Revelation 21:1-6 "The Magnificent Dream"

     You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!   

            You do not have to be able to quote the Bible chapter and verse to know that Revelation is the book that is overflowing with nightmarish images – but, reputable Biblical scholars would say, images that we more often than not interpret from a childish faith perspective.  These images span the spectrum from inevitable and terrifying natural disasters to Armageddon itself, and all of them are wrapped up tightly in predictions about the end of the world. 

However, it is high time that we set aside such childishness and grow up in our approach to the Bible as a whole, but certainly this morning, to the Book of Revelation.  It is high time for some theological maturing, for learning to take the Bible “seriously but not literally” as progressive Christian writer Marcus Borg has suggested.  It is high time to understand that our doomsday approach to the book of Revelation is inaccurate and way off base. 

As well-respected Biblical scholar, Bart Ehrman, wrote in his introduction to the New Testament, “In every generation since the book [of Revelation] was written, Christians have argued that its vivid description of catastrophic events would happen in their own day. So far, none of them have been right.”

Such a narrow perspective on this magnificently written and marvelously hopeful book does it scant justice. You see, this Biblical book, this Revelation of John, who is said to have been an old man exiled to the Island of Patmos off the coast of Greece, was, like all the stories and letters in our New Testament, written at a particular time to a particular group of people.  The author was most likely a Jewish Christian who had perhaps fled the Jewish-Roman War that, in about 70 CE, had destroyed Jerusalem and left the temple as a pile of rubble.

The author’s audience, a group of seven specific churches, was at the end of its rope.  These congregations were probably only a generation old, and, as all organizations eventually do, they were perhaps going off course a bit from their original vision, and facing, as Borg writes, "persecution, false teaching, and accommodation to the larger culture."

These congregations were the victims of Roman ill-treatment and torture.  The people were a stone’s throw from the gladiator’s arena for confessing their Christian faith rather than their primary allegiance to a Roman Emperor whose titles included Lord of All, Prince of Peace, and Son of God. 

Community martyrs were a dime a dozen, false but tempting teachings abounded, and, as always, the economic reality was desperate with the outlook equally dismal. It was to this disastrous situation that the author of Revelation responded.  He writes using highly symbolic images about the world in which his audience lived – seven-headed beasts, plagues, earthquakes, and burning cities.  He writes using equally symbolic language about the promises of God, reminding his readers who will triumph – the wedding feast, the Lamb of God, the defeat of Satan.  He concludes by writing about the world that, like a phoenix, will arise from its own ashes.  He writes about a new heaven and new earth.

Contrary to all the doomsday predictions we associate with this Biblical book, there will be no rapture.  There will be no whisking away of selected folks to some distant heaven, men and women who will leave the earth behind like a distant speck, like a guttering flame that will eventually extinguish itself.

No - for all who trust in the love and goodness of God, the author of Revelation tells us that there is something else to cling to, and it is this message of great high hope:  “God has moved into the neighborhood, making his home with men and women!

They’re his people, he’s their God. He’ll wipe every tear from their eyes…Look! (God proclaims) I’m making everything new. Write it all down—each word dependable and accurate…”It’s happened. I’m A to Z. I’m the Beginning, I’m the Conclusion.” And listen to this:  The blue and crystal clear waters of life – those will be given freely to everyone – everyone – who thirsts.”

         If God has God’s way, the earth will not be removed.  It will be redeemed and transformed.  This “magnificent concluding vision” (Borg) will be like a dream where all people – everyone – will have their deepest longing fulfilled.  They will be secure and have a place of their own.  They will be at home with God – and all who are thirsty will be invited to share in these waters of life.  In the end, we will all be one.

         The author’s picture of great high hope is the sketch of a dream, to be sure, but it is not like any old dream that you cannot remember the half of when you awaken.  It is really a vision, a lasting vision that still haunts our churches today:  “All are invited to share in the waters of life.” As Borg writes, it is the "dream of God…for this earth, and not for another world. For John (the author of Revelation), it is the only dream worth dreaming."

