Author: KPB Stevens

Acts 19 – 20.16 Sleep and Riots

~ KPB Stevens ~ Leave a comment

This is a very long reading, the longest I think we’ve gotten in Forward Movement’s arrangement of Luke and Acts daily readings. The riot at Ephesus is the center of it, and the story of Eutychus dying from listening to a long sermon seems like a strange little coda. But I think that the two stories have something in common, and that even the story of the Sons of Sceva contributes to the theme. Each of these vignettes is about confusion. The Sons of Sceva don’t really know how to do the job of exorcist, the crowds don’t really know what they’re rioting about, and poor young Eutychus is so confused by the intricacy of Paul’s sermon that he falls asleep. Okay, maybe he falls asleep for some other reason. All I know is that theological intricacy sometimes makes me sleepy, so I wouldn’t be surprised if the same was happening to Eutychus. Every one of the characters in these stories lacks some vital form of understanding, and they react to their confusion differently, but still, I think, it is confusion that causes the reaction.

Consider the crowd in Ephesus. Luke tells us that “some were shouting one thing, some another; for the assembly was in confusion, and most of them did not know why they had come together.” People were just getting swept up in a mob mentality, and didn’t even know why they were there. After all, only a small number of them were silversmiths, and actually economically concerned with Paul’s preaching. These silversmiths sold souvenir models of the temple of Artemis, and they worried that Paul would lead people away from the worship of Artemis and harm their bottom lines. So they cynically stirred things up, and I imagine that they were gratified by the results. Clearly, confusion can be very dangerous, especially the confusion of the crowd.

But what about the Sons of Sceva? They were exorcists, so they were used to their jobs, and they must have been utterly bewildered when they fled the house, their clothes in tatters, their bodies bruised. The thing that had been working wasn’t working anymore. They experienced the confusion of the new, the way that changes in our society seem to ruin our old ways of doing things. The Holy Spirit is zooming around, altering the make-up of society and the inner beings of the people it touches, and suddenly everything is up for grabs. Unlike the crowd, their confusion was justified.

What about poor Eutychus? I said a long way back, at the beginning of this project, that Luke has a sense of humor, and here it is on full display. Imagine the uproarious laughter that would greet this story if it were told around the dinner table during a house church gathering. This story brings Paul down a peg or two. You can imagine people meeting each other’s eyes with a look that says, yes, he could resurrect the dead, but boy could that guy get carried away with the sound of his own voice. To me, Eutychus’ sleep is the result of Paul’s own temporary confusion about how to deliver the message effectively.

If we can say that there’s such a thing as a spirituality of confusion, these three stories help to flesh it out. Don’t contribute to confusion if you can avoid it, especially if it’s the confusion of the crowd. Don’t expect your methods of doing things to always work for you, and be prepared to encounter the new. And don’t get so lost in the intricacies of your own thoughts that you stop communicating clearly to other people. I know that I’ve been guilty of each of these three things, and that makes me very glad that Paul resurrects Eutychus. Confusion, even deadly confusion, is not a permanent state. Even it can be redeemed.

Acts 18:1-28 Orthodoxy and orthopraxis

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I have to admit that this read through of Acts is constantly challenging my thinking about orthodoxy and heresy. In general I hold orthodoxy pretty lightly. I’m glad that generations of Christian thinkers have thought so hard and so deeply, and argued so well, but I tend to think that the variety of their ideas and arguments shows that many ways of thinking have validity, and that ultimate truth is always a little beyond our reach. I agree with some of the scholars I’ve read who tell the Christian story as one of disagreement and discussion, and note that a Christianity that’s based in love allows for this, while a Christianity that’s based in fear becomes intolerant and starts to persecute people. Such intolerance is gross and tragic, and lacking the essential humility that can actually draw us closer to God. I don’t think that Paul and his friends were intolerant. Just look at the end of this passage from Acts – Priscilla and Aquila pull Apollos aside and have a nice and loving conversation with him. They don’t attack him in public,which might make him retrench on the positions that they think are wrong. It’s a model for Christian theological discussion. If only the history of Christianity was full of people following this model, instead of holding inquisitions and burning heretics.

