Sermon: And the Lot Falls To…
Texts: Acts 1:15-17, 21-26; Revelation 7:9-17
Date: May 24, 2009
Rev. Dee Eisenhauer, Eagle Harbor Congregational Church
If you know me at all you know where I have been this weekend—feasting on music and dance at the Folklife festival. I like to spend every minute I possibly can there every Memorial Day weekend. So I didn’t really have much time to prepare something to say to you this morning. But don’t worry! It occurred to me that the best way to really pay attention to the story in Acts this morning would be to follow its example. You know how the disciples gathered to choose a new 12th disciple, and in the end they left the choice between two candidates to God by casting lots? Well, I thought we could draw lots to choose a preacher this morning.
First, of course, we will pray, as the leaders did in the upper room. (No fair praying, “Please don’t pick me!”) [Pray.]
The worship bulletins are numbered, and I have corresponding numbers here to draw from. I trust God has selected a good person, and that the right number will find its way into my hand now. [Draw. Announce. Sit down.]
[If need be, preach the rest of the sermon.]
If the lot had fallen to you, would you feel inadequate? Even if you believed that God had called on you through this system of drawing a number?
I wonder if Matthias felt inadequate when the lot fell to him to be the twelfth disciple to replace Judas? I confess I was watching the end of “American Idol” Wednesday night when the underdog singer won the competition. For a minute I thought he was going to deflect the award to his competitor—he seemed so amazed to have been chosen. His reaction seemed even beyond knowing that the other singer was the favorite of the judges and critics; some part of him must have thought the other singer was more talented. Made me consider whether Matthias had a similar moment when he heard his name instead of Joseph/Barsabbas/ Justus? “Are you sure it’s me? Don’t you think Joseph would make a better disciple? At least everyone would know how to spell his name. But seriously, he’s rock solid. Why me instead of him?”
You know what happened to Matthias after he was selected, don’t you? You don’t? I’m just funning with you—nobody knows what happened to Matthias. He’s not mentioned again in the New Testament after these verses telling the story of his selection. He did nothing that was recorded in Acts or the Epistles. He said nothing that was written down to be remembered by later disciples. He was not, apparently, one of the more distinguished disciples.
There are legends about Matthias, mostly written long after his death. It was said that he preached the gospel in Judea, then in what is called Georgia in our time. Or maybe Ethiopia. One ancient text says, “Matthias preached the Gospel to barbarians and meat-eaters in the interior of Ethiopia, where the sea harbor of Hyssus is, at the mouth of the river Phasis. He died at Sebastopolis, and was buried there, near the Temple of the Sun.” Another text says he was preaching in the “city of the cannibals.” Cannibals, eh? No wonder he was never heard from again. Yet another tradition says he was stoned in Jerusalem and then beheaded (talk about overkill). Yet another tradition claims he died of old age in Jerusalem. In other words, nobody now knows what really happened to Matthias.
There is a lost gospel attributed to Matthias. A “lost gospel” is a text that we don’t have but that is quoted by other writers in texts we do have. Clement of Alexandria records a sentence ostensibly from the Gospel of Matthias urging asceticism: “We must combat our flesh, set no value upon it, and concede to it nothing that can flatter it, but rather increase the growth of our soul by faith and knowledge.” Several other old books refer to the lost gospel of Matthias as well. But it’s pretty unlikely that Matthias was the author; much more likely that his name was appended honorifically. Clement quotes several other passages borrowed from the traditions of Matthias, including a piece titled “Paradoxes” (wish I could see that).
Matthias is a bit of a paradox in and of himself. A remembered/forgotten disciple. Matthias is the patron saint of several things, among them (this amuses me) alcoholics. Is there some correlation there with remembering and forgetting? Or doing both at the same time?
So Matthias’ name goes down in history but nothing else about him does. I raised the question earlier about whether Matthias might have felt inadequate when the lots were cast and his name was called out. Is it possible that the case of the remembered/forgotten disciple is not simply about feeling inadequate but about being inadequate? Maybe Matthias was a mealy-mouthed dud of a disciple and that’s why he didn’t leave any stories to remember him by.