Ralph Waldo Emerson once said, "People only see what they are prepared to see." If that is true, then surely, if nothing else, the church is called to help people see this life-giving, thirst-quenching dream, to draw them into participating in it, to nurture this ultimate promise of God, and to live as if the promise that we are all indeed one has already come true. 

Most assuredly, this is not an easy task in our world today that is so fraught with war and weapons and the plight of refugees, where our politicians are promising to build us walls and fences to isolate ourselves from those we consider alien, and our more conservative Christian brothers and sisters are admonishing us to insulate ourselves from anyone who thinks or prays or lives differently than we do, where we are told over and over again that we hold the water rights to the river of life – no matter who may thirst.  It is a daunting task that the Christian church is called to take upon herself in what many would say is a dark and dismal world.

And yet, once long ago, a small group of dedicated followers of a two-bit rabbi from a backwater part of the world faced much the same dire situation: It is the dark night of Jesus’ arrest and trial. 

As Lutheran pastor, Jonathan Davis writes, the disciples “haven’t a clue of what to do…Their Messiah, the one they’ve waited for to change the world, is leaving and yet nothing seems to have changed at all…Everything is unraveling.  It is getting messy.  Judas has run out on the group, and now Jesus is saying he will soon be leaving them too…

…But it is at this point, when everything is falling apart, that Jesus does his farewell speech.  For four chapters, Jesus gives the disciples everything they need to hold themselves together.  And the summary of what he said comes right at the beginning. 

‘I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.  Just as I have loved you, you also should love on another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.’

This commandment is Jesus’ departing instruction. He does not offer the disciples – and he does not offer the church - the top five tips for preaching a good sermon, ten effective ways to make your congregation grow, or a foolproof system for balancing the ecclesiastical budget. He tells the disciples – and us – simply how to keep the magnificent dream alive.   Love one another, he says, for in the end, we are all one.

Walter Russell Bowie wrote a hymn entitled “O Holy City, Seen of John.”  Some of the words go like this:

“Give us, O God, the strength to build

the city that hath stood too long a dream,

whose laws are love, whose crown is servanthood,

and where the sun that shineth is

God’s grace for human good.”

“Already in the mind of God that city riseth fair:

Lo, how its splendor challenges

the souls that greatly dare;

Yea, bids us seize the whole of life

and build its glory there.”

Though written as a prayer, these words really outline a project for our lives.  However, it is a project that must embrace not only the magnificent dream but also the reality of our post-modern world. It must be more authentic than all of us gathering round, holding hands, and singing “kum ba yah” in pleasant harmony.

It must begin with first a recognition and then an affirmation that all – all – are invited to quench their thirst at the river of life – Christian, Jew, Muslim, gay, straight, transgendered, rich, poor, middle-class, black, white, Latino.  And if we are all going to be at that river of life together sharing the water, we need to let go of our childish misconceptions about one another and become a wee bit more theologically mature in our understanding of each other.  For, in the end, we are all one.

We may not be ready to embrace these other folks that seem so different from us, but surely we can seek to understand them.  What is it like to be a Muslim living in the United States right now?  What is the Muslim faith anyway?  What is it like to grow up in an urban ghetto where gunfire is a commonplace sound? Why do ordinary people keep guns anyway?  What is it like to look into the eyes of your children and know they are leaving the table hungry? What have we to do with the tangled roots of poverty that affect those we do not even know?

Until we better understand one another and the differing worlds in which we live, I am not sure how we can love one another.  After all, there is something so enduring about the differences between us and the violence and tragedy that result from those differences.  As I said, it is a daunting task that the Christian church is called to take upon herself in what many would say is a dark and dismal world.

Richard Lischer, in his book, Stations of the Heart: Parting with a Son, offers a heart-rending account of the illness and death from cancer of his young adult son, Adam.  Lischer tells of the homily he preached at his son’s wedding, saying that his sermon was adequate except for a comment he made near the end: "Someday, Adam and Jenny, someday you will be old. Still cute, but old. And at your sixtieth wedding anniversary you will hold hands and ask, 'How did we get so lucky?' But what you will really mean is, 'How Gracious God has been to us.'"

