Face to Face -- July Sermon Series

Genesis 32:22-32

July 13, 2025

            The Pink Panther movies were popular when I was a kid. Peter Sellers starred as Inspector Clouseau, who was a bumbling but very funny detective. While I was more attuned to the Saturday morning Pink Panther cartoon, I do remember one aspect of each film. Clouseau had a manservant named Cato. Cato was a master of martial arts, and it was his job to attack Clouseau at unexpected times. This was meant to keep the inspector vigilant and, on his toes, when dealing with criminals. What was funny is that Cato would ambush him anyplace, any time, even at home. But if the telephone rang or someone came to the door, he would immediately return to his role as the devoted valet. 

            When I read this story about Jacob wrestling this mysterious man by the river Jabbok, the ongoing Cato/Clouseau ambush attack came to my mind. It's not that I find humor in this story from Genesis. It's not a funny story. But reading about the struggle between Jacob and this man, I can't help but get the sense that this was an ambush of sorts. I doubt the man presented himself to Jacob and said, "Hey Jacob, wanna wrestle?" And I don’t think it was a friendly match between buddies. It was a slugfest. 

            It is nighttime and Jacob has sent his family, his wives and children, ahead of him. He is left alone, and in the dark a man wrestles with him. I cannot imagine how exhausting it would have been to wrestle back and forth like this for hours. And it must have been hours, because it is just before daybreak that this man realizes that Jacob won’t be overcome, so he touches his hip and dislocates that joint between hip and thigh.

As the sky around them begins to change from dark to light, the man demands release. But Jacob won’t let him go. Jacob was given the name, Jacob, because it means grasper, and he was born grasping, clinging and clutching his older brother's heel. Jacob, the grasper, refuses to let the man go. He wants a blessing. Jacob has stood his ground after all. The mysterious man who attacked him in the dark of night could not best Jacob. The man demands release and Jacob demands a blessing. The man asks Jacob his name. When Jacob replies, "Jacob," the man gives him a new name; Israel. The name Israel, according to the text, means one who has striven against God and humans and prevailed. 

This is the story that we are wrestling with today. It is a strange and a somewhat disturbing story. However, I think to understand a little better what's happening in this text, we have to know more about the larger context that surrounds this story. What events led up to this nighttime wrestling match?

Jacob, who ran away from his home after tricking his twin brother, Esau, and stealing Esau’s blessing by tricking his father, Isaac, was tricked by Laban, into marrying both of his daughters, Leah and Rachel. Jacob has now worked for his father-in-law for 20 years. While Jacob was growing his family, he was also growing Laban's flocks. Jacob's labor for Laban has made Laban wealthy and prosperous. When Rachel, who was barren for so long, gives birth to Joseph, Jacob goes to Laban and asks to be released from his bonds to Laban. He wishes to return to his homeland, to make things right with his brother Esau.

Laban agrees to divide the flocks with Jacob. Jacob will take the goats, the sheep that are striped, spotted or speckled and leave the rest for Laban. Laban orders that any animal with those markings must be separated from the flocks and herds before Jacob can take them. Jacob knows what his father-in-law has done, and in either the first instance of genetic engineering or through some sort of supernatural trickery, is able to manipulate the animals as they breed. So more lambs and kids are born striped, speckled or spotted than any other kind. Thus they belong to Jacob. 

            Jacob hears Laban's sons grumbling that he has more of their father’s wealth than he deserves. He also knows that his esteem in Laban's eyes has decreased significantly. Being told by God in a dream that it's time to leave, Jacob talks it over with Leah and Rachel. They pack up, people and animals alike, and leave early in the morning. When Laban hears about it, he chases after them. Amid the packing and the leaving, Rachel stole her father's household gods. Laban thinks Jacob stole them and accuses him of it when he finally catches up to them. Jacob doesn't know what Rachel has done, so he tells Laban to freely search for them. Rachel hides the gods by stuffing them into a saddle bag and sitting on them. When her father comes into her tent to search, she apologizes for not standing up in the presence of her father, but she is "in the way of women." When Laban is satisfied that his gods are not with Jacob and company, they make a covenant and mark it with two pillars of stone. I find it almost funny that the beginning words of their covenant – “The Lord watch between you and me, when we are absent one from the other" – are used on matching necklaces to be shared with friends, and embroidered on sentimental little pillows. However when you read them in their actual context, it's not a sweet sentiment between father and son-in-law. It is an uneasy truce at best. And before he leaves, Laban reminds Jacob that if he does anything to hurt Laban's daughters, God will know.

Laban and his posse leave, and now Jacob must face the prospect of seeing his brother again. He divides his entourage into groups and sends them ahead one after the other, both to offer gifts to Esau, and most likely to show off his wealth and resources. Finally he sends his wives and children ahead, and we come at last to our part of the story. Jacob, alone at night, on the run from one angry man whom he tricked and deceived and about to face another, Esau, also tricked and deceived by Jacob. Whatever Jacob was thinking or feeling in that darkness on that night, he most likely did not realize that the ground beneath his feet was holy.             

            Up until this moment, I’ve always seen Jacob as sort of the Justin Bieber of the Old Testament. I can't understand why a punk like him has been chosen in the first place, and there’s something about him that makes me think he needs to be smacked upside his head. But something about this night is different. Something about this encounter with the divine is different. The encounter with God that he had many years before when he dreamed of staircases and angels was a holy moment to be sure, but it was merely a portent of what was to come. That dream didn't seem to fundamentally change Jacob. But this night is different. As one commentator noted on this night, in the darkness, faced with an unexpected ambush, for the first time Jacob, the trickster, the deceiver, doesn't try to weasel his way out of a confrontation. He doesn't bargain or try to slip away. He wrestles the man face-to-face. He struggles. He stands his ground as surely as the other man stands his. And from those dark hours of struggle and wrestling, as the new day dawns, Jacob is changed. He is transformed. He becomes Israel. He has been wrestling on holy ground.

            But how could it be holy ground if Jacob walks away with a limp? Wouldn’t meeting God face-to-face on holy ground be a healing moment instead of a wounding one? Jacob’s wound is not temporary either. He will limp for the rest of his life. He will bear a physical reminder of his night spent on holy ground. Maybe this seems counterintuitive to us, because surely we should not walk away from holy ground with scars. We should walk away from holy ground, from encountering the divine, with shining faces not scarred and limping. But if you’ve lived for any amount of time, you bear the scars of that life, don’t you? And it is our scars and our healed over wounds that tell our stories. The scars on my knees tell the story of how many times I tried to skateboard down the street I grew up on. I have a scar on the top of my foot from the summer when I was expecting Zach and tried to cut rhubarb and dropped the knife.

            And I bear other scars too, scars that can’t be seen but are there. Scars from the long dark nights of the soul. Scars that come from wrestling with God and my inner demons and my fears and doubts. Scars that were made while I stood on holy ground, even if I didn’t know it was holy ground at the time. Because standing on holy ground is not always nice. It is not necessarily a place of optimism or sweetness and light. Holy ground may be the place where we wrestle and struggle and strive with God. Holy ground may be the ground we stand on when we wrestle with our fears and our failures, when we wrestle with the parts of ourselves we would rather not come to the light. Standing on holy ground may leave us limping.

