Holy Chutzpah (5th Sunday of Easter; Acts 17:16-31; April 29, 2018)

Holy Chutzpah

5th Sunday of Easter
Acts 17:16-31
April 29, 2018

Rev. John M. Caldwell, PhD
First United Methodist Church
Decorah, Iowa

In the summer of 1744 John Wesley preached his last sermon at Oxford University. The story says something about John and, by extension, something about the movement that he helped to found and even something about us who are his heirs. It happened in this way.

John had attended Christ Church College, Oxford, and studied the classics and logic. When he graduated he "took holy orders"--as they put it then--in the Church of England. After a year or so a "fellowship" became available at Lincoln College—also at Oxford—which provided a small stipend and allowed him to continue his studies and to supplement his stipend by tutoring students in Greek.

It was during his time at Lincoln College that John was part of the "Holy Club" which was eventually nick-named the "Methodists" because of the methodical way that its members went about their daily lives. While at Lincoln, John and his brother Charles became involved in caring for those who were in debtors prison. Their father had himself spent time in debtors prison. They knew the shame and helplessness that this involved.

This ministry led them to meet James Oglethorpe, a retired British general and philanthropist, who was hoping to reform Britain's prison system. He hoped to resettle debt prisoners in Georgia, a colony in the New World, for which he had obtained a royal charter. Oglethorpe took on John as his chaplain and secretary and that's how John got to Georgia. His time there is another story--ask me to tell you the story about Sophie Hopkie. It's enough to say that he was unhappy when he was there and even unhappier when he returned. Spiritual soul-searching ensued. This led, eventually, to a remarkable religious conversion and to John's engagement in a widespread preaching ministry.

Now, all this went on while he was still a fellow at Lincoln College. One of the obligations of all the fellows was to preach once in a while to the Oxford community. In August of 1744 he was scheduled to take his next turn. This was only five years after his Aldersgate experiences. He was convinced that he had found the secret to real Christian life, a secret that no one at Lincoln College seemed to share. He determined to preach on the subject, "Scriptural Christianity." And one of his chosen texts was Ezekiel 33:4:

"If anyone hears the trumpet but does not heed the warning and the sword comes and takes their life, their blood will be on their own head."

John appointed himself the lead trumpeter. You can imagine how this sermon went over.

If John had intended to persuade his fellows and the Oxford community at large that his understanding a practice of Christianity was a good thing, I would have to count his sermon as a failure. Lincoln College's Board of Trustees met shortly after his sermon and, after a short conversation, decided to tell John that it wouldn't be necessary for him to return to preach when his turn came up next. They would pay for a preacher in his place. They were sure he was very busy, probably best for all, good luck in all future endeavors, etc.

John had the zeal of the convert, one for whom life had a been an unsolvable puzzle, who then had an experience that ordered and fitted enough pieces together that he could see that his life now made sense. He not only knew that his new understanding of what it meant to be a Jesus-follower worked for him. As he read his Bible again he saw his experiences affirmed and supported on every page. His message, his version of the Gospel, was--he was certain of it--Scriptural Christianity. Therefore, his Gospel was good news for everyone. Whether they knew it or not.

From my lofty perch near the end of my career and two and three-quarters centuries later, I can see him and his Oxford sermon from more than one point of view.

John was not new to Oxford. He knew the concerns of the community. He could speak their language. His own thinking had been formed there. Surely he could have found common ground. Perhaps if he had not gone into the pulpit with a chip on his shoulder, the outcome might have been different.

On the other hand, if he had not already had his fill of the condescending smiles, the ironic arched eyebrows, and the bemused tolerance of the Oxford community, maybe he would have wanted to find common ground.

On the other other hand, many people in England, Wales, and Cornwall, resonated with John's preaching. They had no high opinion of themselves and the free grace that Methodism offered them came to them as water to those dying of desert thirst. Why shouldn't he offer the same thing to the well-heeled and highly educated elite of Oxford?

On the other, other, other hand (Why do assume that there are only two sides to a question? Just because we have two eyes doesn't mean there are only two ways of looking at things). It isn't always about the effect that speaking will have on an audience. Sometimes it's about saying what needs to be said.

Maybe this was true for Saul of Tarsus, former rabbinical student under Gamaliel the Great, now become an apostle of a new understanding of what it means to be, not only a faithful Jew, but also a human being fully realizing God's dream.

In the course of his missionary wanderings, conducted not by any carefully formulated plan approved by the General Board of Global Ministries, but by a moment-to-moment spontaneity in response to the Spirit, Saul went from place to place. He went first to various cities in Asia Minor (modern-day Turkey) and then into Europe. He spent time in Thessalonika, part of Macedonia that considered itself Greek, and then into Greece itself. Not just Greece, but Athens.

Athens was more than the Oxford of its day. If you could roll today's Oxford and Cambridge, today's New York and Paris, and today's Naples and Tokyo into one place, a place of rich and vibrant culture, a place of intellectual ferment, you would have a place half as exciting and sophisticated as ancient Athens. Athens was the beating heart and the thinking brain of the ancient world. At its heart was its marketplace, its agora. The agora was a feature of every ancient city, an open-air marketplace where everything from fresh bread to exquisite jewelry to young children were bought and sold.

