First United Methodist Church, Birmingham, Michigan
Scripture: Acts 16:16-40
One of the great delights of my early years in Detroit was seeing Tommy Teeter land in jail, especially when he had to go directly to jail.... could not pass "Go".... and was not allowed to collect $200. Meanwhile, I could take his turn as well as mine, all the while amassing money, purchasing properties, and putting houses (and even hotels) on properties already owned. For unlike Tommy Teeter, I had no fear of landing in jail. That's because on one of my earlier trips around the board, it had been my good fortune to draw a "Get Out of Jail Free" card.
The game (as you probably know) was Monopoly. And Tommy Teeter (as you probably don't know) was my friend. One summer, when we were somewhere around 11 or 12, we played Monopoly every time it rained. During one particularly-drizzly period, we played for three days on end, pausing only to eat and sleep. "Jail" was at the lower corner of the Monopoly board, and being forced to go there often meant the forfeiture of several turns. In short, being jailed meant that one was no longer free to play the game....no longer free to move around....no longer free to buy and sell....and no longer free to make (or lose) a fortune. While sitting in jail, one was out of the flow (so to speak), meaning that others went on while you sat still.
And so it is that in this game called life, the thought of "Jail" is equally abhorred by most of us. It represents the very antithesis of freedom. We'd just as soon not go there. And we'd just as soon not have anybody we know go there. Still there seem to be some who grow to like it. Overseers of the prison system report that no small number of potentially releasable inmates resist "parole" like the plague. And many who are let out, quickly commit crimes that will insure their return.... not always because they are bad people.... not always because they run with a bad crowd.... but because they perceive the free world to be a bad place and prison to be a better place. Which makes no sense to me. But what do I know?
A couple of weeks ago, Free Press columnist Susan Ager wrote about some common male fantasies. Don't get nervous. They were not what you think. One concerned a bank heist. That's right. A rather upscale, successful male acquaintance of Susan Ager has a fantasy about committing a bank robbery or two.... however many it will take before a judge sends him up the river for a few years. Ideally, he envisions a resort-like prison of the kind that he believes once housed the Watergate conspirators.... a prison whose residents are all good conversationalists....whose library is well stocked with the latest best sellers....and whose pool is both clean and Olympic-sized. In short, he wants a prison where he can read, write letters, build his body, and maybe even get a law degree. A prison where he can be.... well.... free. Free of what, you might ask? Free of anxieties and responsibilities, he might answer. And while you might counter by saying that no such prison exists (and that he wouldn't really be happy were he to find one), the fact remains that such fantasies are not entirely foreign to any of us, and (on those days when the world is altogether-too-much with us) might even be desirable.
All of which would seem to say that jail is not always as bad as it seems, and that freedom is not always as good as it seems. And that's a strange idea to contemplate, especially on the 4th of July. For freedom is not only a heritage we claim, but the principle which we believe sets us apart from (and perhaps one step above) those poor folk who have less of it that we do. There will be a lot of sloganeering before this day is done about "preserving and protecting freedom." As well there should be. Few, will temper that prescription with a warning about freedom's more dangerous side effects. And almost no one in this freedom-loving-land will even hint that we do not know what true freedom is. No one, that is, save Luke, who is the author of this marvelous little tale in the book of Acts. I have never preached this story before....until this morning, that is.
It's a great tale, really.... all about freedom and bondage, jails and earthquakes, complete with a mob, a sword, and even a hymn sing for good measure. So listen up. But keep at least one ear tuned to the issue of who (in this story) is free, and who is not.
We begin with Paul and Silas on their way to church. Sort of like us. Color them free. No one is making them go. No one is making us go. And if there should be a teenager in the house today who has been dragged here under threat of losing the car keys for a week, see me later. I'll see what I can do to get your money back.
