The Mayberry Preacher

ALL THE DOORS, SWINGING LOOSE ON THEIR HINGES

Acts 16: 16-34
Steve Lindsley
May 5, 2013

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Today’s scripture is one of those wonderful instances in the Bible where multiple lives and their multiple stories collide.  Like winding roads meeting fast and furious at an already overcrowded intersection.  A slave girl.  Her owners.  A jailer.  Paul and Silas.  The day before, their lives separate and distinct.  But on this day, in this moment, they would become intertwined; and like dominos falling and setting in motion a chain reaction, there’d be no way to go back.

Today’s scripture is about imprisonment – being held captive against your will.  The question, though, for us this morning, is not who is in prison, but who is imprisoned.  Who of these four is bound and shackled in the worst kind of chains.  Who is not at all free.

Today’s scripture has already been read, but let us now hear it again with fresh, new ears.  Once again, listen to the word of the Lord:

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One day, on our way to the place of prayer, a slave girl ran into us. She was a psychic and, with her fortunetelling, made a lot of money for the people who owned her. She started following Paul around, calling everyone’s attention to us by yelling out, “These men are working for the Most High God. They’re laying out the road of salvation for you!” She did this for a number of days until Paul, finally fed up with her, turned and commanded the spirit that possessed her, “Out! In the name of Jesus Christ, get out of her!” And it was gone, just like that.


Gone, it says.  Gone was her “spirit of diviniation,” as the New Revised Standard Version calls it, or her “demon possession,” per the New Living Translation, or the “Spirit of Python,” if you want to get literal Greek with it.  Whatever it was, somehow “it” enabled this young woman to see the future – or, at the very least, to see beyond the face of the person in front of her and see deep into their souls, like spiritual x-ray glasses.  Sometimes she liked what she saw.  Most of the time, she didn’t.  Imagine the raw, unfiltered secrets of a person, opening up right before your eyes.  More often than not, this gift was a burden.

And so when she saw Paul and Silas, met them for the very first time, she saw that they were slaves like her but not at all like her – slaves to “the Most High God.” And she delighted in telling everyone what she saw in them – day after day after day.  So much, in fact, that it grew tiresome for the two travelers.  So much that, with mere words spoken out of frustration and fatigue, Paul drove that spirit, that possession, that burden away.  And it was gone.  Just like that.  And for the first time in a very, very long time, the young woman was free.

Free not just from the burden of seeing the messiness of people’s secrets.  Free from those who had exploited that gift, exploited her, all for their own profit.  The same way that women and men in our day exploit children in sweat shops, or down dark alleys, or on drug trails with automatic weapons in hand.  This slave girl had been enslaved by the power structure of the day that said a child had no rights of their own; enslaved by twisting and perverting the gift implanted in her by the living God, all so they could make a quick buck. 

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When her owners saw that their lucrative little business was suddenly bankrupt, they went after Paul and Silas, roughed them up and dragged them into the market square. Then the police arrested them and pulled them into a court with the accusation, “These men are disturbing the peace—dangerous Jewish agitators subverting our Roman law and order.” By this time the crowd had turned into a restless mob out for blood.

The judges went along with the mob, had Paul and Silas’s clothes ripped off and ordered a public beating. After beating them black-and-blue, they threw them into jail, telling the jailkeeper to put them under heavy guard so there would be no chance of escape. He did just that—threw them into the maximum security cell in the jail and clamped leg irons on them.


Someone would have to pay for this.  Nothing personal, of course.  Just business.  Someone would have to suffer for their losses.  Because when the bottom line is the onlly thing that matters, when human lives lose their God-given value, someone has to pay when things don’t go according to plan.  Their little charade was over and done; the gig was up.  So they took out their anger on the two strangers; those who had disrupted the balance of things with nothing more than spoken words. And now the young girl didn’t have to bear her burden for their gain anymore.  She was free.

But they – they were more imprisoned than ever before.  Imprisoned by the rabid greed that had festered deep inside them like an unchecked cancer, driving them to do to the many what they had done to her for so long.  They could barely remember the last time that they looked at someone not as a commodity to be exploited, but a human being to be cherished.

So they were red-hot with anger – because unlike the young lady who was free, they were still very much enslaved.  Enslaved to the seduction and irresistible intoxication of not money, but Power.  Domination.  Control.  And since they had lost all of that over the one, they would now lord it over another.  So they roughed up Paul and Silas.  Beat them up good, and made sure there was a crowd to see it.  Made up lies about them, and enticed the crowd to join them in their anger.  Because anger can never stand to be by itself.  Anger, like misery, loves company.  And with that company, they threw Paul and Silas into prison.

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Along about midnight, Paul and Silas were at prayer and singing a robust hymn to God. The other prisoners couldn’t believe their ears. Then, without warning, a huge earthquake! The jailhouse tottered, every door flew open, all the prisoners were loose.

Startled from sleep, the jailer saw all the doors swinging loose on their hinges. Assuming that all the prisoners had escaped, he pulled out his sword and was about to do himself in, figuring he was as good as dead anyway, when Paul stopped him: “Don’t do that! We’re all still here! Nobody’s run away!”


His job was fairly simple: keep the prisoners in prison. Don’t ask questions, don’t think too much, do not pass GO and collect $200.  Keep them in their cells.  Feed them only enough to keep them alive, because a dead prisoner is not imprisoned anymore.  Let the metal bars and rock and stone do their job, as you do yours.

Unless, of course, the unthinkable happens; and with no warning whatsoever those rock and stone walls suddenly crumble to the ground, and the metal bars fall like toothpicks standing on end.  When there is nothing to keep the prisoners in; nothing standing in between these unnamed souls and their freedom, which they rush into joyfully.

Because if that happens, then your job becomes crystal clear: kill yourself.  Take your own life.  For if there are no prisoners for the jailer to keep imprisoned, what is his life worth?  It doesn’t matter that it’s not your fault.  It doesn’t matter that you have no control over the earth shaking at its foundations.  Someone must pay.  And why give the Romans the pleasure of doing it for you – the Romans you fear deeply, the Romans everyone fears.  So beat them to your own death.  In a weird sort of way, victory in defeat. 

This is the way an imprisoned man thinks, even if that imprisoned man happens to be the jailer.

Until those thoughts are interrupted by voices, screaming at you as you prepare to fall on your sword.  Voices of almost urgent joy: “We’re here!  We’re still here!”  In other words, “Don’t do it!  Your ‘prisoners’ haven’t left.  Although we were never really prisoners, were we?  We have and always will be free men, free with a freedom the likes of which the Romans could never provide for you.  But we can help you be free.  You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

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The jailer got a torch and ran inside. Badly shaken, he collapsed in front of Paul and Silas. He led them out of the jail and asked, “Sirs, what do I have to do to be saved, to really live?” They said, “Put your entire trust in the Master Jesus. Then you’ll live as you were meant to live—and everyone in your house included!”

They went on to spell out in detail the story of the Master—the entire family got in on this part. They never did get to bed that night. The jailer made them feel at home, dressed their wounds, and then—he couldn’t wait till morning!—was baptized, he and everyone in his family. There in his home, he had food set out for a festive meal. It was a night to remember: He and his entire family had put their trust in God; everyone in the house was in on the celebration.


All of this, from Paul and Silas.  In prison.  This, from two men who had simply spoken the truth and freed a young woman from her burden.  This, after being falsely accused, beaten and dragged through the streets with the crowd hurling insults and hurling stones.  This, from Paul and Silas, who witnessed the stones of their prison walls crumbling around them, so that they were staring at an open night sky and breathing the fresh clean air.  This, from two men who chose to stay put.

The question begs to be answered: Why?  Why did they not do what you and I would’ve surely done – get up and leave?  Why did they not think to themselves: “It’s a miracle!  A sign that we are not meant to be here one moment longer.  The prison walls have fallen down! It’s time to go!”

Could it be that Paul and Silas understood the great paradoxical truth of the gospel: that they had been and always would be free!  For freedom in Christ is not about the absence of pain or suffering, or even prison walls or metal bars.  Freedom in Christ is about going deeper into one’s self, so that one can then go deeper into the world.  Let me say that again: freedom in Christ is about going deeper into one’s self, so that one can then go deeper into the world!  An inner and outer joy that can never be contained – not by hate and lies, not by anger and fear, and certainly not by stone and metal.  All the doors, swinging loose on their hinges.

And therein lies perhaps the greatest of ironies in this scriptural collision, and in the gospel we give our lives to: that the ones outside that prison were in fact the most imprisoned, and the ones inside were the freest of them all.  Think about that.  Think about that and ask yourself:  what things am I enslaved to, right now – greed?  Power and control over another?  Anger and fear?  A vengeful heart?  Perpetual shame?  What keeps us “locked up” and unable to experience the fulness of the joy of God’s freedom? 

You and I, we are called – we are created – to be free in Christ.  But we don’t stop there, because we are created for something else, too.  Like Paul and Silas, we are called to then go out into the world and help swing loose the doors for others!  Just like Jesus did.  When a hated tax collector waited for Jesus in the trees because nobody else wanted him near, Jesus took him out to dinner.  When the woman was in the process of being executed, Jesus implored those without sin to cast the first stone.  When his closest friend denied three times that he even knew him in his hour of greatest need, he ate lunch with him on the beach and told him how much he loved him.  We set people free by being agents of God’s grace and love. 

And so along with Paul and Silas, you and I are engaged in a new kind of “prison break.”  Let’s be freed from those things that seek to enslave us.  And let’s work to free others from the same, revealing to them the blinding light of God’s image within.  All the doors, swinging loose on their hinges.  All the doors!  In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN.

 

(Many thanks to Sara Bailey and Jack McCluskey for reading scripture during the sermon.  The scripture was from The Message translation.)

WHEN PAUL RESPONDS

(Note: this sermon is the second in a two-part sermon series looking at Acts 9 and the conversion of Saul to Paul.  The sermons are in the first-person.  This sermon is written from the perspective of Paul; the previous sermon was from Ananias' point of view).

Acts 9: 10-19a
Steve Lindsley
July 15, 2012

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So I understand that you heard from an old friend of mine last week.  Amazing guy, isn’t that Ananias?  I mean, I did a whole lot in my life. I traveled all over the ancient world, getting around by foot, boat, camel back.  I was thrown into prison – twice.  I was shipwrecked.  I was once mistaken for a Greek God. I was even nearly stoned to death.  But in none of those things meant as much to me as what happened in the city of Damascus, in a house on Straight Street, in the presence of a young Jesus-follower named Ananias.  That experience, and that man, made me who you know me to be today. 

But it’s hard to see that, I know. Christianity does a marvelous job of telling just half of my story.  When people think of me, they think of “Paul,” an apostle of Jesus Christ.  They think about the three missionary journeys and all the letters I wrote.  They see a fervent believer in Jesus who would do just about anything to share the gospel.

And that’s true, of course – that’s who I had become. But it wasn’t who I had been.  The truth of the matter is this: to appreciate Paul, you have to get to know Saul first. And that’s why I’m here today. 

I was born in the port city of Tarsus, north of what they call today Syria.  I couldn’t have asked for a better upbringing, really.  My father was a Hellenistic Jew, which meant that he was Jewish to the core, but he was also part of the Greek aristocracy. And not only that, but my father was a Roman citizen – a commanding status symbol of our time.  Translation: I had it made!

Early on I recognized my love for God’s Law.  It’s kind of hard to explain my obsession with it.  I guess it just helped everything around me make sense, you know?  It gave it some context and some meaning.  It gave my life meaning.  And believe me, in the craziness that was the ancient world, I needed all the meaning I could get!  Our Torah is so much more than just a simple list of guidelines and rules.  I was brought up to believe that following God’s Law was not only being faithful to God but brought me into fellowship with God. 

