Preached · July 17, 2011
Text · Acts 8
The Homeless Woman in Grand Rapids
A couple of summers ago, my wife, myself, and a couple of our friends spent the afternoon in downtown Grand Rapids, Michigan. We had visited our friends who lived there and spent the weekend with them, and we needed to go home that day, but we had a couple of hours to kill. So we decided to go downtown and see what we could see, see what we could discover.
There were a couple of things working against us that day. First of all, Grand Rapids was one of the white-hot centers of the economic meltdown, and so unemployment was through the roof. Secondly, it was a Sunday, so any businesses that were left open were going to be closed anyway. And thirdly, it was hot, it was sultry, it was miserably warm, and I believe the humidity was somewhere in the 600% range, something like that.
Needless to say, after only a few blocks of walking around in this awful heat with nothing to drink, most of us—not I, of course—got pretty grumpy. Grumpy and sullen and uncharacteristically silent. Our few hoped-for hours of adventure had been a bust. After a couple of blocks, we turned a corner and found this little park that had a fountain that was dry, of course, and a couple of benches. So we sat down and rested and caught our breath and tried not to say grumpy things to each other.
Once we were finished, we got up and began to walk away. And as we did, a woman began to walk toward us. And you know the kind of woman I'm talking about—unkempt hair, tattered clothes, this somehow hollowed look in her face. She was homeless. We kept walking with the hope that if we just walked away, she would somehow get the hint and not ask us whatever it was she was going to ask. But homeless women are nothing if not persistent. And so she asks politely, "Excuse me, do you have any change so I can buy something to eat or drink?"
I hate to repeat the thoughts that went through my head that day after she asked that question. "The change in my pocket? I need the change in my pocket to pay the tolls to go home." Or, "Oh, she's just going to use this money to go buy booze." Or, "I just want to get into my car and go home." Car. Home. Two things this woman didn't even have. And I wouldn't give her the change in my pocket.
And so that day, me, my wife, my friends—we walked away without saying a word. It was as if she was less than human. She was already on the bottom of the social totem pole: not having a home, not having a car, not having a job, not even having money to buy food or drink. And we wouldn't give her the time of day. It was a hot, sultry day in Michigan, and we simply ignored her.
Simon the Magician
In one of the first history books ever written about the Christian faith, you come across the story of a man named Simon. Now, in those days, magic was believed to be true. Some people even thought that magic came from God himself. Simon was a magician, and he was such a good magician that no matter what he did, people would listen to what he had to say. Some sources—probably exaggerating a little bit—said Simon could even fly or levitate at will. Regardless, Simon was admired and adored, if not worshiped, and he had the crowds around his little finger. But magicians weren't known exactly for being poor. Where there was a crowd, there was money to be made. And if magicians were known for their wealth, crowds are also known for being fickle.
Philip the Evangelist, one of the first Christians, came to this city where Simon was famous and began to do miracles by God's power. People who were paralyzed or somehow mutilated began to be able to walk. They were healed. But Philip didn't just do miracles for the sake of doing miracles. He preached; he proclaimed the good news of the kingdom of God through Jesus Christ. And so they began to believe in Philip and his message. And this first history book of Christianity, not surprisingly, says that the city was filled with joy. People began to get baptized, even Simon the magician.
Now, when we reach this point in the story, we hope it would end on this happy note. But things never stay that simple. Our history book goes on to tell us of the capital church, Jerusalem, hearing the story of this city of people beginning to know Jesus. And so they want to go check things out, and they send Peter and John, two apostles, to go see what's going on. When they arrive, they see that the city really has begun to believe in Jesus and his message. And so they begin to lay their hands on people as a sign of solidarity, as a symbol of anointing or appointing them to be part of something bigger than themselves.
