Monday, May 6, 2013

A Certain Woman Named Lydia (Acts 16:9-15; Easter 6C; May 5, 2013)



A Certain Woman Named Lydia

Acts 16:9-15
Easter 6C
May 5, 2013

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

The New Testament was written from an apostolic point of view.  The events and controversies of the ministry of Jesus and the life of the communities in the New Testament are told through the eyes of the apostles.  What the apostles do and what happens to them are set in the foreground.  The apostles are the New Testament’s heroes, its major players and its main actors. 

Both before and after Jesus was murdered, the apostles were sent into mission.  The very word apostle means “those who are sent.”  They preach the good news of the new thing that God is doing through Jesus that is erupting into the life of the ordinary folk of Roman Palestine and then the ordinary folk of the Roman Empire at large.  Marvelous things happen.  The apostles perform signs and wonders that show just how powerful this new thing that God is doing really is.  The apostles are wandering preachers and wonder workers.

At first glance it looks like the apostles are doing the work of spreading the good news all by themselves, but this isn’t the whole story.  If we back light the scene as we read the accounts of the ministry of the apostles we can discover the rest of the story.  I’ll show you what I mean.  When Jesus sent out the Twelve, he gave his wandering preachers instructions:

“Take nothing for the journey—no walking stick, no bag, no bread, no money, not even an extra shirt.  Whatever house you enter, remain there until you leave that place.  Wherever they don’t welcome you, as you leave that city, shake the dust off your feet as a witness against them.” [1]

These instructions are especially important because they aren’t just a record of how the Twelve went about their mission.  They were also the rule for the wandering preachers of the early Jesus movement.

If we read these instructions carefully we notice that wherever the apostles go, they are to rely on householders who will offer them a place to stay and meals to eat.  In other words, without the hospitality of the householders, the mission of the apostles would be impossible.  The householders are indispensible partners in the spreading of the good news.

The early Jesus movements, at least the ones that are represented in the New Testament, were made up of two kinds of people.  The first kind was the wandering preachers who owned nothing and were constantly on the move.  The second were the householders and their households who supported the ministry of the wandering preachers with their hospitality.  The wandering preachers preached and demonstrated God’s new thing.  The householders hosted God’s new thing.

In the story told from the point of view of the wandering preachers, though, the wandering preachers come off as the great heroes and the householders almost disappear.  But both have to do their part or the mission just doesn’t happen.

As we back to the story in Acts, one of the householders steps out of the shadows and into the spotlight.  Her name is Lydia and there are several things that we can note about her.  She is a “God-fearer,” a gentile who was attracted to the Jewish religion.  God-fearers were often an unofficial part of the synagogue.  If they were highly placed in society, they might take on the role of patron to the synagogue, providing some protection from the general level of mistrust that gentiles sometimes felt toward Jews.

In the second place, we notice that she was a merchant.  She dealt in purple dye which came from a sea snail called the Spiny dye-murex.  Purple was expensive and no one but Roman citizens were allowed to wear purple cloth.  Roman citizens were required to wear a toga edged in purple on ceremonial occasions.  Philippi, where this story takes place, was a Roman colony, settled by retired legionnaires, so the city had a large number of Roman citizens.  Philippi was a good place to sell purple.  It is likely that Lydia was what we might call upper middle class.

Last and perhaps most important of all, Lydia was a woman, a woman who was a well-off owner of a business.  She was almost certainly a widow.  Only if she had married and then been widowed, would she have been allowed to own property.  That is also the only way a woman would be allowed to head a household.  A household was a bigger thing than ours are today.  Normally, the head would be the pater familias, the father of the family, and the family would include his wife and his children (including any children by previous marriages).  But the household also included any male and female slaves and any freedmen or freedwomen who had been their slaves and their husbands, wives and children.  Slaves, freedmen and freedwomen and their children would have been employed in her business.  Lydia was a female pater familias.  She owned a profitable business.  In her world she was a lucky and accomplished woman.