As with most young Jewish boys, my father taught me the Torah early on.  Later I went to Jerusalem and synagogue school.  I just couldn’t get enough of the Torah; I had this insatiable appetite.  I was obsessed with trying to follow and live it.  I was a model student; and before I even finished school, folks started putting me up on the pedestal, telling me I’d be one of the greatest Pharisees.  They meant that as a compliment, you understand!

There was only one other thing that surpassed my zeal for the Law – and that was my disgust for those who disregarded it.  Especially those Jesus-followers.  I mean, I just could not understand why other people – good, reasonable Jews like me – would ever want to follow Jesus, be his disciples, and – worse yet – proclaim him as the Messiah, God’s anointed one. 

Now, I know it may be hard for you to hear this – after all, your very presence here is due to those folks I was working so hard to persecute.  But please try to understand where I was coming from.  For me, the Torah was the embodiment of the Almighty God in our midst.  It had to be followed to the letter, literally.  And Jesus totally changed all that.  Of course, now I understand that he came, as the apostle Matthew said, to fulfill the law.  But all I could see at the time was a man who had no regard for the law.  None!  He healed people on the Sabbath.  He fellowshipped with those our faith told us not have any contact with.  And to top it all off, he proclaimed himself as God’s only son.  As far as I was concerned, Jesus was a fraud – that’s why the world wound up putting him to death.  And I was determined to make sure that anyone who followed him met the same fate.

So you can see how I quickly gained a reputation as a persecutor of these “followers” – revered by my peers and feared by my targets.  And I gotta say – I was pretty good at it!  I had a plan and it worked like a charm.  Here’s what I’d do: I’d pick out a city and write all the synagogue leaders there.  I’d ask them for the names and addresses of those in their flock who’d been swayed by the teachings of Jesus and embraced this radical and perverted faith.  Then I’d travel to that city, list in hand, and seek those individuals out one by one.  Believe me, I was quite good at my work.

All of that changed, of course, the day that I made my way to Damascus.  You know the story, I’m sure – Jesus coming to me on the road, blinding me with his presence, and asking the question that even now reverberates in my head, “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” 

Let me tell you something: meeting Jesus on the road like I did tends to leave a bit of a mark!  But you know what experience had an even greater impact on me?  It wasn’t the bright light or the voice of Jesus.  No, what really worked on my heart in a way my legal-minded self could never explain was the blindness – three whole days that I couldn’t see a thing.

I wonder – have you ever lost your sight for some period of time?  Maybe you were blindfolded for a game, or maybe you were trying to walk around your house in the dark of night.  Do you know how disorienting that can be, when that blindness goes on and on and on; and you truly have no idea if you’ll ever get your sight back?  Do you know how that makes a man like me feel?  Because see, that blindness was about more than just not having sight.  It was about being vulnerable – for the first time in my life, really.  That was the most unsettling part of the whole thing.  There I was, the great Saul, reduced to a stumbling fool down the streets of Damascus.  Taken to a home of someone I’d never met; having no idea what they’d do with me.  This was not my style!  This was not the way I rolled!  And so there I sat – in the home of a Jesus-follower, nonetheless! – waiting for some man named Ananias to come and give me back my sight.  If he ever came at all.

Three days, without sight.  You know what that’ll do to you?  Among other things, it forces you to put your mind to work.  And that’s what I did – I did a lot of thinking those three days.  A whole lot of it.  I thought about this Jesus, who obviously had demonstrated to me quite dramatically that he was not the fraud I thought he was.  I thought about those people I was with, people I only knew from the sounds I heard.  Amazing people they must be, to have their hated enemy in their midst and take care of me like that.

But you know what I thought about the most about during those three sightless days?  I thought about my life and what would become of it.  It was obvious to me that things would never be the same; that I couldn’t keep doing what I always had.  This Jesus, who I had always despised, he was real!  So what would that mean for me?  What would that mean for the rest of my life?

I remember thinking that when I heard the door open and immediately knew in my mind that it was this Ananias Jesus had spoken of in my vision.  I couldn’t see him, of course, but I could hear him walking over to me, the steps getting closer and closer. I was halfway expecting a slap in the face or kick in the gut, but what I got instead were his hands placed softly on my shoulder.  And these were hands of love, mind you – a love which far surpassed any loyalty to the Law I’d ever encountered.  It was a love that could only come from Jesus.  And it was a love that made this blind man see again.

I know you all today talk about my conversion “on the road to Damascus.”  But if you want to know the truth of it, the real moment of turning for me was in that room three days later, when Ananias came to me and laid hands on me and baptized me into the fellowship of believers.  And you know, even to this day I am still utterly amazed by the contrast of it all.  Think about it – I had used my hands over the years to persecute these people, and now they were using theirs to, quite literally, instill the spirit of Jesus in me.  And with that spirit, I would be changed forever.  Once a thorn in their side, I would now become their brother and ally.  Once a man who scoffed at Jesus, I would now willingly lay down my life for him.  Once a man who tried to do everything in his power to snuff out the Good News, I would now become its greatest champion.  And I’d do it all just as passionately as I did everything in my life before – three long missionary journeys, numerous letters to churches, a zeal for the Lord that would never die. 

It wasn’t easy at first, of course.  It never is.  I knew there were many in my new community of faith who would doubt my sudden “conversion” and be suspicious of my motives. On the other side, there were former Pharisee colleagues of mine who assumed I had suffered some mental breakdown from which I would never recover.  Perhaps over time the doubts on both sides would diminished and everyone would accept me for the new man I had become.  Perhaps.   

And I guess that’s part of the reason why I don’t really think about what happened as a “conversion,” you know?  For me, it felt more like a “call.”  There’s a difference.  Conversion suggests a turning from one direction to another – and that’s great and all.  But the thing is, conversions don’t always wind up sticking.  Because in the end, there’s not always something to keep you from turning back to where you were before.

But a call – now that’s different.  A call is not as much about an outward turning as an inward transformation.  And when change happens on the inside – well, that just seems to be a bit more permanent, you know?  More importantly, though, a call isn’t as much about what you do as what God does.  When God calls you, there’s a sense that you are a changed person – that you can’t keep living your life and doing the things you did before.  You just can’t.  Because you don’t want to.  There’s something new at work inside you, and it’s leading you in a different direction than before.  And you’re not really having to fight it, because you actually enjoy where it’s taking you and who you’re becoming along the way.  It’s not any easier – it’s not like your life is suddenly free of burdens or temptations.  It just feels right - like it’s the person you were meant to be all along.

And see, I think ultimately that’s the call that God places on each of us – to follow Jesus wherever he takes us.  And the great thing is, you don’t have to be blinded for three days or made vulnerable and exposed to realize this.  I’m here today to tell you that my entire life is a testimony to the fact that God has a purpose for each one of us, if only we listen to his voice and act upon it.  And as long as we remember that God’s vision may be vastly different from ours, we’ll be okay.  As long as we follow the call, we’ll forever be in God’s hands.

So listen – if you ever feel like you can’t quite live up to the calling, if you ever wonder whether God’s plans are too much to handle, just remember a religious fanatic who met Jesus on the road one day and, after three days of blindness, came to see the truth of it all.  That truth, my friends, is a calling to serve Jesus with your whole life.  The question for you this morning is this: how will you respond to your call?  In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN.

WHEN ANANIAS SPEAKS

(Note: this sermon is the first in a two-part sermon series looking at Acts 9 and the conversion of Saul to Paul.  The sermons are in the first-person.  This sermon is written from the perspective of Ananias; the next sermon will be from Paul's point of view).

Acts 9: 10-19a
Steve Lindsley
July 8, 2012

 

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Straight Street, is what they called it.  For you today, it’d be along the lines of Regent Street in London or New York’s Fifth Avenue.  It’s where everything – and I mean everything – happened in the ancient town of Damascus.  It’d been that way forever – scholars believe Damascus is the oldest continually inhabited city in the world.  And Straight Street has always run right through the center of it.

 

Usually I find myself walking down this street a couple of times a day, making my way around town or purchasing goods.  But what found me strolling down Straight Street that afternoon was anything but routine; nothing I could have imagined in my wildest dreams.  Visions will make you do some pretty crazy things, people. 

See, I had heard he might be in town.  And when he’s around, let me tell you, you watch your step carefully.  Everyone knew who Saul was – born and raised a Jew, inheriting Roman citizenship from his father.  An outstanding rabbinical student, the cream of the crop; but Saul was no bookworm.  He was a man of great passion – whatever he believed in, he believed in completely.  And the thing is, he expected you to feel the exact same way he did.  But then he started hanging out with the rough crowd and became more of a fanatic than a true student of the law. 

That’s why he hated people like me – this Nazarene sect which embraced Jesus as the messiah.  For Saul, there was no greater offense to the Jewish faith.  It drove him nuts!  In fact, that’s why he came to Damascus in the first place.  He’d go from synagogue to synagogue, asking for the names of people like me so he could use his “persuasive tactics” to bring them back to the fold.  It wasn’t pretty.

Needless to say, we got ourselves ready.  We weren’t going to deny our faith, of course, but we sure were going to make it difficult for him.  We made preparations and expected the worst; because that’s what you did when Saul came to town.  You hunkered down and kind of waited it out, like a bad storm.   

So imagine my surprise, when God came to me in a vision one night.  Came to me in my sleep and said:  Get up!  Get up, Ananias, and go to the street called Straight; and at the house of Judas look for a man of Tarsus named Saul.  Say what… ?!   I love the way God put it: “A man of Tarsus named Saul,” like I wouldn’t know who he was without his address.  He could’ve said “Look for your worst nightmare” and I would’ve known exactly who he was talking about.

The bigger question, though: why in the world would God want me looking for Saul??  I didn’t have to wait too long for my answer: At this moment, God said, Saul is praying, and he has seen in a vision a man named Ananias come in and lay his hands on him so that he might regain his sight.  Seen it.  In a vision.  Nice, God, nice!  It’s not just that you’re asking me to go see this man that I and everyone else are trying to avoid like the plague.  But now you’re telling me that Saul’s already seen me come to him in a vision you gave him.  Like it’s set in stone; like I don’t have a choice.  Thanks, God; thanks a lot.

I resisted the urge to press this issue and instead tried a more diplomatic approach.  So in my most humble and unassuming demeanor I said: Lord, I don’t know about you, but I’ve heard a thing or two about this man.  And just in case you haven’t, just in case it’s slipped off your holy radar, Saul has done some pretty rotten things to your servants in Jerusalem.  And word on the street is that he’s come here to do the same to us. That’s why we’ve battened down the hatches and gone underground.  Are you sure you want me to go looking for him?

I was really hoping God would do a double-take and change course.  I should’ve known better!  In fact, it got worse: Go, God insisted, for Saul is an instrument whom I have chosen to bring my name before Gentiles and the people of Israel.

Okay, now I was furious!  Why would God do such a thing – make Saul an “instrument” of his??   That’s the craziest thing I’ve ever heard!  In what world is someone like Saul an instrument of anything for God?  The only thing Saul had done for years was make life miserable for everyone who claimed Jesus as Lord and Savior.  And now, Saul was going to suddenly start speaking on God’s behalf???

I hope you can sympathize with me here.  I mean, things were hard enough for us already, without Saul breathing down our necks.  We were nothing more than a fledging, loosely connected group of waywards just trying to share our love for Jesus in an increasingly hostile environment.  We needed every break we could get!  And now this Saul was going to be one of us?  Surely you understand how this made absolutely no sense.

