Welcome by the River

13 May 2007
Carolyn L Roberts
Acts 16.8-15

I enjoy reading mysteries—and judging from the fact that they occupy their own section in any library or bookstore, I’m not alone. Among those I enjoy are the Sister Fidelma mysteries, written under the pen name of Peter Tremayne. Set in 7th century Ireland, his stories also tell us something of the conflict between the increasing rigidity of Roman Christianity and the more gracious Celtic Christianity that was introduced by St. Patrick. In Badger’s Moon, Tremayne tells readers that once hospitality is offered in the Ireland of the mid-600’s, it cannot be refused, even when it is accepted only in token form.[1,210] Even more serious is the hospitality extended to strangers: their welfare becomes the responsibility of the host.

Ancient Ireland was hardly the only culture to take the responsibilities of hospitality seriously. The ancient Hebrews of our scriptures were obligated to hospitality too. And the really amazing part is that they didn’t limit hospitality just to family members. Or even to members of the same clan. Hospitality—providing food, shelter, and protection—was extended to stranger and family member alike.[2] Ancient Ireland may be far removed from first-century Philippi, but the obligations of hospitality don’t really change that much.

Today’s scripture finds the apostle Paul and his side-kick of the moment, Silas, in the city of Philippi. Acts tells us this is the leading city of the district of Macedonia, in Asia Minor. We recognize the name of Philippi from Paul’s letter to the Philippians, but Ephesus is familiar to us too. Like most of our major cities in the United States, these ancient places were located on or near major rivers.[3]

Lydia was from Thyatira and conducted her business at Philippi, one of those crossroads between Rome and Asia. Phoenicia was known throughout the Greco-Roman world as the production center of a unique purple dye that came from a particular species of mollusks. Even though the juices of the shellfish were white, when the liquid was exposed to light, the colors it produced ranged from crimson to purplish-blues. If you needed something dyed purple, this was the place.[3]

Lydia commands her own business as a merchant of purple cloth, and is in touch with the elite of Philippi—purple cloth is a luxury item. We assume she was wealthy not only because of her trade, not only because she was head of her household, but also because she offers her home as a missionary center.[4,310] On this Mother’s Day, it’s not only appropriate that we pay tribute to those who are mother to us, but also that we recognize those who are mothers of the faith. Lydia certainly fits the picture there: she is the first official European convert; she is baptized along with her entire household. But as significant as that is—and it is significant enough that Luke calls attention to Lydia by name, we also recognize Luke’s limitations. “Lydia embodies Luke’s ideal of women’s contribution to the church: to provide housing and economic resources.”[4] Sometime later in the chapter, Luke suggests that Lydia’s home “quickly becomes the center of the Philippian church, but Luke does not credit Lydia with any leadership role in that development.”[4] Luke’s focus is on Paul. And we find Paul and Silas down by the river, meeting with the Gentile women who are gathered in worship.

Our bulletin cover proclaims “welcome by the river,” but I am impressed by the fact that it is the faith community, the worshiping community that extends the welcome to Paul and Silas. This isn’t to say that only communities of worship are capable of extending gracious hospitality. It is to say that the practice of hospitality is a hallmark of communities of any faith. How well—or how poorly—we extend hospitality says volumes about who we are and about the God we worship. Rosemary Winslow writes of a congregation in downtown Washington that houses a creative writing class and day shelter for homeless women. Winslow’s writing speaks to the heart of hospitality: it is the “foundational principle for the church community to allow homeless persons to be reinterpreted not only as existing within society, but as bearing a gift of great value to the society.”[5]

For all practical purposes, Paul and Silas are homeless. But they come bearing the gift of the gospel, a gift that proclaims the love of God for all people. All people. No exceptions, no qualifications. God loves you. God loves me. And when we want to know what that love looks like, we see the face of Jesus. Teller of stories of compassion and healing and forgiveness—the good Samaritan, the father with two sons, the good shepherd. We see the face of Jesus, seated among the faith community’s untouchables of the day: prostitutes, tax collectors. We see the face of Jesus, healing a paralyzed man, returning sight to the blind, stopping a hemorrhage. We see the face of Jesus, bearing the gift of new life, and know that Lydia would have missed all of that if she had created barriers. If she had insisted that only women were allowed to speak in their worship gathering. She would have missed the gift of the gospel if she had maintained barriers which allowed only the elite, the wearers of purple cloth to speak. But Lydia’s hospitality, her welcome by the river, was so gracious, so genuine, that she is forever the mother of European Christianity.

We have more than a few lessons to learn from Lydia. I was with the Brothers and Sisters of the Way this past week. It’s a very small order of parish clergy that understand the need for spiritual renewal. They gather once a year in a self-conducted retreat that is modeled—more or less—on the Benedictine order of the day. So once in the morning, and once in the evening, the group listens to an hour of readings chosen by the chaplain of the hour. One of the readings we heard came from Henri Nouwen’s last book, Adam: God’s Beloved. Most of you will recognize Nouwen’s name—he was a Dutch Catholic priest who wrote 40 books, taught at Yale Divinity School and Harvard University. For the last ten years of his life, Nouwen also was a residential pastor in a L’Arche community in Toronto called “Daybreak.”

In L’Arche communities, people with developmental disabilities live together with their caregivers. When Nouwen moves into Daybreak, he becomes Adam’s caregiver. Adam is a young adult who has few motor skills, no ability to speak, and is very prone to grand mal epileptic seizures. At first, Nouwen is overwhelmed. He doesn’t know how to communicate with Adam, and certainly doesn’t know how Adam is going to communicate with him. But he learns. He learns how to manage the physical tasks of dressing and undressing Adam; how to brush his teeth and take care of other grooming essentials. How to put Adam’s schedule ahead of his own so that he doesn’t rush him—and trigger a seizure. How to talk with him and share his thoughts and the minutia of the day. In time, Adam became Nouwen’s confident, his mentor, his anchor, his friend. Finally, Adam suffers a massive heart attack and dies. Nouwen’s own death is only weeks later.

It’s easy to romanticize the story of Adam, easy to over-theologize it. But at its heart is Nouwen’s experience that Adam truly is God’s beloved son. That Adam has unique, life-giving gifts to share, if only those around him will be open to receiving them. The radiant joy of that recognition shines through. For Rosemary Winslow, it is homeless persons who are reinterpreted as existing within and bearing valuable gifts to society. For Nouwen it is those with developmental disabilities. For Israelis, it may be Palestinians, and vice versa. For many Americans, it is Muslims. Lydia’s story reminds us that the practice of hospitality is a habit that enlarges the heart and bears gifts beyond measure…on both sides of the equation.

***

[2] Google: Ancient Hebrew Research Center, “The Nomadic Lifestyle of the Ancient Hebrews”, Jeff A. Benner, cited 5-11-2007.

[3] Lewis, Bev, 6EasterC04, Acts 16.9-15

[5] Winslow, Rosemary, “Hospitality, Community, and Literary Reading and Writing,” Chapter VII, www.crvp.org/crv