Lydia listened to Paul’s preaching, embraced it, and was baptized, together with her entire household.  Notice that the next thing that happened was that Lydia asked Paul and his fellow traveler or travelers to stay at her house.  She acted as a host and sponsor of Paul’s ministry.  Paul preaches and does wonders (and we’ll hear about one of them next week).  She provides him with a place to stay, food to eat, and an introduction into her circle of social connections.  These are valuable things to Paul.  In return she gets something that she needed: honor and prestige.  She gets Paul’s affirmation of her faith and the prestige that comes from being a patron of the newly formed Christian assembly and its members.  The church will most likely meet in her house. 

There are other householders mentioned in the New Testament.  You can find them listed at the end of letters from apostles to congregations.  Prisca and Aquila are a married couple mentioned in Romans who host a Christian congregation.  They appear again in 1 Corinthians along with a householder named Stephanas.  Another woman householder is mentioned in Colossians.  Paul honors them by including greetings for and from them for the simple reason that he needs their favor in order to do his work and he knows it and he knows they know it, too.

This is the pattern: wandering preachers supported by hosting householders.  This was a partnership, even if the wandering preachers got better press than the householders.

In the early days of the Methodist movement in this country the same pattern emerged.  Our congregation’s story is an example.  One rainy night in September, 1851, Rev. Albert Bishop knocked on the door of the home of Philip and Hannah Morse, one of only three houses in Decorah.  Rev. Bishop was a circuit rider.  When Hannah came to the door, Rev. Bishop asked, “Does Brother Morse live here? I am a missionary seeking the lost sheep of the house of Israel.”   It’s an odd way to introduce oneself.  You can read her reply in our church directory.

Circuit riders, like Rev. Bishop, were appointed to a circuit rather than a place.  Bishop’s circuit included Winneshiek and Allamakee counties.  He would ride to a settlement.  He would preach.  He would organize the converts into classes.  He would identify, recruit and train lay preachers, teachers and other leaders.  He would celebrate Communion.  He would baptize infants and unbaptized adult converts.  Then he would ride to the next settlement.  When he had finished his circuit, he would start again. 

Of course, circuit riders have gotten all the press.  We think of them as the heroes of early Methodism.  And they were heroes, but they were only in town four or five days a month.

The householders like the Morse’s don’t figure largely in our stories, but they were Rev. Bishop’s indispensible partners in ministry.  And not just because they provided the circuit rider with a place to stay and meals to eat.  Eighty percent of the time, Rev. Bishop was somewhere else, in Monona or Lansing or on some trail in between.  Lay people did the weekly preaching.  Lay people led the Sunday school classes for adults as well as children.  Lay people did the bulk of the pastoral caring.  Lay people organized relief for families who had fallen on hard times.  Lay people buried the dead.  Early Methodism could not have happened without the ministry of the baptized. 

Wandering preachers and hosting householders were the pattern in early Methodism as they were in the early days of the Jesus movement.

Both in the early Jesus movement and in early Methodism, the pattern gave way eventually to resident clergy and householders who became more the objects of ministry than partners in ministry.  The attention and focus of ministry turned from communities to congregations. 

I haven’t done a thorough study of this, but I have a theory.  The wandering preacher and hosting householder pattern seems to be the most effective way to engage the culture with the good news of the new thing that God is doing.  And so I wonder.  If we really want to be effective in our ministry, if we want to have a real impact on our community, if we want to matter, is this how we do it?  Have we been missing half of the picture?  And has the other half been in the hands of a certain woman named Lydia?

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.



[1] Luke 9:3b-5, CEB.