And that’s not the half of it.  Deep down inside, I was terrified that God would ask anything of me.  Because honestly, I’m no one special.  I’m like most of you, just trying to make it in life and do the right thing.  I don’t have any delusions of grandeur or expect more than my fair share.  I’ve got my family, my friends, my job and my church.  I’m just an ordinary guy who wants to do my thing and chalk it up at the end of the day, you know?  So, if it’s indeed God’s will that Saul come and be with us, as ludicrous as that sounds, surely there are others out there more equipped to go see him.  Surely there is someone else who’d do a better job than me.

I was hoping that God would un-call me for this responsibility.  But the more I pleaded, the more God insisted.  And so there I was the next day – walking down Straight Street like I always did.  Except this time I wasn’t going to the marketplace or meeting friends.  I came to the house where God had told me to go; I knocked on the door and they let me in. 

It was kind of dark in there, but I still could make out faces – brothers and sisters in Christ who were part of this band of followers in Damascus with me.  How incredibly surreal that we would find ourselves here now under these circumstances!  I continued into the room and then came upon him, the great Saul – cowering in a corner with his arms around his knees.  I noticed something was wrong with his eyes – he heard my footsteps and looked wildly around the room, never actually looking at me.  Like the blind man he had so recently become.

And it was at that moment that I experienced a transformation of sorts – nothing all that dramatic, mind you, just a different way of looking at all of this.  I mean, here was Saul, our most revered enemy, perhaps the one thing that was keeping the gospel from taking hold and spreading far.  Here he was – blinded, shaking like a child, a pitiful, pitiful sight.  And it would’ve been so easy to put him out of his misery and, in doing so, put us out of ours, you know?  And don’t think for a second that I wasn’t tempted to do that.

But that’s when it dawned on me – slow, like a warm blanket – that God’s hand must have been in this; in what I was doing, in what Saul was doing.  That God really did have something special in store for this man.  Why else would God appear to both of us in a vision and then bring him here to a roomful of Jesus-followers?  I mean, can you imagine what this must have been like for Saul – blinded, vulnerable, totally incapacitated, in the presence of “the enemy” and having no way of knowing what we would do with him?  I’m telling you – it’s the coolest and most unsettling thing, when you realize that God is up to something!  

And so I went to Saul, I laid my hands on him, and said, Saul, I know who you are.  I know who you are.  But I also know who our God is, and the amazing things God can do.  The Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on your way here, appeared to me as well; and he has sent me so you may regain your sight and be filled with God’s spirit.  It’s not me who will do this; it is Jesus.  I have no idea where those words came from, to be honest with you.  Somewhere outside of me. 

I laid my hands on Saul and suddenly his wandering eyes focused squarely on mine – he could see again.  And then he smiled – a smile of a relieved and renewed man, absent of the hate and malice he had grown so famous for.  That smile continued to spread across his face as I baptized him and welcomed him as a follower of Jesus; as I welcomed him into our fold.

And the rest, as you people like to say, is history.  And let me tell you – it is impossible to overstate the ripple effects of what that man did with the rest of his life.  It’s mind-boggling!  Three huge missionary journeys.  Galatia.  Ephesus.  Rome.  Athens.  Corinth.  The rest of Saul’s life – or Paul, as we would later call him – the rest of Paul’s life was spent telling everyone about Jesus.  Except this time, he wasn’t telling people to avoid Jesus, or what would happen to them if they believed in Jesus.  Paul spent every minute of the rest of his life telling people to follow Jesus, to serve Jesus, to give up their lives for Jesus!  He was doing everything in his power, every ounce of energy and influence he had, to build up churches and spread the gospel near and far.  And I’m dead serious when I say this:  had it not been for Paul’s efforts, it’s highly unlikely that Christianity (as you now call it) would’ve become a worldwide religion.  It’s almost certain that this “Jesus fad” would’ve remained within the bounds of Palestine and died out with original followers like me.  The fact that you’re sitting in this very sanctuary this morning is a testimony to the work and ministry of a man named Paul.

But you know, as amazing as all that is, that’s not what I think about every time I pass by that house on Straight Street.  What I’ve never forgotten is the wonderful way that God can use anybody to do whatever God has in store – even if that person appears to be the least qualified, or the least equipped, or the least worthy.  I mean, who would’ve ever thought it would’ve been Paul telling the world about Jesus?  Or me giving him his sight back? 

The last thing God needs from you and me is to waste God’s time trying to tell God who God can and cannot use, you know?  Like trying to put God in some kind of box!   But we do it all the time, don’t we?  We did it back then, and we still do it today.  We Christians do a stellar job of drawing lines and determining who is “in” and who is “out.”  It’s almost like it’s built into our DNA, even though it goes against everything Jesus said and did.  I guess it’s inevitable when the church mistakenly believes that it’s their cross to bear, their burden to deal with.  Wouldn’t everything be easier if we finally admitted, once and for all, that it is not our burden, it is God’s.  It is not our church, it is God’s church.  And God can do whatever God wishes’ God can use whomever God pleases; and we don’t have to give our permission for any of it.  Contrary to the way we often act and think and live and exist, it is not about us.  It is about God.

And for reasons I’ll never understand, God chose to use me that day; as ordinary a person as you’ll find.  And here’s the scary part, folks: if God can use the likes of me, then God can use any one of you to do extraordinary things. I mean, I’m a blip on the Biblical radar; I’m an afterthought.  And that’s perfectly okay – because God uses each of us for purposes great and small, but purposes whose ripple effects reach far and wide in the kingdom of God.  It doesn’t take much, really – just a desire to follow God’s will, wherever it may lead.

And you know, I often wonder – if each one of us committed to doing that, what wonderful things might God do in our midst?  Think about that, will you?  Because that, my friends, is a vision that you never lose sight of – don’t you think?  In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy spirit, thanks be to God.  AMEN.

THE REAL CONVERSION

Acts 10: 1-6, 9-16, 23b-28, 44-48
Steve Lindsley
May 27, 2012

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There it sat on the plate in front of me, staring up at me like it was some kind of cruel joke.  It always felt that way when Mom fixed liver for dinner.  I mean, really – what genius first thought to themselves, “You know, that organ in the body that cleanses impurities and aids digestion – I bet that’s good enough to eat!”  And don't get me wrong, now; my mom was a whale of a cook.  Her masterpiece – macaroni and cheese (homemade, not out of a box, perish the thought…), black-eyed peas, collard greens, and corn bread.  Nothing better.

But that liver dinner – my brother and I were not fans!  We’d come running in the door from school, and it was one of the first things out of our mouths, usually superceding the “hellos” and greetings that normal people engaged in.  Instead we’d ask: “Hey Mom, what’s for dinner?”  And our hearts would sink and a long drawn-out moan from the depths of our soul if we were told that liver was coming.

But you know something?  We survived; we were okay!  Because, truth be told, it wasn’t that bad.  And at some point we realized how blessed we were that we had any dinner on our plate.  Besides, at the very least we could be thankful that we never had Peter's spread laid before us.  I mean, what was that all about??  Poor guy just went up on the roof to pray.  And while he's up there praying away, probably working up an appetite, this huge sheet full of all kinds of stuff is lowered down from the heavens: “four footed creatures, reptiles, and birds of every kind,” we are told in scripture.  

Suddenly liver looks scrumptious!  I hear that crocodile is a delicacy in some parts of the world, but not in mine.  And that whole nebulous thing about “four footed creatures” kind of reminds me of my time in China, where my travel group was always a little leery of the “mystery meat” served at every meal.  So I can certainly understand a little of Peter's reaction here, and I think you can too.

But you know, those foods were pretty much par for the course back in his day.  What freaked Peter out was that they weren’t kosher – meaning they went against the Jewish dietary restrictions laid out in the Torah.  There were just some things that God’s people were not supposed to eat, or even touch, if they weren’t prepared properly.  And this sheet full of stuff staring Peter in the face was a cornucopia of anti-kosherness.  This would be like serving a vegetarian hamburgers and hot dogs, or dropping a lactose-intolerant person in a world of dairy.  Can you imagine how surreal this must’ve been – all this stuff dropped in Peter’s lap from the very God who prohibited it?  And then told, of all things, that he had to eat it?  

Can you imagine how befuddled he must’ve been when, in protest, he was told, What God has made clean, you must not call profane.  And how weird was it that this scene played out two more times – the sheet, Peter’s protest, God’s response: as The Message translation puts it, If God says it's ok, it's ok!  Three times.

You know, if you read the Bible enough, you begin to recognize patterns.  They teach patterns at Tharrington; I know this because my youngest son comes home and sees something in our house or out in the yard and tells me: Dad, look, a pattern!  The Bible is full of patterns; they help us see that the crux of the message is not always on the surface.  Here’s one pattern you find in the Bible: when things happen in threes, that means something is really important.  Here’s another: when something happens in the Bible that makes no sense, that’s almost Twilight Zone-ish, take note of what comes next.

Because after the third cycle of the sheet and the protest and God’s response, after this very weird exchange between God and Peter, we are introduced to Cornelius.  It’s the only time we meet him in the Bible – which is another pattern of sorts, because when people appear in the Bible only once, they are very important people.  They are there for a reason.  Cornelius was here for a reason. We are told he was a man of great faith who gave generously and prayed constantly.  In the eyes of the faithful he was perfect in every way, except one.  And it was a big one.  

See, Cornelius was a Gentile – a not-so-flattering monicker referring to anyone not of Jewish origin.  And that was a huge deal in the early church, where there was a definitive line drawn between Jews and non-Jews.  In the church's initial days, all followers of Jesus were Jews, as Jesus himself was.  But as the Good News began to spread outside Palestine, it naturally came into contact with Gentile folk – and this created the church's first (but certainly not last) conflict.  The traditional stance was that only Jews could be Christ-followers; and that Gentiles had to become Jews first before being Christian.  Which meant that Cornelius, as good a guy as he was, was still on the outside looking in.  

Well, that sounds preposterous, doesn't it – excluding people from the church!  Can you imagine?!  Drawing lines and telling some people they are “nice and all” but they still cannot be welcomed in – unless they change who they are to be more like us.  Preposterous!

I trust you pick up on my sarcasm.  You don’t need me to tell you that, in the 2000 year history of the kingdom Jesus came to build upon Peter himself, the church has had to face up to its history – distant and recent – of drawing lines on who is “in” and who is “out.”  We've done it over race, over gender, over lifestyle.  We've drawn lines of social status and nationality.  Of all of the black eyes the church has inflicted upon itself, this one is perhaps most bruising – that, in some form or fashion, Cornelius has always been at our doorstep, knocking and knocking and asking to be let in.

So do you really think it was coincidence that Peter, after his three-cycle exchange with the Almighty and the sheet of yucky stuff, do you really think it was coincidence that he was told to go to Cornelius and baptize a Gentile into the church?  Do you really think it was crazy luck; God’s final words to Peter, spoken three times: If God says it's ok, it's ok.  If God says it's ok, it's ok.  If God says it's ok, it's ok!

You know, I think it’s interesting how most Bibles title this chapter, “The Conversion of Cornelius.”  Because honestly, as wonderful as that was, I'm not sure it's the most important conversion in the tenth chapter of Acts.  Could it be the conversion that really mattered was Peter’s?  I mean, how else do you explain Peter going against every preconceived notion he had about God and faith, purity and impurity, right and wrong?  It wasn't easy – in fact, in the very next chapter, Peter had to defend himself against those who raked him over the coals for baptizing a Gentile.  Doing the right, radical thing is rarely easy.