Lisher then critiques his wedding homily: "I think preachers should speak only what they have been given to say and not one word more. They should not pretend to have a privileged view of the future. They should hold something back against the night"

         And so, I am not here to tell you that one day hunger and violence and racism will cease.  I am not here to get all of you to hold hands and sing “Kum Ba Yah” in pleasant harmony so that – presto! – world peace will happen in our lifetimes. 

I am only here to tell you that the Risen Christ is among us through the Holy Spirit.  I am only here to tell you that God’s promise is true, that, as Methodist pastor Alyce MacKenzie has written, “The resurrecting power of God enables us to love one another, even our enemies, and to affirm that love is stronger than death.”  I am only here to tell you that seeking to understand is the first step toward loving.  I am only here to tell you that the magnificent dream that the waters of life are for everyone – everyone who thirsts - is our light in the darkness.  I am only here to tell you to take up the cup of freedom - freedom to love - for, in the end, we are all one.

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church U.C.C., Raymond, Maine

                                   

         

Acts 9:36-43 "The Power of the Resurrection"

You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!

         The Biblical book of the Acts of the Apostles that we have been reading for the past couple of weeks is a unique literary form in our New Testament. You see, neither is it a Gospel (like Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John), nor is it a letter, as the writings attributed to Paul are.  

         However, Acts does share common elements with both the Gospels and the letters.  Like the Gospels, the Book of Acts is a narrative.  It is a group of stories, one told after another.  Like the letters, the Book of Acts focuses on the life and struggles of the early church. 

         As Methodist missionary Christine Erb-Kanzleiter wrote:  “It is a first document of Christian history, and it is full of the stories of early Christians and the way they built up communities, shared their faith, responded to the challenges of their day and supported each other in the name of a God whom Jesus had introduced to them” as a loving parent. 

         This story of the raising of Tabitha (or Dorcas, as she was known in the Greek language) deftly fits that mold. It is a narrative, on the one hand, and, on the other hand, it focuses on the ups and downs of the early church, this time the church in Joppa, which was a port city about 30 miles from Jerusalem.

       Tabitha, the main character in the story, was a pillar of the church community in Joppa.  She would easily have been elected an elder had she been a member of our church because, we are told, she had put in many years of service “doing good and helping the poor.”

       Because of positive role models like Tabitha, in spite of economically hard times and the Roman persecutions that seemed to come with an ominous regularity, there was a community safety net.  Orphans were cared for.  Widows were protected.  Food was distributed to any and all who needed it. Even land was sold, and money pooled. In short, all available resources were shared amongst members of these first Christian communities. There was no one percent.  There was no embarrassing wealth disparity, poor houses,  or a problematic welfare system.

       And so, without question, without thinking that, if the poor worked harder, they could pull themselves up by their own bootstraps, Tabitha opened her home to the down-and-out. 

She fed the hungry, and even clothed the near naked.  You see, among all the other types of volunteering that Tabitha did, she sewed clothing – lots of clothing - shirts and coats - for many of the urban poor, which included a whole bevy of widows, who particularly loved her.  One could say that Tabitha was like the patron saint of sewing and needlework – though that title has officially been given to both St. Claire and St. Anne.

       I find it interesting that earlier in the Book of Acts, we are told that men generally took on the role of organizing the care of the poor. However, in Joppa, this was obviously Tabitha’s job, and so this woman played an unusual but highly significant community role as charity and mission outreach coordinator. 

       It is also interesting to note that when men did take care of the poor, the author of Acts referred to it as ministry.  However, when women like Tabitha took on the same responsibility, it was downplayed as “good works”:  Something to ponder while women still struggle for equal recognition and reward today.

         But back to Tabitha and the significant role she played in the life of her community.  In fact, so significant a role did she play that the writer of Acts calls her a disciple. 

