Even Me - Acts 1:15-26

I was asked to preach this past Sunday at my church in Holladay. Here's the message.

Scripture Text: Acts 1:15-17, 21-26

May 24, 2009 – Holladay UCC

Rachel Corrie was a young American activist whose life was ended on March 16, 2003 in Rafah, Gaza. Rachel Corrie was killed as she stood between a Palestinian home and the Israeli bulldozer by which that home was about to be demolished. Rachel Corrie was 23 when she was murdered. I am now 23 years old. I have started reading Rachel’s journals; they’ve been compiled into a book called Let Me Stand Alone. In the days before she left her hometown of Olympia, Washington to live in a war torn land occupied by the fourth largest military in the world, Rachel expresses a sentiment I can relate to: “I can’t imagine Palestine,” she writes. “They say we are invited there. I can’t believe this can be true. Even me?” Today let’s use Luke’s story in Acts to ask ourselves: What inspires us to keep on going even when we feel inadequate? Even when we are asking, ‘even me?’

Pray with me: Guide our feet, God. May the words of my mouth and the meditations of all our hearts be acceptable in your sight, O God, our strength and our redeemer.

It is easy for me to identify with the feeling of rejection. That feeling creeps up silently; it slides into the pit of my stomach, perches on my shoulder and whispers all of my faults into my ear. Perhaps it is the ease with which that feeling takes over that makes me so uncomfortable reading this passage about the apostles. Imagine, for a moment that you are Barsabbas, called Justus. Eleven of your closest friends – with whom you’ve eaten, slept, traveled, seen miracles, been celebrated, been admonished, and most recently with whom you’ve watched your teacher and friend brutally put to death – eleven of your closest friends have called together your rag-tag movement, which now consists of about 120 men, women, and children. The purpose of this meeting: to choose someone to replace another lost friend, Judas Iscariot. Out of 120 gathered, only two of you have been selected as candidates to be apostles. You ask yourself, “even me?” There you stand with your friend Matthias beside you, and your buddies have decided, of all things, to throw dice to see which one of you will join them in rounding out the twelve apostles. These twelve will be the leaders of the young church – they will be responsible for spreading the news about Jesus’ life and resurrection – and they’re going to pick between you, literally, by a throw of the dice? What would inspire you to keep going?

For those few months I walked nervously to the mailbox every day. I checked my phone messages cautiously and anxiously. I couldn’t go ten minutes without wondering when I’d get word. It was two years ago; I had finished my undergraduate work in December, had been living with my family for 5 months, and was ready (as any restless twenty-something) to move on. I prayed every night for God to open a path – and I was sure this was the right one. I had applied to the Mission Intern program of the United Methodist Church. A year and a half abroad and then a chance to come home and apply what I’d learned for another 16 months here… I was positive it was what I was supposed to do: I was going to move to South America again, teach English or work for rainforest preservation. I was going to encounter poverty in a real way. I was going to be totally fluent in a local Spanish dialect. I was going to come home tan and worldly and my family would gush over my colorful photos and stories of how we’d been tear-gassed for protesting anti-union policies at the factories. I had the credentials… I spoke the language already, I had a good understanding of mission as social justice, I even had experience living and teaching in South America. My heart was back in Ecuador and I couldn’t wait to go back. It had been weeks since I’d turned in my application, and every day without a response was killing me. Finally a letter, a thick package of information, a rush of excitement, a torn envelope, and the words: “Dear Jamie, Grace and Peace. We regret to inform you…”

Well, no matter how many times I looked, this is what the text reads. “And they cast lots for them, and the lot fell on Matthias; and he was added to the eleven apostles.” It’s not particularly encouraging. It’s not what I want the story to say. Justus and Matthias are obviously equally qualified, as they’re both selected as candidates. I want there to be a place for both of them! Why say “Here I am, Lord!” if you’re going to get shot down? Why let yourself be that vulnerable? When I read this text, I want to slink to the back of the room and hide in a corner. Evidently, I’m inadequate. Evidently, someone else is better for the job. And there is very little in this story which pushes me to keep going.

Prior to this passage, we are told that the disciples have been in the company of the risen Jesus for some 40 days (in biblical terms, a good long while). Before he leaves them, he says, “you will receive power when the Holy Spirit has come upon you; and you will be my witnesses in all Jerusalem, in all Judea and Samaria, and to all the ends of the earth.”

These witnesses, these apostles, will have a difficult and daunting job. Arguably, they will have one of the most important and prominent places in the history of the church. And yet, when it comes time to choose a leader, there is no IQ test. There is no geography or language test. There are no speeches, no campaigns, no resumes, no transcripts. There are only three requirements to be an apostle, according to this account. The candidate must have traveled with Jesus from the baptism of John onward, must have been witness to the resurrection, and be a man. It bears mentioning here that the text tells us that gathered there also are women, including Mary the mother of Jesus, who together with the men “were constantly devoting themselves to prayer”. Certainly it’s not outrageous to imagine that some of these women may have been witness to Jesus’ teaching and to his resurrection. Aren’t they good enough? Are they not also called to witness to what they have seen? It’s not been two months since Jesus’ execution and already the apostles seem to have forgotten that it’s the women who first bear witness to Jesus’ resurrection in the first place! In a society that shouts at women to keep their mouths shut, it’s not hard for me to imagine a woman’s response to a call to ministry: “Are you sure, God? Even me?”