In Athens so-called philosophers, the lovers of wisdom as they called themselves, went to the Agora to sell their services as tutors. They gave demonstrations of their knowledge and wit by engaging each other in debates, the better to show-case their value. The most popular schools of thought--Stoics and Epicureans--were there, but I'm sure that there were smaller groups there as well. Pythagoreans and Platonists of the paleo- and neo- variety were certainly present. And, since religion and philosophy were not so neatly divided, numerologists, astrologers, and various mystical traditions were added to the mix. It was a savory stew of thought and devotion.

But for Paul, little of this mattered. It's not that rabbinical circles were not places for debate. The Talmud, that great collection of Jewish debate, bears witness that rabbis loved arguing with each other. But for Saul in Athens there was only one issue that mattered and it was not up for debate: the matter of the representation of God in an object, the matter of idols. The city was filled with them. That was scandal enough for Paul, but doubtless he knew at least some of the stories: these were gods who behaved more grossly than the most unethical mortals, gods who cared nothing for how humans behaved as long as they made the right sacrifices, knew their place, and stayed in it. No moral code could be grounded in reverence for the Greek gods. And yet Greeks, like everyone else, were seemingly searching for the key to a good, beautiful, and moral life.

Saul, of course, knew exactly what that key was. And he had the--the Yiddish word for it is chutzpah which can be translated as audacity, sass, or even daring. It has both a negative and a positive aspect. Chutzpah challenges authority. It is rebellious. But it is also courageous or, at very least, foolhardy. To have chutzpah is to risk direct and honest speech or action. Saul, who never studied in Athens or even in Alexandria or Rome, dared to stand up in the midst of the intellectual elite of Athens and speak his mind. Imagine someone with a GED holding forth in the center of campus at Harvard University and you have something of the picture.

And what did Saul have to say? He began well. He began with a clever turn on an observation. Idols meant reverence of a kind. Idols everywhere meant a high level of reverence. And then there was the little shrine that he found--quite likely on a road leading into the city where such shrines were often built--a shrine to "an unknown god." Of course, Saul and everyone else knew how this shrine had come to be. Someone had found themselves in a very tight spot, physical danger on a ship caught in a storm, an attack of bandits on a lonely road, or a pinch that threatened financial ruin. In their fear and panic they cried out to the supernatural world in general, too frightened to limit their prayer to one particular god. And they had been spared.

The rules of piety called for a public gesture of gratitude. Building a road-side shrine would do nicely. But to whom? They had no idea. So they did the best they could: they built the shrine and dedicated it to what was really "an unidentified god." They trusted the gods to make sure the gratitude was properly routed.

But Saul turned an inscription to an unidentified god into an inscription to "an unknown God." Saul had a toehold from which to launch his argument. He went from there to cite a couple of Greek poets whose words seemed to support him. Finally, he turned his speech to God's dream made known in Jesus, though he never got to him by name.

Our text ends before end of the episode, which is disappointing, but then episode itself is a little disappointing. As soon as Saul mentioned Jesus being raised from the dead, he lost his audience. They went from being intrigued to scoffing in an instant. Like John Wesley at Oxford, Saul seems to have made no converts, nor does he seem to have ever returned.

Sometimes what we say isn't about the effect that we have on an audience. Sometimes it's about saying what needs to be said. In fact, I find that this theme runs through the Scriptures, especially when it comes to the prophets. Sometimes a prophet is called and speaks on God's behalf to people and they actually listen. At least once, in Jonah's case, that was an embarrassment to the prophet. When it happens, it's always a surprise. Prophets don't expect to change people's minds and hearts. That isn't usually why they speak.

They speak because they have to. They speak because they cannot remain silent. They speak because God has boxed them in and left them with no way out but to speak. They speak because someone must tell the truth of God's dream in that time and place and no one else seems to want to do it.

But often it comes out crosswise. I suspect that this is often because the inner suffering and turmoil that come with being a prophet get mixed up in the message itself. Natural charisma is not a characteristic of prophets or apostles in our tradition. We can hope that Saul came to a more winsome way of preaching his gospel. We know for certain that Wesley did. In his seventies and eighties he was one of the most beloved figures in England. People crowded the streets to see him go by in his buggy. But in Oxford in 1744 all of that was far in his future.

In 1744 in Oxford he had to speak God's truth as he knew and lived it. It came out pretty rough. It was hard to listen to. He didn't make any new friends and maybe lost some that he had. But he couldn't not do it.

Sometimes it comes to us, too, to speak hard realities, harsh truths. Try as we may they come out of us with sharp edges and covered with prickles. We speak in love as best we can, but our best is never quite good enough and there are those who are offended, or even worse, hurt. There are times when it is all that we can do to be kind and, sad to say, being nice is a lost cause. But we have to speak anyway.

And it has nothing to do with whether our speaking will persuade anyone or nudge the course of history toward a more just or peaceful path. It has to do with telling the truth. That is true when it comes to writing letters to an elected representative or to the editor. It's true when it comes to marching in the streets. It's true when speaking to a coffee group or a church committee. It's even true when it comes to a Thanksgiving dinner with our extended family gathered around when someone says something outrageous and hateful. Sometimes we have to tell the truth. And when we have to tell the truth at least we can do it in the knowledge that we are following our ancestors and trying the best we can to pass on what we have received. Sometimes it's about saying what needs to be said. Sometimes it’s about holy chutzpah.

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