Meeting God on holy ground did not leave Jacob unscathed. But he was transformed. He walked away from this encounter with God, away from this holy ground not only with a limp but with a blessing and with a new name. Jacob, who has been living up to his name his whole life as a grasper of others, a trickster, a cunning deceiver, now bears the name Israel – one who has striven with God and with humans and prevailed. Israel is the name that he will live into and live up to from this moment on.

Holy ground, the places and times when we encounter God, reveals our call and reveals ourselves. Holy ground can be uncomfortable and even frightening, but it can transform us, body and soul. Thanks be to God for those times we stand on holy ground, for those long nights when we wrestle with God, for those encounters with God that transform us even if that transformation comes with a limp. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

Holy Ground -- July Sermon Series

Exodus 3:1-6

July 6, 2025

 

            When Brent and I went to Richmond, Virginia in May to attend a conference at my seminary, I realized that I had not been back to my alma mater or to Richmond in general in 25 years. It wasn’t because I didn’t want to go back, it’s just been because, you know, life. Family, work, distance, money, time, life. All those factors and more have made it hard to get back to the seminary and the city that I loved. So, it was great to get to make the trip this Spring and show Brent the place where I encountered my burning bush.

            You heard me correctly. I’ve tried to describe what I’m about to describe countless times, and I’m never sure I’ve given a clear account but I’m going to try again. I moved to Richmond not to attend seminary but for a job. The job was terrible, but I found my way to a Presbyterian Church and my life was transformed. The job went away, which was both terrifying and a blessing, and I was scrambling to find another one. I’d heard through folks at church that the Presbyterian seminary in town was hiring. So, resumé in hand, I went to the school to apply. I parked in front of the main building and walked around the corner of that building trying to get oriented to the campus when I was stopped short.

            This is an old seminary in an old neighborhood. At the top of Watts, which is the main administration building, there are gargoyles watching over the campus. There is a quad, which is just what the name implies – a large rectangle of grass surround on all four sides by buildings – the library, dorms, the chapel, faculty offices located in old houses. It’s very pretty but there’s nothing extraordinary about it, about any of it. But when I walked around that corner, saw the quad, saw the other buildings, I was overwhelmed with this intense feeling, intuition, deep-seated knowledge – there are no suitable words – and whatever this sensation was, it stopped me in my tracks. I just stood there and looked and looked and looked. The seminary can be intimidating, but I didn’t feel intimidated. I felt overwhelmed and overcome. In that moment, I just knew in a way that I had never experienced before or since I must be on that campus. I had to be in that community. I had to be on those grounds and in those buildings. Whatever that feeling or intuition or sudden knowledge was, it was powerful. But it was only in hindsight that I recognized it for what it was: I was being called. That sounds hokey, I know, but I believe it to be true. I was hearing, feeling, intuiting a call. There was no deep voice calling my name.

“Amy, I want you to be a minister in the Presbyterian Church (USA).”

I didn’t actually see any bushes, burning or otherwise. I just knew I needed to be there. At that moment, I thought it would be through a job. It wasn’t until a month or two later that I began to contemplate being there as a student. But that’s what would eventually happen. Whatever it was that happened to me in that moment, whatever it was that I felt or knew or understood, it was a call. It was my Moses moment, my metaphorical burning bush.

Moses encountered an actual burning bush.

He was out tending the flock for his father-in-law, Jethro. He led the flock beyond the wilderness to the mountain Horeb. We, as the readers and hearers of this story, know that Horeb is the mountain of God, but there is no indication that Moses understood that he was encountering the divine. Again, we also know that what is making the bush burn is no ordinary fire but the flame of the angel of the Lord. But Moses does not know that. What Moses knows is that there is a bush that appears to be burning, but the fire is not consuming it. It’s not being turned into ash as it burns. It grabs his attention, it piques his curiosity, so he decides to go and see what this burning bush is all about.

“I must turn aside and look at this great sight and see why the bush is not burned up.”

Biblical scholar Terence Fretheim points out that Moses was not frightened by the sight of the burning bush. He was not repelled by it either. He does not seem to think that there is anything godly about it. He is merely curious, and God uses his curiosity to draw him closer. As Fretheim wrote, “curiosity leads to call.” It is only when Moses’ curiosity compels him to go closer that God begins to speak to him.

And when God speaks to him, he tells Moses to remove his sandals for the place where Moses is standing is holy ground. Again, there is nothing to indicate that this is holy ground. God chooses to call Moses away from anything overtly religious or sacred. There are no temples nearby. There is no religious altar or marking to designate this as holy ground. But it is holy because this is where God and Moses meet. This is where God identifies himself to Moses as being the God of his father, the God of Abraham, the God of Isaac, the God of Jacob. If we were to keep reading in the text, God tells Moses that he has seen the misery of his people. He has witnessed their suffering and heard their cries. So God is calling Moses to be his messenger to Pharaoh. God is calling Moses to lead his people out of enslavement and into freedom.

This is a big calling, bigger than Moses was prepared for, bigger than he wanted or thought he could handle. And God has yet to reveal the full scope of Moses’ call. Moses will argue with God. Moses will tell God that he has no business being the Lord’s messenger. He is not a gifted speaker; in fact he struggles with speaking. Moses tells God that God should call his brother Aaron instead. Aaron can speak to Pharaoh. Aaron can do this job much better than Moses can. Oh, and by the way, God, if I do this and it’s still an if, the people are going to want to know who this God is who sent me. They are going to want to know your name.

God tells Moses that his name is “I Am who I Am.” Tell the people “I Am has sent me to you.”

This name God gives Moses has been studied and pondered for years, centuries. Grammatically, it could also be translated as “I Will Be who I Will Be.” Tell them “I Will Be” sent you. Or it could be translated as “I Create who I Create.” In other words, the name of God is bigger and broader and fuller than what our language or any language can communicate.

This is the call of Moses. This is the call that came from his curiosity to see a bush that was burning but not being consumed. And while the call itself is essential and important, I want to circle back to the ground, the holy ground.

It seems to me that what made the ground holy was not the presence of the bush or the mountain Horeb. There was nothing in that particular spot that designated it as holy. It was holy because it is where God chose to be. It was holy not only because it is where God chose to be, but because it is where God chose to be and where God called Moses. What made the ground holy is because God and Moses encountered each other there. It was holy because that is the site of the encounter between divine and human.  

This broadens the scope of holy ground, doesn’t it? Holy ground is not necessarily ground that is set apart for the divine. Holy ground is wherever God meets us and where we meet God. Holy ground is wherever God calls us, and we recognize that call. When I stood on that spot leading to the quad of the seminary, I was standing on holy ground. I didn’t know that, not intellectually anyway. Something in me recognized that I was standing on more than brick and concrete. I was being called even though I didn’t fully understand or comprehend that call. But it was holy ground.