So what do we make of this?  Just when we think we've got our faith figured out, just when we think we know what’s wrong and impure, God comes along and drops that very thing in our laps and says, “Here – take a bite of this.”  Just when we feel comfortable with the lines that have been drawn, and perhaps even had a part in drawing them ourselves, God comes to us through the voice of Peter when he says: Can anyone forbid water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have?

And right there, my friends, right there is the bridge.  Right there is the Great Line-Eraser!  The Holy Spirit – the gift those disciples received on this day we call Pentecost.  It’s not easy getting a grasp on what the Holy Spirit is, is it?  We get God – Creator of the cosmos.  We get Jesus – God's son, our redeemer.  But this Holy Spirit is a mystery, one we kind of shove to the back burner a lot of the time.

And yet, this story about Peter gives us perhaps the best depiction of who and what the Holy Spirit is.  Do you see it?  When Peter realized that even a Gentile like Cornelius was worthy of being a brother in Christ, and when Peter acted on that and baptized him into the fold, it was in that moment that the Holy Spirit came crashing in like a rushing wind – much the same way it did a few chapters back at that first Pentecost.  Crashing in and reminding the faithful with its pure strength and power that, through God, all things are possible.  Even the impure being made pure; even lines being erased.

Throughout the history of the church, in fact, the presence of the Holy Spirit is intricately tied to those moments when the inclusive nature of God's love for all people is revealed. It was there in Jerusalem a few short years later when the church, following the lead of Peter and Paul, decided “not to trouble the Gentiles” and welcomed them all as brothers and sisters in Christ.  It was there when a German monk and seminary professor posted 95 new ideas on the door of a Wittenburg church; ideas that called for an end to exclusive church hierarchy and a beginning to the priesthood of all believers.  The Holy Spirit was there when the first African-American was welcomed into a predominately white congregation, and vice versa.  It was there when women were given the opportunity to be preachers and teachers.  For all the times in the past 2000 years where the church has shut its doors to certain people, the Holy Spirit has been there in full force when those doors were eventually opened again.

The thing is, the Holy Spirit continues to work on us; because there are still lines being drawn.  There are still things God dangles before us that we continue to call “unclean.”  And that is why, like Peter, we all need to experience conversion.  Because the real conversion does not take place when we first welcome Christ into our hearts, when we make that profession of faith.  The real conversion is when the presence of God in our lives causes us to live as Jesus would have us live: loving all, welcoming the stranger, serving others, helping the poor. The real conversion takes place when we learn not to call "unclean" what God says is okay; when the only lines we draw are arrows pointing everyone to a grace-filled God.

So on this Pentecost Sunday: come, Holy Spirit, come. Help us embrace the unclean – even liver.  Help us erase lines.  Convert us.  Because if this conversion was good enough for Peter, it's certainly good enough for you and for me.  In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, thanks be to God!  AMEN.

 

 

STARING UP AT AN EMPTY SKY

Isaiah 43: 14-21; Acts 1: 1-11
Steve Lindsley
May 13, 2012

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Today’s scripture passage is on the ascension of Jesus.  This is not something we Christians talk about much.  We don’t know quite what to do with it, honestly.  We do a pretty good job with Easter, and we get our red on for Pentecost, which is coming in a few weeks.  But the whole “Jesus-being-taken-up-into-heaven” thing doesn’t get a lot of press time.     

Nevertheless, it’s what we find there in the very first chapter of Acts – the sequel, if you will, of Luke’s gospel; written by the same person.  The ascension is a way of bridging the work of Jesus and the work of the early church, led by the Holy Spirit.  It’s a way that we as followers of Christ understand our calling to continue what he started, even as he himself is no longer with us to do it.   

But make no mistake, y’all: the ascension of Jesus is awkward.  There’s really no other way to put it.  Maybe this is why we kind of gloss over it.  Jesus has gathered his disciples together.  They ask him if it is time – time to complete the restoration of Israel, which is what Jesus said he’d do.  Jesus tells them no one knows the time; but that until the time comes, they are witnesses – witnesses to what they had seen and heard to those who didn’t get a chance to see and hear.  They are to carry the torch, so to speak; continue what Jesus had started.     

That’s what he’s telling those disciples there.  And then, before they get a chance to respond, before they get a chance to say anything, Jesus is gone.  Just……gone.   

Awkward!  I’ve always tried to imagine what this must have looked like, you know?  How exactly did this ascension happen?  I kind of envision it like when you release a helium balloon into the air – which, by the way, you never should do, because it’s bad for the birds – but just for the sake of argument, how that balloon rises up and up and up into a crystal blue sky, and how it gets smaller and smaller and smaller until it’s just a tiny little dot, barely visible.  And then at some point you can’t see it anymore – you know it’s there, somewhere up there, but you can’t see it.  That doesn’t stop you from looking, though – at least for a little while.  You keep looking to see if you might catch a glimpse of it again.  Just looking.   

Was that what it was like the day that Jesus ascended?  All those faces, looking up…..?  How long do you think they stood there, huh?  Five minutes?  Ten?  Twenty?  Thirty?  I like the way someone in our Bob Chilton Bible study put it this past week: when you see something go up, you expect it to come down!  How long did they stand there, looking up to try and see Jesus again?..........   

Do you figure some other folks kind of wandered onto the scene; people who just happened to see this crowd looking up and wondering to themselves what they were looking at?  I mean, it’d pique your curiosity a bit, wouldn’t it?  Do you figure some of them kind of joined in, adding to their numbers, staring up at an empty sky?   

Eventually you have to figure some of them gave up looking and walked off.  I mean, there comes a point when you realize, he’s not coming back!  What goes up doesn’t necessarily come down.  So I imagine there were a few who peeled off, one by one.  But I bet there were others who kept standing there; kept looking up, like they were trying to find that helium balloon they couldn’t see anymore but knew was up there, somewhere……   

They’re still looking when these two guys in white show up.  We’re not sure how they got there.  Maybe they were part of the crowd that wandered onto the scene.  And their voices cut through the silence of this upward-focused bunch, and they said: Hey people – why are you just standing there staring up at an empty sky?     

If the disciples had answered them, you know what they would have said: Because Jesus is up there!  The same Jesus who asked us to follow him and showed us the breadth and depth of God’s amazing love.  The same Jesus who followed that love all the way to the cross and died for it; the same Jesus whose love was too great to be kept in some silly old tomb.  He was just here with us, and now is gone – gone up there somewhere.  And that is why we’re standing here, staring up at an empty sky – because when someone that like that is part of your life one moment and gone the next, you just don’t know what you’re supposed to do anymore.   

Don’t you think that’s kind of what they were thinking?  Don’t you think they were stumped by this, and what they were supposed to do now that Jesus was gone?     

You know, it’s kind of ironic – for the little attention we give to the ascension of Jesus, this seems to be the perfect metaphor for our Christian journey today.  You and I, not always sure what to do, not always sure what God wants for us or from us.  So there we are, staring up at an empty sky; waiting for Jesus to come back down so he can tell us what to do, because so much of the time we’re not sure what exactly Jesus wants from us.   

I mean, what’s the Christian stand on this issue?  What does the Bible say about that topic?  You ever had questions like that before?  I know I have!  And isn’t that one of the greatest struggles – knowing what God wants from us; knowing what God wants us to do?  Heck, over a hundred years ago a Congregationalist preacher named Charles Sheldon coined the well-known phrase, the same one that adorned t-shirts and bracelets and was all the rage just a few years back: WWJD – What Would Jesus Do?  You know why that saying has stood the test of time?  Because it’s the truth!  We want so badly to know what Jesus would do, because knowing that helps us determine what we’re supposed to do, right?  To be more like Jesus – that’s our goal.  That’s what we’re trying to figure out.  Trying to figure it out as we’re part of that crowd, staring up there, hoping and wishing that at some point we’ll see Jesus again….   

The problem is, all that looking-up stuff, it’s not really accomplishing much, is it?  But that’s what I feel like we do a lot, First Presbyterian.  We as a church, we as a denomination, we as Christians around the world.  We’re just staring up, looking for Jesus, trying to find him up like a tiny helium balloon that we just can’t see.     

You know, some of you may know that, as part of her studies at Union Presbyterian Seminary, Shasta is doing an internship on faith and movies.  It’s pretty cool when you can take a passion of yours and get graded for it – Tiki Room heaven!  In our Bible study this past week, Shasta pulled from her hefty movie arsenal and referenced the deeply theological cinematic experience, Ferris Bueller’s Day Off.  Remember the end of that movie, when the credits start rolling?  It’s like any other move – all the names of various actors, directors, producers, makeup artists, script writers.  All the thanks to municipalities and organizations for their cooperation.  All the copyrights, with the year in Roman numerals and that squashed earth symbol.  All the stuff that you and I don’t typically see, because by this time we’ve either headed to our cars in the parking lot or have hit the “stop” button on our DVD remotes.   

And then as the very last credit rolls through the top of the screen, we are suddenly back in Ferris Bueller’s bedroom, the one he was supposed to be in sick all day; and he’s looking straight at us as if our presence has caught him off-guard.  And he says to us, What are you still doing here?  The movie’s over.  Go – go on home.  Go on, get out of here.  Go!   

I mean, if Ferris Bueller had been dressed in white and standing outside the city of Jerusalem instead of in his bedroom when he said that, I’d almost think he was actually talking to those disciples in Acts – and talking to us, too.  Talking to us as followers of Jesus; followers whose Lord and Savior had been taken up in a cloud, followers who are immobilized by our indecision and confusion and, yes, fear; followers who are staring up at an empty sky because sometimes we don’t know what to do when the whole reason for our doing is no longer with us…   

And that’s when we hear the voice say to us:

What are you still doing here?  Stop staring up!  Start looking down and around.  Look at the world around you; the world that Jesus came to in the first place.  Look around at all the things that need his love, need his healing, need his mission.  Because that’s where you focus has to be – not up, but down and around!  You’ve got work to do down here.  You are witnesses!  You’ve seen the power of God; you’ve witnessed the building of the foundation of God’s kingdom on earth. So stop staring up at the heavens – look down at the world around you, and see just how much it is in desperate need of your witness.

That foundation, by the way, that Jesus came to build – it’s not something he came up with.  It’s a foundation that’s been in place for years, thousands of years.  It’s what the prophet Isaiah had talked about long before:

Do not remember the former things
or consider the things of old;
I am about to do a new thing;
Now it springs forth – do you not perceive it?

How appropriate is that last question on Ascension Sunday: Do you not perceive it?   Well, if all we’re doing is staring up at an empty sky, of course we’re not!  If all we’re worried about is what’s happening up there, we’re sure not going to perceive much of what God is doing down here, are we?  It’s like we talked about last week – the Christian life is not all about the finish line.  It’s not all about getting that ticket to heaven.  It’s about the journey that gets us there.  Our lives matter, people!  What we do with our lives and our time and our gifts and talents and treasure, and how we treat God’s children – all of God’s children – that stuff actually means something.  And if all we’re doing is staring up at an empty sky, we’re going to miss a whole lot of what God needs us doing down here.

If all we’re doing is staring up at an empty sky, we’re going to miss the ever-increasing number of children and adults in our quaint little town who look into their kitchen pantry every night and see slim pickings, and so they can’t wait for Thursdays to roll around, because they know at least then they’ll get a decent meal at Friends Feeding Friends, served to them by some very kindly Presbyterians and Baptists.   