Monday, April 29, 2013

Making All Things New (Revelation 21:1-6; Easter 5C; April 28, 2013)



Making All Things New
Revelation 21:1-6
Easter 5C
April 28, 2013

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

There are reasons to be discouraged about the flow of history. Should I just go down the list? Should I limit myself to the last few days? We have a Congress that can move with record speed to make sure that their airline flight home won’t be delayed, but which is unconcerned in any visible way about children who do not have a secure source for food, children whose prayer, “Give us this day our daily bread,” is not a pious metaphor, but a serious and literal matter. We have people in this world who imagine that they can make the world a better place, that they can serve their God by bombing the finish line of the Boston Marathon. We have other people— who claim to be Christian— who are willing to take out their desire for revenge— which is specifically forbidden to Christians by Jesus himself— on any random Muslim. We have a President in Syria who clings so tightly to power that he is willing to kill his people in order to remain their leader. And on and on I could go.

There are reasons to be pessimistic about the flow of history. And to tell the truth I am not optimistic. I am not optimistic. But I am hopeful. I am hopeful because I know that this world ultimately belongs to God. I have heard God’s story. I have read God’s book. I have read it from Genesis clear through to the end. I know the path that God has walked through human history. I know the character of this God. This is a God who is not in it for the power trip or for the winters on the Gulf Coast. Yes, this God sometimes gets carried away, if the story is anything to go by. But God only gets carried away because God is passionately committed to justice. God takes sides. God takes the side of the widow, the orphan and the stranger. God takes the side of the hungry, the thirsty, the ill-clothed, the sick, the imprisoned, and the stranger. God takes the side of the powerless against the powerful, the poor against the rich, the weak against the strong. I know the character of this God.

I’ve been telling the kids that Easter is too important to be only a single day of the year. It’s not just a day of the year. It’s a day of the week. And it’s a season of fifty days that stretches from Easter Sunday through the day of Pentecost, that gets its name from pentekosta, the Greek work for fifty. During these fifty days of Easter, and especially on the Sundays in that season, the question that lies behind all the lessons is “So what?” What difference does Easter make? What difference does the resurrection make?

Today the answer to that question is this: To paraphrase Martin Luther King, Jr., it is God’s intention to bend the “arc of human history” toward justice.[1] That is why Jesus is alive. Jesus is alive as God’s down payment on the promise to bring justice to our world. The result of Jesus being alive is that the new life that is in him is also in us and the new life that is in him and in us is also in the whole created order.

“Then I saw and new heaven and a new earth,” writes the author of Revelation. “Then the one seated on the throne said, “Look! I’m making all things new.” I have read this book and I know how this story turns out. And now all of you know how it turns out, too.

It’s that simple. And it’s also not that simple. Or rather, it is simple, but not in the way that we think it is. Confused?

The trouble is that we have a hard time reading Revelation and the rest of the Bible for that matter. For example, we tend to have rather rigid ideas about time. We think that one thing leads to another, that history is one thing after another, and that events come in only one order. The past is behind us and we’re in now and in front of us is the future and they’re all supposed to stay put, especially the future. The future isn’t supposed to seep into the present. But the Bible doesn’t care nearly so much about that as we do. Walter Brueggemann writes somewhere that texts like this one from Revelation are “subversive memories of the future.” I have suggested that we read Revelation (and much of the rest of the Bible) as a work of poetic imagination that expresses the writer’s sense of justice.

Reading Revelation as a work of poetic imagination rules out, I think, the kind of tortured reading done by fundamentalists who pour through their newspapers, converting letters to numbers and trying to figure out whose name comes out to 666, trying to Gog and Magog refer to Russia, and trying to count the 27 members of the European Union and come up with the number 10 because that’s what they need it to be to make sense of parts of Revelation. I advise setting all that aside. With all due respect to those who spend their energy on this, this way of reading Revelation is nonsense.

Poetic imagination does not need to pay much attention to time. The future can bust out in the present, or even in the past. The present can be foreshadowed in the past. The past can erupt in the future. There’s a lot of this sort of thing in Revelation; its time direction is not straight and it doesn’t even move consistently in one direction.