If you are comfortable and able, slip off your shoes for a moment. Let your feet touch the ground beneath you. Look down and look at where your feet are. Maybe it’s where your feet are most Sundays. You are sitting in the pew or the chair where you always sit. The ground beneath you is carpet or floor, just like it always is. But I think something more is happening in this moment. I think the ground where we are standing is holy ground, because God is calling us in this moment. God is calling us in this moment, in this place, on this ground. God is calling us to hear the cries of his people, to see the suffering in the world and to respond – with our prayers, with the work of our hands, with our voices, with our whole beings. We are called and because we are called this ground beneath our feet is holy. We are standing on holy ground. Wherever God calls us, wherever God encounters us is holy ground. And because God calls us through others, those people are holy as well. It seems to me that God infuses all of creation with holiness, if only we could be curious enough to turn aside and see, if only we could recognize it in ourselves and in others. Take off your shoes because this is holy ground. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia!”

Amen.

 

Along the Road

Luke 9:51-62

June 29, 2025

 

            I was a communications major in college. My focus was on radio and television, and I had an English Writing minor. That meant that when I entered the real world after graduation, I was qualified to be an assistant to the Public Relations Director for a talent and booking agency in Nashville. Being the assistant meant that I did the grunt work of the job. I answered phones and brought coffee to our clients when they came to the office. I collected headshots and other press items from other assistants to other artists and directors to keep our stock up-to-date. I ran errands. I took the CEO’s wife’s car to the shop. And it turned out that when that same wife wanted to make venison chili for the entire office, I was the one who had to locate the venison.

            It was not a glamorous job by any stretch of the imagination, but I learned a lot. I learned by doing and I learned by listening. Mainly I learned by listening to my boss. She was great. A hard worker. A tough boss. But we became good friends, and nobody could sell like she could. Now, technically, PR is not selling. Except that it is. You’re not selling a product like dish soap, but you are selling people on the talent you represent. One of our responsibilities was creating tour press for some of the artists we represented. That meant that we had to send out press releases and schedule interviews for the upcoming shows in the cities and towns where the talent was touring. So you’d have to reach out to newspapers and radio and tv stations. My boss was a master at creating amazing tour press. She could talk to anybody about anything. She could make the most mediocre album sound like it was destined to go platinum. I would listen to her do her pitch and just marvel. She was a PR dream come true, and she knew how to spin information just so and make it work, make it believable and exciting. I would listen to her and marvel because I did not have that talent. And at the risk of sounding irreverent and sacrilegious, neither did Jesus.

            If you are looking for a lesson in selling discipleship in a neat and happy package, do not turn to our passage from Luke’s gospel as guidance. Jesus’ approach to would-be disciples is a public relations nightmare. He is not interested in making following him sound palatable. He clearly does not want to market discipleship as fun or easy. He puts no spin on what it costs to follow. He just speaks the truth, the hard truth, the messy truth, and keeps on going.

            What we learn about discipleship from this passage is that if you want to follow Jesus, you better really think it through because nothing about it is going to be easy or tidy or nice. It’s going to require total commitment on our part. Even to the point of giving up our lives for the sake of following Jesus. 

            But are we ready to do that? Are we prepared to take that step, set off down that path, and be willing to give up everything, even our lives, to follow Jesus?

            That’s the question that Jesus has for the three would-be followers in our passage from Luke. The time for the cross has drawn near so Jesus has set his face toward Jerusalem. Jerusalem, the place where his last days would be lived out, where he would stand up to the powers and principalities, not with violence nor bloodshed but with love and the power that comes from being the suffering servant.

            Jesus has set his face. This is not just a point about the direction Jesus has chosen to take. Setting his face means that Jesus is going to Jerusalem no matter what. Jesus is fully aware of what waits for him in Jerusalem, but he has set his face and there is no looking back. This is not the road most people would choose willingly. I suspect that many of us would choose to go anywhere but Jerusalem if we could foresee what lies ahead. But that isn’t Jesus. Jesus knows that taking the road to Jerusalem will make all the difference.

            So, the scene is set, and Jesus is on his way. In the first part of this narrative Luke tells us that Jesus sends messengers ahead of him. They stop in a Samaritan village but are not welcomed there because of Jesus’ destination. The enmity between Jews and Samaritans was deep and wide, so I suspect that just the idea that Jesus was going to Jerusalem, the center of Judaism, was enough reason for the Samaritans to refuse him welcome. When James and John witness this they are outraged and ask Jesus if he wants them to rain down fire on the village.  But Jesus rebukes them, not the villagers like we might expect. Rejection is part and parcel of following Jesus, and to respond with anger to anyone who disagrees with you or rejects your message is to spend more energy on anger than on love. Therefore, there will be no raining down fire on villages.

            They travel on, and along the road the first of the would-be disciples approaches them and declares to Jesus, “I will follow you wherever you go.”

            Seeing as how Jesus’ disciples often made the decision to follow him in an instant, it is surprising that Jesus doesn’t immediately take this person up on his offer. But Jesus replies in an unexpected way, “Foxes have holes and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” It’s as if Jesus is asking this person, “Are you sure about this? Are you really sure? Following me is not about comfort and stability. Following me means that you are not guaranteed even a pillow to lay your head on at night. Are you sure you want to follow?

            Then Jesus calls to another person, “Follow me.” This person tells Jesus that he must first go and bury his father. Jesus’ responses continue to surprise. “Let the dead bury their own dead, but as for you, go and proclaim the kingdom of God.”

            Scholars far smarter than me have been trying to work out the exact meaning of Jesus’ words about letting the dead bury the dead. Is this about the spiritual dead burying the physically dead? Or something else? But I’m not sure understanding his exact meaning is really the point. I think it is more about understanding his urgency. If you want to follow me, you must let go of everything that holds you here, even burying your father.

            Jesus approaches still another person who tells him that he will gladly follow him but first let him say goodbye to the loved ones back home. For the third time, Jesus responds with the unexpected, “No one who puts a hand to the plow and looks back is fit for the Kingdom of God.”

            Again, Jesus seems to be telling these potential followers that they must let go of all that holds them where they are. What they consider priorities are really obstacles to following. What they think are responsibilities are really excuses to prevent them from following him.

            Think about the first person. He wants to follow. He’s eager to follow. He seeks discipleship with Jesus voluntarily. But Jesus issues him a stern warning. Even animals have a place to call home, but the Son of Man doesn’t. And the implication of this is that anyone who follows Jesus will suffer the same consequences. So are you ready to follow Jesus, to be without security, without home? Are you ready to face the trials and tribulations that will inevitably be encountered on the road of discipleship? Have you counted the cost?

            The next prospective disciples are also willing to follow Jesus, BUT. I will follow you, Jesus, but I have duties I must fulfill. But I have responsibilities I must take care of. But I have priorities. I have prior commitments. I have a long to-do list and very little checked off. However Jesus wants them to understand that discipleship, following him, is not something you put off until its convenient. It will never be convenient. You can’t check off discipleship on a list of tasks and think that it’s over and done. It is ongoing. It is all the time. It is not a priority, it must be your top priority.