Anyway, on their way to church, Paul and Silas are accosted by a slave girl. Color her unfree. She is a slave because she works the streets for money and then gives the money back to others (presumably men) who are described as her "owners." We have names for such ladies (and such owners) in this country. But wait. Things are not what they seem. This slave girl makes money on the streets, not with her body, but with her mind. She tells people's fortunes.... reads people's palms.... that kind of thing. It is believed that she knows how to do this because she is a little "unbalanced" (as they say). She is mentally ill. Her elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor. But in the vernacular of her day (when mental illness was far less understood than it is now), she is described as being "possessed by a demon." Which is not all that bad a description (whatever you may think of its psychiatric accuracy). That's because mental illness often feels as if some sort of intruder has walked in (unannounced) and assumed control. If you have ever been terribly depressed.... or if you have ever been pulled this way and that in some schizophrenic-tug-of-war with reality.... you know that it feels like having been overtaken by some dark, intrusive force, against which you are powerless to compete.
Paul, after putting up with enough of this mad woman's raving, cures her in the name of Jesus. And the Bible says that she is "well," that very hour. Which, in a way, becomes her first real hour of freedom. And which, in another way, becomes Paul and Silas' last. For Luke writes that "when her owners see that any further hope of making money from her is gone," they seize Paul and Silas and drag them into the marketplace before the authorities. The owners, of course, represent the business community, who react instinctively when their cash cow is threatened. Which clearly blinds them to the fact that, were their money not involved, they would probably be rejoicing in her good fortune. After all, mental illness is bad. Sanity is good. And getting free from demons is customarily a reason to throw a party. But these owners are not "free" to do that. It is one thing to send an annual $100 check to the local mental health association. It is another thing to set this particular "crazy lady" free. It was the same feeling the Pork Dealers Association had when Jesus drove the demons out of the crazy man of Gadara, causing those same demons to take up residence in a nearby herd of pigs. As you remember the story, the demons drove the pigs over a cliff, causing them to plunge headlong into the sea. Which was a whole lot of pork chops down the river.
So the owners of the girl make their case before the magistrates, all the while arousing the crowd which is hovering on the fringe. Paul and Silas are painted as disturbers of the peace.... as Jews.... as foreigners.... and as "people who understand neither our laws or our customs." Talk about working up a crowd. In one short speech, the owners have managed to link nationalism with anti-Semitism ("everybody knows how the Jews are,") in a way that makes Paul and Silas look like the enemy of everything that is essential to truth, justice, and the Philippian way.
And if the magistrates know a judicial travesty when they hear one, even a right-thinking judge is going to think twice before rendering a ruling that will rile an angry mob. For the story suggests that it is the mob which is turning things into a mini-riot, leading to Paul and Silas being stripped, flogged, and jailed.... with orders given to the jailer to look after them securely.
And so our story ends with Paul and Silas rotting away in a Philippian prison until their hairs grow white, their nails grow green, and they eventually renounce their faith in return for an extra ration of leftover beenie-weenies.
No, that 's not how it ends. Instead, the story says that along about midnight Paul and Silas are praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners are listening to them. Picture it. Stripped, bruised, chained, and with their legs in stocks (forcing them to be stretched uncomfortably apart), Paul and Silas are leading a hymn sing.
A few years ago, Bishop Emilio de Carvalho, Methodist Bishop of Angola, was asked if there were any tensions between the church and the new Marxist government of his nation. He said: “Of course there are tensions. Not long ago the government decreed that we should disband all women’s organizations in our churches. But the women kept on meeting.” Then he added that the government was not, at that point, strong enough to do anything about it.
“And if the government becomes strong enough....”, he was asked? “Then we shall just keep on meeting (he responded). The government does what it needs to do. The church does what it needs to do. If we go to jail for being the church, then we go to jail. Jail is a wonderful place for Christian evangelism. Our church made some of its most dramatic gains during the revolution when so many of us were in jail. In jail, you have everyone in one place. You have time to preach and teach. You have time to organize. You have time to evangelize. We came out of jail a much larger and stronger church.”
But back to our story. Along about midnight (how’s that for high drama?) the earth heaves....the prison shakes....the doors fly open....and every last chain falls off every last prisoner. Which not only shakes up the prison population, but wakes up the jailer. The jailer is horrified at this chain of events. And knowing what can happen to jailers who let their prisoners escape, he draws his sword in disgrace and prepares to fall on it. At which time Paul shouts: “Hey, don’t kill yourself. Youhaven’t lost any prisoners. We’re still in here singing Kum Ba Yah.”
