THE VEHEMENCE OF COMPASSION
Acts 20:7-12 Genesis 33:1-12 John 17:20-23
Sermon preached on March 22, 2009
Sunday morning two weeks ago I preached at a church service in Nueva Guinea, Nicaragua. The host, Pastor Ramon, told me only 20 minutes or so before the service began that he wanted me to preach, so I had to organize my thoughts quickly. I chose the passage from the Book of Acts that I’ve also chosen for today – Acts 20, verses 7-12. It’s the story of the young man Eutychus, falling asleep during the Apostle Paul’s sermon. Eutychus is the little-known patron saint of all those who fall asleep in church. Because Eutychus had been sitting on the window frame of the third-story room, he fell all the way down to the ground. Paul and the others hurried down and revived him.
I love this Bible story, for what it discloses about the church.
First of all: it discloses that from the earliest days Christians gathered “on the first day of the week” for prayer and praise, for the breaking of bread, and for preaching and teaching. When we do these things now we take our place with generations of the faithful who worship God. We are one-in-the-spirit, one-in-the-Lord, not only across time, with believers past, present and future, but also across space, with believers in far-away places. Worshipping in that humble Nicaraguan church Sunday-before-last, with its misshapen concrete walls and a leaky tin roof, I was warmed by the knowledge that, at more-or-less the same hour, you were worshipping here, 2000 miles away. And although our worship services and settings couldn’t be more different, yet we were united in Christ Jesus. This passage is the earliest unambiguous Biblical evidence we have for the Christian practice of gathering together for worship on Sunday.
The story also discloses a great challenge facing all churches, in all times and places: how to declare and demonstrate the Gospel in ways that are compelling to young people. Anna Carter Florence, who teaches preaching at our Presbyterian Seminary in Atlanta, remarks playfully about this story: “This is the first recorded incident in the history of the Christian Church in which a young person is literally bored to death by preaching.” The Bible doesn’t cover-up embarrassing moments. One of the great themes of the New Testament, of course, is that the Apostle Paul was a faithful, visionary, effective leader. Yet scripture is always eager to concede that no one’s perfect, especially not church leaders. Paul’s preaching put Eutychus to sleep that day. This text is an indictment of outworn ways of communication, and a call to the church to continually re-imagine and implement new ways of proclaiming the Gospel.
I also love this Bible story because it places Paul in the city of Troas, a crowded port city. Port cities back then were cosmopolitan and disorderly, with sailors, merchants, tourists and drifters passing-through from all over the world. From its earliest days the church did not withdraw into safe enclaves, close to its home base in Jerusalem, but pushed-out into the world, all over the world, lifting high the cross amid the tumult of the world’s swirling disorder and diversity.
And this remains a central calling of God to the church. It’s hard to ignore this calling in Nicaragua, the next-to-poorest country in the western hemisphere; only Haiti exceeds it for this dubious distinction. 28% of the population lives below the poverty line. Average annual income is $326/person. Only 29% of kids complete primary school, with most families unable to meet the direct and hidden costs of education. And Nueva Guinea, where our presbytery’s partnership is centered, is situated among the poorer areas. It’s a remarkable city, at once ramshackle, vibrant, noisy, colorful, wild, destitute, energetic, tragic and wondrous –probably a lot like Troas was in Bible times. And there, right in the middle of Nueva Guinea, are churches like Pastor Ramon’s, declaring and demonstrating by word and deed the amazing love of God in Jesus Christ.
So that’s another reason I’m drawn to this passage from the Book of Acts: it dramatizes the fact that the church, from its very earliest days, faced-down the age-old complaint that “charity begins at home,” and rightly discerned the call of God to engage the whole world with the Gospel.
But here’s the biggest and best reason I treasure this text. I love the idea that the Apostle Paul threw himself on top of Eutychus, and hugged him back to life. This is the narrative detail that most impressed John Calvin, as well. We may be surprised by this, if we think of Calvin as brooding, austere and joyless. But in his Commentary on the Book of Acts Calvin notes that what’s most important about this passage is the “vehemence of compassion” it demonstrates. The church loves . . . vehemently. Paul and the others didn’t restore Eutychus with a word of healing, nor by a mere touch, nor with prayer alone, nor by organizing a care committee, as we might today. The Christians in Troas that day knew what the Lord wanted them to do. They raced down the steps and hugged Eutychus. It’s one thing to be concerned. It’s another thing to take compassionate action. And this is a model for the church: to be a community of the faithful, characterized by a vehemence of compassion.
This story invites us to see the Apostle Paul in a different light than usual. We may think of him as the nuanced theologian writing the Book of Romans, or the angry organizer scolding church leaders in I Corinthians, or the thin-skinned evangelist defending himself from criticism in 2 Corinthians. But here we see him exuding something different: a vehemence of compassion.
Although this passage dramatizes the vehemence of compassion, it doesn’t introduce it as a new theme. Rather, we may see the vehemence of compassion demonstrated over-and-over again in scripture. I’ve invited you to visit briefly two such incidents today.
