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The Reverend Canon Beth Knowlton
The Cathedral of St. Philip
Easter 7, 8:45 am
Acts 16: 16-34
As
a child, I loved going to school. It was a place of new adventures and
fast friendships. I found the structure and the order appealing. It was
a place where the rules were clear. If you followed them, you could be
successful.
It had rituals, which I appreciated. I loved buying
a new lunchbox every fall and meeting my new teacher. I loved being on
the safety patrol at the corner in front of my house and looked forward
to our annual end of the year trip. I relished decorating a Kleenex box
each February to hold my valentines and took dance lessons in the
afternoons.
Like most kids, I had the usual troubles. Fights
with friends. Getting picked for the soccer team dead last. Being asked
by my teacher for the twentieth time to stop chatting with my neighbor.
There were good days and there were bad days. But overall, I loved it.
It was a safe place that followed the rules of the universe.
All
of these positive feelings were affirmed and magnified when it came to
the school library. It felt like a special wonderland. I loved checking
out new books and story time. I even liked the smell of the place. I
liked the way the tables were arranged and the rugs where we could sit
on the floor. The smile of the librarian was something to be counted
on.
I never imagined it would become a place of false accusation and unwarranted punishment.
One
afternoon I was summoned to the library by my third grade teacher and
the librarian. I immediately noted their very serious expressions. With
no hint of her customary welcome the librarian asked me to sit down.
The two of them sat across from me and the faux-wood Formica table
stretched ominously between us. I couldn't for the life of me
understand why I was here.
The librarian looked at me and said
she had something very important to discuss with me. She said it was
important I tell them the truth. She then said I probably knew why they
had called me in. (Still no clue). Then, the librarian pulled out a
book I had recently checked out. She asked me why I had defaced school
property. Noting my blank stare, she showed me several pages in the
book that had inspiring lines like "Beth is great" or "Beth is the
best" scrawled in pencil.
I was shocked. I told them I had no
idea how those phrases had gotten there, but that I had not done it. I
sat back and waited for their relieved looks. I assumed my claim would
be accepted without question.
But instead, the teacher, my
beloved teacher, took up where the librarian had left off. She said,
"Now Beth, we know you were the last one to check out the book." She
then presented exhibit A, my name on the checkout card. Then she said,
"Why would anyone else write, "˜Beth is great' but you?"
This
teacher and librarian apparently were not wise to the ways of children.
I tried to explain, that one, I was not actually stupid. That if I was
going to destroy school property, I might come up with something a bit
more novel and less incriminating than proclaiming my own greatness. I
also mentioned that if they were able to see my name on the checkout
card, clearly someone else could have done the same thing.
It
was obvious to me that someone had written my name in the book with the
hope that I would get in trouble. But those in authority, these women I
had trusted clearly did not believe me. To my great indignation I was
told that I would not be allowed to check out books for a while. They
also expressed their deep disappointment that I would not admit my
fault.
I was shocked and disturbed both by the accusation and
the punishment. I couldn't imagine that my teachers didn't believe me
when I was telling the truth. I was enraged and I burst into tears as I
left the library.
At some point, I must have eventually recovered. But school never felt quite the same. The garden had yielded some snakes.
But
for Paul and Silas, false accusations and miscarriages of justice seem
to be par for the course in the early church. In our lesson today they
have moved their ministry to Europe and they are empowered to tell the
good to all who will listen. Whether it is wealthy woman who deals in
purple cloth, or someone they bump into on their way to worship, they
stand at the ready. They have their good days and their bad days.
Sometimes they are received, other times they are not. But they appear
to not be buffeted by the shifting winds of their reception. They do
not react with indignation if things do not go their way.
Today's
reading from Acts is particularly dramatic. They come across a woman
who is basically a fortune teller. She is enslaved by masters who are
using her talents to make a quick buck. She is apparently anything but
subtle as she shouts out to all who will hear about the ministry of
Paul and Silas. In fact, while she is telling the truth about their
following the most high God, she is clearly annoying our faithful
ministers. She continues to harass them for days, and finally in a fit
of pique Paul commands a demon to come out of her.
Well, whether
we think Paul should have been more pastoral in his approach or not, he
has clearly healed this woman. I'd hope their might be some celebration
by the woman or her community. But instead her masters are furious that
their source of income has disappeared. So, they decide to falsely
accuse these trouble makers.
They bring them before the
authorities and launch their accusation. They say "These men are
disturbing our city; they are Jews and are advocating customs that are
not lawful for us as Romans to adopt or observe." And the crowd doesn't
defend them. They join in the attack and they are stripped of their
clothing, beaten with rods and thrown into prison.
It is hard
to imagine how we might each react to such unfair treatment. You can
practically hear Paul calling out to a friend to contact his lawyer as
he is hauled away. You imagine Silas is going to contact his friends in
the press and get his side of the story out as fast as possible. You
can see them rallying their troops to fight this injustice and restore
their good names. You can hear them assuring their followers that this
will not stand.
But this is not what they do. They continue
doing what they were doing before the beating. They continue to share
the good news wherever they are. The fact that they are in prison seems
to not affect them. They sing hymns and pray with the hopes that those
who are in the prison might come to learn the power of the resurrected
Jesus.
They continue even when an act that can be interpreted
as their ultimate vindication happens. An earthquake frees their
shackles and opens the door---and they stay put.
They stay put
so they can reach an unlikely ministry target, their own jailer.
Knowing he would be held responsible for their escape, they protect him
by staying in their cells. He is so overwhelmed by these two, that he
falls to the ground and asks them how he can be saved. He senses that
they have access to a freedom that he desperately wants and needs.
It
is as if the false accusation and even the punishment have no bearing
on them. They have a freedom in Christ that has nothing to do with
their physical location, their reception by the locals, or even
miraculous events that confirm their innocence.
Earlier this
week we celebrated the Feast of the Ascension. After many
post-resurrection appearances, Jesus prepares to leave his disciples
again. In that leave-taking, he promises them the gift of the Holy
Spirit. The Advocate. It was this sprit, the spirit of the Risen that
Christ that again and again sustained the apostles in their ministry.
It is the same spirit we see glimpses of even now. We know we are in
its presence whenever we witness a freedom that is beyond the powers
and principalities of this world.
This past February, Nelson
Mandela of South Africa had a dinner party. He was celebrating the 20th
anniversary of his release from prison. Having spent twenty seven years
in prison under apartheid, he now gathered to celebrate twenty years of
freedom. But when you listen to him, freedom appears to be anything but
limited to a physical location. The party included some leaders from
the anti-apartheid movement, friends, and family. But there was one
guest that was a bit surprising. Nelson Mandela invited one of his
former jailers to dinner, Christo Brand. He too was invited to raise a
glass in celebration and Mandela counts him as a friend. In his
memoirs, Mandela wrote of this friendship that it "reinforced my belief
in the essential humanity of even those who had kept me behind bars."
As
Christians we are called to places that are uncomfortable. They
challenge us to live in a place of freedom that is not constituted by
our outward circumstances. It calls us to let go of our own concerns
for our reputations, and release any bitterness that might prevent us
from sharing the good news. This is not easy. It is tempting to defend
ourselves and rebel against anything that might impugn our good name.
But
care for our reputations at all costs can imprison us as much as any
jail cell. It can cut us off from a ministry to those who may need us
most. This is not something we can do on our own steam. It is something
that can only come from God. And so we pray, "Come, holy spirit, Come."
Amen
Comments? Contact Beth Knowlton at: BKnowlton@stphilipscathedral.org
