Our
passage is situated not long after Pentecost, not long after the flames,
dancing around the apostles’ heads, not long after the babble of languages
became one . . . structurally, it's a bridge between two sermons of Peter—yes, that Peter, old deny-him-three-times
Simon Peter’ who must have been one heck of a preacher, ‘cause he stood up at
Pentecost and let her rip, and Jesus’ followers grew by three thousand that day
alone, and our passage describes what was going on in the early days of the
Christian movement. And I use the word
movement advisedly, because that's surely what it was. Even in Luke's dry recital, you can feel the urgency,
the excitement. They devoted
themselves to the apostles’ teaching.
They devoted themselves to fellowship, to the breaking of bread, to
prayers. Everyone was amazed, awe came
over each and every one of them because the apostles were doing signs and
wonders, healing folks, driving out demons, multiplying fish and loaves.
And
their faith spilled over into their actions: they were with each other every
waking hour—when they weren't working, that is—and they had everything in
common. In fact, they sold everything
they had, their goods and possessions, and distribute the proceeds to anybody
who had need. And they didn't abandon
their old faith, either, they didn't quit being Jews: they spent a lot of time together in the
Temple, the very center of Judaism, and then went home to break bread, to celebrate
the Lord’s Supper, and to eat their food with glad hearts. And do you know what? They had the goodwill of all the people, and day by day God added to their number.
It
was a movement, all right, and as any sociologist could tell you, movements
don't last. As movements, anyway . . .
to survive they have to change, they have to gain structure and leadership, and
rules. They go from being movements to
institutions. Something like that is
going on with the Center for Action and Contemplation, the parent organization
of the Living School which I have attended the past year and a half. It began as a movement with a charismatic
leader—Richard Rohr—and as he nears the end of his life, they are trying to
figure out how to continue without his integrating presence. And so they are becoming more
institutionalized, and it's not always a pretty sight. People who are good at teaching, especially
teaching and organizing religious programming, aren't necessarily great at
administering an institution. I was able
to spend some time last week with the new CEO they hired, and he's a good guy,
but we'll see how he is able to navigate the rocky waters of managing employees
used to the looser structure, along with strong-willed “talent” like Richard
and Cynthia Bourgeault. The change is
beginning to show up in their communication with us, and it's making some folks
uncomfortable.
But
that's what happens as a movement ages, and the cool thing about Acts is you
can kind of follow it, at least a little ways.
Acts is far from what we today would call a history, attempting to be
unbiased and all that: those beasts didn't exist back then. But you can see the beginning of the cracks
in the movement if you know what to look for. After Peter’s next sermon, in Solomon’s
Portico, the reactions were mixed. They
added a bunch of new members, but not everyone was thrilled: it landed Peter
and John in the pokey. Only one more
mention is made of having all goods in common, and the story of Ananias and Sapphira
are stark reminders that the practice lived and died at the mercy of human
frailty. (Recall that they dropped dead after withholding the proceeds of a
property sale. Let that be a warning to
you not to get behind in your pledges.)
We
don't know how widely the practices in this passage spread; it could be they
were localized, or they could be representative of wider ways of doing
church. We do know that there were a
variety of ways to be Christian in that first century, but by its end, by about
100 Common Era, the institution of the church—with Bishops, Archbishops,
etc.—was beginning to take hold.
Christianity was transforming from a movement to an institution. It had to to survive.
And
now it's two thousand years later, and the framework of that institution is
getting a bit rickety, at least here in the West. There are all kinds of reasons for this,
debated hotly, of course, among us.
Being too conservative, being too liberal, too unbending, not unbending
enough, not changing with the times, changing too much with the times. This isn't the place to talk about it except
to say that it all boils down to this moment, this place, and these pews . . .
We are the result of that movement begun two thousand years ago, we are the
children of that enthusiasm, that excitement, that vision. We are the descendants of Peter and John, Barnabas
and Paul and, yes, Ananias and Sapphira . . .
And
is there anything we can learn from them?
Is there anything at all to say about this passage, other than the
obvious? It would be silly to say we
should begin doing what they all did, selling all our goods and property and
distributing it to all who have need . . . that ship has sailed. The practice, even if it was at all
widespread, was very short-lived in Christianity at large (except in
monasteries, of course). But an extreme,
perhaps even sacrificial, generosity did remain, for a while, at least . . .
