Fear

Holy Curiosity

Acts 8:26-40

Then an angel of the Lord said to Philip, ‘Get up and go towards the south* to the road that goes down from Jerusalem to Gaza.’ (This is a wilderness road.) So he got up and went. Now there was an Ethiopian eunuch, a court official of the Candace, queen of the Ethiopians, in charge of her entire treasury. He had come to Jerusalem to worship and was returning home; seated in his chariot, he was reading the prophet Isaiah. Then the Spirit said to Philip, ‘Go over to this chariot and join it.’ So Philip ran up to it and heard him reading the prophet Isaiah. He asked, ‘Do you understand what you are reading?’ He replied, ‘How can I, unless someone guides me?’ And he invited Philip to get in and sit beside him. Now the passage of the scripture that he was reading was this:
‘Like a sheep he was led to the slaughter,
and like a lamb silent before its shearer,
so he does not open his mouth.
In his humiliation justice was denied him.
Who can describe his generation?
For his life is taken away from the earth.’

The eunuch asked Philip, ‘About whom, may I ask you, does the prophet say this, about himself or about someone else?’ Then Philip began to speak, and starting with this scripture, he proclaimed to him the good news about Jesus. As they were going along the road, they came to some water; and the eunuch said, ‘Look, here is water! What is to prevent me from being baptized?’ He commanded the chariot to stop, and both of them, Philip and the eunuch, went down into the water, and Philip* baptized him. When they came up out of the water, the Spirit of the Lord snatched Philip away; the eunuch saw him no more, and went on his way rejoicing. But Philip found himself at Azotus, and as he was passing through the region, he proclaimed the good news to all the towns until he came to Caesarea.


We are all losers, at least that’s what it feels like for most of us. Before you pie me, let me explain! Back in February, Pew Research Center, a nonpartisan organization that conducts public opinion polls on everything from politics to religion, science and more, released updated findings on how folks feel like their side in politics is doing.

And according to that multiyear study, less than a quarter of Americans feel like their side is winning on issues that matter to them. Which means that the rest of us, the vast majority of us, feel like we are losing. No wonder public dialogue, political discourse, or even talking with a neighbor or coworker feels so embittered and tense. Most of us feel like we are fighting a losing battle. In reality though what we are all losing to is tribalism.

Tribalism is the instinct to gather and connect with people who are similar in all sorts of ways: beliefs, interests, experiences, and more. Our tribe tells us who we are, what we’re supposed to do, and what we believe. Now this is not necessarily a bad thing. Having a community that helps give us identity, that surrounds us and supports us is very important.

But tribalism becomes treacherous when it tells us who we should fear. We can so closely identify with our tribe that anyone who is different becomes a threat.

It is dangerous then when a tribe says, “Watch out for them. They aren’t like us. They are trying to take things from you, they only want to hurt you. They are the cause of your problems, of our problems. Be very afraid of them. Be afraid of the democrats. Be afraid of the republicans.

Be afraid of people who are transgender or who do drag. Be afraid of progressives or fundamentalist. Be very afraid.”

Sharon Brous, a rabbi in Los Angeles, writes that “One of the great casualties of tribalism is curiosity. And when we are no longer curious, when we don’t try to imagine or understand what another person is thinking or feeling or where her pain comes from, our hearts begin to narrow.

We become less compassionate and more entrenched in our own worldviews.” Perhaps we all feel like we are losing because tribalism has swallowed up our sense of curiosity and narrowed our hearts.

Which is why we need the story of Philip and the Eunuch now more than ever. For some context: Philip is a newly appointed leader in the growing Jesus movement. Religious leaders felt threatened by this and especially with a disciple named Stephen. Under the authority of a man named Saul, they stoned Stephen. And the church then was severely persecuted, scattering disciples all over the place. I imagine at this point it would have been so easy for the church to become tribal; telling each other who to watch out for and who to be afraid of, “be afraid of anyone who is not like us”. But that’s not the case for Philip.

Philip first goes to Samaria, the despised, distant cousin of the Jews, preaching and healing the sick, and to everyone’s surprise, droves of Samaritans believed and were baptized. This Jesus movement was moving beyond its Jewish, Jerusalem community and into a diverse, global body. The opposite of tribalism. And that’s where our story picks up.

An angel of the Lord tells Philip to go to an unusual place; not to a city, or to someone’s home, but to a road. A road is not a destination though, especially one that’s in the wilderness. But Philip, ever obedient, goes to this deserted highway. What for, exactly, he doesn’t know…

Until he hears the clopping of hooves pulling a chariot. Were told the passenger inside is an Ethiopian Eunuch.

Talk about a person who was not like Philip. In the time of the early church, the term Ethiopian referred broadly to people with black skin. In other ancient near eastern literature, Ethiopian meant someone who was from the farthest ends of the earth.