Now, we throw around that word pretty lightly these days.  However, in all of the New Testament, Tabitha is the only woman to merit such a title.  Not Mary of Bethany, not Mary Magdalene, not Salome – only Tabitha.

         No wonder then that her entire church community was shocked and catapulted into despair when Tabitha suddenly took ill and unexpectedly died.  Her good works came to a screeching halt.  Now it was the job of others to care for her.  The tables were turned.  And so it was with deep sadness that her body – her corpse – was washed and prepared for burial and laid out in an upper room in her home.  No doubt about it: The community tears flowed mightily. 

         Amidst the anguish at Tabitha’s passing, however, someone held it together long enough to send two messengers to find the Apostle Peter: “Please hurry and come to us.  STOP.  Do not delay because we need you right at this instant. STOP.” 

         Now Peter was preaching and teaching in Lydda at the time, which is about eleven miles from Joppa.  One might wonder why anyone bothered to beckon this apostle in the first place – and also why there was such an imperative, such a hurry to get him there. 

         Surely it was not to raise the dead.  That had not happened since Jesus himself had called Lazarus out of the tomb.  But equally implausible would have been for Peter to come with the hope of healing Tabitha.  Though Peter had received the gift of healing, Tabitha was, well, already beyond healing.  She was dead, s Charles Dickens noted of Marley in “A Christmas Carol” – dead as a doornail. 

         That much was abundantly clear to Peter when he arrived.  When his heavy footsteps reached the upper room where Tabitha lay, why - such weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth he had seldom witnessed! 

         Widows besieged him, thrusting bolts of cloth and half sewn garments in his face.  All of them were talking and crying at once, telling him what a wonderful friend Tabitha had been, what an exceptional caregiver she had turned out to be.  The widows could not imagine what would happen to them now that she was gone.  Her death had turned their world upside down, and they were frightened that nothing would ever be the same again.  Tears of loss, tears of longing, tears of fear all sprang from their eyes and coursed down their cheeks.  Rivers of tears greeted Peter at the doorway.

        Well, Peter might have been a healer.  He might have been a preacher.  But a grief counselor he was not.  As Episcopal priest Barbara Brown Taylor described the situation:  “Peter was less interested in the clothes (and the widows, I would add) than he was in the disciple who had made them. The first thing he did was put all of the crying women outside, which meant there were no witnesses in the room. Then he knelt down to pray, though we do not know what he prayed. When he was ready, (the Gospel writer) Luke says, Peter turned to ‘the body’—not ‘Tabitha,’ but ‘the body’—and said, ‘Tabitha, get up’ (as in ‘Lazarus, come out’).”  And she opened her eyes and sat up. 

         He did not preach a lengthy sermon to her.  He did not demand a confession or affirmation of her worthiness.  He just said a few words – powerful in their simplicity.  “Tabitha, get up.  Rise again.” 

         Then Peter reached out and helped her to her feet. To be perfectly honest, I do not know who would have been more surprised by the outcome of the situation – Tabitha for coming back from the dead or Peter for praying whatever he prayed to make it happen.  

         Not surprisingly, when the widows found out that their beloved Tabitha was breathing once more, the word that her death had been highly overrated spread like wildfire. 

And in the aftermath, Peter, we discover through a curious little detail that the author includes, spent the next few days staying with Simon who was, by profession, a tanner  - and whom the Jewish religious hierarchy would have considered most ritually unclean.  Why would Peter stay with the likes of Simon?  Maybe this detail is the writer’s way of telling us that Peter had his sights set on a church that reached far beyond the confines of Judaism. 

         This story of Tabitha being raised from the dead is probably the most ignored resurrection/resuscitation story in all of Scripture.  I mean, most everyone has heard of Lazarus walking out of the tomb where he had begun to rot after four days into death.  But Tabitha?

         Not so many people know this tale!  Is it because this story of Tabitha is recorded in the Book of Acts rather than in one of the gospels?  Or is it because Peter did the raising and not Jesus?  Or how about because Tabitha was a woman, and women did not get a fair shake when it came to first century press coverage anyway?