            Following Jesus along this road comes with a cost. Have you counted the cost?

The Biblical scholars I’ve read agree that Jesus’ responses are harsh. They are, and it would be easy to try and explain this harshness away by saying that Jesus was using hyperbole, deliberate exaggeration to make his point. But that doesn’t do justice to Jesus’ words. Jesus’ face is set toward Jerusalem. He’s going. He has chosen this road, and he knows what lies ahead. He’s told the disciples, twice, what it means for him to be the Son of God. He will suffer. He will die. He will be raised again. Jesus refuses to put a pleasant PR spin on following him. Jesus knows what’s coming, so there is no time for waffling. There is no such thing as casual discipleship.   

There is no such thing as casual discipleship, and that should give us pause. Jesus wasn’t speaking in hyperbole. He wasn’t exaggerating to make a point. Discipleship is hard, uncomfortable, inconvenient, and it could cost you everything. There is no spin on this that can make it nice and tidy and easy. There is no way to sell this so that it is palatable and polite. Discipleship is hard. Following is hard. Choosing the road that Jesus chose is hard. I think Jesus really means what he is saying, and that gives me pause. That makes me uncomfortable, because I know that I do not follow him with this level of commitment. I like comfort. I enjoy having a soft place to lay my head. I am good at nesting. Please don’t ask me to lay aside my to-do list. Please don’t ask me to reprioritize. There are some costs that I am still not willing to count.

An acquaintance that I met on a study trip in seminary many years ago, joked with me about the serious signatures of most pastors. He wasn’t talking about our names. He was talking about the ways we end letters or emails. Like in my weekly emails to the church, I always sign off by writing, “Peace and blessings.” Other ministers will write, “In Christ,” or “Serving Christ,” or “In Christ’s holy name,” and so on and so on. But this person joked that when he became a full-fledged minister, he was going to sign off with “Serving him leisurely in my spare time.”

We both laughed at the irony of this, but looking back I wonder if that signature is truer than I care to admit. Do I serve leisurely? Is my commitment more on the spare time side and not on the this is my top priority side? Have I really counted the cost?

So, what is the good news in all this? What is the good news in this passage that gives us pause? What is the good news about following Jesus when it’s hard and uncomfortable and even scary? The good news is that we’re here. That we’re listening. That we keep on trying. We may fail and falter, but we come back. We continue along the road. I’m not trying to let us off the hook, but I am trying to trust in the power of grace. I trust that the call to follow continues to be offered. I trust that God’s love is bigger than my mistakes, my misgivings, and my missteps. And I trust that the Holy Spirit is still moving, still working, through me and in me, through us and in us. And that gives me hope. Hope that even when I mess up and fall away, Jesus still calls, Jesus still challenges, Jesus still wants us to follow. That is good news indeed. Thanks be to God.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

 

 

How Much God Has Done

Luke 8:26-39

June 22, 2025

 

            When I was 7, I wrote a poem entitled A Wish. My mother saved this poem with the intention of embroidering it and giving it to me as a gift, which she did. It is in my office right now. Mom told me when she gave it to me that she wanted me to have proof that I was a well-adjusted child. We can dig into my mother’s reasons for thinking it necessary for me to know that I was a well-adjusted child in another sermon, but here is the content of my poem, A Wish.

            “I wish I were a teacher. Or even a nurse. Or a mother with children all around her. I wish I had a husband who was a millionaire. But I am just glad to be me. Because Amy Busse is me and that is that.”

            If I could make a wish today, it would be to talk with my seven-year-old self and discover what it was that made her happy to be her. What did she know about herself that made her so fundamentally content with the person she was? How did the seven-year-old Amy have such a solid understanding of what it means to be Amy? Because I can tell you that since that time I haven’t always had that understanding.

            I hope that it doesn’t shock or concern any of you that I admit that truth; admit that I have struggled with understanding myself, knowing myself, of having periods of identity crises, however that may be defined. I think it probably makes me normal. I think that one of the challenges we often face as we grow up and grow older is trying to figure out who we are amid all the good and the bad that we encounter and endure, all the life we experience. The self-assuredness I had at seven was lost to the deep self-consciousness of adolescence. It began to come back as I entered adulthood, but it was never the same because I was not the same. Who is the same?  Our living changes us, challenges us. All that we experience, the good and bad, the dramatic and the everyday shapes us. What we learn, what we see, who we meet, who we are in relationship with, friendship with, the loves and the losses, the joys and the heartbreaks – all those pieces and parts of our lives shape us, shape our identities. At different times in my life, at turning points along the way, in seminal moments, and in everyday reflections I have wrestled with the question of “Who am I?”  Sometimes my answer to that question has come with grief as well as hope, pain along with pride.

            I realize the pain I’ve felt during my times of identity wrestling is a far cry from the pain this man, this demoniac, endures. We often write off the stories of demon possession in scripture as being undiagnosed mental illness, as though mental illness is so easily treated and dealt with today. But the reality is that mental illness still carries a terrible stigma in our culture and context, so it isn’t as though we fully understand or accept it now. And while I am not sure what I believe about actual demons, I do agree with theologian Debie Thomas, who wrote that if we understand demon possession in a broader, more general way, as that which tries to separate and keep us from God, to keep us dead, when God wants us fully alive, then we are under bombardment every day by demonic forces. And they are coming after us and at us from all possible directions.

            But whether this man was under literal demonic possession or experiencing a severe and ongoing psychotic breakdown or both, he was in pain. He was in physical, emotional, mental, and spiritual pain. Think about how awful this man’s life must have been. He is described as a man of the city. Does this mean that once upon a time he was an upright citizen? Fully functioning and capable? A person with family and friends, a profession, a life? But something changed for him. For a long time, he was without adequate clothing and shelter. He roamed among the tombs, which was probably its own sort of wasteland and wilderness. He was kept under guard but was that more for his protection or for the other people in the city.

He was bound with shackles and chains, but they could not hold him. He would break out of them and be driven by his demons “into the wilds.” The demons drove him to break loose of his bindings, but he could never break free. There was no liberation. Whatever had once made this man a whole person, a unique child of God, seemed to have been destroyed forever. It was a nightmarish existence indeed.

            But then … Jesus arrives. Jesus and his disciples have been traveling in a boat across the sea. While they were sailing they were assailed by a terrible storm, but Jesus calmed it with a word. Now that the storm has subsided and he and his disciples have crossed over to dry land, Jesus is confronted with a different kind of storm – the storm of possession that rages inside this man. 

            This story is found in all three synoptic gospels, Matthew, Mark and Luke. Luke tells us that when the man sees Jesus, the demons in him cry out,

“What have you to do with me, Jesus, Son of the Most High God? I beg you, do not torment me.” 

The demons recognize Jesus as the Son of God before the people do, and this is not the first instance of that happening. I find it interesting that, if I’m reading it correctly, Jesus has made at least one attempt at commanding the demons to leave the man. It’s almost as if their words are in response to his command. What changes everything is when Jesus asks the man, “What is your name?”  His answer? “Legion.”