This is important because too many of us read Revelation, if we read it at all, as a way to discover what is going to happen in the future. That is a serious misreading. Revelation is intended to tell its readers about the present and what the present means. The events that Revelation tells about are not future events; they are aspects of what is happening right now.

All of this means that the event described in our reading is a present event. It’s happening now.

There is a new heaven and a new earth. The former earth and the former heaven have passed away and the sea is no more. (What does the writer have against the ocean? For Semitic people the sea is a sign and symbol of chaos. The waters above the firmament of heaven and below the firmament of the earth always threaten to break in and destroy the earth. For the sea to pass away, means that God’s creative ordering of the world has triumphed in such a way that it can no longer be threatened.)

Of course, it still looks like the former heaven and the former earth are very much with us. This is why we need Revelation. It shows another aspect of the way things really are.

Yes, God intends to make all things new. If that is so, then, knowing that it’s happening even now, we ought to be able to see it if we look carefully. Well, the earth around us is going through its yearly renewal right now, but that isn’t what I mean.

Jesus carried that renewal with him wherever he went. He preached good news to the poor. He healed the blind. He cured the sick. He made lepers clean. He set tormented souls free. He announced God’s Jubilee, freedom for slaves and the return of every parcel of land to its rightful owners. The outcome of his mission would be beating swords into plows and spears into pruning hooks. It would mean that everyone would sit under their own fig tree and their own vine and no one would make them afraid. Not everyone would welcome this news. Arms manufacturers and real estate moguls in particular took offense. But God takes sides and so does Jesus.

New broke out wherever Jesus went, as he spoke, as he touched fevered bodies and calmed fevered minds. And here’s the thing— whenever and wherever we follow Jesus and do as he did— new breaks out! When we comfort those who weep— new breaks out! When we sit with those who are sick— new breaks out! When we welcome a Muslim or mentally ill or Latino neighbor, when strangers who are scorned in other places find a welcome with us— new breaks out! When we call for justice— even at our own expense— for our friends far away and for our next door neighbors— new breaks out! When we find a way to repair just a little of damage that we have done to the earth our home— new breaks out!

When we return a kind word for a hard one and we resist evildoers without resorting to violence— new breaks out! When we begin to wage peace as fiercely as we waged war in the past— new breaks out! Whenever we do any of these things, then the expression of the poetic imagination of the prophet John begins to take on solid form: “Then I saw a new heaven and a new earth… There will be no mourning, crying or pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.


[1] “I haven't lost faith, because the arc of the moral universe is long, but it bends toward justice.” Martin Luther King, Jr., “Why I Am Opposed to the War in Vietnam,” sermon delivered at the Ebenezer Baptist Church on April 30, 1967 (http://www.informationclearinghouse.info/article16183.htm, accessed April 26, 2013).

Friday, April 26, 2013

The Last Enemy (1 Corinthians 15:19-26; Easter C; March 31, 2013)



The Last Enemy

1 Corinthians 15:19-26
Easter C
March 31, 2013

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

He did what he said he was going to do.  Luke is a little vague about just where and when.  “Once when Jesus was praying along,” it says.  But it was clear back in chapter nine, some fifteen chapters ago.  Jesus had asked his disciples what the word on the street about him was.  They answered that some people thought he was John the Baptist, others Elijah, still others one of the various other prophets.  Jesus asked who they thought he was and Peter—it’s always Peter, isn’t it?—Peter answered, “God’s messiah, the Christ, the anointed one.”

Then Jesus told them what he was going to do: He was going to Jerusalem.  There he would suffer, be rejected by the leaders of their people, and be put to death.  And on the third day he would rise.  And that’s what he did.

