A Community of Love

Acts 4:5-12

April 29, 2012

I want to begin this morning with a simple definition, and a deceptive question.

The definition is of the word “resurrection.” We hear that word today, inevitably, with the weight of two thousand years of Christian history and it is almost impossible to hear it as anything other than a essentially Christian word with associated theological concepts, constructs and orthodoxies attached to it. But in the New Testament Greek it’s just a common verb meaning “rise up” or, in the passive tense that is used in the Easter stories, “raised up.” One could properly use the word to speak of getting out of bed in the morning. It is an ordinary word.

That is the simple definition. Now for the deceptive – and not rhetorical – question: where in your life have you witnessed resurrection?

*****

A couple of weeks ago I got a phone call at about two minutes past five o’clock in the afternoon here at church. My first inclination was to let the answering machine pick up because I was just about to head out the door. My second thought was, “it’s somebody trying to sell us something.” I checked the caller ID and it wasn’t an 800 number. In fact, it was a Falls Church number, which led instantly to my third thought: “it’s somebody asking for money which we don’t have.”

So, with the perfect pastoral predisposition of mild irritation (because I was ready to go home) and deep suspicion (because I’ve answered too many calls from people wanting nothing but money), I answered the phone.

Irritation and suspicion are emotional symptoms of scarcity. When we are afraid that we have too little time, we resent any perceived imposition on that time. When we are afraid that we have too little money, we suspect any perceived solicitation of that money.

While time and money are among the precious commodities that we guard most dearly, our sense of scarcity is, of course and alas, not limited to them.

Within many institutional systems – workplace, schools, churches, families – we act as if power is scarce and so if we happen to have it we hold on tightly and never share lest we wind up powerless. Ever been in a classroom when the teacher’s power was threatened? Ever worked in an office with a supervisor who could not bear to share power? No matter the setting, it’s never a pretty sight.

It’s also incredibly counterproductive – and entirely unnecessary because power in any institutional setting is always a renewable resource.

Sometimes we act as if love is a fossil fuel – a scarce non-renewable resource – and thus make fossils of our hearts.

What does any of that have to do with this story from Acts, or with the lessons from the Johanine literature?

The book of Acts opens with the apostles gathered together in a room. You can read the scene in many ways: are they organizing to continue the work or are they hiding out in fear? Have they decided that their present gathering – a small group devoted to praying – is just fine or do they want to engage the wider world? None of that is certain. But one thing is clear, they were far from powerful, far from mainstream, far from established.

The future was cloudy and their personal track record wasn’t that great either. One of their inner circle had betrayed their teacher and turned him over to be crucified. At that teacher’s most difficult hour, when all he asked was that they pray with him, they’d all fallen asleep. And Peter, the rock upon whom that teacher wanted to build the new community – had turned tail and denied even knowing Jesus.

Talk about dwelling in scarcity! Trust is scarce when there’s been betrayal. Confidence is scarce when there’s been failure. Courage is scarce when there’s been denial.

That’s how the story of Acts begins, and the story of Acts is the story of the beginning of the church. More than that – and we’ll explore this over the course of the next several weeks – the story of the church in Acts has a great deal to teach us about the variety of ways that we could think about being church today, and, in fact, it is teaching a lot of folks in small places around the world today about ways to be church.

So how can it be that a story that begins in suspicion, doubt and fear in chapter one finds Peter preaching eloquently before the powers that be by chapter four?

Liturgically we remain in the season of Eastertide and before the day of Pentecost. Perhaps we remain in that season as church.

We have witnessed resurrection – in all kinds of ways. We began with some conversation about resurrection experiences.

We have experienced resurrection as church. Often, in fact. And so we know that resurrection brings new life. Just yesterday we helped give new life to a beaten down house. Our steadfast witness around the ordination of gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgender Presbyterians has helped give new life to a beaten down denomination. Our deep commitment to the fellowship of the table has helped give new life to beaten down neighbors.

All of that is remarkable, grace-filled, amazing. Yet we seem to find ourselves often in the position of the disciples after Easter: gathered together, saying our prayers, in one room – decently and in order, so quiet that we don’t disturb a soul.

What happened to Peter that pushed him into the public square to preach?

Most of us know the Pentecost story, and we’ll recall it with drama next month, but I’ll be damned if I can actually answer my own question. What happened to Peter? Wind and fire happened to Peter.

Those are rich and powerful images, metaphors in fact. But what happened to Peter?

I could answer that question with reference to a long history of theological reflection, and it might be mildly interesting, albeit entirely theoretically so. I could answer it speculatively with reference to that same long history.

But instead I’ll answer it personally, because I think that will dance closer to the truth, and when one is talking about wind and fire one ought first to admit that to do more than dance close to wind-driven flame is pretty foolish, and even that is risky and imprecise.

What happened to Peter?

Love happened to Peter. The love that is at the heart of the passages from John and 1^st John that we read earlier happened to Peter. The love of God that is not diminished by our failures, our doubts, our fears, happened to Peter. The love of God that is so inexhaustible that it defied and defeated the powers of death happened to Peter. The love of God that swept through a gathered community and danced around their heads and shoulders as if to set them all aflame, happened to Peter.

I know.  I am a witness. It has happened to me. More than once. More than I can count. It has happened in this very place.

It happened again just the other day. For reasons that I really couldn’t explain but that are not, I promise you, reducible to duty and responsibility, I picked up the phone and listened as a young Latina woman shared her story of fear and desperation and asked only that someone pray with her. There was, I’m sure, a bit of training and preparation involved in the technique of listening, but my own experience of the moment so utterly transgressed and transcended those notions or techniques. I was just a partner in a dance that was moved by wind and fire. Love happened, and, I promise you, it was not my love.

I was tired, ready to go home, suspicious and leery. Nevertheless, love happened.

All I could possibly say for myself was that I was willing, barely, to pick up the phone and say, “hello,” and that I was prepared to give an account of the hope that is within me.

What if that’s all it actually takes to build, to become, to be “a more vibrant congregation”? What if all it takes is the barely willing gesture of saying, “hello”? What if all it takes is the willingness to share our stories when those stories can help a friend or a stranger in need?

What if all it takes really is the willingness to bear one another’s burdens, to bind one another up, to love one another? What if it really is all that simple? What if all we are ever called to be is a community of love?

Amen.