            To us, hearing the word legion probably translates to “a great number” or “many” or “a whole bunch.” But the people witnessing this encounter would have heard it differently. They would have had a crystal clear picture of what a legion was. These were people living under Roman occupation. A legion of Roman soldiers was a troop of 5,000 to 6,000 men. That goes well beyond my initial assumption of what a legion might look like.   

            If the demons possessing this man are legion, then how could there be anything left of him? Whoever he was before surely was gone. But Jesus asking that question, “what is your name?” opens the door for the demons to leave and calls the man back to himself. The demons did not want to leave the man. They did not want to go back to the abyss of chaos and evil. As Debie Thomas also pointed out, even evil and chaos resist evil and chaos. The legion of demons  begs Jesus to let them enter a herd of swine feeding on a hillside. Jesus gives them permission. The demons rush out of the man, enter the pigs and the entire herd runs down the steep bank into the lake and drown. 

            This is the point in the story where I think many of us stop listening because we’re horrified at either the animal cruelty that’s involved here or the lost livelihood to the people who own those pigs, or both. It horrifies me too, I promise. But right or wrong, I think we need to get past that and pay attention to what happens next. We need to pay attention to the people’s response to the man. The swineherds have witnessed this, so they run off to tell everyone what they have seen and heard. The people come out to see for themselves and what do they find? This man, who had been so completely possessed by demons that his existence – for that’s all it was – was now truly alive. He who had been naked was clothed. He who had raged and fought and broken every chain that bound him was in his right mind. He who could not be still, be quiet, be calm was now seated at the feet of Jesus, the place where disciples sit. This man, who had been lost to the demons that warred inside him, was now returned and restored.

What do we think the people’s reaction should have been? Do we think they should have rejoiced, celebrated, praised God? Whatever we might think their response should have been, we are all probably disappointed at what it was. They did not run to the man with tears in their eyes, welcoming him back into the fold. They did not rejoice at his restoration. They did not praise God. They did not thank Jesus for giving them back one of their own. Their response was fear. They were afraid. Luke says that they were “seized with great fear.” To be seized with great fear sounds almost like another kind of demon possession doesn’t it?

            The people were seized with great fear, so they did not invite Jesus and the disciples back to their homes for dinner. There were no parties thrown or feasts given. They ask Jesus to leave. Look, Jesus, could you and your friends just go? Could you just leave us in peace and stop changing everything we know and understand? So Jesus gets back in the boat to return to the other side, to Galilee. The man – now healed and whole – begs Jesus to let him go along. But Jesus tells him to go home and tell the people at home how much God has done for him. Jesus commissions the man, the restored man, the whole man, to stay where he was and witness to the people. Make them hear you. Make them see you. Let them know how much God has done for you.

            We may believe this story doesn’t have a place in our contemporary lives. We may believe that we can explain away what the man suffered by calling it mental illness. We may think that that was then and this is now, so what does this story have to teach us? Where in this story, this strange, baffling, out-there there story do we find good news?

            Maybe this story is good news because it challenges us to confront our own fear. How have we been seized with great fear in the face of what God has done and is doing for us? How many times have we chosen the demons of death that we know rather than step into the life we don’t? How many times have we, again as Debie Thomas wrote, settled for tolerance instead of challenging ourselves to love, to really, really, really love?

            And maybe the good news is that this story calls us to remember how much God has done for us. Done, already, past tense. What has God already done for us? What life has God already given us? What healing has God already offered? What transformation has God already accomplished in our midst, in our community, in our lives?

            If I were to look over my whole life to this point, from that seven-year-old I was to the person I am now, I could name so many things that God has done for me. I could point to so many times when God has been there, with me, with, me, pulling me, pushing me, calling me, comforting me, challenging me, confronting me. And that’s just my one life. What about you? What about us? What about others who need to hear from us? Because Jesus didn’t tell the man to go home and praise God and stop there. Jesus told the man to go home and tell others. Tell others the good news. Tell others how he was unshackled and unbound and loved and made whole. Tell others his name and ask them theirs.

            We are called to witness to others what God has done for us, through our words, through our actions, through our lives. And we are called to help unbind and unshackle, to loose and to love. There is no such thing as privatized salvation. Salvation is for us, and salvation is for the world. It can all begin with one simple question. What is your name?

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.

 

 

 

Wisdom -- Trinity Sunday and Father's Day

Proverbs 8:1-4, 22-31

June 15, 2025

“O God grant me …

The Serenity to accept the things I cannot change;

The Courage to change the things I can,

And the Wisdom to know the difference.”

 

            Some of you probably recognize this by its most common name, “The Serenity Prayer.” I tend to associate it with Twelve Step Groups. Perhaps you do too. And it is also widely attributed to theologian Dr. Reinhold Neibuhr. But there is a longer version of this prayer, which is less well known.

It is, “God, give me grace to accept with serenity the things that cannot be changed, Courage to change the things which should be changed, and the Wisdom to distinguish the one from the other. Living one day at a time, enjoying one moment at a time, accepting hardship as a pathway to peace, taking, as Jesus did, this sinful world as it is, not as I would have it, trusting that You will make all things right, if I surrender to Your will, so that I may be reasonably happy in this life, and supremely happy with You forever in the next. Amen.”

I struggle with both versions, not in what they say. They are both beautiful and hopeful and speak to my mind and my heart. But I struggle with them, because reading them and hearing them and finding a moment’s peace in them is one thing but putting them into practice is a whole other ballgame.

It sounds so simple, doesn’t it? Serenity to accept the things I cannot change. Beautiful. Lovely. Poetic. Courage to change the things I can. Inspiring. Hopeful. Encouraging. And the Wisdom to know the difference. Well, there’s where you lost me. It’s the Wisdom part. That last part of the shortened prayer sounds spot on, doesn’t it? I just need the wisdom to know the difference between what I can change and what I can’t. But how much time have I wasted in my life trying to change the things I cannot change, and lacking the courage to change the things I can, but believing that I was doing the opposite? How much time have I spent trying to change what cannot be changed? How much good could I have done – in my life and in the life of others – had I found the courage to change the things I can?  It’s the wisdom to know the difference that throws me off. Where do we find the wisdom? And what is wisdom anyway? It seems to be more  than knowledge or fact or intelligence. But if it is more, what is it? What is wisdom?

With this question in mind, and in preparation for this sermon, I put out a question on a clergy group that I follow on Facebook, asking others, “What does Wisdom mean to you?” Here are some of the responses that I received. “Common sense.” “Wisdom is knowing the only person I can control is myself and that is through the power of the Holy Spirit.” “Wisdom is found in the balance between logic and feeling or head and heart.” “Foolish people blame others for their mistakes. Smart people learn from their mistakes. Wise people learn from the mistakes other people make.” “Wisdom is a deep knowing and discernment that – from and with the Spirit – allows a person to translate skills/information/events into fruitful and shalom-filled living.” “Intelligence is knowing that a tomato is a fruit not a vegetable. Wisdom is knowing that tomatoes don’t belong in a fruit salad.”