If all we’re doing is staring up at an empty sky, we’re going to miss the people in our lives, the people we’re closest to, seeking reconciliation with us because of some wrong in the past.  We’re going to miss an opportunity to live into the love of Jesus and let that love permeate all aspects of our lives, changing us from the inside out.  

If all we’re doing is staring up at an empty sky, we’re going to miss all the horrible things that are carried out in Jesus’ name in the world, and an opportunity to unite our voices together and say, “No, that’s not what he was talking about” or “No, that’s not what the Bible says.”   

But you know what we’re going to miss most of all if we’re just staring up at an empty sky?  We’re going to miss Jesus himself!  Because even though those disciples watched his go up and disappear from their sight all those years ago, he told them: Inasmuch as you’ve done this to the least of these, you’ve done it to me.  We are surrounded by Jesuses, y’all!  They’re in the pew next to us; they’re out there walking the streets, they’re in our classrooms and offices and with us in the grocery check-out line.  They look and act and live like us, and they don’t look or act or live like us.  Jesus hasn’t left us at all.  He’s right here.   

So forget the old and welcome in the new.  Stop staring up there – start looking down and around.  Look for the Jesus among you.  He’s there.  And he’ll show you what you need to be doing.  In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, AMEN.

WHEN IT'S TIME TO CUT DOWN SOME ELMS

Acts 11:1-18
Steve Lindsley
January 30, 2011

Last night, as I was falling asleep in bed watching TV, I saw a glorious sight.  It was something I haven’t seen in quite some time, something none of us have seen recently, and something we very well may not see for awhile.  It was the sight of the Quad at Wake Forest University, swamped in the magnificent white of toilet paper.  As has been the long-standing tradition, whenever Wake wins an ACC basketball game, students (and sometimes others) flock to the heart of the campus and let the Charmin and Cottonelle fly.  It makes a huge mess if they don’t clean it up before it rains, and it’s not the greenest thing around, but it is quite a sight to see nonetheless.  It’s a tradition that the Wake campus hasn’t engaged in much of this year, and they’re probably wishing they had adapted the qualifications to include ANY game won, or even games lost by less than 20 points.

Still, I relished in the sight on my television screen last night.  Even though I knew as I watched it that the trees suspending the toilet paper were not the same trees that held the whiteness that I once threw.  For almost a generation, since 1956 when the school moved to Winston-Salem, two dozen or so beautiful elm trees encircled the Quad, signifying in prominent fashion the center of campus life.  Back then they had grown to be lofty and majestic, soaring to the heavens and defining the school’s identity.  Their roots ran deep in both a physical and emotional sense.  During the fall the leaves would turn the campus a rustic brown and orange.  In the winter they would stand barren, yet strong and solid.  And in the spring, as both leaves and warm weather returned, they provided perfect shade for reading a textbook or taking a nap.  In my first few years there I grew quite fond of those trees. 

Over the summer before my sophomore year, though, the school had discovered that a rare tree disease was quickly spreading through the root system.  The elms were dying and were in danger of becoming a safety hazard, with their heavy branches eventually rotting.  There was no choice; the elms had to come down.  They told us they would do this over the Thanksgiving holiday, when most of the students, faculty and staff were gone, so we wouldn’t have to witness the slaughter. 

We left the campus Wednesday afternoon with tall, beautiful elms.  We returned Sunday evening to an utter wasteland of brown dirt, torn sod and empty air. There was a depression that set over the campus for a time, what amounted to a period of mourning; and it didn’t let up until the last fall exam had been completed and the replacement trees began to bud in the spring.  And even then, it was almost a joke – the tiny, fragile maples that paled in comparison to the magnificent elms that once stood in their place.

In his charge to the graduates at commencement that following spring,  the college president paid tribute to the elms.  In fact, his entire address revolved around them – the “going out” of the old and the “coming in” of the new; the necessary changing of seasons in life, the need to move forward and not look back.  It was, of course, an appropriate message for graduates, moments away from flipping their tassels and marching bravely into the life that awaited them.  And in many ways, it is a powerful message for us, gathered in this sanctuary this morning.

See, I couldn’t help but think about those elms trees when I started looking at our sermon passage today – a story about Peter and a vision, and a crisis of sorts that plagued the church in its early years and, in some ways, still plagues it today.  In the first hundred years or so of the church’s existence, most Christians were converted Jews – part of the tradition of Abraham and Moses and Isaac and Jacob.  We have to remember, of course, that Jesus himself was a Jew, as were his disciples.  Not only that, but the early church at the time didn’t extend beyond Israel, geographically speaking.  So its audience consisted almost exclusively of Jews under Roman rule.

But as God’s spirit continued to move, both physically and spiritually, the gospel began to outgrow its original boundaries.  It was inevitable that sooner or later God’s Word would reach the ears of people who did not grow up hearing the stories of the Hebrew faith; moving the hearts of those who had not been circumcised or ever celebrated a Passover meal.

Now this may not sound like a big deal to you and me.  After all – and I could be wrong – but I would venture to guess that none of us here this morning were Jewish by birth.  Most of us, I assume, were either “born into the Christian faith” or made a profession of faith later in life, or maybe have not made a profession of faith at all.  In essence, we are all Gentiles.  And today we are quite accustomed to Christians coming in all shapes and sizes, from all corners of the earth.  So it’s probably hard for us to understand how big of a crisis this was for the early church as they maneuvered through “uncharted waters” – Gentiles becoming Christians without being Jews first.

And so now we come to Peter’s vision.  He’s explaining to some of his Christian brethren why he was associating with “uncircumcised men;” in other words, Christians who were non-Jews.  Peter tells them about a vision he had, where a “large sheet,” as he describes it, was lowered from heaven.  And as he looks upon it, he sees four-footed animals, beasts of prey, reptiles and birds of the air.  He then hears the voice of God telling him to kill what’s in there and eat it.  Peter is horrified – you could not have asked for a more ritually unclean collection of animals, according to Jewish law.  To eat it would be to defile one’s body and the heart of one’s faith.  What was God thinking??  And he says as much.

And then God utters the phrase that would continue ringing in Peter’s ears long after the vision was over: What God has made clean, you must not call profane.  And as if to emphasize the point, this scene plays itself out two more times; each with the same response from Peter, each with God’s concluding words: What God has made clean, you must not call profane.

Kind of funny, isn’t it, this vision?  I mean, it’s almost as if God is setting Peter up here – dangling this offensive stuff in his face and telling him to eat, when God knows full well that Peter, a man of great faith, would dare not do such a thing.  But that’s precisely the point: God is asking Peter to put aside his preconceived notions, even the foundational teachings of his faith, and open himself up to the new thing that God is doing right before him.  And that “new thing” winds up being for Peter a group of Gentile men – men whom the Spirit of God has moved to learn more about Jesus.  As he finishes recounting this vision, Peter says this:

If God gave the Gentiles the same gift that he gave us
when we believed in the Lord Jesus Christ,
who was I that I could hinder God?

You know, one of the things I’ve always loved about Peter is that he’s constantly growing and learning something new – whether it’s how not to walk on water, or the depth of God’s forgiveness after three denials.  Here Peter learns a valuable lesson in trusting the spirit of God to guide him in the ways he must go – even when those ways seem strange, even contradictory to what he has always believed.  Our Christian faith today is a testament to folks like Peter and Paul and their willingness to follow God’s spirit into “uncharted waters.”     

But it’s easy when it’s someone else’s “unchartered waters,” isn’t it?  It’s easy when it’s a story about the steep learning curve for the other guy.  Nowadays this story has lost its meaning to us.  Of course Gentiles can become Christians, Peter.  Don’t be silly!  We get it in our 21st century world.  We understand.  Or do we?  Are we really that much different from Peter?  Are we any less prone to labeling something “profane” while God is sitting there telling us over and over again that it’s not?  Are we are less likely to stick to the “tried and true” while God is wanting to do something new?

There’s a reason the writer of Acts spends two whole chapters talking about this Gentile conversion and Peter’s response.  In fact, if we really think about it, there’s not just one conversion going on here but two – Cornelius’ conversion to Christianity and Peter’s “conversion” to being open to God’s “new thing.”  Throw in chapter 9 and you’ve got two more: Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus and the “conversion” of Ananias to go see this feared and hated man.  Four conversions – people inside and outside the church, all facing this new thing that God was busy doing. 

Which is why I can’t stop thinking about those elm trees.  As people of the church we find ourselves, on one hand, being guardians and protectors of the faith of; while also remaining open to the Spirit’s leading.  And you know, by and large we’re much better at the first than the second!  And that’s where the elms come to mind.  For it seems to me that one of the greatest difficulties facing the church today is knowing, essentially, which elms are worth hanging on to and which ones need to come down. 

I mean, think about it.  What are some of the “elms” we face right now in our own church?  In the American church?  In the church universal?  What are some beliefs or perceptions or understandings we cling to, things that run deep like those elm tree roots, things that we don’t think we can live without?  And is it possible that God may be dangling them before us in a way, setting us up for our quick denial and his even faster response: What God has made clean, you must not call profane.  What God has said is right, you must not say is wrong. I mean, if the spirit of God is what leads us, than those elms, no matter how beautiful or important we think they are, those elms are rotting wood.  And they need to come down.

So what are those elms for us?  Could one be a comfortableness and complacency with the church where we feel things are fine as they are, where they satisfy our needs?  Is that an elm that needs to come down?  What about an understanding of “church mission” that’s simply cutting checks and taking up a collection, rather than being actively involved in local outreach and national and international missions?  Is that an elm that needs to come down?   Or could one be the ease with which we are molded and shaped by our biases and prejudices against certain people, where we somehow envision them as less than worthy of God’s grace and love –and thus less worthy of ours.  Should that elm come down too?

Whatever our elms are, you and I are constantly searching for a word from the Lord, just as Peter was.  And often we can do no better than to follow the example Jesus set – guided by God’s spirit and a receptiveness to it, open to the movement of Jesus in our lives.  Most importantly we need to be able to accept the fact that sometimes, in order for God’s will to be done, some of those dying elms need to be cut down.

It’s been a while since I’ve been back on the Wake campus, sad to say.  And those trees I saw decked out in toilet paper last night on the TV, I’m pretty sure they’re not the maples that replaced the elms.  They had to take those maples down too.  And I imagine if the ones standing today get diseased, like the elms, like the maples, they’ll take them down and plant new ones all over again.

Knowing when to plant new trees is the easy part.  Knowing when to take the old ones down – well, that’s a lot harder.  May you and I always be in tune to what God is doing among us – especially when it requires our perceptions to change and our thinking to evolve.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

NOT A STILL FOOT IN THE HOUSE

Matthew 3: 13-17; Acts 10: 34-43
Steve Lindsley
January 9, 2011

John the Baptist was right, you know.  Absolutely right.  The idea of him baptizing Jesus was completely absurd.  He knew it.  Everyone along the shores of the Jordan river knew it.  It was crazy!  It’d be like world-renowned tenor Placido Domingo stopping by your house asking you for a few voice lessons.  Or Kobe Bryant begging you to teach him some basketball moves.  Or Rachel Ray scrounging your kitchen for great recipie ideas (although if Rachel came to one of our church’s covered dish meals, I bet she could learn a thing or two!)

John and everyone else knew that baptizing Jesus was ridiculous. Everyone, that is, except Jesus.  For him, it made all the sense in the world.  Which is why Jesus made his way through those crowds, the large gathering of people that could always be found at John’s side, and took his place in line.  And when it was his turn to kneel in the cool waters of the Jordan River at the feet of the fiery Baptist, John stopped cold in his tracks. Because he knew who this man was, and he knew who he would soon become.  And it just didn’t seem right for someone like him to baptize someone like him – in fact, it should be the other way around!  He mentions this to Jesus, but Jesus pays it no mind, and insists on being baptized just like everyone else.

