Hoshaw - Broken Chains

Until The Dream Of A Time When Everyone’s Chains Are Broken…

Acts 16.16-40

by Tony W. Hoshaw

McCormick Theological Seminary

ahoshaw@mccormick.edu

.…As we were going to the place of prayer,

we met a slave-girl….

We are confronted, at the beginning, with the question of hospitality. The ghost of a paidiskē, a slave-girl, has arrived, and she is, by her very presence—demanding a response from us. And perhaps we are tempted to ignore her—to go about our business. But she will not go away…she persists. She is haunting us….and with her, the memory, the witness, the presence of two other women:

The ghost of a no name, but persistent woman who wanted only the best for her daughter—but received the least from the disciples and Jesus—is here. Jesus, our Lord, called her a dog—before he was persuaded to grant her request.[1]

And the ghost of a no name, but persistent widow who demanded justice from a court of law, but to whom justice was denied day after day, has also arrived with the paidiskē of Acts 16.[2] Only because he was overwhelmed by the woman’s persistence did the judge succumb to her demand for justice.

The ghosts of these women are here—awaiting a sign of welcome.

Do we risk them—do we allow them, their memory, their witness, admittance? This is, indeed, a question of hospitality.

Jacques Derrida (his ghost has also arrived) may give us courage; he speaks to us:

to be hospitable is to let oneself be overtaken, to be ready to not be ready, if such is possible, to let oneself be overtaken, to not even let oneself be overtaken, to be surprised, in a fashion almost violent, violated and raped […], stolen […], precisely where one is not ready to receive—and not only not yet ready but not ready, unprepared in a mode that is not even that of the ‘not yet’ […—to be hospitable is] to let oneself be swept away by the coming of the wholly other, the absolute unforeseeable […] stranger, the uninvited visitor, the unexpected visitation beyond welcoming apparatuses. If I only welcome what I welcome, what I am ready to welcome, and that I recognize in advance because I expect the coming of the [guest] as invited, there is no hospitality.[3]

I, for one, desire to risk being overwhelmed by these women…to risk listening to their witness.

The memory, the presence of these women calls to mind an Empire of rulers and ruled—human and so-called/thought inhuman.

We are not strangers, nor are the ghosts with us today, to a power structure that requires some to argue for their rights to life, liberty, and happiness. We are not strangers to the national [Church] and foreign policy and the rhetoric that sculpt an ethos where some must argue for their liberties—their human rights.

It is a terrible age in which we live—an age when the human face of another is so easily peeled off by a national and foreign policy of paranoia and a rhetoric of dehumanization: they are a threat to marriage; they are a threat to homeland security; they are evil; they are terrorists; they are a danger to our children; they are a threat to our society.

I was surprised that so-called America was surprised by US Military brutality in Iraq. America’s national and foreign policy and rhetoric of dehumanization not only made it possible, but inevitable.[4] It is a time of war—a time that calls to mind the realities of Empire: there are those who rule and those who are ruled—and the ruled cannot possibly be viewed as human.

The human face complicates matters; the human face appeals to the 6^th commandment[5] and troubles the validity and possibility of war, discrimination, injustice. The human face must be peeled off—or the desire to do justice—to treat others justly—will immediately prevail.

What kind of behavior do we expect in a time of war? And what kind of behavior should we except from our fellow citizens who support war and/or President Bush? Is homophobia so surprising in this Empire that seeks to rule?

The memory of the slave-girl of Acts 16 reminds me of an Empire that wishes not only to rule but also possess the ruled; her presence reminds me of an Empire that wishes to insert itself into the very being of the ruled.

The slave-girl is said to be owned by male lords; her value is dependent upon her ability to be of value to the ruling Empire. Do we not hear the echo of another text here: “Therefore, they set taskmasters over them to oppress them with forced labor.”[6] Do you hear the command: Make bricks! Give us oil!

The unpossessed are of no value to the Empire—for they are not dependent upon it, nor are they ruled by it. Of course, the presence of the unpossessed—precisely because they claim their humanity—is a threat to the power structure of the Empire that depends upon slave labor, the ruled.

What I find terribly problematic—for those who argue the “sinfulness” of same-sex desire (not to mention the complete implausibility of the argument)—is the fact that when Queers step out of the closet and begin to live as Queers—we begin a process that only serves to make us more healthy, creative, loving, productive, unpossessed. Is it any wonder that the religious right (also composed of human beings—said by way of reminder)—is it any wonder that many so-called Americans would like to see Queers remain in the closet?

It is unwise, however, to be flippant in the face of such an Empire and such power. Martin Luther King, Jr. (his ghost has now arrived) notes, in his “Why We Can’t Wait,” a book he wrote about the struggle to desegregate Birmingham, Alabama: “[Many humans] in Birmingham, like [many humans] elsewhere in this nation, had been skillfully brainwashed to the point where [they] had accepted the [Empire’s] theory that [they…were] inferior.”[7]

The Empire does, in fact, make its way into the hearts of some—robbing them of life and dignity. And we must not forget that reality—nor curtsy to it.

The ghosts of the women here today are witnesses of the power of the human voice; they encourage us to refuse to be passive, to refuse to allow any person to believe she or he is unworthy of human dignity, of the title human—of a human face.

If one were to read Acts 16 uncarefully, it would seem as if the slave-girl did not have a voice. But did you hear the text: she cried out. How many cry out for justice and are faced with the charge that they are simply possessed, crazed fools? To speak truth to corrupt power—is to risk demonization—is to risk being forever, in the words of Foucault, on the “interior of the exterior, and inversely.”[8]

The slave-girl does have a voice—and her cry is a cry for justice. Paul, on his way to the corner of Michigan and Chestnut Avenues, wants to ignore her. She stays with him, we are told, for days. Her cry is a cry of the Spirit: “Paul, don’t forget who you and I are: slaves of the most high God—chose this day who you will serve.” Her cry is meant to pierce Paul’s (our) amnesia.