And one of the best pieces of wisdom that my mother ever imparted to me – and she imparted quite a bit – was this. When Phoebe was a baby, I called my mom upset because I had read something in one of my baby books that contradicted what I was doing from instinct to care for my little one. My mom listened to my fears and then she said, “Amy, baby books are great, but the problem is the babies never read the same books that you do.” Wisdom.

So, wisdom is knowledge plus experience. Wisdom is discernment. Wisdom is balancing logic and heart. Wisdom is learning from the mistakes of others. Wisdom is knowing that a tomato doesn’t belong in a fruit salad. Wisdom is trusting your instincts when those instincts are connected to a deep love. Wisdom is trusting the Holy Spirit for a guidance that goes deeper than facts. And, to take our verses from Proverbs seriously, Wisdom is not only connected to God and creation, but Wisdom is also a gift of and part of the Spirit, part of the trinity, and has its deep origins in the creation itself.

Proverbs is a lovely but odd book in our canon. Some of this book is made up of what we tend to think of as proverbs, short, pithy statements that you might find in a fortune cookie. But other parts of this book are what we have before us today, a lengthier narrative that doesn’t just proscribe wise advice but offers a deeper understanding and description of Wisdom with a capital W.

In these verses from Chapter 8, Wisdom, described in both the Hebrew and Greek translations, as feminine, stands on a high place besides the crossroads, besides the busy intersection where people travel and encounter one another. She stands beside the gates of the town, another busy place where people would be coming and going on a regular basis, and she calls out to the people. She cries out to all the people who live. Wisdom does not stand at a distance from the people. She stands by the busiest places, the intersections of everyday life, and she calls out to the people to hear her, to be instructed by her.

In the later verses of our passage, Wisdom speaks of her origins in the beginning of creation itself. “The Lord created me at the beginning of his work, the first of acts long ago.” Wisdom was there before the earth was even formed. Wisdom was there before the depths were created, before there were springs overflowing with water, before mountains and hills had been shaped, before soil and fields, before the heavens, before the separation of earth from sky. When the Spirit of the Lord brooded over creation, Wisdom was in that brooding. Wisdom was beside the Lord, “like a master worker.” Wisdom was the delight of the Lord and rejoiced in the Lord and rejoiced in the human race.

So Wisdom is both cosmic and creation. Wisdom is the delight of God and Wisdom takes delight in humanity. Wisdom is the gift of the Spirit and the Spirit. Wisdom is big and out there and Wisdom is deeply connected to our daily living. Wisdom “touches grass” as one commentator put it. She is not just some cosmic entity above and beyond us. Wisdom is here – in us, and around us, and working through us. Perhaps Wisdom is what John was referring to in the beginning of his gospel: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. … And the Word became flesh and lived among us.”

In the language of philosophy, Wisdom is both a concept and a property. I realize that is a very heady, challenging way of trying to understand it. But then again, so is the Trinity, and this is Trinity Sunday. The day when we observe and celebrate something that is ultimately incomprehensible. And I say that after years and years of trying to understand it and impart what little understanding I have to others. But what I do sort of understand is this, Wisdom is part of the Trinity in that it is the Holy Spirit, and wisdom is also that force of love and delight that connects and binds the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit in relationship to each other and to us. If Wisdom touches grass, that means that it is practical and pragmatic and is ours as well as God’s. We have access to Wisdom, capital W and wisdom, lowercase w. Wisdom is not just out there. It is here.

Remember those first verses of Proverbs. Wisdom stands by the busiest places of human life and calls out to us. She calls out to us to hear her, to heed her, to learn from her, to delight in her as she delights in us.

I know that I have probably only confused us even more when it comes to Wisdom. But it seems to me that while wisdom is something we most often gain through experience, through making mistakes and learning from them (hopefully after the first time, although often it takes several rounds of messing up for me to finally gain wisdom), the Wisdom that is the Spirit is already ours. The people who responded to my query on Facebook often mentioned that wisdom is trusting in the Spirit for discernment and help. Wisdom is allowing the Spirit to teach and lead. Wisdom comes through the Spirit connecting our experience in the world to our heart and minds. Wisdom is trusting the Spirit to be and do what it was created to be and do: a guide, a teacher, an advocate, an abiding presence, a creative, brooding wind that pushes and pulls us, a deep understanding, a gift, a delight.

And maybe as we trust the Spirit more, we will find that delight, we will celebrate that gift, we will see the Trinity as God in relationship and work harder to build relationships with each other. Maybe as we trust the Spirit with all our hearts and minds, we will be able to live out, every day, every moment, the words of the Serenity prayer.

O God grant me the Serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the Courage to change the things I can, and the Wisdom – the trust, the relationship, the gift, the delight in the Holy Spirit – to know the difference. Thanks be to God, Father, Son, and Spirit.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

 

Holy Fire -- Pentecost Sunday

Acts 2:1-21

June 8, 2025

 

            When Brent and I first got married, we went to a special event at the Country Music Hall of Fame that honored Felice and Boudleaux Bryant, and, if I recall correctly, kicked off a special exhibit of their work. Until I met my sweet husband, I had never heard of these folks. I know that I would have remembered hearing about them before Brent came into my life, simply because you don’t hear the names Felice and Boudleaux very often. I soon learned that even though I didn’t know the names Felice and Boudleaux, I knew many of the songs they wrote really, really well. Songs like, Wake Up Little Suzie, Bye, Bye Love, Love Hurts, and perhaps the one that means the most to us as Tennesseans, Rocky Top.

            Felice and Boudleaux Bryant changed the landscape of songwriting in the Nashville music scene. Felice was Italian, and through her renowned cooking, musicians and music business emissaries alike were introduced to amazing Italian food – which was not traditional to Nashville at that time. And, of course, they wrote Rocky Top, which is you know, Rocky Top! I bet if I started singing it right now, a whole lot of us would join in.

            So, we were at the Hall of Fame for this special event surrounding the new exhibit of Felice and Boudleaux Bryant’s archives and memorabilia, which also included the recipe for Felice’s famous sauce. Felice and Boudleaux are gone, but their sons spoke to the gathered crowd. Their sons were donating their parents’ archives to the Hall of Fame from their original home in East Tennessee. The motivating reason behind this was not just to preserve their parents’ legacy and to make their work more widely known to music fans, it was also because a wildfire swept through East Tennessee in November 2016 and threatened their family home. Putting their parents’ historic work into the Hall of Fame was not just a matter of pride and eagerness to share it with the world, but to keep it as safe as possible for many years to come. The Bryant sons did not want to risk losing their mom and dad’s precious, historic work to flames ever again.

            I don’t blame them. While I am not a fan of big storms, and I know how deadly they can be, I am even more afraid of fire. A raging fire can destroy everything in its path in a matter of minutes, whether it is a single house fire or an urban conflagration like the most recent one in Southern California that destroyed entire neighborhoods and communities. Fire is terrifying, and I completely understand why the children of Felice and Boudleaux Bryant wanted to do everything they could to protect their parents’ legacy. And because fire can be so frightening, I can well imagine that the sight of flames burning in the midst of the disciples must have been a terrifying thing to witness.