This model seems especially important now, because we’re living at a time when religious ideas are loosening. Some of the synagogues that we’re told about in Acts dealt with this same kind of loosening in a fairly admirable manner. They were laboratories for a new kind of Judaism, one that wasn’t dependant on the authority of the temple complex. As laboratories, they were trying to figure out what could be acceptable to that new Judaism and what couldn’t. Sometimes this process of experimentation and discovery went well, and sometimes it didn’t. But in general, they were very tolerant of new ideas, and probably had many people like Paul floating through, who would vociferously argue their point of view, convince some others, and then drift off to some other city in the Mediterranean world.

At this moment, many of our churches are also laboratories, trying to discover a new kind of Christianity in the midst of what is sometimes referred to as the Third Reformation. My own Episcopal church is pretty mellow when it comes to questions of orthodoxy. On any Sunday morning, you can be pretty sure that there are as many theological opinions present as there are people in the pews. And I hope that our Bible studies allow plenty of room for gentle and loving theological discussion, discussion that doesn’t insist on some “right” position and then try to force everyone else to adopt it. We are a little more intolerant when it comes to what’s called orthopraxis, that is, the right way of conducting worship. But even there, we have some looseness and freedom, as long as we’re preserving Sunday mornings as a time that’s free from too much experiment.

Do we lose something by this looseness? Probably so. Many people are exhausted by encountering and wrestling with questions, some of which have never been successfully answered. Many people, quite understandably, would like to just know the truth and be given a way of living that is aligned to that truth. But for me, more is gained than lost. If Jesus’ mission was to transform us individually and then transform the world through us, we need to be patient and not try to rush through these transformations. They’re hard, they take a lot of trust and humility, they lead to some sleepless nights. The Beloved Community is not a community that wants to tell you the answers and dictate how you live. It’s a community that can sit patiently and lovingly with you as you undergo transformation, listening seriously to your thoughts and feelings, not discounting them, but knowing, also, that some of those thoughts and feelings will change, or even fall away altogether, as you transform.

 

Acts 17:10-34 To an unknown God

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In his speech to the Athenians, Paul begins to make the unknown God known. Beyond that, he makes the clearest statement of the purpose of human existence in all of scripture. Gerald May writes:

As far as I know, only one place in the Bible explains why God created human beings. The apostle Paul, preaching to the Greeks in Athens, says that God created us “so that we might seek God and find God”…According to this theology we are not only born with God at our center, but we are also born with a heart full of desire for God. This yearning is our fundamental motive force; it is the human spirit (1).

Being a spiritual seeker myself, it makes sense to me that this seeking is fundamental to my nature. But Paul says that we’re also created to find God, and that’s a little more challenging. History is full of people who have claimed that they have found God, that the unknown has become entirely known to them, and many of these people were violent, terrible, and oppressive. Once we’re sure that we know God, it’s easy for us to attack and vilify those who don’t agree with our certainties.

The problem lies with our modes of knowing. If we think that knowing God means assenting to a bunch of theological ideas, we can quickly become bigots and attack those who don’t hold share those ideas. But what if believing isn’t about assenting to certain ideas, but is, instead, about giving our hearts to God? What if belief is based on relationship, and not intellectual knowing? Fans of Marcus Borg will know that his book The Heart of Christianity is the source of this idea. In it, Borg takes apart a lot of our understandings of belief, showing that they stem from the Reformation and the Enlightenment, and intimating that they would have surprised Paul. Borg writes:

That Christian faith is about belief is a rather odd notion, when you think about it. It suggests that what God really cares about is the beliefs in our heads—as if “believing the right things” is what God is most looking for, as if having “correct beliefs” is what will save us. And if you have “incorrect beliefs,” you may be in trouble. It’s remarkable to think that God cares so much about “beliefs.” Moreover, when you think about it, faith as belief is relatively impotent, relatively powerless. You can believe all the right things and still be in bondage. You can believe all the right things and still be miserable. You can believe all the right things and still be relatively unchanged. Believing a set of claims to be true has very little transforming power (2).