And I want to note here, that to disrespect the voice of one crying out for justice is truly terrible. A sincere attempt must be made to hear the other’s cry for justice—regardless of the emotions exhibited and/or the words used—on the other’s terms. I think “young adults” in the Presbyterian Church are violated when the “older generations” constantly insist that we use a language that seems, to them, more sophisticated, refined, respectful. It is ageism—in the opposite direction—and it is a terribly violent act to force young adults to speak in another voice…a voice that takes the responsibility of thoughtful listening and interpretation away from those who, in reality, care little about the witness of the so-called “young people”—who will one day grow up and learn how to speak truly. Is it any wonder the Presbyterian Church (these movements, perhaps) is looking older and older…?

Let us not get too comfortable…the ghosts are not here only to cry out against an Empire defined solely in terms of the State—but also in terms of the Church and its strange way of conspiring with the State.

Paul does not want to help the slave-girl. He wants to get to the place of prayer or to rich Lydia’s—the woman in a committed relationship, the family woman with a home (who, by the way, is at both ends of our story—the place from which Paul leaves and the place to which Paul returns).

The Church is, at times (as we all know), woefully supportive of the oppressive power structures of the State. And do not arrive at a place of arrogance—I mean, when I say the Church, to implicate all of us. Queers are no more likely to help the needy than anyone else.

I do not want us to forget those who have fallen under the Empire’s spell or simply into the power structures of oppression and cannot, without help, gain freedom.

Our movements in the Presbyterian Church are worthless if they privilege those who can stand before the leadership—before the power structures—and cry out for justice. Our movements in the Presbyterian Church are worthless if they privilege those who can stand before the leadership—before the power structures—with faith. There are friends and neighbors in prison: in hot, crowded cells saturated by the scent of human misery, who need us there—in prison. Let us not forget them—pass them by—and so become what we are fighting against. It is a dreadful reality when the so-called faithful are annoyed by these least of these: sometimes friends, sometimes strangers—the all cost and no profits of Empire, Church, and social justice movements….

Our ghosts have voices, and it is a high calling to use our voices and to help the many human beings who are voiceless find a voice—a language that makes sense, that communicates a desire for justice and equality.

And our ghosts have not only voices, but courage—and they encourage us to stay on the doorsteps of those who withhold peace, justice, and healing until what we have asked for has been granted. Let the Empire/Church be annoyed, but let us not stop crying out until justice is done.

These women, the ghosts of whom are with us today, also remind us to prepare for the consequences of challenging the structures of oppression: to fight the Empire is also to risk (as many of you well know) being beaten—before questions are asked—treated as if one were inhuman—humiliated—and thrown into the inmost confines of the Empire’s prisons, the Empire’s Dachaus. It is a sobering reality, a reality Martin Luther King, Jr. knew well, and a reality we must face if justice is to be a reality in our day.

The ghosts, however, do not leave us there—on such a somber note. They leave us with the gospel: despite the stench of corruption wafting through nearly every land and pew of the Empire—despite the intense and horrifying amnesia and outright opposition of many of the so-called faithful—God is a God of freedom and justice is inevitable. Justice is inevitable, not because it is the great end of America or the Church—but because justice is bound up with the God who is, Godself, an outsider, a desirer and worker for justice.

And we would do well to remember: It is not the Constitution of the United States of America, nor Paul, nor George Bush, nor the State of Massachusetts, nor the United States Supreme Court who sets us free from injustice, who can declare us free; if we call ourselves Christians—we will audaciously declare: it is the God of freedom who has set us free and calls us to work for justice—to wash the wounds of the oppressed—to make friends of enemies.

We are left with the words of all these ghosts—spoken in the words of one:

It is [a] strangely irrational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. Actually time is neutral. It can be used either destructively or constructively […]. We must come to see that human progress never rolls in on the wheels of inevitably. It comes through the tireless efforts and persistent work [of women and men] willing to be co-workers with God […]. Now is the time to make real the promise of democracy, and to transform our pending national elegy into a creative psalm of brotherhood. Now is the time to lift the national [Church] policy from the quicksand of [injustice] to the solid rock of human dignity.[9]

Let those who call for waiting, for the so-called proper time to do justice, hear: Until the dream of a time when everyone’s chains are broken becomes a vivid reality—every moment will be a moment the God of freedom, of justice, of equality is mocked and the Empire worshipped. Amen.

[3] Derrida, “Hostipitality,” in Acts of Religion, Gil Anidjar, ed. (New York: Routledge, 2002), 361, 62—emphasis his.

[4] I am grateful to my friend, Kuniitoshi Sakai, Chicago Theological Seminary, for calling this line of thought to mind.

[5] This was an unconscious reference to Emmanuel Levinas, of whom I have read very little; however, this is a rather direct reference to his line of thinking regarding the human face (see Emmanuel Levinas, Ethics and Infinity, Richard A. Cohen, trans [Pittsburgh: Dequesne University Press, 1982], 89). This was called to my attention after the sermon was preached—Levinas should have been cited during the preaching of the sermon.

[7] Martin Luther King, Jr., “Why We Can’t Wait,” in a Testament of Hope, James M. Washington, ed. (San Francisco: Harper, 1986), 538.

[8] Michel Foucault, Madness and Civilization (New York: Random House, 1965), 11.

[9] Martin Luther King, Jr., “Letter from the Birmingham Jail,” in a Testament of Hope, 296.