And I think we have to ask ourselves: why are there poor, especially in the
ranks of our sisters and brothers in Christ?
There are Christian sisters and brothers right here in Hamilton County
who don't know where their next meal is coming from. If we really “took care of our own,”
shouldn't their numbers be on the decrease instead of on the rise as they are?
Well. One of the issues with this passage is that the
bits about having “all things in common” and selling their goods and
possessions and distributing the proceeds to any who have need tend to wash
everything else out, because, you know, it sounds like the S-word, like socialism,
and we all know that's bad. But there's more to the passage, and it lies
in the actions of the early Christians, in what they were doing. Yes, they were practicing charity. Yes, their experience of the Divine radically
re-ordered their economic priorities.
But their other practices were equally radical.
First,
they “devoted themselves to the Apostles’ teaching.” Devoted. And though I'm not sure what that word
implies, the way I read it is as somewhat more fervent than spending an hour in
the pews each week, an extra one in Christian Ed and perhaps another at Bible
study. Devotion implies, to me anyway, a
giving ones self over, a dedication to, something which I admit, I personally
have trouble with. There are so many
distracting pleasures: the latest in that mystery series I'm reading. My favorite tech web-sites—when is that new iPad going to be here?—and
which has-been demi-celebrity is going to get thrown off “Dancing With the
Stars” this week? Then, of course, there's the family, and all
the energy one puts into those
relationships . . . And while they're good and necessary, how do they fit in
with the notion of devotion to Christian teachings?
In
addition, Luke says, they devoted themselves to fellowship, which is koinonia
in Greek, and it's not a coincidence that it's the same word as “in common,” as
in “they had all things in common.” Not only did the gospel radically re-order
their financial priorities, but their way of life as well . . . Their entire
lives were lived in common with their fellow converts. Instead of remaining holed up in family
units, going to temple or synagogues within those units or as individuals, they
devoted themselves to doing the
difficult work of being in community.
That
included a devotion to breaking bread together, and it's likely that this held
kind of a double meaning for Luke . . . It's likely that he meant both the Lord’s
Supper and general, communal meals,
perhaps kind of like our pot-luck suppers, and that has been a mark of
Christian gatherings for our entire history, hasn't it? And it's more than just “you gotta eat
sometime,” there's something satisfying, something sacred about gathering around the table together . . . and of
course it's not just formal church gatherings.
Pam and I are associated with a group of Christian contemplatives, and whenever
we meet, a meal together is a big part.
Some of our best ideas are hatched while breaking bread together.
One
time, I was asked by a disaffected Methodist whether I thought you could be
spiritual outside a church, and I answered “Sure. But it won't be a Christian spirituality.”
Christianity is practiced in community, it's practiced with others. We believe that the hard work of being in
community is worth it, that it brings us closer to God, as well as each
other. And as our passage shows, it's
been that way since the beginning. They devoted themselves to fellowship and
breaking bread together.
And
there’s one more thing they devoted themselves to, and that's prayer. Again, that's devoted themselves to it. Not just when there's something they wanted,
or when they were feeling particularly thankful. And I must admit that I have just as much
trouble with this one as I do anything else.
I have my prayer times, and I give things to God in prayer, but
devotion? I don't know . . . And in
everything, I rely on the grace of God, and sometimes God’s good humor.
One
of the reasons I wanted to talk about this passage is that I spent last week in
a Benedictine monastery. There, the
monks’ lives are ordered according to the Rule of Benedict, designed to guide
its followers in living the Christian Life.
And the monks’ days are structured around prayer, fellowship, communal
meals and study. Their lives follow a rhythm,
nestled in the work of God, the work of living in Christian community.
And
while it would be silly to suggest we all need to join a monastery, I wonder
what would happen if we modern Christians, members of this congregation and
others that are showing their age, that are steadily shrinking, I wonder what
would happen if we rededicated ourselves to prayer, fellowship, breaking bread
and learning. I know what God did back
then: God did a completely new thing, he grew their numbers like a weed,
exploding the Christian faith over the Middle Eastern landscape.
And
I wonder: would God do the same? Would
God increase our number like God did back in the day? Perhaps . . . But if it happened, if God
enriched our lives, both together and in part, it might not look like a thing
that's ever happened before. Because
that’s the nature of our God, the modus
operandi, if you will: our God is always
doing a new thing. Amen.
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