He went to Jerusalem.  He went to confront the powers that be in Jerusalem.  The powers that be were what we would think that they were: the Romans, of course, who governed in Judea without much pretense at home rule, and their Jewish collaborators.  These came mostly from the upper classes.  They were the priestly families, the nobility, the landowning class, the one-percenters.  Rome had arranged things so that the local upper classes would keep their positions and enjoy their privileges as long as they kept the people quiet and made sure the taxes were paid in full and on time.  This was Rome’s scheme of empire that left them free to enjoy the fruits of empire while leaving most of the dirty work to the local elites.  It was a neat arrangement.

Jesus went to Jerusalem to mess up this neat arrangement.  Once there, he headed to the Temple, the center of religious and symbolic power in Roman Palestine.  The Temple wasn’t just a place of worship.  It was also a state-controlled medium.  Its symbols and rituals continually broadcast the message that the way things were was God’s will.  The emperor and his servants were to be obeyed.  Those who obeyed them would be rewarded.  Those who disobeyed them would be punished.  The rich and the poor were rich and poor by God’s will and, since God is just, the rich deserved their wealth and the poor deserved their poverty.

There had been a series of revolutionaries and would-be messiahs who had come to Jerusalem determined as Jesus was to beard the lion in its own den.  What made Jesus different is that he saw that the struggle against the Empire would not take place on a military level.  He knew that it would be a struggle in symbol and story and one that involved the spiritual and invisible powers as well as the visible and political ones.

So on the way to the Temple, he staged a bit of street drama in which he made fun of the symbols of the empire by putting on all the trappings of empire and parading into the city.  Then, when he got to the Temple, he un-tidied the arrangements by making a mess in the court of the Gentiles. He wrecked the booths and stalls of the money-changers and the vendors of sacrificial animals and drove the merchants and money-changers themselves from the Temple.  In doing that he stripped bare the false claims and pretenses of the priestly leaders.  God had in fact nothing to do with what was going on in the courts of the Temple complex.  God had not blessed the status quo.  Obedience to Judean collaborators or their Roman overlords was no virtue and disobedience was no vice.  The only allegiance that anyone owed was to that elusive, never-quite-present and never-quite-absent reality that Jesus called the reign of God.

Walter Brueggemann has written somewhere that what tyrants fear most is not armed revolutionaries—and I would add, not even if they are armed with AK-47s—but poets.  Tyrants are most afraid of poets, because poets can use language to lay bare the lies that tyrants need in order to govern.

In the streets of Jerusalem and in the Temple, Jesus, the poet, unmasked the false promises of the Empire.  The Empire had a way of dealing with annoying poets and it was simple, especially if they were not Roman citizens: they killed them.  So that’s what they did.  But of course along the way they used symbols and speech of their own to try to undo what Jesus had done.  With a thorn of crowns and with the inscription on the cross—“This is the King of the Jews”—they made a mockery of his mockery.  They crucified him in public—a dehumanizing and humiliating death penalty used to demonstrate how Rome dealt with rebels.  With characteristic efficiency and brutality they dealt with this annoying poet and master of street theater.

There were two things they had not counted on.

The first was that even a state-sponsored murder like the one that Jesus suffered can have more than one effect.  The intended effect was to subdue the people, to show what happens when subjects disobey.  But in Jesus’ case it backfired.  Roman claims to rule were based on the claim that Roman justice was just.  But here was Jesus, an innocent man, put to death for a capital crime.  This was a miscarriage of justice.  Romans claimed to be just, but they themselves had made clear that they were more interested in staying in power than in justice.  The Romans had not counted on Jesus’ ability to turn his crucifixion into an indictment. 

More than that, they had not counted on the resurrection.   Now, I’ll be the first to say that I don’t understand what happened in Jesus’ tomb.  Neither Luke nor any of the other gospels is of much help.  They tell us that Jesus died.  Then they tell us that he appeared alive to his disciples in various settings and circumstances.  They do not tell us what happened in between.  I not only say that I do not understand what happened, but also that we should be very cautious about trying to fill in a blank about which the gospels are not only silent, but not even curious.