       We do not know, of course.  However, whatever the reason, I think it is a shame that this story is not read more and known better because it has the potential to say so much to us about the power of Christ’s resurrection – not only for the early church but also down through the ages until that power envelopes us as well.

         We are three weeks post-Easter now – and perhaps would feel a bit out of place were we to continue to sing the great and joy-filled Easter hymns and anthems here in church.  Moving right along, as we say.  And yet, this story of Tabitha seems to be telling us – wait!  Not so fast!

         This story points out to us that the power of the resurrection need not diminish until it is but a footnote of ancient history.  Rather, we discover thatr the power of the resurrection builds over time.  We discover that not only Jesus can call the dead back to life.  Now Peter can do the same thing.  Tabitha, get up!  Rise again! 

         Like ocean waves that build and build until they crash into shore, so it is with the power of the resurrection. Will it travel for over 2000 years? Yes!  Will the power of the resurrection reach these post-modern days? Sure it will!  Could it be that God whispers Peter’s words to us as well? Get up!  Rise again!

         I know so.  I trust that the power of the resurrection does not diminish but rather builds. “The good news (then) is about (us) bringing life where there is death, love where there is hate, healing where there is brokenness,” as Uniting Church of Australia pastor, William Loader, notes. The good news and the power of the resurrection is about us helping “communities make their way out of traps of poverty, enemies move towards reconciliation, despairing people finding meaning again.” Get up!  Rise again!  Don’t you see? The power of the resurrection does not diminish but rather builds – and it builds in u!. 

         There is a fable of a young woman who had a baby boy.  Soon after his birth, a ragged old man came to her and offered to grant her one wish on behalf of her son. Wanting only the best for her baby, the woman wished that her son would always be loved by everyone he met. The old man said, "so be it," and vanished.

         As the boy grew, everyone loved him so much that he never lacked for anything. Yet, things did not turn out as expected. As adored and admired as the young man was, he experienced a terrible emptiness within him. He could have anything he wanted, just by asking, but he had no real friends. He never knew the joy of a day's work or an achievement, richly rewarded. His neighbors took care of all his needs. The young man became cynical, jaded and selfish.

         Finally, the day came when his aged mother died. At the funeral, the same mysterious old man appeared and offered the young man one wish. The young man took him up on his offer and asked that his mother's original wish for him be changed. Rather than being loved by everyone he met, the young man asked that he be given the power to love everyone he encountered. And, as the story goes, from that day forward he knew happiness beyond measure.

         I will tell you a secret – a theological secret. The power of the resurrection lies in our freedom to love – and it is stronger than any other power.

         So - get up! The powers of this world do not have the final word because you are free to rise again and love. Get up, and continue the work that Jesus began – trusting that, because you have that freedom to rise again and love, you have the power to put the world back together in the way God intended it. 

         Get up, and let the power of the resurrection grow inside of you.  Get up – and take the cup of freedom, so that you can rise again and again in love.

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church U.C.C., Raymond, Maine

Acts 9:1-20 "Limited Vision"

You are welcome to use parts of this sermon, but if you do, please attribute them properly!

         Some years ago the London Daily Telegraph carried a letter an eleven-year-old boy had written to his mother while he was on vacation in Switzerland. He wrote this: "Dear Mom, yesterday the instructor took eight of us to the slopes to teach us to ski. I was not very good at it, so I broke a leg. Thank goodness, it wasn't mine! Love, Billy."

         What really happened on that ski slope?  Billy’s mother will probably never know all the ins and outs.  That letter gives her only limited vision about what really occurred. 

         In a way, it is the same with the story of what happened to Saul on the way to Damascus that we just read.  We do not know what really happened.  We do not have every last detail – especially about what went on inside his head.  And most of all, we do not know why God would ever zero in on someone as despicable and completely unworthy of God’s attention as Saul was. 

       We meet Saul for the first time earlier in the Book of Acts with a brief mention of his name in a story about the stoning of a follower of the new Christ-like Way named Stephen, who turned out to be the very first Christian martyr. 