If so, we might learn from the story not to choose leaders by lottery, even if the intention was purely to get God to vote on the matter. Casting lots was a socially acceptable practice in their culture, and they did have pure motives. But even so, it seems like a little bit of a cop-out. “We can’t decide, so we’re going to leave it up to chance, I mean God.” If Matthias did turn out to be a mealy-mouthed dud of a disciple, do you then get to blame God for choosing him? Doesn’t it seem like dodging responsibility?
It seems like that to me, but here’s another interesting perspective. One of my periodicals has a story from a minister who did lose a minister job over the flip of a coin, sometime in the last decade or two. He says it came down to him and one other person. After the interviews and visits, the search committee still couldn’t decide, and so, basically, they flipped a coin. The minister telling the story lost the coin toss. He goes on to say that when he tells this story, people are appalled. They ask him if he feels bad about losing.
But he says he doesn’t. And listen to the reasons why: For one thing, it made more sense than sitting in a deadlocked committee tearing the characters of the candidates apart until there was a winner and a loser. Secondly, since they were both qualified, why make such a big deal over choosing the “right” person, as if there was only one right person? He concludes, “Anybody who is open to the Holy Spirit can do the job.”
That may have been the thinking behind the disciples casting lots. They knew they had two qualified men. (Too bad they weren’t at the point yet where they could have considered the qualified women! They weren’t yet that open to the Spirit.) Using the method acceptable in their culture to get God’s input, they encourage the man chosen by being able to point to his name coming up as a blessing by the Holy Spirit. “OK, Matthias, you’re the chosen one, the blessed one. You’re the 12th disciple. Go out and witness to the resurrection. God knows you can do it. We know you can do it.”
And the fact that not much is remembered about Matthias doesn’t mean he didn’t do exactly what was required of him. Matthias could have been spectacularly suited for what he was called to do, and we might still not know his story. Perhaps the circle of disciples had no need for another brash, passionate orator like Peter, or another confident, eloquent writer like Paul. Maybe they didn’t need another “leader” at all. Maybe they needed a quiet, compassionate follower.
Rev. Alex Bisset reflects on this possibility in the current issue of Preaching: Word and Witness. He points out that we all have in our memories the names of some Great Christians: Peter, Paul, Lydia, Saint Patrick, John Wesley, Anne Hutchinson, Harriet Beecher Stowe, Sojourner Truth, Billy Graham, Dorothy Day, Desmond Tutu. You have your own pantheon of saints you remember in the 2000 year Christian movement, no doubt. We may look up to these Great Christians and learn from them. But the church is not made up of Great Christians. The Church is thousands upon thousands upon thousands of individuals, known in many cases only to their families and to God, who, it seems, do nothing worth recording and say nothing worth repeating. And you know, if all we had were the big names, the Church would be in big trouble.
Although the branches of the church in charge of electing official saints haven’t said so, I think Matthias might qualify as the patron saint of Obscure Christians—the overwhelming majority of us who will most likely not be remembered outside our families and circles of friends. In a hundred years, give or take, it’s pretty likely that not one of us here will be remembered.
In a celebrity-obsessed culture like ours, we may find that a bitter pill to swallow. There may be some among us who harbor some hope that their names will be spoken by future generations, for one reason or another. If any of you aim to be Great Christians whose stories will be told again and again and whose names will appear in footnotes for hundreds of years to come, by all means, go for it. I wouldn’t want to discourage you; that may be your calling.
I doubt that is the calling for most of us. But not lacking celebrity is not the same thing as lacking value. Don’t ever forget that. We all have a part to play in building the Kin-dom of God. It may be a modest, humble part. Or it may appear to be a modest, humble part to play which actually turns out to be utterly essential in God’s design. I have a handout from the seminar I went to a few weeks ago titled “Negotiating the Paradoxes of Ministry.” One of the paradoxes is “The Influence Paradox.” It reads: “The most powerful people in your life will not be powerful people.” That’s true in my life; is it true in yours?
