Relevance

When they heard about the resurrection of the dead, some of them sneered, but others said, “We want to hear you again on this subject.” At that, Paul left the Council. Some of the people became followers of Paul and believed [Acts 17:32-33a].

How do you preach the Gospel in a university town? That’s what Paul must have been thinking when he arrived in Athens more than 1900 years ago. Things had gone alright in Thessalonica, or so he’d tried to convince himself. There, he’d followed his usual evangelism protocol. He’d arrived in town, introduced himself at a synagogue, discussed—then argued—the meaning of scripture with the local officials, told anyone who’d listen that Yahweh’s covenant with Israel had been fully fulfilled in the life, death, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus Christ, found some who were willing to listen, made some converts, and then he’d been run out of town by those who accused him of blasphemy.

He had probably been told that his message would never fly in a university town like Athens (or Durham, or Chapel Hill). Ah, but Paul liked a challenge—nothing ventured, nothing gained.

By the time we get to the first reading assigned for this upcoming Sunday—Acts 17:22-31 [the Sixth Sunday of Easter, RCL, Year A]—Paul has been in Athens, birthplace of Socrates (479 BCE) and Plato (424 BC), for at least a few months. He’s underwhelmed. Tolerant soul that he is (not), he thinks that while Athens might be a place full of ideas [17:21], it’s certainly also filled with idols [Acts 17:16].

Paul has been discussing their ideas with some Epicurean and Stoic philosophers and, no doubt, he has introduced a few of his own to them. In some other towns, Paul has been labeled a skilled orator; here he’s a “babbler” [17:18] I know the sting. Impervious to the depth of his entreaties, the philosophers say “He seems to be advocating foreign gods” [17:18]. Oh, do tell!

Following the tried and true mantra of “meeting them where they are,” Paul joins them at the Areopagus, a prominent rock outcropping where Athenian intellectuals gather and pontificate—for a more contemporary reference, one might substitute “Faculty Commons.” It’s a place where interesting ideas can be discussed without any danger of having to make any commitments to them.

Paul decides to deviate somewhat from his ordinary tack. First, there is no synagogue. Second, he can’t throw scripture at them; they don’t know or believe it. And so, he begins with a little flattery [17:22-23]. Essentially, he tells them that they may worship a bunch of different idols, but the sheer number of the altars says something—at least they are searching for something beyond themselves, something that might help them make sense out of their world.

Ah, “their world.” Those with whom Paul debates are naturalists and so he turns to a sort of natural theology. But first, he makes a curious observation. Showing them that he’s interested in them—he wants to be relevant—he relates that while he was walking around town, looking at all the idols, he’s found an altar with an unusual inscription: “TO AN UNKNOWN GOD” [17:23].

Paul moves on. Again, playing what is essentially a natural theology card, Paul tells them that he can clear up any ignorance about this “unknown god.” Paul knows all about the deity:

The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built with human hands. And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything. Rather, he himself gives everyone life and breath and everything else [17:24-25].

Paul continues to strive for common ground by saying, “As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring’” [17:28b]. He tells these learned ones that “we should not think that the divine being is like gold or silver or stone—an image made by human design and skill” [17:29].

I’ve read this passage of Acts numbers of times and recently, I’ve begun to wonder if some sort of light went off in Paul’s head at this point. You may hear a different tone in Paul’s discussion with the Athenians, but to me, it’s as if at this point in his argument, he thinks, “Hmm, I’ve moved a bit too far from the Gospel.”

The world, after all, is full of people who feel a responsive rise in their chests when they see the majesty of a starlit sky. There are countless others who marvel at the beauty of a country meadow, a slowly meandering stream, a flock of geese, or some other natural phenomenon. I’ve had people tell me that they can experience God along a mountain pathway. My usual response is, “Who can’t?”

I say here Paul shifts a bit from his flattering conviviality. Paul says nature worship is insufficient. “In the past God overlooked such ignorance, but now he commands all people everywhere to repent” [17:30]. Moreover, Paul stresses that “God will judge and He will do so by the man that He has appointed. He has given proof of this to everyone by raising him from the dead” [17:31b].

With Paul’s resurrection talk, we can tell that he is back on track. The Athenians may easily agree to a created world. They even buy in to a form of common humanity. But reason commands that all things—even the world itself—will decay, break down, disintegrate. Paul points instead to a new beginning. The resurrection turns the cosmos on its head, for it steers all of nature in a new and different direction, a direction that looks at and kneels before an everlasting king.

The God that Paul proclaims is not just another object of interest. God is not another choice along the long cafeteria line of possibilities. Christ is not one of many ways to God; He is the Way. God is a jealous God, who will permit no alternatives. It’s His Way or the highway.

Oh, to be sure, God will allow us to keep idols. But as Paul says, when we do, we reap all the problems that come along with them. What Paul is telling the Athenians, in spite of his efforts to walk with them, talk with them, and study their beliefs, is that God isn’t interested in becoming relevant to the Athenians (or anyone else).

How do you preach the Gospel in a university town? Do you sprinkle in some new age philosophies? Do you make sure your praise band is in proper tune? Do you set up shop in the chic, little coffee shops where all the good conversation takes place? Do you constantly check your pulse to see how you’re reacting appropriately to all the issues du jour? Do you insist that there are no real standards? Standards, after all, are just the ideas of the oppressive past.

As Paul moved through his discussion with the Athenians, I think he came to the realization that there is only one way to preach the Gospel in a university town like Athens, or Durham, or elsewhere. One just preaches the Gospel! Not everyone wants to hear it, but God has that figured out as well.

There’s a story I’ve told many times about one of my several mentors. The Rev. Dr. Kenneth (“Ken”) Goodson was “Bishop-in-Residence” at Duke Divinity School in my years of matriculation there (1986-1989). After his death, the school named its then new and beautiful chapel in memory of him. He “team-taught” the two semester Methodism course. At the time I was a Methodist—well, sort of. On the days that the Bishop lectured—his lectures were pre-announced—attendance would usually be 130 percent of enrollment, filled to overwhelming with some Episcopalians, Baptists, Presbyterians, and others who just wanted to hear the Bishop speak. Bishop Goodson was the best show in town.

One day, as class had ended, four or five of us were talking to the Bishop near his podium. One of my classmates—actually still a good friend—turned to the Bishop and said, “Bishop Goodson, we all love this class. You have that rare ability to make the Gospel relevant to our lives.”

The Bishop coughed slightly, lowered his chin just a bit, then looked up and called the student by name. “Jim (not his real name), if that’s what I’m doing, then I’m an utter failure, for you see I’m not trying to make the Gospel relevant to your life …, I’m trying to make your life relevant to the Gospel.”

St. Paul and the Bishop thought a lot alike.