       Saul’s bit part in the story was that he held the cloaks of the religious leaders who were actually casting the first stones – and all the subsequent ones as well, for that matter.  He was simply watching, taking it all in, and, we are told, approving of everything he saw. 

       Saul was a young and extremely devout Jew.  He attended the synagogue regularly, hanging on the rabbi’s every word.  He knew his Hebrew backwards and forwards.  

       It would not be unreasonable to presume, as Reformed Church pastor Scott Hoezee does, that “Saul interpreted what we call the Old Testament very literally. That interpretation left no room for Jesus of Nazareth to be the Messiah whom God had raised from the dead. That Jesus’ followers claimed he was the Way to God for both Jews and Gentiles (was not so much hogwash as heresy). Since thousands of good Jews had already begun following this Jesus, Saul was determined to stop that change by stopping the movement.” 

       Who knows exactly what the precipitating circumstances were, but Saul became radicalized.  It could even have been Stephen’s bloodletting that he witnessed that birthed his own bloodlust.  Saul was a terrorist.

       He was a thug, like one of Hitler’s brown shirts.  He was a bigot and a zealot.  He totally believed that he was right, and Christians were wrong.  He was a religious fanatic and believed that God had put the finger on him.  His vocation was to hunt down all Christian believers, round up each and every one of them, and have them tried for heresy. 

       As Methodist pastor Frank Trotter wrote, “As the persecution of the followers of Jesus increases, Saul is an enthusiastic participant who ‘(ravages) the church by entering house after house; dragging off both men and women, he committed them to prison’ (8:3). It should be no surprise then that many in the early church fled from Jerusalem, hoping to get to safety in Damascus.

         When Saul hears this, however, he is enraged and breathes threats and murder against the Lord’s disciples. He even asks for permission to follow the Christians on the road to Damascus to capture them before they can reach safety. Theologian ‘John Dominic Crossan...[describes] the kind of ‘zeal’ as ‘religious vigilantism based on personal and individual responsibility’ that ‘allows any outraged person’ to take justice and, well, righteousness, too, it seems, into their own hands.’”

         Saul believed passionately that this new Christian cult was a perversion of the Jewish faith.  Hoezee notes:  “He’s so afraid of how Jewish followers of Jesus may change his faith that he rides there to hunt them down.” He will find them and rid the Jewish world of them – even if it means heading to Damascus where rumor has it these heretical refugees are fleeing and, in doing so, spreading their poisonous Jesus movement. 

         He will haul them back to Jerusalem, the Holy City, in chains to be imprisoned and tried – and then stoned just like Stephen was.  Saul wanted to fix things.  He wanted to get Judaism pure again, back on track – and he was using all his energy to do just that.  He would stop at nothing to eliminate this new movement that he felt threatened the very foundation of his religious faith.

         And so Saul, the radicalized young Jew, the fundamentalist, the true believer, the terrorist, grabbed his list of names, and headed to Syria with a couple of presumably equally obsessed traveling companions.  It is here that our story picks up today.  It is here that God reached into history, called this young thug’s name in the same tradition God had called out the names of Abraham, Jacob, and even Moses – “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?” – called his name and, in doing so, unleashed an experience that would transform Saul forever. 

         We call this experience the conversion of Saul, and the Book of Acts (in which this story is told three different times, by the way) emphasizes that fact by noting that Saul’s name was changed to Paul in its aftermath.  Most assuredly, it was a conversion, a personal transformation. 

         However, it was also a call, a call to this young man to let the scales fall from his eyes, to see the world differently, and to proclaim the new Way he had found to non-Jews, to the Gentile world.  His call was to proclaim the Jesus Way that challenged its followers to not only believe but also to act as if life was stronger than death, as if love was more courageous than hatred, and as if reconciliation – and not violence – was the pathway to peace.

         This life-changing moment was short and sweet for Saul.  Out of nowhere came a blinding light directed at him a short ways out on the road from Damascus.  He fell to the ground as he tried to shield himself.  He saw a figure before him and, in his heart of hearts, he knew that this was the Risen Christ himself even before the words were spoken:  “Saul, Saul, why do you persecute me?  Now get up and go into the City, and you will be told just what to do.”