All of which must have blown the mind of the jailer. Just five minutes earlier, Paul and Silas were bound in chains and he was free to come and go. Now they are free to go, and he feels bound to die. Except that they don’t choose to go. So he doesn’t have to die.
And the jailer (recognizing a good thing when he sees it) says to Paul and Silas: “What must I do to be saved?” Meaning, “tell me where I have to go, and what I have to do, to get what you’ve got. Because while I’ve got a decent job (with tenure, cost-of-living adjustments, pension benefits, and a chance to make Warden if I don’t screw up), you guys have got something the likes of which I have never seen before....which seems to make you a whole lot happier (in the worst of circumstances) than what I’ve got is making me (in the best of circumstances).” And so the jailer is baptized by the jailees.
Thus, at our tale’s end, everyone in the story who first appeared to be free (the girl’s owners, the judges, the jailer) are shown to be slaves. And everyone who first appeared to be enslaved (the crazy lady, Paul and Silas) are shown to be free. Leading a colleague of mine to observe that Jesus has a way of doing that to people.
What’s the point? You’re a bright congregation. The point ought to be obvious. The point is that real freedom has less to do with what goes on around us, than with what goes on within us. Furthermore, real freedom has nothing to do with the number of our choices, and everything to do with the quality of our choices.
But in case you still missed the point, let me give you (in closing) one look at a pair of multiple-choice lives and a contrasting look at what would appear to be a no-choice life.
The multiple-choice lives belong to a young couple I know. They were never my members or I wouldn’t be telling their story. I married them several years and two kids ago. They had good responsible jobs then. They have good responsible jobs now. Both work in what might be called the helping professions. Your paths could very easily cross theirs. But the only reason our paths crossed after no-small-passage of time, was that they suddenly needed my help. They had gotten themselves into a bit of a fix. Since I had seen them last, they had begun to drink a lot and party a lot. Which was how they began to drink and party with one particular neighbor couple. Which was how they began watching videos while drinking and partying with this particular couple. Which videos, overtime, became increasingly x-rated, portraying life in the loose lane as a most attractive alternative for liberated people. Which led to some talking. ..some teasing....some tempting. ...and (eventually) some swapping. Which lead (in turn) to some jealousy....some guilt....some anger.... and (eventually) some violence. Which is how the screaming, drunken ugliness of it all exploded onto the front lawn at 5:00 a.m. early one Sabbath morning, with the wife sobbing and the husband beating on the cops who were in the process of arresting and jailing him.
Happy to say, it was a wake up bell for their marriage. For while things are still too raw to call, I’d be willing to bet on them making it. At least they’re working hard. And in reflecting on what went wrong, the wife said: “I guess we just kind of overdosed on the ‘90’s. For in a world where anybody is pretty much free to do anything, we got carried away and tried a little bit of everything. And we nearly lost it all.”
But contrast their story with the no-choice life of Viktor Frankl....that most-amazing author who survived so much and wrote so eloquently on the subject of the German death camps of World War II. Over time, Viktor Frankl lost everything that was of value. Work. Wife. Family. Friends. Freedom. In periodic attempts to break his spirit, he was put on “wheelbarrow duty” with his cargo being the skeletal remains of those who had been previously selected to have their miserable plight terminated by death. But the decision which kept him alive was his decision that his captors, who had claimed everything else, could not have his spirit. And that the one freedom that he could hold on to, was the freedom to choose the way he would look upon his situation and the meaning he would attach to it. With that decision made, he wrote: “I was a free man.... more so, even, than the guards who brought my daily ration of food and water, and who occasionally struck me in the act of delivering it to me.”
All of which would have made perfect sense to the Apostle Paul....and no sense, whatsoever, to Tommy Teeter. But, then, Tommy Teeter could never sing hymns, especially when he was in jail.
Editor’s note: This sermon owes a debt of gratitude to William Willimon’s treatment of the same text in a sermon prepared for delivery at the Duke University Chapel and subsequentlyreprinted in his book Preaching To Strangers.