I experienced rejection on a personal, situational level. Imagine – and many of us don’t have to – imagine for a moment that your experience of rejection is not merely situational, and is not even based on your qualification for any given task. Imagine what it might feel like to be rejected merely for who you are. For many of us who ask ‘even me,’ the whole of society answers “no”. You are a woman: you’re not strong enough. You are a person of color: your voice doesn’t count enough. You are a young person: you do not know enough. You are gay or lesbian: you’re not good enough. You have a physical or mental disability: you are a burden. You are an immigrant: your English isn’t good enough. You are an introvert: you’re not a good enough public speaker. You are an artist and an activist: we don’t like what you have to say. Friends, I have to tell you: this is not the gospel answer. I believe that the reality of Easter, of resurrection, holds a different message for us. And I find it not so much in what our text this morning reads as what is absent when we read it.

We’re not told much about what it means to cast lots. From what I can tell, the process usually includes clay dice, thrown to make a decision. Psalm 68 says this about the practice: “The lot is cast into the lap, but its every decision is from the Lord.” It was understood in many circles to be the means by which a decision made by God was made known to the community. It was the primary way most leadership positions in the temple were decided. If lots are cast, if dice are rolled, there can be no accusation of nepotism or favoritism. There can be no playing politics – everyone has an equal chance of selection. This is not merely a random choice, and it’s not a popularity contest; this is a deliberate attempt at equality.

Nor does Matthias’ selection diminish the importance in the community of our would-be apostle Justus or any of the other women and men gathered. On the contrary, it signifies that all the believers were equally important. This was a position that had to be filled, but Matthias isn’t shown to a corner office once he’s been chosen. In fact, neither he nor Justus are ever mentioned by name again in the scriptures. Now if it was the title that was important, we might expect to hear more about the astounding things Matthias was empowered to do, and after this selection it would have been easy for Justus to slink to the back of the room and give up. But we have no indication that Justus does anything of the sort. We are not all called to have the prominence of apostles. We are not all called to have our names and stories glorified in history. We are not all called to be Alice Paul, or Martin Luther King, or Desmond Tutu, or Harvey Milk. Some of us are called to be foot soldiers in the movement, without whose help these leaders would have no movement to front. You see, it is not being chosen for prominence which ordains us to or qualifies us for ministry: it is our baptism. It is our belonging to a community which witnesses to the resurrection.

“Dear Jamie: Grace and Peace. We regret to inform you…” I don’t mind telling you that I shed many tears over that letter two years ago. I felt insufficient, inadequate, lost. But there was a second sentence. “We affirm your call to ministry and mission and we’d like you instead to interview for our domestic program.” I was so sure I was supposed to go back to South America… to stay here in the US would cause me to re-think my whole trajectory. And coming to accept my not being chosen as a part of God’s plan for me has been one of the most difficult roads I’ve ever walked. I don’t wish to tell you that rejection isn’t painful: it is. I don’t mean to tell you that something better always lies ahead: it doesn’t. I do mean to say that on every path, we have the opportunity to learn from one another and to bear witness to this Gospel truth: God says “YES” to even me, to even you. Down this path countless blessings have waited for me: the first Christian community I’d ever been a part of who preached open acceptance of all God’s people, the opportunity to discover myself as an artist, countless encounters which have asked me to challenge my position as a person of privilege, relationships which have nourished my spirit, swept my path clear, and encouraged me to take risks. Moreover, my experience of situational rejection prepared me to respond to rejection on a systemic level. My favorite folk singer puts it this way: I could have sat around mourning the loss of the life I could have lived, but there’s no life “at all if I don’t make my move and just trust that the timing is right… and hold it up to the light.”

We’re called to step up, take risks, and take on roles we’re not sure we’re ready for. It’s not because we will achieve fame, or glory, or popularity. It’s not because it will make us feel good to have helped. It’s not out of a sense of guilt. We’re called to step up, take risks, and take on roles we’re not sure we’re ready for because we are empowered by our baptism to do so. It’s because God’s call to us is always collaborative. It’s because we have been granted the privilege and the responsibility of being co-creators with God. Beloved, you have been chosen by something larger than a club, or a crowd, or even a country. You have been chosen by God! What can inspire us to keep going even when we feel inadequate? This: we were created in God’s image. God intends for each of us to do wonderful things, whether the lot falls on us or not. In this light, Rachel Corrie’s words are not so much a question as a statement: Even me. With God there is a place even for me, even for you. Let us be empowered to live into that promise.

Amen.