Not to mention that this person's gender was quite questionable. As castrated males, eunuchs didn’t fit into the gender norms of the Roman world. They weren’t considered men because they couldn’t produce children. But they weren’t seen as women either. And because they didn’t fit neatly into the binary, they were often an object of scorn.

Yet this Eunuch is at the same time powerful. He’s literate and wealthy enough to have a chariot at his disposal and a scroll of Isaiah. Nonetheless, he could not be more different from Philip. But the Holy Spirit doesn’t care about differences. The Spirit tells Philip to go to the chariot. I imagine Philip running to catch up with the chariot. Breathing heavily and gripping the window, he yells his question at the passenger. What would you do if someone did that to you while driving on 52? My guess is you wouldn’t invite them in your car!

But what ensues here is an interaction marked by holy curiosity. Both ask questions and invite more conversation: Do you understand what you're reading, asks Philip? No, I need a guide, says the Eunuch. Neither pretends to know more than they do. Both are incredibly vulnerable considering what has just happened to each of them.

Philip just had a fellow disciple killed for preaching about Jesus and here he is telling a complete stranger all about him? And the Eunuch had just gone to Jerusalem for worship, but because he was a Eunuch he wasn’t allowed in the temple to worship. It would be like coming here, being denied entrance into the sanctuary, and watching worship from the welcome space.

You’d think after that kind of rejection, the Eunuch would be done with organized religion. Yet, he asks Philip to tell him about this passage in Isaiah.

The result is two of the unlikeliest of people, in an unlikely location, being joined together as siblings in Christ through the water of baptism. [Rejoicing and changed as they walk away from this encounter]

That’s exactly what the Holy Spirit does. As Willie James Jennings puts it: the Holy Spirit rarely if ever sends us where we want to go or to whom we would want to go. Indeed the Spirit seems to always be pressing us to go to those to whom we would in fact strongly prefer never to share space, or a meal, and definitely not life together. Yet it is precisely this prodding to be boundary-crossing and border-transgressing that marks the presence of the Holy Spirit.

Who is your tribe telling you to fear? Who are you afraid of because you’ve been told they are the source of your problems or the problems in the world? Whoever they are, they are likely people very different from you, as different as Philip from the Eunuch.

And yet, the gospel tells us that through the Holy Spirit, a relationship is possible; doing life together with empathy and understanding is possible, working together to further the kingdom of God is possible. So perhaps what we need most in this time of deep divide among tribes is a holy curiosity: asking questions that invite more conversation, not acting like we know more than we do, and a vulnerability to go to the person and places we never thought we would.

What would your life look like if you, if we practiced obedience to the Spirit’s leading? Where would you go? Whom would you meet and engage with? What would our life together as Cross of Grace look like if we did the same? Where would we be led? Who is waiting for us there?

Life in the Spirit means we do not fear those different from ourselves. We engage with holy curiosity. And we walk away rejoicing; changed. When we do this, no one loses, everyone wins.

Such is the kingdom of God.

Amen


Why Are You Afraid?

Mark 4:35-41

On that day, when evening had come, [Jesus] said to [the disciples], “Let us go across to the other side.” And leaving the crowd behind, they took him with them in the boat, just as he was. Other boats were with him. A great windstorm arose, and the waves beat into the boat, so that the boat was already being swamped. But Jesus was in the stern, asleep on the cushion; and they woke him up and said to him, “Teacher, do you not care that we are perishing?” He woke up and rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace!  Be s till!” Then the wind ceased, and there was a dead calm. He said to them, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”  And they were filled with great awe and said to one another, “Who then is this, that even the wind and the sea obey him?”


“Why are you afraid?” Those are the words that stand out to me in today’s Gospel story this time around.

“Why are you afraid?” “Have you still no faith?” If we’re supposed to look at the storm in Mark’s story as some sort of metaphor for our lives in this world – which I think is fair – then I think it’s fair and faithful, too, to wonder about Jesus’ question today in the same way.

“Why are you afraid?” “Of what are you afraid?” “What is it that makes any of us scared, anxious, full of worry … AFRAID?”

Maybe your answer to that question, like the disciples’ is, actually, “storms.” Fair enough. My wife is “this close” to drawing up plans for a storm shelter whenever the wind blows just right or the weather radar changes colors. But there is plenty more that scares us – worries us – makes us afraid – from day to day, isn’t there?

I’m afraid of heights.

I’m kind of afraid of birds and definitely afraid of bats.

If I were in the Sea of Galilee with the disciples, I’d prefer to be out of the water, in the boat or, say, on water skis because I’m afraid of the weeds and the fish and God knows what else is beneath the surface of the water waiting to nibble on my toes when I can’t see them.

But I’m afraid of some other things, too.