            Whenever I preach on this Pentecost story from Acts I focus almost exclusively on the Spirit roaring into their midst like a violent wind, like a tornado and hurricane and tempest all rolled into one. The imagery of that violent wind is a powerful one and, when it comes to Pentecost, is the image that most often consumes my imagination. But the tongues of flame that appeared in the midst of the disciples, the tongues of flame that rested on each one of them, are equally as powerful, strange, and scary.

            The holy land was and is an arid climate, but that does not mean that wildfire was not a real possibility. If we, with our advanced technology and firefighting expertise, struggle to keep wildfires contained and controlled, think about how awful it would have been to deal with a raging fire in that time and place. I suspect that whole villages, cities even, would have been consumed in a matter of hours. So the sight of flames suddenly resting on these disciples must have been terrifying to say the least. And what does the author of Acts mean when they write that the divided tongues of flame rested on the disciples? I’ve always pictured happy little tongues of flame dancing above their heads, almost like something out of a cartoon. But if a tongue of flame rested on each disciple, maybe that was more like the burning bush than a happy cartoon flame? Maybe the crowd of people witnessing this saw these tongues of flame and wondered if the disciples were about to be destroyed by the flame resting on them? Did someone shout “Fire!”? Did someone else make a move to find water to douse the disciples?

            If that was the instinct of anyone there, we don’t read about it. And I suspect that even if that was the inclination under normal circumstances, these were anything but normal circumstances. The minute those flames appeared, the second they rested on the disciples, the real strangeness of Pentecost began. The disciples began to speak – not in their own language, but in the languages of every person gathered there; in the languages of every Jew gathered from the diaspora of that known world. They spoke in the language of the Parthians and Medes, the Elamites and the residents of Mesopotamia, Judea and Cappadocia. The folks from Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and Libya, and Rome were all represented. Every person heard the good news of Jesus in their own language, in their own idiom and syntax and sentence structure. Those tongues of fire were not flames of destruction but of illumination, translation, and enlightenment.

            The text tells us that everyone who was there was “amazed and astonished.” I bet they were! But it wasn’t enough that they were amazed and astonished to hear the story of God in their own languages after flames of fire appeared in the midst of these disciples, it was that the ones speaking their languages were Galileans! A commentary I read about this said that this was a subtle joke and jab; a reference that anyone outside of the region might not get. Apparently Galileans were considered to be the hicks of the region. They were the backwater, backward, uneducated, unerudite, hicks and yahoos of that culture and context. So, while it would have been amazing and astonishing for anyone to begin speaking in all these different languages, it was especially amazing and astonishing that these acts of wonder were being done through Galileans.

            Maybe this was why some people just could not believe what they were seeing and hearing. Though so many of the people gathered there, hearing in their own language, did believe and did accept that something bigger than themselves was taking place, others just wrote it off as drunkenness. They’re drunk, they said. They’re hammered. This isn’t God, this is wine. But Peter stood up and said,

“No. This has nothing to do with drinking. This has everything to do with God. This is the day that God promised. This is the fulfilment of the words of the prophet Joel. These are the last days of the old way of experiencing God. This is God’s new thing right here in our midst.”

            And the flames of the Spirit that descended on the disciples giving them the ability to speak in languages none of them could speak in before, did not stop there. This holy fire was now unleashed on the world. The good news of the gospel spread like wildfire. That’s what we read about in the rest of the book of Acts. When the Spirit came, it not only gave these once timid and terrified disciples new power, but it also took the message of God, the good news of God, out into the world in a way no one expected or even fully understood.

            When the Holy Spirit descended, it came like a violent, rushing, deafening, roaring wind, and it came like fire, holy fire. And when that holy fire entered someone’s heart and mind, it could not be extinguished. And when that holy fire spread from one disciple to another, from one person to another, it did indeed spread like a wildfire would. It would not be contained. It would not be subdued. It would not be barred or blocked or barricaded. The Holy Spirit was unleashed on the world, and there was no stopping it.

            The Holy Spirit, this holy fire, is still on the loose in the world. Its power has not been subdued or diluted. But that does not mean that we know what to do with it or how to deal with it. Maybe we are more like those folks in the crowd who assumed the disciples were drunk. Maybe when we witness the Spirit in others or even feel it trying to reach our own hearts and minds, we push back against it. We try to tame it and domesticate it and make it manageable and palatable. We do this, I think, because when the Holy Spirit comes our lives and their comfortable routines are disrupted. The Spirit did not come to make everything nice. The Spirit came as a wild maelstrom. The Spirit came to destroy the old ways of thinking and doing and being. Is this because the Holy Spirit is about chaos or does it take destruction of some things to build other things anew?

            This sounds scary … and it is. The people who witnessed this first Pentecost must have been terrified. What they knew and understood about God and about one another was upended. But think about what they experienced when those flames rested on the disciples? They heard the good news in their languages. They heard the gospel in their idiom and syntax and sentence structure. God through the Holy Spirit met them where they were. It spoke to them in familiar words. It reached their ears in their native tongue. In the midst of so much chaos, cacophony, and confusion, the words of the gospel in their own language must have also been like a balm for their hearts and minds. The Spirit met them where they were.

When that holy fire descended on the disciples not just for the disciples’ sake, but for the sake of those around them. When it reached their ears, it also reached their hearts and minds, and nothing was ever the same again.

That’s the thing about the coming of the Holy Spirit, when it comes nothing is ever the same again. When the holy fire blazes in our midst, we cannot go back to the status quo. When the Holy Spirit comes, we cannot return to how things were. Everything is changed and so are we. But that is the good news, isn’t it? That is the gospel. Nothing is the same. Everything is different and yet God meets us where we are. God through the Holy Spirit comes to us, speaks to us in our own language, touches our ears, minds, and hearts in our own idiom, with the balm of language that is familiar, and yet nothing is the same.

I know that this is confusing and unnerving and maybe more than a little terrifying, yet that is the essence of the Holy Spirit. That is what happens when we open ourselves to its movement and power. It changes us. It changes everything. But in the change we are transformed. In the change we are made new. In the change we are called to bring this good news to others, to make way for the holy fire, the heavenly blaze to do its work of love and power.

Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

Amen.

An Open Heart -- Sixth Sunday of Easter

Acts 16:9-15

May 25, 2025

 

            The official title of the book we call Acts is really The Acts of the Apostles. I imagine the shortening of the name to just Acts probably happened centuries ago, and most likely for the sake of convenience. It would be an awkward mouthful, even in theological circles, to constantly refer to The Acts of the Apostles. Eventually, you just abbreviate it down to Acts, which even though that shortens the title, the contraction of the name does not condense the importance and meaning of this book to believers like us.

