” Slaves to God, followed by a slave of men. For days she
trails after them, proclaiming the truth about Paul’s slavery—proclaiming the
gospel, really—until Paul has had enough. The text actually says that he was annoyed. Turning around, Paul rebukes
the spirit living inside the girl and casts it out.
This is, at first glance, one of the least sympathetic
stories that we have about the life of Paul. Something about it just rubs the
wrong way…probably the overt use of the word “annoyed,” which seems to devalue
the plight of this young woman and further build Paul’s reputation as a bit of
a show-boater. He casts out a demon because he was annoyed?
But while Paul’s motives may
have been a little selfish—trying to rid himself from a tagalong—God’s grace
remains self-less, and by freeing her of the demon that made her tell fortunes,
God liberates the girl from at least one aspect of her oppression. No longer
can her owners cart her around town like a sideshow act, making money from the
demon inside her. While she remains a slave—a category of Roman society that
was systematic, deeply entrenched, and tightly hewed to the empire’s economy—she
regains her humanity. Without the oppressor dwelling inside of her, the slave
can experience a freedom she has never known.
Which leads us to the second
story. The young girl’s owners are so angry with Paul and Silas for casting out
the demon and effectively making lame their cash cow, they appeal to the local
government to have the two men arrested, which they are, on charges of
subverting the power of the state and undermining Roman order and Jewish
customs. These are the same charges that led to Jesus’ arrest not long before.
While in jail, Paul and
Silas sing hymns and pray to God—all within earshot of the other prisoners, for
whom captivity is a lived reality—until a massive earthquake breaks their
chains and opens the prison doors. While it seems that the natural reaction
would be to make a run for it, all of the prisoners stay put. The guard,
awaking to find shackles broken and doors flung open, is driven to drastic
measures—afraid of the fate that awaits him when he tells the authorities that
all the prisoners escaped—until Paul points out that everyone is accounted for.
Here, another insight into
captivity and freedom. I imagine the guard’s shock and confusion. It seems so
unnatural, so unlikely, for prisoners to not rush to escape as soon as they are
able. But, for Paul and Silas at least, we see here how the culture’s
understanding of captivity and freedom is of little consequence. As far as they
are concerned, they are free. Even
when they are chained to an iron bar in a prison cell, their true freedom in
God means that they don’t have to go anywhere to know ultimate liberty. The
jailer, on the other hand, who by social convention is an utterly free man, is
so bound by the pressures and conventions of his role within the state that he
is ready to take his own life when he thinks that me made a mistake on the job.
He throws himself on the
ground and asks Paul a simple question: What must I do to be saved? What must I do to be saved?
Saved from what, we wonder?
Saved from the wrath of the higher-ups in the Roman bureaucracy? Saved from a particular bondage, from
an empty life, from the struggle to be something that he is not? Whatever it is
that is chasing this man, holding him down, making him less free than the
prisoners he guards, he knows that he is at a crossroads now and he is ready to
choose real freedom over everything else. The kind of freedom that Paul and
Silas seem to enjoy.
As Americans, we talk a lot
about freedom, so much so that the word itself has become tied to our patriotic
identity. The type of freedom that we enjoy—political, religious, economic—is a
rarity on the face of the planet, and it should be celebrated. But is it
possible, at times, to confuse freedom and captivity?
Is it possible, like the jailer, to think
that we are free when we are really slaves?
Last night [on Friday night]
I saw a production of John Steinbeck’s Of
Mice and Men at the John Beasley Theater in South Omaha. For those of you
who haven’t read the book, the story follows two friends, George and Lenny, as
they hop from ranch to ranch in Depression-era California. Lenny is
developmentally disabled, and George, a longtime friend, has taken on the role
of care-taker, trying to keep Lenny out of trouble as they are chased from
ranch to ranch due to one misunderstanding after another. The two men are
companions, a package deal, and while Lenny is unable to function alone in the
world, George’s responsibility forever ties the two together.
Throughout the story,
whenever George gets mad at Lenny, he tells him how much easier his life would
be if he were alone. He would enjoy so much freedom. He could go out on the
town, spend all the money he makes, never have to worry about the safety of his
friend. He’s serious, too—he means it. Without Lenny holding him back, George
would lead an utterly free life.
But each lone cowboy that
they meet is strangely intrigued by—even jealous of—their companionship. In their utterly free life of spending
their money, moving from job to job—the life that George dreams of—they find
loneliness, restlessness. Through a serious of tragic events, George learns
that the freedom that he yearns for is really captivity, that true freedom is
found in the commitments he has made to the companionship and brotherly love of
this one person. While Lenny appears to be a liability, it is really he that
saves George.
I will spare you the details
of the ending, which is honestly too sad to tell, but the point is that
sometimes the sheer awesomeness of the choices that we are able to make, of the
things that we are able to buy, of the allowance our culture gives for excess
and flight, can be a prison sentence masquerading a freedom. In our society, we
become experts at making choices at a very young age. What we need help with is
the ability to make commitments, to find freedom in the denial of so many
options.
This is the truth of the
Christian life and that Paul and Silas make known to the jailer in today’s
story. What must I do to be saved, he
asks? The answer: Believe in the Lord Jesus. This is not a passive salvation, a
magical incantation that will erase all the dangers and oppressions of this
life. After all, the jailer is still subject to discipline by the Roman state,
and the young woman is still a slave to her masters. But by believing in Jesus,
by making a commitment to follow the way of Christ, to really believe and fashion our lives accordingly, Paul is showing
us the way to a type of freedom that the material world does not know.
What enslaves you? What
holds you captive? We all have something, and often times it looks a lot like
freedom. True liberation is only found in something other than ourselves, in
the belief that God has something greater in store for us.
