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Scripture:

Acts 16:9-15

During the night Paul had a vision: there stood a man of Macedonia pleading with him and saying, "Come over to Macedonia and help us." When he had seen the vision, we immediately tried to cross over to Macedonia, being convinced that God had called us to proclaim the good news to them. We set sail from Troas and took a straight course to Samothrace, the following day to Neapolis, and from there to Philippi, which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia and a Roman colony. We remained in this city for some days. On the sabbath day we went outside the gate by the river, where we supposed there was a place of prayer [for Jews]; and we sat down and spoke to the women who had gathered there. A certain woman named Lydia, a [Gentile] worshiper of God, was listening to us; she was from the city of Thyatira and a dealer in purple cloth. The Lord opened her heart to listen eagerly to what was said by Paul. When she and her household were baptized, she urged us, saying, "If you have judged me to be faithful to the Lord, come and stay at my home." And she prevailed upon us.

"Friends, God is still speaking to the world. May we open our hearts to hear. Amen."

Sermon:

Like so many other women before and after her, Lydia isn't given center stage. Her story, the details of her life, of who she was and how she lived, are half-hidden in the shadow of another story, a man's story. In Lydia's case, most of what we do know about her—that she was a "worshipper of God," a foreigner living in the city of Philippi, and a dealer in purple cloth—comes to us only by virtue of her relationship to the Apostle Paul. And this is his book, for the most part, the Acts of the Apostles. Paul is mentioned in 138 verses here. Lydia, in just two. She is, quite literally, a supporting character within these pages. But those few tidbits we do get about her hint at a richer story underneath. Despite the patriarchal constructs, ancient and modern, that try to stifle her story, the echoes of Lydia's voice remain. We can still hear her if we will turn away from the main streets of history, well worn and rutted by the passage of time and "great men," and instead follow where she leads, down side streets, from shadowy inner rooms to busy market stalls, even outside the walls.

Lydia was almost acceptable. She moved in many different circles but belonged wholly to none. She was an independent woman, perhaps an early widow, who owned her own home and oversaw her own household in a First Century Roman world where a woman's only real value lay in relationship to her father or her husband. She was successful in business, a dealer in purple cloth, and so rubbed shoulders with the ruling senators and members of the equestrian class who were permitted to wear the purple she sold, but as a woman, she was forbidden to participate in the realm of politics herself. Her economic influence in Greek Philippi would have been considerable, but she remained always a foreigner, from Thyatira to the East in Asia Minor. Likewise, though at some point she had heard about the faithful love of Yahweh God and devoted herself to God's service, to the Jewish community, even the tiny Jewish community of Philippi, too small to warrant a synagogue of their own, perhaps even too small to muster a minyan, the ten circumcised males deemed necessary for formal prayer, Lydia remained merely a Gentile hanger-on.

Yet Lydia persisted. When on the Sabbath the "real Jews" left the city to gather outside the walls down by the river, Lydia followed them. As she passed under the walls and through the gates, Lydia felt the weight of the walls bearing down in her. No matter how successful she became, or how rich, or pious, still the walls remained. It seemed they ran even through her heart. God knows she tried, but no matter how she twisted herself up inside, part of her always remained beyond the pale, forever on the outside looking in. So she learned to live half-hearted. Over time, she even learned to build her own walls, high and thick, walls within walls, to defend the jumbled pieces of her almost acceptable life, almost but not quite.

Even among the handful of souls gathered at the river, the walls remained. As merely a "God-fearer," one of the wanna-be-Chosen-People, Lydia had to be careful to keep her distance. She was not allowed to speak. She sat there, perched on a large stone on the riverbank, quite literally on the outside looking in, and strained her ears to catch a snippet of scripture or a prayer. She prayed her own prayers then, uncertain whether God could hear her, or even wanted to. And sitting alone, Lydia wept. A thousand cuts, a thousand sleights, a thousand daily indignities, large and small, whether borne bravely with a stiff upper lip or quickly quipped away—as defended as she kept herself, each still cut to the quick, and down by the river, the pain came rushing back, washing over her in waves, and Lydia wept. And while she wept, Lydia continued to pray the prayers of the broken-hearted, with silent tears and sighs to deep for words.

There are too many Lydias in our world yet today, too many almost acceptable people, almost but not quite, too many who dwell beyond the pale established by the powers that be. Some, like the Palestinian people or residents along the southwestern border of the United States and Mexico, find the maps of their lives radically redrawn by physical walls of concrete and steel, razor wire and electrified fence. Those barriers restrict their basic human rights to work and feed their families and even simply move from place to place. What's more, the shadows of those walls fall across their hearts, too, endangering their very sense of themselves as whole persons, valuable human beings with possibilities for the future. And when hope withers and dies somewhere out there on the other side of the barbed wire, in no man's land, it leaves behind only despair, and danger.

For millions more, the walls are less physical but no less confining. Too many still today are condemned by those with power and privilege to half-lives fenced off or walled up or broken into bits in order to fit into someone else's boxes. Too many labor, labor till their hearts fairly burst, to earn an acceptability the ruling domination system will never actually allow them.