Still, the resurrection is central to our story and we are here this morning for good reasons.  I have not labored over a sermon, the choir and the musicians have not planned and practiced for weeks, you yourselves have not made the effort to be here only for me to tell you, “Never mind.  There’s nothing to see here, folks.  Now move along!”

It’s just that we’re up against a mystery.  We don’t have much tolerance for mysteries.  But by saying that the resurrection is a mystery I’m not saying that it isn’t important.  The resurrection describes a simple reality: when the disciples gathered after Jesus’ death, they experienced him as present.  Sometimes, especially in the beginning, it was a presence you could see and touch and hear.  Later, and for us, it is a presence that is no less real, but less obvious, experienced mostly in our hearts and minds and that sense when we are together that there is more to us than the sum of our parts.

If you were here last week you remember that I talked about Monseñor Romero, the archbishop of San Salvador, who was killed thirty-three years ago last Sunday.  As an archbishop he spent his time and energy with the poor of El Salvador and was such an outspoken advocate for them that the government was frightened and enraged.  He knew that his life was in danger.  A couple of weeks before he was shot while celebrating mass, he told a newspaper report that if the government had him killed he would be resurrected in the Salvadoran people.  I know that what he promised came true, because I have felt Monseñor Romero alive in them as they processed with lit candles to commemorate his martyrdom, when they sang songs to celebrate his love of the poor and his demands for justice, when they spoke of Monseñor’s vision for a Church of the People in a country that worked for everyone, not just for the fourteen fortunate families that control most of the wealth.

As much as it is true for Monseñor Romero, how much more is it true for Jesus.  The Romans thought they had disposed of him, but he is very much alive, more alive now than he ever was when he walked the hills of Galilee and the long, stony road to Jerusalem.  I have witnessed his resurrection.  I have felt him in a hospital room while waiting with someone going to surgery.  I have felt him beside a death bed when a faithful follower has completed their life’s journey.  I have felt him in worship as his people gather to pray and sing and listen carefully to God.  I have felt him as people found the courage to stand up for love and justice and against fear and mistrust.  I have even felt him in committee meetings—yes, I know, it’s hard to believe, but it’s true—I’ve felt him in committee meetings as people wrestled with hard decisions, sought God’s wisdom and committed themselves to supporting each other.  I have witnessed the resurrection.

The Romans never counted on that. 

Their empire, of course, is long since gone.  Other empires have come and gone since.  But the Empire is still around.  Nowadays it’s harder to see.  It doesn’t fly a flag or have a single seat of power.  But its scope now is global and it has no boundaries. 

Its centers of power are in places like Bonn, Tokyo, London, Wall Street and K Street.  It operates differently now.  It no longer crucifies its enemies, at least not literally. 

But for all the differences, there are some things about the Empire that haven’t changed.  It still makes promises it can’t keep.  And in the end the only thing it has to offer is death.  It has turned everyone and everything into a commodity, something to be bought and sold.  It knows, to borrow a phrase from Oscar Wilde, the price of everything and the value of nothing.  It counts everything, but there is something that it has not counted on.

There is a power at loose in the universe.  There is a justice that oppression cannot overcome.  There is a compassion that fear cannot defeat.  There is a love that hatred cannot bring down.  There is a life that death cannot hold back.  There is a power at loose in the universe that stands with us when everything stands against us.  There is a power at loose in the universe that has drawn us together this morning. 

So we have come to hear the same story that we’ve heard over and over, to take up the task of being God’s people in the world once again, to be sent as Jesus was sent.

We are here because hope has been set free from despair.  We are here because love has outlasted hatred.  We are here because peace has proven stronger than violence.  We are here because life itself is risen from the dead. 

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License. To view a copy of this license, visit http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-nc-nd/3.0/ or send a letter to Creative Commons, 444 Castro Street, Suite 900, Mountain View, California, 94041, USA.