Hosting the Word of God
(Proper 5C, June 6, 2010)
What does it mean to be a
host? For many of us, the word conjures up images of dinner parties and out of
town guests, the opening up of our home to people other than those who normally
live in it. Hospitality. Entertaining. If you are a scientist, perhaps you
think of viruses or tiny organisms establishing themselves in host animals or
host cells. Or, if you are Episcopalian, you might think of the Eucharistic
host, the round circle of bread placed in your hands, feeding you with the Body
of Christ.
The word “host” has a
variety of definitions, and many of them find expression in today’s reading
from First Kings. Here, we find that miraculous story of Elijah’s unexpected
host in the wilderness—a widow whose family is dying of starvation—and the way
that God continues to feed them by never allowing their supply of grain or oil
to run dry. We also hear of the near-death of the widow’s son, of Elijah’s
desperate prayers, how he hurls himself on top of the young man’s body as he
cries out to God, and how God revives the boy and restores wholeness to the
widow’s nearly dashed dreams.
As is often the case with
the Old Testament, we need start with a little background. At the time of this
story, Ahab was king of Israel. He was an evil king who introduced the worship
of Baal, a false god who was said to control the rain, into the lives of the
Israelites. Ahab is married to Jezebel, whose people worshipped Baal back in
her hometown. Enter Elijah, a prophet with a clear message: Your rain god will
not work. In fact, there will be no rain until I say that there will. Only the
one true God, Yahweh, should be worshipped, and only Yahweh will fertilize your
crops.
Ahab does not take this
message too well—he was counting on Baal to end the drought that was plaguing
his people—and it becomes imperative that Elijah leave town. God cares for the
prophet as he hides, giving him plenty of water to drink and sending ravens to
deliver food. The drought worsens and even the ravens cannot provide enough sustenance,
so God sends Elijah through the wilderness and finally to a place called Sidon,
where he meets a widow gathering sticks for a fire. He asks her to bring him
some water and some food. She can manage the water, she says, but she only has
enough food to make one last meal for herself and her son.
I only have a handful of meal and a little oil in a
jug, she says. I am going home to prepare it for my son so that we may eat it and
die.
I am going home to prepare
it for my son so that we may eat it and die.
This line jumps out of the
text and begs to be reckoned with. We can only imagine the complete and total
desperation of this woman, a woman who has already lost her husband, who has
been ravaged by famine and knows with absolute certainty that she can only feed
her child one more meal. She is going to die. Her son is going to die. She
wants this stranger to leave her in peace.
This widow speaks to our
lowest points, to our own tragic life events, our own seasons spent in drought
and famine. In these times, we too may only bear the thought of being left
alone, out of sight, away from strangers or even friends. Hers is, I think, a
very natural reaction, one that we might have difficulty finding fault with.
Why give this stranger food? Why now, when she and her son are so close to
death?
Elijah quotes scripture to
the widow, and eventually convinces her to share her food. And God provides.
The meal and the oil never run out, and the entire household eats for many
days. It is a miracle, but not the last miracle that God blesses the widow’s
family with. Later, even with the
blessing of several more meals, the widow’s son becomes very ill and draws
close to death. The widow blames Elijah, who takes the boy from her arms, cries
out to the Lord, and covers the son’s body with his own. Again, God listens to
Elijah, and the boy is restored to health.
Miracles. We use that word
quite a bit. In popular usage, a miracle is something unexpected, even
improbable, that brings about our most desired outcome. In classical
philosophy, however, the definition of a miracle is much more specific. A
miracle brings resolution not to the improbable, but to the truly impossible. A miracle defies the laws of
science, it happens without any conceivable earthly explanation.
However we understand
miracles, for people of faith one this is sure: they are the product of divine
intervention. And in the story of Elijah’s visit to the widow, there are not
two but three miraculous events at play. The never ending meal and oil, the
recovery of the dying son, and a third—the very willingness of the widow to
invite Elijah into her home in the first place.
Here is where our
understanding of the word “host” becomes crucial. Hospitality is an important
biblical theme throughout the Old and New Testaments. In ancient times,
hospitality was an imperative. Travelling people were taken into homes, where
the fattest goat was slaughtered and welcoming parties lasted late into the
night. God is serious about hospitality. The whole city of Sodom and Gomorrah
was destroyed when the townspeople could not honor Lot’s hospitality toward two
mysterious visitors.
But hospitality did not end
in Biblical times. As Christians, we too strive to be hospitable people. Our
Welcoming and Evangelism Mission Team, for example, helps set an orientation
toward hospitality here at All Saints. And we all know those people whose homes
are always open to visitors, whose effortless ability to make us feel
comfortable seems to be a gift from God. Being a good host is important for the
health of our communities and of our own spiritual lives.
The widow in Sidon was a
host. Perhaps miraculously, she allowed a dirty man wandering in the wilderness
to share her home while she and her son faced certain death due to starvation.
Her hospitality was unparalleled. It had to be more than simply a cultural
expectation. Something else had to be going on.
When we are at our lowest
points, like that widow, we hunger and yearn for miracles. We open our whole
selves, every fiber of our beings, to God’s hand, God’s work, God’s prophets. What
it means to be a host changes. We are no longer hospitable for the sake of the
comfort and reception of the other, we are host to the other. Like a host organism, a host cell, we welcome God’s
prophet, God’s word into our very selves, to go to work within us. The
relationship is no longer one-sided, it is reciprocal, symbiotic. Our very
selves host the divine.
It is a daring leap to host
the word of God in our midst. But when we allow ourselves to go there, to truly
welcome God to work within us, there are incredible consequences. The widow in
Sidon took a chance by inviting Elijah home with her. Her whole self was ready,
primed, open, for God, and God’s prophet received her invitation and the
miraculous happened. At our low points, even at our high points, we too must
dare like the widow did—dare to be open to God.
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