On average still today, women earn 75 cents or less for every dollar earned by white men, and yet they still face disproportionate discrimination for having to work so hard—so much harder—to support their families. Many sectors of our nation's economy are built on the backs of undocumented workers who daily face harassment, exploitation, and the danger of deportation, while politicians work to ensure that the dream of citizenship, with its protections and responsibilities, remains out of reach. Nearly fifty years after the civil rights movement in this country, people of color are told they must be colorblind to succeed, when in reality, they still must work twice as hard to be considered just as good in the black-and-white eyes of the white-dominated power structure And like people of color before us, sexual- and gender-minorities are tolerated by the straight majority as long as we're helpful or amusing, or both, like those Queer Eyes for the Straight Guys, but the moment we ask for equal legal recognition for our families, or simply some small protection under the law so we won't be killed as much, real acceptability stops being an option.

No, the wall between almost and acceptable is high and wide. Even in the church—perhaps particularly in the church—the gap between what is and what should be is daunting, if not damning. Like Lydia before us, too many of us are told that, in order to participate even halfway in the life of faith, we must check whole hunks of our lives at the church door. Despite the nearly universal signs outside proclaiming "All are welcome," we know from experience that not all of all of us really is. Whether the rule is spoken or un-, in all too many churches still today it's no women, no divorces, no gays, no homelessness, no unemployment, no mental illness, no addictions, no disabilities, no single parents, no single people, no kids, no questions, no doubt, no dogs allowed. If you happen to fall into any one of these categories of almost-but-not-quite acceptability—or several, heaven forbid—you're likely going to be welcome to sit quietly in a pew near the back and contribute as the plate is passed, but beyond that, it's strictly a "Don't ask, don't tell, don't bring your life with you" policy.

Fortunately for us, Jesus isn't really much of a policy-over-people person. In fact, he chose real live people over abstract principles every time. Remember what he told the religious leaders of his day who chastised him for healing on the Sabbath: "You hypocrites! Does not each of you on the sabbath untie his ox or his donkey from the manger, and lead it away to give it water?" (Luke 15:13). And again, when he and his disciples were plucking grain in the Sabbath to fill their empty bellies: "The sabbath was made for humanity, not humanity for the sabbath" (Mark 2:27). Remember how Jesus sought out the least and the lonely, those who by virtue of their bodily or mental health or sex or station in life were considered nearly untouchable in polite society and yet he touched them. What's more, he pulled up a chair at sat a spell. He was with them, no matter who they were, no matter where they were on life's journey, and by being with them, showed how much he was for them, how much God cared for them. At the same time, Jesus preached and taught and tirelessly to change the rules of the game so that no one would have to be left outside just so a few could be in.

Jesus knew that in God's eyes, no one is ever just almost acceptable, because God's love for all of us as children of God makes all of us, and all of each of us acceptable. What is unacceptable in God's eyes is the sifting and sorting of who's in and who's out, who's deserving of the respect and the resources they need to live with dignity, and who deserves only the crumbs under the table. God's love doesn't start with the in crowd and just happen to move beyond those tiny tight walls if there's enough time and enough love left over. God's love starts out there, on the fringes, among the "least," among those who need the good news of God's care for them the most. Jesus understood this and put it in words his insider accusers could understand: "Those who are well have no need of a physician, but those who are sick. Go and learn what this means, 'I desire mercy, not sacrifice.' For I have come to call not the righteous but sinners" (Matthew 9:12-13).

And so, friends, when we extend God's extravagant welcome to others, particularly to those who need it the most, we're not just being polite or politically correct. We are participating in God's justice-love in the world. We are living out our call as disciples of Christ when we leave the safety of our comfort zones, just as Paul did, to cross over into what is new and scary territory for us, to go out into the highways and byways and backwaters of this world to spread the word that God's greatest desire is to see the oppressed given reason to rejoice, broken hearts bound up, captives set free and prisoners released—in other words, to see all God's fractured, fractious children made whole again, here and now, in body and soul. This is the word of welcome we ourselves have received, and we are called to pass it on. The reign of God is the original big tent, and all are welcome, just as they are, without one plea. And, like Jesus, it is our job to see the rules of the game changed to reflect that divine reality.

Lydia heard God's word of welcome through the Apostle Paul, of all unlikely vehicles of grace. That sabbath morning, as she was praying down by the riverside, on the fringes of the faithful, with tears of shame and confusion and anger and hope rolling down her cheeks, Lydia heard a new voice, Paul's voice, talking about this man, Jesus, and how he had embodied God's justice and peace and compassion in his life, even to the point of giving up his life for the sake of that good news which is for all people. And as she listened, Lydia realized, with some shock, that Paul was talking to her—not at her, or about her, or over her—but talking right to her, to her heart. And that's all it took. In that moment, all the walls that kept her cut up and cut off, they all came tumbling down. God opened her deeply defended heart to hear. This good news was for her!

And it wasn't just a hand out, either, a charitable word. No, the invitation of the Holy Spirit made Lydia more than just a recipient of second-hand grace. Just as the good news gave her a way and a place to call home, it also made her a disciple in her own right, with gifts to share, with resources of her own for faith and ministry. And so, just as Lydia opened her heart, she opened her home, and the one who had been the unwelcome guest at the garden party became the hostess of the church. And the woman whose story lies here between the lines becomes a model of faith for us today. God has lifted her up.

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