Sermon for April 25, 2004: 3 Easter, C

by The Rev. Susan Anslow Williams

Focus on Acts 9:1-20

“Story Time”

Margaret brought home a report card from school on Friday. I know that in some families, report cards are a troubling thing; but so far Margaret has been a model kindergartner. Her reading teacher praised us parents for all our efforts; but frankly Eric and I don’t think we’ve done anything extraordinary. We both read, maybe that’s something unusual these days; and from infancy Margaret, and Emily, have loved stories – hearing them, gradually memorizing them, and finally, in Margaret’s case, reading them herself. Both girls have their favorites, learned early and thoroughly enough that the reader cannot change or skip a word without being caught and rebuked. The term, of course, is “known by heart,”and we have those sorts of stories here in Church, too.       Adam and Eve in the Garden.  Noah’s Ark. The Christmas story.  The Easter story.  And today’s first lesson, from Acts: The Damascus Road.

This one has become a metaphor, practically a cliché, for a dramatic revelation of God that leads one to sudden insight or conversion. St. Paul certainly had an unforgettable experience: a flash of lightening that knocked him off his... donkey; a thundering voice from heaven; a mystical conversation with Jesus; and blindness that would last several days, until a trembling Christian named Ananias followed the Lord’s command to lay hands on this fearsome persecutor of believers and bring him Christ’s own healing.

We hear this astonishing story at least once every year, for it is told in various ways, no fewer than five times in the New Testament: three times by Luke in the book of Acts, and twice in his epistles by Paul himself.[1][1] And so we know it by heart, much as Christians have since around the year 50 AD. Countless persons have had their own Damascus Road experience – perhaps not quite so dramatic, but definitely an event or series of events that have led to a certainty of faith in God that was never there before. Maybe you have had such an experience, and it has been woven into your own story times: shared, perhaps hesitatingly, when prodded by another’s need or your own to open the pages of your heart’s dearest tale. Paul is, perhaps, your private patron saint: a person whose story illustrates that no one, even someone as violently opposed to the church as was Saul of Tarsus, is unreachable by the powerful, unstoppable, and yet thoroughly loving touch of God in the risen Christ.

Some people seem to have a whole string of “Damascus Road” events. I’ve been reading the autobiography of a Romanian nun who now lives in Buffalo, names Sister Judith Fenyvesi.  She escaped from the Nazis and then the Russians during World War II, only to be arrested and imprisoned for ten years by the Communists.  Her story is both horrifying and inspiring – how anyone could endure such things and keep her faith, I cannot imagine.  But in the reading of it, one is convinced of the power of God.

I’ll be honest with you: I’ve never had a “Damascus Road experience.” In certain churches there would be persons questioning whether I was actually “saved,” since I can’t name the date and place where I had a conversion and accepted Christ. I must say I’m a bit envious of those who have had a dramatic encounter like Paul’s. And certainly I envy the results of Paul’s conversion: having spent a few days with the young church in Damascus, he strikes out as a missionary and letter-writer, becoming the single most successful apostle ever for the effects his travels and epistles have had. What a guy.

The story of his Damascus journey is so well known that we often overlook the other characters: Those traveling on the road with Saul; and the nervous Ananias, called upon to go and minister to this infamously violent man.

Acts quickly passes by Saul’s fellow travelers – perhaps assistants on his murderous missions – because they seem almost comical, standing there speechless as the thunder and lightening strike, and cause such a change in their companion. Maybe they ascribe his condition to the lightening bolt, or to a stroke or seizure; they’ve got the sense to lead him into town and over to the home of one Judas, who might be a doctor of some kind. Then they disappear from the stage.

But I imagine they stayed in the wings, keeping an eye and ear open for news of their friend. A few days later they hear tell of his remarkable healing and new-found faith in this Jesus whom he had been persecuting. Meeting him over cups of strong Turkish coffee and a dish of baba-ganouche, they hear Saul’s story, and wonder how God might be trying to touch their own lives.  The power of that story begins.

And then there’s Ananias, the reluctant but faithful healer.  Of course he was scared to visit Saul – who wouldn’t be! Saul had the power to bind and drag Christians to Jerusalem – no short trip – to appear before the religious authorities for punishment. We have no idea how Ananias came to believe; but when he has a dream about Jesus who calls his name, Ananias responds “Here I am, Lord,” and has a rational conversation with Him.  No lights, no thunder. Just a recognition that this voice comes from the Lord: an awareness that, no doubt, has come from much time in prayer.  So Ananias responds, agreeing to this dangerous assignment.  His time spent with the blinded Saul is the last we hear of Ananias; but we also can imagine his future – one in which he tells the story, again and again, of the time he met the murderous Saul of Tarsus and became God’s own instrument of healing. I can picture Ananias becoming quite a missionary in his own right, maybe not so widely traveled as his brother in faith, but still powerfully effective in recounting that amazing set of events. Perhaps he told it to an educated Roman citizen named Luke; and the rest, as they say, is church history.

Good stories are like that: in the telling and retelling, they take on layers of significance; seeping into our bones, they become available to mind and soul, springing back into recollection at surprisingly appropriate moments. God works that way, using stories and the people who tell them to bring us new glimpses of His reality, and the powerful possibilities for those who trust in Him and take risks for Him.  Like Ananias.  Like Paul.

For let’s face it, none of us would have the faintest idea of a “Damascus Road experience” had not Ananias ventured over to Judas’s house; and had not Saul gone on to become the missionary Paul.  Their lives showed their faith – whether that faith came slowly and prayerfully, like Ananias’; or dazzlingly, dramatically, like Paul’s. However you have come to know Jesus Christ, I pray that the story of the Damascus Road might impart three things to you this morning:

(1) First, that your own story of coming to faith is the only one for you. It is good, it is yours, and it comes from God.  No one else’s is better or worse.

(2) Second, that telling your story has a power that you may never know.  Perhaps there is a future St. Luke in earshot, longing to hear testimonies of the risen Christ so that the church may grow and thrive.  You have something to say, something that is real and important, even so simple as “I’ve just always known that Jesus is real and nearby.”  The benefit is two-fold, for those you tell can confirm and support your experience, and give you strength for the next steps.  Paul would never had set out, had he not been nurtured by the fledgling church in Damascus.  Each of us needs that guidance and support in our journey.

(3) Third, let your life reflect those stories, lived and heard.  That is the measure of their truth. Anyone can make up an amusing tale; but the Resurrection story must be lived in order to be believed.  The world needs to see and know, from you, that God is real and merciful; that Jesus Christ is alive because he has touched your heart; and that the Holy Spirit speaks through your life as well as anyone else’s.

You are Paul.  You are Ananias.  So go and rock the world.

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