You ever wonder why he did this – why Jesus asked to be baptized?  I mean, if there’s ever been someone who would be entitled to a free pass in the baptism department, you think it’d be Jesus, right?  This question has captivated the minds of theologians and scholars for centuries, and the responses have been many.  Maybe he was trying to be “one with the people” and demonstrate his solidarity with those he was coming to save.  Or maybe he did it to set an example for everyone to follow.  There’s probably some truth to both of those.

Either way, it’s a question worth asking on this “Baptism of Jesus” Sunday.  It’s also worth asking for another reason.  Today we have participated in that time-honored tradition of ordaining and installing our latest class of elders – Mike, Nelson, Kate, Mary, Maggie, Randy, Pepper and Lisa.  It’s not baptism, of course, but it’s still an important act of the church when women and men are called apart to serve God and serve the church in ordained ministry.  There’s a fair amount of ritual to this – the questions that I asked are part of our denomination’s constitution, and they are the same questions that have been asked of every elder who has ever served in this church – and, with a slight alteration here and there, every minister of this church.  There’s the laying on of hands that involves not only previously-ordained Presbyterian elders, but those ordained from other church traditions.  And then there’s the big group-hug we all engage in for a solid five minutes for you viewing pleasure!

Why do we go to all this trouble, one might ask?  Why do we go through all the hoopla just to bring our newest leaders on board?  Some might ask this, in the same way that John the Baptist asked Jesus about the whole baptism thing. Because in both instances, really, it’s about more than simply observing a ritual.  It’s about something being changed in us.

I mean, that’s pretty much what Jesus said to John, wasn’t it?  At least I think it is.  I’m not sure.  You know, I’m a fan of the New Revised Standard Version of the Bible, but I’ll be honest with you – I’m not too keen on how it translates the 15th verse: Let it be so now, for it is proper for us in this way to fulfill all righteousness.  Jesus sounds more like a college professor in the lecture hall than the son of God on the verge of greatness!  I much prefer the way good ol’ Presbyterian Eugene Peterson renders it in The Message: “Do it,” Jesus tells John.  “God’s work, putting things right after all these centuries, is coming together right now in this baptism.” 

Putting things right.  That resonates a little bit better, doesn’t it?  It’s a much friendlier way of grasping this whole idea of “righteousness.”  Which is a good thing, because over the years that word has kind of gotten a bad rap.  Folks are inclined to think of it as self-righteousness, even though it’s not.  I rather like the image author Frederick Buechner has used to describe it.  He kind of tells a story:

“You haven’t got it right!” says the exasperated piano teacher to her student.  Junior is holding his hands the way he’s been told.  His fingering is exceptional.  He has memorized the piece perfectly.  He has hit all the proper notes with deadly accuracy.  But his heart’s not in it, only his fingers.  What he’s playing is a sort of music but nothing that will start voices singing or feet tapping.  He has succeeded in boring everbody to death, including his piano teacher, including himself. (Wishful Thinking: A Theological ABC by Frederick Buechner, 1973: Harper & Row, 82).

For Buechner, righteousness is best understood in the way he sums it all up: If you play it the way it’s supposed to be played, there shouldn’t be a still foot in the house.

I really like that way of imagining righteousness!  Because honestly, it’s not about how “right” someone acts or what kind of airs they might put on.  It’s about being authentic – to yourself, to your purpose and calling, to your relationship with Christ.  Being authentic in those things is what matters most to Jesus; and it’s exactly what led him to the riverside that day to be baptized.  Being baptized was about being true and authentic to who he was and who he continues to be to us today.

The apostle Peter was another one who knew what it meant to be authentic in his faith.  He gave a wonderful sermon in the verses Alex read earlier today, talking about spreading the gospel across Judea and Galilee and being witnesses to everything Jesus did.  But what really demonstrates Peter’s authenticity for us is when we understand who he was speaking about here – Cornelius, a non-Jew who had joined the early Christian movement.  See, Peter was not known for being all that warm and friendly to Romans.  But when God called him to welcome a fellow brother in Christ into the work and ministry of the early church, even when that brother was a Roman centurion, even the salty fisherman knew that “God shows no partiality, but in every nation anyone who fears him and does what is right is acceptable.”

And Peter’s righteousness extended even further than just opening the door to accept all people.  Listen:

We are witnesses to all that Jesus did in Judea and in Jerusalem.  They put him to death by hanging him on a tree; but God raised him on the third day and allowed him to appear, not to all the people but to us who were chosen by God as witnesses, and who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead.

See, Peter’s authenticity comes from the fact that he lays the responsibility of the faith squarely on these “witnesses” – a group that, in a sense, is not limited to the small entourage who lived in first century Palestine and saw all this with their own eyes.  It also includes the larger body of Christ that lives on today, in us!  And being a witness in this authentic sense means a lot more than just watching something happen – it means telling others about what you have seen and what you have heard.

And on this Ordination Sunday, I would suggest that these eight elders we have ordained and installed today are the witnesses Peter speaks of.  And like Jesus at his baptism, they are called to be authentic in their ordained ministry in our church.  During their time on the session they will certainly have many important tasks to carry out.  They will balance budgets, lead Vacation Bible school, help take care of church property.  These elders will organize mission trips, conduct staff searches, host fellowship meals, teach Sunday school.  There are any number of responsibilities that our elected officers will carry out not only on your behalf, but on behalf of the church and the God they are called to serve.

But like the story that Buechner told about that kid playing piano, serving God is never about going through the motions.  Never!  It’s about being living witnesses to Christ, and living authentically and in righteousness because of it.  Which is why the most important thing your elders will do in their time on the session is not manage something or oversee something or plan for something.  The most important thing your elders will do is to love Jesus and love this church!  And part of my job is to constantly remind them of that – remind them when session meetings drag on longer than they’re supposed to, remind them when they find themselves in disagreement on some matter, remind them when the perfect solution to a problem isn’t rising to the surface.  If they love Jesus and love this church, if they live authentically as those who are set right by God, then they become the witness Peter calls us to be.

And here’s the thing, y’all – this isn’t just about the elders.  They’re not the only ones who are called to live like this!  We ALL are called by God to live authentically and in righteousness – young and old alike, long-time members and those recently joined.  We are called by God to love Jesus and love this church with everything we have.  And this can’t help but change us from the inside out, so that we’re always finding ways to serve God and serve one other.  Sometimes this involves things with official titles, like Sunday school teachers or ushers or choir members or confirmation mentors.  Other times it’s things that don’t have a name – like picking up the kitchen after a busy holiday season or visiting a sick church member.  God’s church relies on people who claim responsibility for these tasks – but more importantly, God’s church depends on people who love Jesus and love the church.

So on this day that we ordain our newest class of elders, may we all answer the call to a more authentic faith, to loving Jesus and this church, to “putting things right” in a way that keeps our passion for the gospel invigorated and the music of our faith humming along.  Let there never be a still foot in God’s house.  Thanks be to God!  AMEN.

THE REAL CONVERSION STORY

Acts 10: 1-6, 9-16, 23b-28, 44-48
Steve Lindsley
May 31, 2009

There it sat on the plate in front of me, staring at me as if it were some kind of cruel joke.  It always felt this way when Mom fixed liver for dinner.  I mean, really – what genius first looked at this and thought to themselves, “Hey, that looks good enough to eat!”  And don't get me wrong, now; my mom was a whale of a cook.  I was especially fond of her masterpiece – macaroni and cheese (homemade, mind you), black-eyed peas, collard greens, and corn bread.  Nothing better.  Mom also made excellent spaghetti, homemade mashed potatoes, green bean casserole; and Thanksgiving dinners at our house were second to none.

But that liver dinner – man, I don't know.  I certainly didn't care for it and my brother didn't either.  Nevertheless I would eat it, even though it took every fiber in my being to force my hand to raise the fork and my mouth to open wide.

Okay, it wasn't that bad.  We kids like to exaggerate those “worst meal” stories of our youth.  I guess at the very least I could be thankful that I never found Peter's spread on my dinner plate.  I mean, what was that about??  Poor guy just went up on the roof to pray, for crying out loud!  And while he's in the midst of heartfelt prayer, according to today's scripture, this huge sheet full of all kinds of things is lowered down for him from the heavens: “four footed creatures, reptiles, and birds of every kind.” 

Now as far as I'm concerned, just the thought of eating reptile grosses me out.  I hear crocodile is a delicacy in some parts of the world, but not in mine.  And that whole nebulous thing about “four footed creatures of every kind” kind of reminds me of the time I went to China, where me and the group I was with were always leery of the “mystery meat” that appeared on our plate every meal.  So I can certainly understand a little of Peter's reaction to this vision, and I think you can too.

But there's a whole part to this that you and I don't get – because this isn't just about gross foods we wouldn't want to eat.  There's another dynamic at play here.  See, these were the very foods that Jewish dietary restrictions prohibited the faithful from associating with.  If they weren't prepared properly – which these weren't – it was considered to be unclean.  You couldn't even touch them, much less eat it.

So it must've seemed quite strange to Peter, immersed in prayer, suddenly having this stuff dropped in his lap – from the very God who prohibited it.  It probably knocked him for a loop when that same God told him to eat it anyway.  And when Peter protested, being the good Jew he was, it really must've blown his mind when he heard God's response: What God has made clean, you must not call profane.  Or as The Message translation puts it, “If God says it's ok, it's ok!”

You know, it's interesting: scripture never tells us whether Peter actually eats it – only that this exchange happens three times, as if God is trying to make a point.  Then again, maybe whether he eats it or not is not really the point anyway.  Maybe what really matters is what happens after this and a particular person Peter is introduced to. 

We meet Cornelius for the first and only time in the tenth chapter of Acts; and we're told he is a man of great faith who gave generously and prayed constantly.  All of which sounds great – except for one little thing that, in the minds of the faithful, trumped everything else.  We learn that Cornelius is not a Jew.  And that was a big deal in the early church, where there was a definitive line drawn between Jews and non-Jews.  Those not of Jewish origin were referred to as “Gentiles,” and rarely was that term used in a flattering way.  In the church's initial days all followers of Jesus were Jews, just as Jesus was.  But as the Good News began to expand and spread outside Palestine, it naturally encountered Gentile folk – and this created the church's first (but certainly not last) dilemma.  The traditional stance was that only Jews could be Christ-followers; and that Gentiles had to become Jewish first before being Christian  Which meant Cornelius, as good a guy as he was, was still on the outside looking in. 

Sounds preposterous, doesn't it – excluding people from the faith?  Well, before we get too roused up in our righteous indignation, it'd probably be good to remind ourselves that this sort of thing has always gone on.  The church, God bless it, has always had a history of drawing lines and making a point of determining who is “in” and who is “out.”  We've done it over race, over gender, over lifestyle.  We've drawn lines based on social status, nationality, marital status.  Despite what we would like to believe, Cornelius has always been at our doorstep in some form or fashion, knocking and knocking and asking to be let in.

And you have to figure, don't you, that the words started echoing in Peter's mind as this Gentile came seeking baptism; the words ricocheting inside his head with a vengeance:  What God has made clean you must not call profane.  If God says it's ok, it's ok. 

Cornelius' conversion is a great little story that is highlighted in Acts as a prime example of God's action in this exciting new movement we would later call the church.  It's pretty much a given that, had those early Christians not seen fit to welcome Gentiles into their fold, none of us would be sitting in this sanctuary right now.  Certainly the conversion of Cornelius serves as a cornerstone in the Christian faith.