            But every once in a while, I think that it is good to dust off the full title and put it out for folks to see, hear, and think about: The Acts of the Apostles. Hearing this full title is a good reminder to us that these are not just a random collection of stories that we read most often in the time between Easter and Pentecost. The whole of this book is dedicated to telling the story of how the apostles, from the moment they receive the Holy Spirit at the beginning until the end when we read of Paul living and preaching in Rome, grow in their faith, their confidence, and their call to preach the good news of the gospel. The whole of the book of The Acts of the Apostles relates the astonishing way gospel of Jesus the Christ spread from Jewish Jerusalem to Gentile Rome and so many places in between. Although it is more a historiography than a complete historical record, the book of Acts lives up to its title and so much more. It is about the acts of the apostles. They receive the Holy Spirit – the story that we will read in its fullness on Pentecost Sunday – and they were off! They were off preaching, teaching, healing, baptizing, persuading, exhorting, and encouraging. Whatever they lacked in courage and understanding when they were living with and learning from Jesus in person, they have now found in abundance through the power of the Holy Spirit. In that sense the title is somewhat misleading. Yes, these are the apostles’ acts, but these are also the acts of God working through the Holy Spirit. These are the acts of the Spirit blowing through families and communities and towns and villages and cities, opening hearts to the Word of God. These are the acts of the apostles, yes, but everything they do is because of what God is doing in and through them.

            I have been thinking about this title as I have been preaching through many of the Acts passages this season, and I realized that if I were given the opportunity to title the book, I would keep Acts of the Apostles, but I would add a subtitle. It would read Acts of the Apostles: Expect the Unexpected. Because if you can count on anything in this book, it is the unexpected. Acts centers around the unexpected – unexpected journeys, unexpected places, unexpected people. Expect the unexpected.

            We have another example of this unexpectedness in today’s story from chapter 16. I doubt that this story is as well-known as other stories in our book of the unexpected, but it is an important one. At the end of chapter 15, Paul and Barnabas, have gone their separate ways. Paul wanted to go back to every city where they had preached the word and see how the believers in those cities were doing. Barnabas did not say, “no,” to this but he wanted to take Mark with them. Paul did not want Mark to come along, because Mark apparently had “deserted them in Pamphylia and had not accompanied them in their work.” This caused an intense disagreement between Paul and Barnabas; so intense that they believed it was better to part company than to try and work it out. So, Paul chose Silas to journey with him, and they set off. As chapter 15 ends, Paul has also met Timothy and invited the young man to travel with them as well.

            If we were to go back and read the opening verses of our chapter, chapter 16, it would seem that Paul and company originally wanted to go to Asia and preach the gospel there, but the Holy Spirit forbade them from doing that. So they go a different way, through Phrygia and Galatia. They came opposite a place called Mysia, and from there they attempted to go into Bithynia, but the Spirit stopped them once again. Instead of going to Mysia, they went down to Troas. That night Paul had a vision – something that seems to happen quite often in this book of the unexpected. In the vision a man of Macedonia stood before Paul and pleaded with him to come to Macedonia and help them. This was all Paul needed to know that God was calling them to Macedonia. FYI: this is the moment when the good news of the gospel spread to the continent we know as Europe. So Paul and Silas and Timothy sail from Troas and eventually reach the city of Philippi. This was a Roman colony, which meant that it was occupied by mostly Gentile people. But even with this unexpected diversion in their travel plans, more unexpected was around the corner. .

            On the Sabbath, Paul and his companions went looking for a place to worship. Maybe there was no synagogue within the city gates. Maybe they wanted the peace of sitting by the river. Maybe they wanted to sing their version of “Shall We Gather at the River” as part of their devotionals. Whatever the reason, they apostles went outside the gates of the city assuming there would be a place to pray there. When they got there, there was a group of women gathered, and one of those women was Lydia. She was a God-worshiper, which can be understood as a Gentile who is not a Jewish convert but still worships the true God of Israel. 

            Even though we only have a few sentences about Lydia in this passage, we learn a lot about her. She was a dealer of purple cloth. To dye fabric or cloth purple was a time-consuming and expensive process. This means that only people of wealth and means would have been able to afford it, which also implies that the people who could afford it had power and influence as well as money. The folks who had the most wealth, influence, and power at that time were royalty, so purple was often reserved for that rank. If Lydia was a dealer of purple cloth, that meant that she rubbed shoulders with those same wealthy, influential people. And we can also assume that while she may not have been counted as royalty, she too had a certain amount of wealth and influence. She was most likely an entrepreneur, something that we don’t tend to associate with women from this time in history. And she was gathered with other women at the river, praying, when the apostles approached them.

            Lydia listened eagerly to Paul’s message, but it was God who opened her heart. God opened her heart to not only accept the gospel but to embrace it with her whole being – mind, body, spirit, heart. Her open heart led her and her entire household to be baptized right then. Again, this tells us that Lydia was the head of her own household – a reality we don’t often encounter. Lydia’s response to baptism, to God opening her heart, was hospitality. She insisted that Paul, Silas, Timothy, and any others who were traveling with them, stay with her. She welcomed them into her home, both in this moment and after Paul and Silas are released from prison later in the chapter. Lydia’s home became a spiritual and physical hub for all the believers in that place. Lydia not only offered hospitality in the moment, but her hospitality was ongoing, generous, and expansive.

            This is a nice, quiet story about a nice, quiet conversion. But what is the “so what” for us in it? What I mean by that, is what does this mean for us today? So what does it have to teach us?  So what does it reveal to us about our own faith and following? Does it call us to respond to God’s grace and goodness with our own hospitality? Certainly. But what is the unexpected? Paul and his fellow travelers certainly did not expect to end up in Philippi. They were planning on taking a very different route, but God had other plans. When they left the city gate and went to the river to pray, did they expect to meet a group of women gathered there? Probably not? And I suspect that they certainly did not expect to meet a female entrepreneur of means. I also suspect that they would not have expected her to have her heart opened by God, being baptized and welcoming them into her home and into her life.

            I think what this story teaches us is that God really does not respect the barriers and boundaries we erect between us and others, whoever those others happen to be. God is working outside of the gates we construct and calls us to step outside of the boundaries of those gates as well. This story is also enlightening about the status of women in the early church. Women were more than just unmentioned, unnamed people in the crowds. They were members, leaders, supporters, and influencers. Women may have been considered subservient by the culture, but not by God, and this would have been a revelation to those at that time just as it may be to us.

            This story demonstrates that God would not be bound by any other divisions, categories, or labels humans devised to separate one from another. Perhaps this is what is most unexpected of all – God opened the hearts of Jews and Gentiles, insiders and outsiders, men and women, poor and rich, young and old, and so on and so on. Whatever plans the apostles made, whatever expectations they may have had about their work, their call, their ministry, God reminded them again and again, that they were following God and not the other way around. When we follow God, truly follow God, trusting in the Holy Spirit to guide us, we should always expect the unexpected. And we should always follow with an open heart, because we just never know to where or whom God is going to lead us, but if it is God leading us, wherever we find ourselves is the place where we most need to be. And whoever may be placed in our path is the person or people we most need to encounter. If we are following God, following in the footsteps of Christ, and trusting in the power of the Holy Spirit, we should always expect the unexpected. And that is good news indeed. Thanks be to God.

            Let all of God’s children say, “Alleluia.”

            Amen.