         And then the figure was gone, and the blinding light thankfully vanished as well. Saul stood up and opened his eyes, but he could not see a thing. The light really had been – literally – blinding. 

         Completely dependent now on his traveling companions, Saul and the tiny group made their way slowly into the City of Damascus.  Saul’s friends carefully helped him, so he did not stub his toe or twist his ankle along the way. 

         For three days Saul waited in the City.  Not knowing which way was up by this time, he erred on the side of tradition and did not eat or drink anything for those three days, thereby fulfilling the ancient steps to prepare himself for a message from God. 

         And God did indeed send a message.  But it was not a lightning bolt or a rumble of thunder.  It was not an earthquake or a wild windstorm.  It was not even a voice breaking into the silence with a whisper.  It was a Christian named Ananias. 

         You see, Ananias also had a vision that day.  He was told to build a bridge, break down a wall, and be what he said he was – a follower of Jesus.  He was to go to Saul the terrorist, the thug, the true believer, and touch him, lay hands upon his eyes that he might see again.  He was to love his enemy.

         Ananias was a wee bit shocked at the proposition, and he protested vociferously. “You can’t be serious. Everybody’s talking about this man and the terrible things he’s been doing, his reign of terror against your people in Jerusalem! And now he’s shown up here with papers from the Chief Priest that give him license to do the same to us.  And you expect me to get close enough to touch him, to heal him, so he can continue his reign of terror?”

         But God said, “Don’t argue. Go! I have picked him as my personal representative to non-Jews and kings and Jews.”

         And so Ananias went – obediently but probably not real happily or confidently.  I mean, who really enjoys having their faith put to the test?

         He found Saul, laid his hands over the blind man’s face, thereby putting his newfound faith to action as he whispered tentatively words about Brother Saul, about Jesus, and the Holy Spirit.  It was then actually that the scales fell from Saul’s eyes – as he experienced the warmth of the compassion that overcame Ananias’s fear, the strength of this man’s faith that overcame his doubts. 

         Saul was baptized right then and there, we are told (Presto!  Paul!). Then he sat down to a hearty meal – not knowing then what he would find out in spades later on – that proclaiming Jesus as the Messiah, that being a follower, a disciple, was no Sunday School picnic but rather would test his commitment and his faith over and over again for the rest of his life. 

         Oh, Saul, you despicable, unworthy man you!  You terrorist, thug, narrow-minded true believer you!  You misdirected, un-self-reflective, bigot and closet racist you!

         And Ananias, what about you?  You sniveling, fearful, weak little man you!  You self-proclaimed Christian but who needed a strong kick in the pants from God to even begin to stand up for your faith you!  You “I really do not want to get involved; isn’t there someone else” bystander you!

         And yet, God summoned both of them – Saul and Ananias.  God called both of them to be who they really were meant to be.  God put the finger on the two of them.  God had a job for them to do – and God knew they could do it. 

         God saw beyond the unworthiness and the fearfulness.  God saw beyond Saul’s life not particularly well-lived and Ananias’ reluctance to actually be who he proclaimed himself to be.  God saw beyond the sniveling, the weakness, and even the bloodlust.  God saw in Saul and in Ananias what they could not see in themselves.

         Such limited vision they had! Such limited vision we all have when it comes to what God thinks we are capable of.  And if God could choose – could call – could summon someone as disreputable and reprehensible as Saul and someone as irresolute and hesitant as Ananias to do God’s work, to proclaim and live the Good News, then imagine, just imagine, what God could do with us if we are open to the transformation and new life God offers us. 

         We may not have a Damascus experience as Saul did.  We may not be subject to a direct kick in the pants as Ananias was.  But imagine, just imagine, what God could do – and wants to do - with us!  Here I am, Lord.  Here I am.  I will take up the cup of freedom – freedom to follow – and call on your name, O God!

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church U.C.C., Raymond, Maine