There’s the reunion of Jacob and Esau, as reported in Genesis, chapter 33. The two brothers had become estranged in a bitter dispute, years earlier. Each one then went his own way. Twenty years later, however, Jacob began to reach-out. [And, as an aside, it’s tough to read this without asking ourselves: “Is there anyone from whom I’m estranged? Should I be reaching-out to someone?”] Anyway, Jacob sent word to Esau that he’d like to meet, to patch-up their differences, and possibly to dwell together in harmony. A get-together is arranged. Precautions are taken, on both sides. Awkwardness and tension are expected. But when the day arrives, well, when the day arrives, it is written: “Esau ran to meet him, and fell on his neck, and kissed him, and they [both] wept.” The vehemence of compassion.
And then there’s the passage I read from the Book of John, Chapter 17. It’s the Last Supper. Jesus is praying for his disciples, praying for the church. And he prays that the church will be characterized by vehement compassion. “The glory that you have given me, I have given them,” Jesus prays, “so that they may be one, as we are one . . . completely one.”
New Testament expert Francis Moloney writes of this passage:
Jesus’ having made God known to the disciples has
opened a new possibility: that they share in the oneness
between the Father and the Son. . . Jesus asks the Father
that believers be united as one . . . but the unity of believers
is not an end in itself; it is “so that the world may believe
that you have sent me” . . . The chain [of love] runs on
unendingly.
I’ve been immersing myself in things Nicaraguan. Beginning a couple months ago I’ve been studying Nicaraguan history, culture and literature, looking at Nicaraguan newspapers, listening to Nicaraguan music, following the Nicaraguan baseball league (go, Los Indios), and learning Spanish (or, trying to learn Spanish, anyway), in preparation for the trip. But I now know that what matters most is not knowledge acquired in such ways as these. Rather, I’ve been blessed, touched and transformed by experiences of the vehemence of compassion.
I recall a woman in the church where I preached. Before the service she came to the front, sat on a step, rested her head on folded arms, and with sighs and sobs, prayed. This wasn’t unusual, I gathered. It was a way of preparing for worship. But after awhile a little boy came and stood next to her. He couldn’t have been more than three years old. Was he her son? Probably. I didn’t know. But surely he was too young to know what burdens and sorrows she was taking the Lord in prayer. The little boy reached-out. He put his hand on her. He rubbed her shoulder. He stood beside her for five minutes, his little hand gently patting, pacifying and protecting her. The vehemence of compassion.
I recall Ramon’s wife, Estelle. Henry VanderGoot and I stayed in their home. Conditions were primitive. Dirt floors. No running water or electricity. The kitchen wasn’t a kitchen at all, but a small area outside, where Estelle prepared meals over an open fire. Yet despite the endless difficulty and grueling labor of running a household under such conditions, Estelle exuded a spirit of irrepressible good cheer. Their humble home was a beehive of energy and activity. Children and their friends, neighbors and church members, nieces and nephews, in-laws and assorted relations too many to name or number, were constantly around, coming-and-going. And for all, Estelle offered a big smile, an even bigger hug, and somehow always managed to scrape-together something to eat, none of which was eaten without first giving thanks to God. The vehemence of compassion.
I recall the final evening in Nueva Guinea, set-aside for a potluck supper, hosted by the Nicaraguans who hosted the 14 of us from Lake Michigan Presbytery. I expected a simple meal, adequate but spare. Instead, there was a great outpouring of food, it kept coming and coming. I half-wondered if Jesus himself might be outside, multiplying loaves and fish! The vehemence of compassion.
I recall a facility we visited in Managua, for children with disabilities. Most of the children suffered profound afflictions. They had unimaginably complicated and irreversible disorders, with few of the treatment and rehab protocols available here. The children were delightful and poignant, of course. I played peek-a-boo with a little girl in a wheelchair, whose smiles and laughter are as real to me today as they were then, and will be with me always, I am sure. I thought of my own granddaughters, and of the incredible benefits and blessings they enjoy by comparison, born into a loving family, in this wonderful country. But Christ is Lord of all, and I could see at once that he is present with these children through their remarkable caregivers. If working with these difficult children discouraged them, they didn’t show it. They tended to their precious patients like ministering angels, with astonishing kindness, patience and gentleness. The vehemence of compassion.
I recall a dedication ceremony, in the park at Nueva Guinea, of a recently-completed monument to peace. Because several churches in our presbytery helped finance this project, they waited until we were there to unveil and dedicate it. I had nothing to do with this, so I watched simply as an observer. The base of the monument contains guns and ammunition voluntarily turned-in by local combatants who had fought on both sides of the civil war in Nicaragua, between the Sandinistas and the Contras. Weapons once pointed at each other in hate are now brought together in a single obelisk, with a dove of peace on top. The vehemence of compassion.
When Eutychus was in trouble that day, the Apostle Paul stopped talking and instead acted with compassion. Let this be the marching orders for the church. We can sit around endlessly speculating on the meaning and character of compassion, or we can just get on with it. My trip to Nicaragua reminded me that it’s better by far to just get on with it. I hope you agree.