Instead, Borg suggests, faith and belief have been about relationship instead of intellectual assent for most of Christian history. We find God by being in a steady, ongoing relationship with God in our lives, which doesn’t mean that we always “get it right” or understand everything perfectly. Paul knew this. The person who stands in front of the Areopagus in Athens is the same person who will tell the Corinthians that we see through a glass darkly. He is calling people into relationship with God, and that changes how we might think about judgment. He very clearly thinks that all of history is about calling the nations into this relationship, and we will be judged by the terms of the relationship. What matters isn’t that we get everything absolutely right, but that we foster relationship with God and allow it to transform us. In this understanding, seeking and finding become the same thing. If we are true to the purpose of our created nature, then what we must do is seek God. God is right there, so finding God is easy. Yet we must continue to find God as we grow in our relationship with the divine, day in and day out.

 

(1) Gerald May, The Dark Night of the Soul

(2) Marcus Borg, The Heart of Christianity

Acts 17:1-9 The Synagogue at Thessalonica

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Three things immediately stand out to me about the community that gathers in the synagogue in Thessalonica. The first is that they’re open to discussion and debate. Some of their leaders eventually reject Paul and try to stir up the civic authorities against him, but it’s notable that he’s allowed to show up and dispute with them on three consecutive sabbaths. I’m trying to imagine a stranger coming into my parish on three Sundays in a row and interrupting the sermon each time in order to draw me and everyone else into a long dispute. I think that at first I’d be bemused, then annoyed, and then angry. It would seem to me that this stranger wasn’t respecting the community of the parish and didn’t care about the rites and rituals we’d set-up. Some part of me would be mad on behalf of the community of the church, and another part of me would be mad on my own account because, after all, I carefully prepare my sermons and now I’m not being given the chance to deliver them. I have to admit that the synagogue in Thessalonica is as tolerant, if not more tolerant, than my own community.

The second thing that stands out is that there are a lot of insiders and outsiders in this synagogue, but it’s hard to draw any very strict conclusions about them. There are the members of the community who are Jewish, and then there are a lot of curious gentiles up in the balcony or leaning against the walls. Within these two groups there are further subdivisions, as the women seem to have a very different stance towards Paul than the men do. Even among the leaders there are divisions, as some are willing to go along with the gentiles when they’re convinced by Paul, and some are deeply hostile to Paul. It would be nice if this was a simple story about outsiders and insiders, but Luke seems to be telling us that, in any community, there are personality conflicts and histories of being excluded, even among the supposed insiders, and divisions of class and race and social standing. In preaching the message of Jesus, Paul is preaching an end to these divisions. But before we get high and mighty about our own communities, we should survey them in our minds and acknowledge that these divisions exist within us as well.

Finally, it’s striking to me that Paul’s opponents can’t leverage their own authority within the community in order to stop him, but must call on the outside authorities. I find myself wondering if I would do that. If someone came and disrupted Sunday worship for three weeks in a row, and kept showing up after I’d taken him aside and tried to have a kind and reasonable conversation about respecting the community’s norms, would I be tempted to call the cops? Probably. I would think of all sorts of justifications – the interloper wasn’t respecting the church’s property. As Americans, we have a right to say who comes into our spaces and who doesn’t. And the goodness and graces of my community are worth preserving, they’re something I deeply love, and it hurts to see them disrupted (even if they’re not as good and graceful as I thought). If it came to the test, my guess is that I’d be very much tempted to act like Paul’s opposition and go running to the civic authorities.