Now, when this history book of ours records that Peter and John laid their hands on the people, it writes down this angeringly vague phrase: that when they laid their hands on someone, they received the Holy Spirit. Now, if we look at other stories in this history book about what happened when people received the Holy Spirit, we get some pretty alarming stories. There's things about rushing wind and fire filling a room. People start speaking in languages they don't know. People begin to confront the religious and political authorities of their day. There's a story of a man who gets stones chucked at him until he dies, because he has this vision of Jesus in the skies—and this history book tells us it's because he was filled with the Holy Spirit. And so, whatever it was that happened when Peter and John laid their hands on the people of this city and they received the Holy Spirit, it's visible enough that Simon the magician wants a piece of the action.
And we're not surprised. Simon's primary source of income was his magic. And who is going to follow a magician when the miracles of God himself have showed up in town? So Simon gathers up whatever wealth he has left, presents it to Peter and John, and says, "Let me have this power, that whoever I lay my hands on would have the Holy Spirit." And the way this story is written, we're not to understand that Simon is in this for some selfless act, that he just wants to help people get the Holy Spirit. No, instead he wants it for his own selfish gain. He sees a profit. He sees dollar signs. He sees a way that he can increase his standard of living. Because if he can get his crowds back, then he can get his money back.
Where Is God?
Have you ever had a friend in some hardship in your life, when they've come to you and asked, "Where is God?" Or maybe you have a friend right now who is dealing with some tragedy in their life. The basement is flooded, the cupboards are bare, the kitchen table is a mess of bills, and their husband or wife is threatening to call it quits, to walk out. Or maybe—just maybe—you don't have a friend like this. Maybe this person is you. Maybe you are the one who is up to your neck in disaster, dismay, and despair. And the question that keeps coming back to you, keeps haunting you, is "Where is God?"
Paul, one of the first leaders of Christianity, writes to this gathering of Christians in a city called Corinth. And he's trying to explain to them why they need to avoid immorality. And he doesn't give the reasons we might expect. He does not say, "Well, you need to impress people," or "You need to impress God," or "You should be trying to prove yourself so you can be proved worthy before Jesus." That's not anything like what he says. Instead, he says this: "Do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit, and that God dwells within you?"
Now, we've all heard and read some pretty weird things from television, and books, and magazines. Some people think that nature is God. Others think that the whole universe is God. There are other religions and people who think that if we do the right things, if we believe the right things, one day we will become God. Or maybe you're just your own God. But Paul, writing to this group of Christians in Corinth, says something even more bizarre, more controversial, and probably more exciting than any of that. He says that God himself, the God of the universe, lives within me.
Well, if that's the case, if that's really true—that the God of the cosmos, of the entire creation, is living inside of us—then wouldn't you expect that our lives would look somehow different than people who don't even know who God is? James, the half-brother of Jesus, once wrote, "If you know the good you ought to do, and you don't do it, to you it is sin." He continued, "Say you have a brother or a sister who is in need, who's naked or maybe doesn't have food for that day, and they come to you and tell you this, and you say, 'Go in peace, be filled, be clothed, and may the grace of God be with you,' but you don't give them anything to wear or eat. What good is that?"
You Are the Temple
Now, Simon the magician, when he saw the Holy Spirit, all he saw was dollar signs, all he saw was profit—a way to increase his standard of living, a way to impress people and crowds and congregations. Are we any different? We, the church, filled with God's Spirit, the temple of the living God—when we have people come to us in need, people whose cupboards are bare, whose kitchen tables are a mess of bills, whose parents are dying, whose children are sick—and all we can say, the best God-filled response we can come up with, is "I'll pray for you"? Is that really what we think Paul meant by "You are the temple of the living God"?
And when the homeless woman walks up to me, my wife, and my two friends—each of us completely and utterly filled with the God of the universe—is our best Holy Spirit-inspired act to just ignore her and walk away and make jokes about her drinking away our change?
Benediction
So may you come to realize that you are the temple of the living God—and not for your own benefit. And may you not be like Simon the magician, asking, "Can I buy this power for my own good?" And the next time a friend comes to you and asks, "Where is God?" may you be able to say, "Right here."
This is a transcript of the sermon as preached, lightly edited for readability.