But you know something interesting?  As wonderful as Cornelius' conversion is, I'm not convinced it's the main conversion story in this chapter.  I know it may sound weird, but I wonder if the real conversion in the tenth chapter of Acts is the one that took place in Peter's heart.  I mean, think about it.  What did it take for Peter to go against every preconceived notion he had about God and faith, pure and impure, right and wrong; and do something as radical as welcome the unwelcome?  It wasn't easy – in fact, in the very next chapter Peter has to defend himself to those who raked him over the coals for what he did.  Doing the right, radical thing is rarely easy.

Hmm.  You know what's also interesting?  How this same sort of struggle still happens today.  Just when we think we've got our faith figured out, just when we think we know what's wrong, God comes along and drops that very thing in our laps and says, “Here – take a bite out of this.”  Just when we feel comfortable with the lines that have been drawn, and perhaps had a part in drawing them ourselves, God comes to us through the voice of Peter: Can anyone really forbid water for baptizing these people who have received the Holy Spirit just as we have?

Ah, the Holy Spirit – that nebulous third wheel of the Trinity.  Kind of hard to get a grasp on, isn't it?  We get God – Creator of the world.  We get Jesus – God's son, our redeemer.  But this Holy Spirit is a mystery to us, one that too often we shove to the back burner for the tried and true.

And yet perhaps this story about Peter gives us the best idea of who and what the Holy Spirit is.  Do you see it?  When Peter realized that even a Gentile like Cornelius was worthy of being a brother in Christ, and when Peter acted on that and baptized him into the fold, that was the moment that the Holy Spirit came crashing in like a rushing wind – much the same way it did a few chapters back at that first Pentecost.  Throughout the New Testament the presence of the Holy Spirit is tied directly to the inclusive nature of God's love for all people.  And it takes the lines we draw, the categories we create, the hierarchies we manufacture in the faith, and causes them to disappear.

That's what the Holy Spirit does, time and time again.  It was there in Jerusalem just a few short years later when the church, following the lead of Peter and Paul, decided “not to trouble the Gentiles” and welcomed them as brothers and sisters in Christ.  It was there when a German monk and seminary professor posted 95 new ideas on the door of a church in Wittenburg; ideas that called for an end to exclusive church hierarchy and a beginning to the priesthood of all believers.  The Holy Spirit was there when the first African-American was welcomed into a predominately white congregation, and vice versa.  It was there when women were given the opportunity to be preachers and teachers.  For all the times in the past 2000 years where the church has shut its doors to certain people, the Holy Spirit has been present in full force when those doors were eventually opened.

The Holy Spirit continues to work on us, though, because there are still lines being drawn out there.  There are still things that God dangles before us that we continue to call “unclean.”  And that is why, like Peter, we all need to experience conversion of a different and more profound kind.  Because the real conversion does not take place when we first welcome Christ into our hearts, when we first make our profession of faith.  The real conversion takes place when the presence of God in our lives causes us to live as Jesus would have us live: loving all, welcoming the stranger, serving others, helping the poor. The real conversion takes place when we learn not to call "unclean" what God says is okay; when the lines we draw are not used to fashion walls that exclude but instead signs that point all people to an inclusive, grace-filled God.

That's why more and more I'm convinced of two things as your pastor.  The first is that our job as people of faith is to have faith, as the expression goes, to “let go and let God.”  It is so easy – so easy to latch onto our own agendas and preconceived notions and get so comfortable with them that we assume what we want is what God wants.  Real conversion moves us beyond that.

The second thing I'm convinced of is the radical and sometimes unsettling reality of the inclusive nature of the body of Christ – and how the pursuit of this needs to be at the heart of everything we do in the church.  Real conversion allows us to make this our primary focus and heal the wounds that have too often been inflicted in the name of a loving God.

Now I'm not saying either of these are easy or simple, because they're not.  I'm just saying on this Pentecost Sunday that God can indeed do marvelous things through us, if we are truly willing to let God do it; if we are truly willing to follow God's lead instead of determining it ourselves.  If we are willing to really, really listen to God when God tells us something's okay.

So come, Holy Spirit, come.  Renew and restore us.  Wash us clean.  Convert us.  Because if it's good enough for Peter, it's certainly good enough for us.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

PRISON BREAK

Acts 16: 16-40
Steve Lindsley
January 11, 2009

A few years ago FOX network debuted a new sitcom called Prison Break. I've actually never seen it – the last thing I need to do is get sucked into some new television show.  But I've heard it's pretty good and deals with issues beyond just some guys in prison – that it goes into human ethical dilemmas and stuff like that.

I saw a commercial for the show the other night, and for some reason it got me thinking: when was I first introduced to the whole concept of prison or jail?  When did I first become aware that there was a place society sent people who, for whatever reason, were deemed unworthy of being able to function normally in society?

My mind eventually took me back in time – I'm scared to tell you how far – but let's just say I was around preschool age.  Every summer my family and I used to spend a week or so at Grandmother's house – my mom's mom – in Asheville.  One of my favorite memories of these visits was Saturday night in downtown at “Shindig on the Green” - sort of a community festival with mountain music, food and  dancing.  They were lively occasions in the cool mountain summer air, and we had a blast.

But in the shadows of all of this I remember looking beyond the stage to a tall concrete building.  I remember thinking it was odd that, unlike all the other buildings in town, it had no windows.  There were just some sideways slats a few inches high.  And if I squinted hard enough I could see hands hanging out, perhaps clapping or holding a cigarette, and even a face looking through.  I remember at some point asking my Dad what it was, and he told me it was the city jail.  I got the whole scoop on the philosophy of penal institutions; and I remember that conversation left me with two distinct impressions: one, that I never, ever wanted to go there.  Two, if I did go there, there was no way I'd ever be able to get out. Because that's what they did – they kept you locked up.

Unless your name was Paul or Silas, and then you'd be in luck.  I mean, prison was nothing new for Christians in first century Palestine.  That's what the Roman empire did to the “rebel-rousers” - folks who dared to pledge allegiance to anyone other than the emperor, especially when it was to a carpenter from Nazareth.  If they got too passionate about the guy and started disturbing their precious peace, prison was the only place for them.

Prison was exactly where Paul and Silas found themselves – more on how they got there in a minute.  They were shackled like the rest, entombed behind those  thick stone walls, slated to be there for who knows how long.  And then suddenly, all of that changed when an earthquake caused the walls to tumble to the ground and the shackles around their hands and feet to fall away.  Wow!  What incredible luck!  Talk about a prison break – now they were free to go!

And yet, they didn't move.  They just sat there – much to the surprise and shock of the prison guard, whose heart sank as he watched all the other prisoners take off with glee.  The rest may have headed for the exits – but not Paul and Silas.  They didn't move a muscle.

It's an obvious question, so let's go ahead and ask it: why did Paul and Silas stay? What could possibly have kept them from running out like the rest?  I mean, could there have been any greater sign of God's approval of their work in ministry than this – walls falling down and shackles coming undone?  You're free to go!  I tell you – I would've been out the door in a heartbeat.  There's nothing that would've compelled me to stay.  Because, like most people, the last place I want to be is behind bars.

In fact, I was curious exactly how many people are behind those bars these days.  I did some research this past week and learned that worldwide, 8.75 million people are in some kind of penal institution – with half of those in Russia, China, and the United States.  In our country specifically, as of the end of 2007, almost 2.3 million people were behind bars.  We also have the highest prison per capita ratio in the world, at around 686 per 100,000 people (http://www.ojp.usdoj.gov/bjs/prisons.htm and http://www.homeoffice.gov.uk/rds/pdfs2/r188.pdf , visited on 1.4.2009).

Lots of people have different perspectives on the purpose of prisons.  Some see it as nothing more than a place to punish criminals and permanently remove them from society.  Still others view it as an opportunity for rehabilitation, where people can move on from their mistakes and become fully functioning members of society.  No matter what you think, though, there always seems to be the need for more of them, such as the prison that's being bantered back and forth right here in Surry County.

All of which brings up back to the question at hand: why did Paul and Silas stay in prison?  It doesn't make a whole lot of sense, does it?  It kind of makes me wonder if there's more to this story than simply some prisoners and a prison break.  Or, putting it more precisely, maybe it's about a different kind of prisoner and a different kind of prison break.  Maybe, just maybe, Paul and Silas aren't the real prisoners here. 

And I think we have to go back a few steps, back before the earthquake, back before the two of them even found themselves in jail, to what got them there in the first place.  Paul and Silas are out and about when they encounter a young slave girl who follows them around everywhere.  The notable thing about this kid is that she's possessed with a “spirit of divination” - some kind of demon is what some call it.  But in contrast to the kind of yucky things horror movies might plant in our heads, this demon-possessed girl has nothing but flattering things to say about Paul and Silas, calling them “slaves of the most high God.” Kind of interesting, isn't it; the irony of a slave girl referring to two totally free men as “slaves” themselves.

I guess there are worse things a demon-possessed girl could've called them.  But after a number of days, either her presence or her persistence apparently started to grate on Paul's nerves.  So in a final fit of frustration, Paul orders the demon to come out of the girl, which it promptly does. The young girl, once imprisoned to this demon, is now free!  How wonderful – a prison break of the spirit!

It's great, isn't it?  It is if you're the girl – but not so much if you're her masters.  Because apparently those who owned her had been making a good bit of money off her odd behavior.  And now, having been set free from that spirit, she was useless to them.  The irony of these men greeting her freedom with such disdain shouldn't go unnoticed to us.  And it's precisely that which causes her masters to send Paul and Silas straight to a real prison.

That girl wasn't the only one who encountered their own sort of prison break.  The same happened to the Roman guard at Paul and Silas' prison.  Even more irony – that a man in charge of guarding the prison doors is the real one imprisoned!  How else can you explain his rationale that the only possible response to the earthquake and all the prisoner's being released was to take his own life?  That is the sign of someone who is hopelessly lost in their captivity.  As a Roman soldier his ultimate authority lay at the feet of the emperor, who ruled with absolute power.  And the emperor's power came solely out of fear of what would happen to those who did not succumb to it.  When power is perverted like that, when it's used to force and get one's way – like masters over a slave girl or the emperor over a prison guard – when that happens , there is no such thing as freedom.  

How about that?  We start with this odd story of a prison break, and two disciples who chose not to follow the masses out of the hole in the prison wall.  We're amazed at their luck and dumbfounded.  We think it's a neat little story and then we move on.  But there's another way, a deeper way, a more meaningful way to see this story, isn't there?  It's a way that calls into question our understanding of so many things – not just what imprisonment is (and, by association, what freedom is), but who is really imprisoned.

Because the truth of the matter is that Paul and Silas were not the real prisoners of this story, are they?  The girl and the Roman guard were.  In their own way they were held captive by their own devices and the people who had authority over them.  And breaking free from that imprisonment – and helping others to do the same – is never easy. 

And yet that's the calling of us Christ-followers, isn't it?  As Christians we are called to set people free, because that's what Jesus did.  When a hated tax collector waited for him in the trees because nobody would make room for him, Jesus invited himself over to the guy's house for dinner.  When the woman was in the process of being executed, Jesus implored those without sin to cast the first stone.  When his closest confidant denied three times that he even knew him in his hour of greatest need, he later had lunch with him on the beach and told him how much he loved him.  And all of this – all of this took him straight to the cross.  Because that's what our world does with people who dare to set the imprisoned free.