When I play this scenario out in my mind, I can find ways to feel justified. What if it was a homophobic, racist, Nazi-sympathizing preacher who kept showing up, week after week? Many Episcopal churches have been protested by far-right ministries, and I don’t think they’re wrong to ask the police to keep the protesters out of their Sunday morning services. But what if it was a young woman who kept showing up, a Somali refugee or an undocumented woman from Guatemala, and what if their message was for us to actually do what we purport to believe in? What if they pointed out my own hypocrisy of non-action week after week? My attitude would change. I wouldn’t think I was justified in calling the cops on them, even if the weekly Sunday attendance was plummeting. Or, to add just one more possible scenario, what if it was a Mormon who showed up, who wanted to tell us how we were misunderstanding Jesus, but did so in a polite and gentle way? Would I be justified then?

As a progressive clergy person, I obviously know my own answers to these questions, but I also don’t want to dismiss them too easily, because wrestling with them is important. This situation at Thessalonica has played itself out again and again throughout human history. In America alone, there have been instances when klansmen marched into churches to deposit money on the altar, the so-called klangeld, and through that action symbolically claimed that the church was on their side. There have been other instances where civil rights leaders and their followers poured out of churches and into public spaces (parks, buses, lunch counters, city squares) and disrupted everything in order to further the cause of justice. The story of the synagogue at Thessalonica asks us to imagine what kind of disruptions we’d be willing to tolerate, and why. It also asks us to consider what’s going on in our own communities. How united are we, really? Where do the divisions lie? And are those divisions sharp enough that they could lead to the community falling apart, if it was tested? These are useful questions to ask, because the potential for a synagogue at Thessalonica-like situation is always present in our lives.

 

Acts 16:16-40 Controlling the Message

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This is a very strange passage. At the beginning of it, Paul and Silas have what many people would no doubt like – someone who’s made it her job to run around after them announcing how great they are. The slave girl with the spirit of divination seems to be furthering their mission – saying who they are, saying that they serve the Most High God, saying that they’re proclaiming the way of salvation. In our current world, this would be considered pretty great publicity, but Paul not only rejects it, he puts a stop to it, and in so doing gets him and his friends into a lot of trouble. He seems to reject the status that the slave girl is trying to give them.

Yet by the end of the passage, he seems more than willing to accept the status of being a Roman citizen. In fact, he insists that the authorities come to the jail and acknowledged his privileged position. I have to admit that this passage might just undermine everything I’ve been taught about earned authority being better than received authority. Paul rejects the authority he’s earned through his mission, his teaching, his love for his community. And he insists on the authority that he received just by virtue of being born as a Roman citizen. What on earth am I to make of that?

I won’t try to be clever and reason my way out of this conundrum too easily. My mind keeps being drawn to that scene in the prison. There Paul and Silas sit, their bodies aching and raw from a beating, the walls shaken down around them, the door gaping open, and yet they don’t make a move to escape. They seem more concerned with the life of the jailer than they do with their own safety. And the jailer, in turn, is very impressed. They convert him and his household.

This seems like a rhetorical act. They’re saying something by sitting there in the open jail and refusing to run away. Their actions speak of fearlessness for themselves, love and concern for the jailer, and contempt for the authorities who imprisoned them. They want to make sure that only they are telling the story of themselves. If they had run away, people could have said all sorts of things about them. And perhaps that’s why they silence the slave girl, as well. They want to control the message, they want to make sure that what they’re saying is exact and understood.

I don’t know how I feel about this. As you’ve probably gathered if you’ve been reading this blog, I don’t care much for attempts to control or be controlling. I especially don’t care for them when they cause people to act in an unloving fashion. In this passage, it’s clear that Paul and Silas treat their jailer with love. But do they treat the slave girl with love? Perhaps, once rid of the spirit of divination, she’ll be of no use to her masters, and they’re free her. But that’s not usually the way things go. Those who are intent on using another human being will find some way to use her no matter what. Is this one of those moments when we shouldn’t make excuses for Paul, who we might admire in other circumstances, but who Luke often portrays as a flawed human being? Or can we sympathize with his desire to control the message, even if his actions seem questionable.