That statement reminded me of a story told by preacher Fred Craddock. He says he was out to dinner with his wife one night on a vacation when a stranger, an elderly man, approached him. Craddock didn’t particularly want to engage in conversation but he went along. The man asked where he was from, and what he did back home in Oklahoma. Although Craddock was practically saying under his breath, “Leave us alone, we’re on vacation, and we don’t know who you are,” he confessed that he was a minister. Learning that he was a part of the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ), the stranger said, “I owe a great deal to a minister in the Christian church.” Whereupon he pulled up a chair, sat down, and told his story: “I grew up in these mountains. My mother was not married, and the whole community knew it. I was what was called an illegitimate child. In those days, that was a shame, and I was ashamed. The reproach that fell on her, of course, fell also on me. When I went to town with her, I could see people staring at me, making guesses as to who was my father. At school the children said ugly things to me, and so I stayed to myself during recess, and I ate my lunch alone.
“In my early teens I began to attend a little church back in the mountains called Laurel Springs Christian Church. It had a minister who was both attractive and frightening. He had a chiseled face and a heavy beard and a deep voice. I went to hear him preach. I don’t know exactly why, but it did something for me. However, I was afraid that I was not welcome since I was, as they put it, a bastard. So I would go just in time for the sermon, and when it was over I would move out, because I was afraid someone would say, ‘What’s a boy like you doing in a church?’
“One Sunday some people queued up in the aisle before I could get out, and I was stopped. Before I could make my way through the group, I felt a hand on my shoulder, a heavy hand. It was that minister. I cut my eyes around and caught a glimpse of his beard and his chin, and I knew who it was. I trembled in fear. He turned his face around so he could see mine and seemed to be staring for a little while. I knew what he was doing. He was going to make a guess as to who my father was. A moment later he said, ‘Well, boy, you’re a child of…’ and he paused there. And I knew it was coming. I knew I would have my feelings hurt. I knew I would not go back again. He said, ‘Boy, you’re a child of God. I see a striking resemblance, boy.’ Then he swatted me on the bottom and said, ‘Now, you go claim your inheritance.’ I left the building a different person. In fact, that was really the beginning of my life.”
Craddock was so moved by the story he had to ask, “What’s your name?” The stranger answered, “Ben Hooper.”
It rang a bell. Craddock recalled vaguely his own father talking about how the people of Tennessee had twice elected as Governor of their state a bastard, Ben Hooper. [1]
Can you imagine how many thousand million times such a story unfolds in the history of the world? In God’s story? You notice the preacher in the story was not named. I bet old Ben Hooper couldn’t remember his name. Didn’t matter, did it? It’s just one of a thousand million stories of how ordinary people are nudged by the Holy Spirit to say something or do something and they do it. The lot falls to them to join the circle of disciples and they step up.
Recall John’s vision:
“After this I looked, and there was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, robed in white, with palm branches in their hands. They cried out in a loud voice, saying, ‘Salvation belongs to our God who is seated on the throne, and to the Lamb!’ And all the angels stood around the throne and around the elders and the four living creatures, and they fell on their faces before the throne and worshipped God, singing… Then one of the elders addressed me, saying, ‘Who are these, robed in white, and where have they come from?’ I said to him, ‘Sir, you are the one that knows.’ [Revelation 7, selected verses]
There is a great, great multitude of the faithful from every generation, from every nation. For most of us, that question posed by the elder is quite apropos: “Who are these people?” They are a multitude; none of them seem to be standing out. I love the visionary’s answer to the elder who poses the question. “Sir, you are the one that knows.” And the elder did know, and he revealed that they are known to God and blessed by God. And that’s enough. That’s enough.
Just remember that when the call goes out, when one of the faithful are needed, it’s no fair praying, “Please don’t pick me.”
[1] Craddock, Fred Craddock Stories Mike Graves and Richard F. Ward, ed. St. Louis: Chalice Press, 2001, p. 156-57
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