And you know something?  It makes me wonder if maybe the reason Paul and Silas stayed put was to call you and me to a different way of living – helping to set people free from whatever it is that holds them captive.  People who are hurting silently; people who have no voice. People who are backed in a corner with nowhere to go; people who cannot fend for themselves.  Maybe, just maybe, the calling of  Christians is to engage in a totally different kind of prison break, where it's not rocks and chains that are busted open, but the human soul; God's image within each of us.

Reminds me of the district court judge who one day heard the case of a man caught stealing a loaf of bread.  When the judge got the whole story, though, he learned that the man had no job and his family was hungry. He had tried unsuccessfully to get work; and finally to feed his family, he resorted to something he neither wanted to do nor was proud of.

It would've been so easy for that judge to look at this as just one of hundreds of similar cases for the day.  But on that day, for whatever reason, the judge chose not to do that.  He first told the man, “I’m sorry, but the law can make no exceptions. You stole. Therefore I have to punish you. I order you to pay a fine.”  But he said, “However, I want to pay the fine myself.”  He reached into his pocket and pulled out the money and handed it to him.

He wasn't done.  As soon as the man took the money, the judge then told the court that he wanted to remit the fine, allowing the man to keep it.  “Furthermore,” he went on to say, “I am going to ask the bailiff to pass the hat around to everyone in this courtroom, and I’m fining everyone in this courtroom a dollar for living in a city where a man has to steal in order to have bread to eat.”  The money was collected and given to the defendant (http://homileticsonline.com/subscriber/illustrations_for_installment.asp?installment_id=93000332, visited on 1.4.2009).

Now don't get me wrong – I'm not suggesting we invade the judicial process and turn it on its heels.  I'm just thinking that Jesus came to set people free from those things in this world that bind us and keep us from becoming the children of God we were created to be.  Let's you and me free some human souls from their captivity, shall we?  Let's join him in the prison break.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.

PETER GIVES 'EM A KISS!

Acts 2: 14, 22-24, 33, 37-42; Psalm 116: 1-4, 12-19
Steve Lindsley
August 31, 2008

After preaching from this pulpit for the better part of 5½ years I'm sure you've come to learn a few things about my “preaching style.”  You've probably picked up on the fact, for instance, that I try to stay away from the “three-points-and-a-poem” formula.  You may have noticed that I make every effort to keep sermons at around 15 minutes, give or take a few.

You may have also realized that I'm kind of particular when it comes to sermon titles.  I have no evidence to prove this, but I've always felt that a good sermon title kind of catches the eyes of folks as they're glancing over the bulletin before worship, or scanning our church website or sermon blog.  I'd like to think that it sort of reels you in, gets you thinking and has you asking questions before I've even stepped in the pulpit.

So assuming this is the case, I can only wonder what kind of thoughts and what kind of questions entered your mind as you read today's sermon title.  Perhaps you've found yourself asking something like:

Why is Peter making affectionate motions to the crowd?
or:
Does Peter really need to hand out little chocolate candies to keep his audience engaged?
or maybe even:
Why is Peter hanging out with a 1970's metal back known for wearing makeup and singing songs like “Detroit Rock City” and “Rock & Roll All Night”??

None of these, of course, are what the sermon is about, but you knew that.  You probably also knew that, at the very least, this sermon is about a guy named Peter, who is speaking to a crowd.  It's an interesting crowd to say the least.  Some of the people there are followers of Jesus, like Peter; they have gathered together as instructed by Jesus, who is no longer with them.  And quite unexpectedly something marvelous happens, and they are filled with a powerful Spirit as never before; and begin to do miraculous things like speak in foreign languages and be emboldened beyond their normal nature.  The rest of the crowd, as Acts tells it, are those who rush to the scene when they hear all the commotion.  Some seem genuinely impressed with what's going on, while others surmise that these wackos are either a few clowns short of a circus, or have hit the local watering hole way too early in the day.

And that is when our hero Peter enters the scene.  Stepping up to the proverbial mic he launches into what turns out to be a sermon for the ages.  With the skill of a seasoned preacher – something fishermen weren't typically known for – he weaves Hebrew scripture from the book of Joel into words about the Jesus who has brought them there.  He has the crowd eating out of his hand, hanging on to his every word.  And as the sermon rises to a fever pitch the crowd is mobilized into action: What must we do, they shout.   And in his best rendition of a tent revival meeting Peter answers back, Repent and be baptized!  And they do exactly that – in droves.  In fact, according to scripture, 3000 people make the decision to leave their old lives behind and begin a new one.

Three-thousand. That's a lot of people!  That has to rival even the best Billy Graham crusade, don't you think?  That's larger than some small towns!

How did he do this?  How did “fisherman Peter” rise to the occasion and preach a once-in-a-lifetime sermon that led thousands to “see the light?”  I'll tell you how he didn't do it.  He didn't do it with a high-tech, slick computer interface with PowerPoint program, state-of-the-art light show and the best praise and worship band around.  He didn't do it by scaring them into submission – using fear to motivate and cajole, which seems to be all the rage these days in some political and religious circles.  And he didn't do it by promising his listeners some financial benefit for their faithfulness – known more commonly today as the “prosperity gospel” promulgated by the likes of pastor Kenneth Copeland and the popular Prayer of Jabez book a few years ago.

How did Peter bring 3000 people to the faith?  How does anybody come to faith, really?  How do we come to believe what we believe; something that, while still being a work in progress, nevertheless brings us to sit in a church sanctuary every Sunday morning?  How do we come to a point where we consciously choose to do as those 3000 did – respond to the gospel with our very lives?

Well, if you happen to be the writer of the 116th psalm, you apparently come to it like this: you encounter some hardship in your life; something that rocks your boat with tidal-sized waves.  The psalmist speaks of “the snares of death” encompassing us and “the pangs of Sheol” laying hold on our soul.  He's speaking in generalities, of course; but we get the picture – it ain't good.  So we do what we tend to do in tough spots like this: we pray as the psalmist did: O Lord, save my life! And at some point we experience transformation; or, to put it more exact, we experience deliverance.  God has stepped in and answered our prayer.  The difficulty in our life subsides; the storm's waves retreat into calmer oceans.

And with this experience and knowledge, we know that our lives cannot be the same anymore.  We make a commitment to lift up the one who lifted us up:

I will lift up the cup of salvation and call on the name of the Lord,
I will pay my vows to the Lord in the presence of all his people.
I will offer (to the Lord) a thanksgiving sacrifice and call on the name of the Lord.

 

Trials and tribulations – to deliverance – to proclamation.  That's what the Psalmist is doing here.  And in a sense, that's what Peter was doing on that Pentecost Sunday!  Throughout his life with Jesus, Peter struggled– struggled to believe, struggled to have faith, and on Jesus' last day struggled to admit he was the disciple he in fact was.

And yet in the midst of all of that, Peter felt God's grace wash over him like a fresh mountain stream; felt those waves subside.  He felt and experienced deliverance from his time of trial.  And that is when Peter made the decision to respond to that gift of deliverance by helping others experience the same thing themselves.

So in a sense it was not a fisherman who stood up before that crowd on Pentecost Sunday.  It was not a wayward disciple who always seemed to have a knack for speaking before thinking.  No, the one who stepped up to the mic in front of that mass of people was a transformed man who did nothing more – nothing more – than tell people about Jesus: I mean, it's kind funny when you think about it.  No gimmicks, no slicked-up talking points, no tricks of the trade.  He just tells these people about:

Jesus of Nazareth a man attested to you by God
with deeds of power, wonders, and signs that God did through him among you,
this man, handed over to you according to the definite plan and foreknowledge of God,
you crucified and killed by the hands of those outside the law.
But God raised him up, having freed him from death,
because it was impossible for him to be held in its power.

I mean, you can't get any more basic than that, can you?  Jesus, born as son of God.  Jesus, teacher and preacher and healer.  Jesus, crucified.  Jesus, risen.  I will call upon the name of the Lord in the presence of all of the peoples – the Psalmist declared it; Peter did it.  And they responded to it by the thousands.

Is it that simple, really?  Is it as simple as just telling people about Jesus? It's almost silly that we have to even ask that question.  But look at our track record over thousands of years of history in the church. Look at our track record and you can see.

Back in Peter's day it was simple.  The early church grew because people were brought into the transforming presence of Jesus Christ – that was it.  Churches sprung up in people's living rooms, and they sought refuge there.  The world outside may not have been the most accommodating of places, but inside the fellowship of Christ-followers nurtured one another for the journey.  And when they all got together they did three simple things: they praised God, they broke bread, and they looked to share the story of Jesus with themselves and with others.

But things changed dramatically a couple of hundred years later when the Roman emperor Constantine came to the throne and decreed that the empire was now a Christian one.  When he did that he took the church out of the living room and put it in the public square.  Christians were not followers anymore as much as they were citizens.  The church was no longer a movement as much as it was an institution.  Missions became programs, nurturing became indoctrination, and fellowship was fostered not out of genuine love but moreso out of necessity.

You and I live in light of this legacy in the year 2008.  And while I am certainly not one to discount the thousands of years of rich church history – not to mention the 150 years at this particular church – I do think it's important for us to recognize: to recognize how far, in some ways, we in the church have fallen away from what brought us together in the first place; what binds us as one and sustains us through the hard times.  We have important things in the church like schedules and programs and committees and budgets and buildings and structure – but so does the rest of the world.  So does the rest of the world.  What we in the church have that the world does not have is Jesus.  And whatever we do, however we do it, we need to make absolutely certain that we as followers of Christ remember that our primary mission, our reason for being, is just to tell people about Jesus.

Is it really that simple?  I think it may be.  And that's why I think Peter most certainly gave those thousands of people a KISS on that Pentecost Sunday long ago.  Which brings us back to the sermon title – and no, it was not a sign of affection or a chocolate candy or a heavy metal band.  It's the kind of KISS that was brought up at the Bob Chilton Bible Study this past week – ironically, after the study was over and most folks had left.  We had been studying these passages from Psalms and Acts; and one person came up to me and quite matter-of-factly said, You know, Steve, it's the KISS principle.  And I had no idea what he was talking about.  So I asked him what the KISS principle was, and he told me: K-I-S-S.  Keep It Simple, Stupid!

How's that for a Peter-like mantra for the church?  Keep it simple!  Peter very well may have told them, and may be telling us: Keep it simple!  Don't get bogged down in this and that, in how the church is run, or what doctrines are “correct.”  Don't get sidetracked by competing agendas or plans for the future or immaterial things.  These things have their place, but never let them consume you.  And most of all, don't ever forget that the church is not about you.  It's never about you.  It's always about God.  It's about Jesus.  Keep it simple.

My friends, there are many, many wonderful things going on right now in this church.  We have a session who is committed to the betterment of this congregation.  We have a Fall Stewardship season approaching that will enable the church's members to support God's mission and vision here.  We have new people visiting almost every Sunday, new members joining in significant numbers, and a youth group that has seen its numbers more than double in less than a year.  From the world's view we are a success.

But you and I know the truth, don't we?  We know that these things are not about success as much as they are about the spirit – the same spirit that descended on those disciples  two thousand years ago and gave them something to talk about.  And like Peter we know that this spirit is not of our own doing.  We know it is because of Jesus – the living Jesus inside you, inside me, inside us all.  And more than any program or church structure, that is what people are hungry for.

So let's keep it simple, shall we?  Let's never stop telling them about Jesus.  It's what they need to hear.  And it's what we need to be telling them, and showing them, in all that we do, in all that we are.  Thanks be to God.  AMEN.