I’m afraid of my dad’s unpredictable – and apparently untreatable – heart issues. I was afraid to hear that my uncle, my dad’s younger brother, had to have his first open-heart surgery on Friday. And I’m afraid of the fact that I have a lot of those Havel genes and DNA running through my own veins.

I’m afraid I’m not a good enough husband and father – no matter how nice my family was to me on Father’s Day last weekend.

I’m afraid for the Church – that people don’t see or respect or value what we have to offer the world, like they used to. And I’m afraid the Church that the gives them good reason for that sometimes.

And I get a little anxious around here every year at this time, in this Church – that we won’t give enough to the General Fund or to the Building Fund, not just to sustain, but to grow our ministry in faithful, fun, meaningful ways. And I’m afraid I won’t be able to inspire that kind of faithfulness or generosity.

I’m afraid of the same bigger picture stuff most of us are stewing about these days, too.

I’m afraid of school shootings.

I was afraid this week to learn that a friend of mine – if he didn’t have health insurance – would have had to pay $71,000 for an appendectomy, a completely unpredictable, unpreventable need that could befall anyone.

And I’ve been afraid about what’s been going on at our southern border. Not afraid, really, in any imminent way, for myself, of course. But I’m afraid for those families and I’m sad for those kids and I’m afraid, too, of what that issue – and all the ways we defend or dispute it – reveals about us.

I’m afraid that we’re afraid of each other. And I’m afraid that we’re afraid of “THE OTHER.” I’m afraid we don’t see people as people enough of the time. I’m afraid that instead of people – instead of brothers and sisters in Christ – instead of Children of God – we see each other as the sum of our posts on Facebook; as the collection of our tweets on Twitter; as allies or as opponents; as political persuasions; as “right” or “wrong”; as “legal” or “illegal” – as if anyone’s worth or value or personhood; as if anyone’s safety or well-being should be determined by those kinds of labels or ideologies or political opinions or national origin.

Sometimes I'm afraid there is nothing new under the sun in all of this. And sometimes I'm afraid that there is.

And I’m afraid all of this fear – the personal stuff and the big picture things, too – will get the best of us, if we’re not careful. I’m afraid if we don’t invite Jesus into the mix – if we don’t remember and recognize what he would do and have us do, just the same – that all of this fear, and the fighting and anxiety it fosters, threatens to win the day.

See, I don’t think the disciples in the story were just scared of the wind and the waves that stirred things up on the Sea of Galilee that day, in the boat with Jesus. I think they must have been afraid, too, that Jesus had the power to stop it all. Like some magical meteorologist, Jesus gave the command – “Peace! Be still!” – and the storm ended. If all the healing and preaching and cleansing and teaching they’d already seen from Jesus wasn’t enough, this reality check about the power of God, alive and well in their midst… in that boat… in the carpenter’s Son from Nazareth… must have scared them silly. It would have me.

And if he was who he said he was… if this power was real… if he could do all of these things with the blessing of the Almighty… then what he was asking them to do all of a sudden carried a kind of weight and burden and power and importance that would have been frightening, to say the least.

Because in the face of our fears – however large or small, personal or big-picture – we’re called to remember, to trust, and to live differently because of God’s good news in Jesus. Our God is stronger than death. God’s love is more fierce than the grave. 

So, even heart troubles, heart attacks, and heart surgeries are no match for God’s kind of healing – whether that takes place on this side of the grave or the other.

My shortcomings as a father and as a husband are no more real and no match for the mercy and forgiveness and second chances I’m afforded by God’s kind of grace.

The Church in the world – and our little piece of it here at Cross of Grace – are under God’s care and provision. Yes, we pray, we give, we do, we ask hard questions, but we trust – ultimately – that God’s mercy has been our help in ages past and that God’s mission is our hope for whatever is to come.

And our hope for healing the divisions that separate and threaten us these days rest, too, in the ways of Jesus. Remember, he called the disciples that day from one side of the sea to the other … away from home… away from what they knew … away, perhaps, from where they felt safe, even … into Gentile territory… where the “others” were – the outsiders, the unclean, more of the sick and leprous and demon-possessed from the wrong side of the tracks.

May all of that symbolize and represent for us those people from whom we’d rather keep our distance; those people with whom we disagree; those people from whom we are repelled, even. And may we see them, too, as children of God – much to our surprise. And may we show ourselves to them in the same way. May they see in us image-bearers of a loving, gracious, forgiving, merciful Creator in as many ways as we are able.

Maybe then the storms that surround us will subside. Or maybe then, we’ll be able to endure them with less fear. Maybe then, our fear will be a mere portion of the energy with which we experience the world around us – less fear, more faith, hope and love, I mean. And maybe then, our faith will win the day, so that living and loving in the ways of Jesus – who even the wind and sea obey – will still, not just the storms and fears and anxieties in our own lives, but will give us the power to calm, too, and transform the fears of the world where we live.

Amen