Posted by Pr. Seth for the Fifth Sunday in Easter, Year B
Texts: Acts 8:26-40; 1 John 4:7-21; John 15:1-8
Texts: Acts 8:26-40; 1 John 4:7-21; John 15:1-8
“No one whose genitals have been crushed or cut off shall be admitted to the congregation of the LORD.” (Deut 23.1) The eunuch knew this. And yet, knowing this had not prevented him from making the weeks-long journey from his home in the kingdom of Cush to Jerusalem to worship in the temple.
There was a sizable minority in Cush who worshiped the God of Jacob, owing to a long history of diplomacy and trade with and through Israel. Growing up, he had learned the stories of Abraham and Sarah’s long-awaited son, of Jacob wrestling with God, of Joseph and his beautiful coat, of Moses leading God’s people through the Red Sea. He used to dream of one day traveling to Jerusalem to see the great temple that Herod had rebuilt and to finally stand in the presence of the God he had so long worshiped.
There was a sizable minority in Cush who worshiped the God of Jacob, owing to a long history of diplomacy and trade with and through Israel. Growing up, he had learned the stories of Abraham and Sarah’s long-awaited son, of Jacob wrestling with God, of Joseph and his beautiful coat, of Moses leading God’s people through the Red Sea. He used to dream of one day traveling to Jerusalem to see the great temple that Herod had rebuilt and to finally stand in the presence of the God he had so long worshiped.
Francis Smith. "Kisler Aga, Chief of the Black Eunuchs and First Keeper of the Serraglio." ca 1770. Yale Center for British Art [Public domain], via Wikimedia Commons
Those dreams made it all the more bitter when he came of age and was castrated to enter the service of the Candace. He knew that the Law of Moses forbade people like him from entering God’s holy temple. Perhaps it was the loss of that dream that caused him to focus so single-mindedly on his work; if he could not be a full member of the house of Israel, at least he could make sure he was the best servant in the royal court.
For years, he threw himself into his work. While he was being taught to read, he practically lived in the royal library reading everything he could get his hands on. When they taught him arithmetic, he spent hours practicing his sums until he could quickly do them in his head. He trained his handwriting to be clean and tight, just like he trained his staff to be the same. He ran a tight ship, and everybody in the palace knew it.
Because of his loyalty and diligence, he had come to be respected by the whole royal staff. Eventually, the Candace herself had even entrusted him with keeping charge of the entire treasury; and yet he could tell by how they looked at him and spoke to him that may respect him, they may even like him, but he would never be one of them. Not quite male, not quite female, he didn’t have a place in their world.
It was because of the privilege and authority that he enjoyed in his position of royal treasurer that his dreams of pilgrimage were re-awakened. An ordinary eunuch may not be allowed into the temple, but he was no ordinary eunuch. He had worked hard to get where he was; surely a high-ranking official from a royal court would be granted an exception. Perhaps there, among God’s people, he might finally feel like he belonged somewhere. Once the thought occurred to him, it remained lodged in the back of his mind, a niggling hope that he couldn’t quite ignore. He started losing sleep at night because his excited heart would pound with possibility as he lay in bed, and so he asked the Candace for leave to visit Jerusalem.
When he arrived, it was everything he had dreamed it would be. The streets were filled with pilgrims, all come in to worship for the festival. He joined his retinue to the throngs of people pouring into the temple, his chest swelling with joy and his eyes brimming with tears of happiness as he entered the outer courts. He went to the money changers to get the temple coins and purchased the offering for his sacrifice, then he approached the gate to the inner courts, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering—only to be stopped by the temple police.
He tried to explain who he was, to tell them that, yes, he was a foreigner, but that he was a court official of the Candace of Cush, and a proselyte from birth. They might have made an exception for his ethnicity, but his soft, high voice and his androgynous features were unmistakable. He knew he couldn’t argue with the police when they quoted that wretched law to him. Nothing he could say or do, no amount of hard work or focus could change the situation; he could not be allowed in because of who he was. He turned and went, deflated, and spent a few more minutes taking in the sights and sounds of the outer court before he left the temple. The tears brimming in his eyes now were distinctly more bitter.
With no reason to stay in Jerusalem, he set out for home. To pass the time (and to find some solace), he began reading from a copy of the scroll of Isaiah that he had brought along. He had selected Isaiah to accompany him on his journey because he had always found hope in the prophet, who had promised:
For years, he threw himself into his work. While he was being taught to read, he practically lived in the royal library reading everything he could get his hands on. When they taught him arithmetic, he spent hours practicing his sums until he could quickly do them in his head. He trained his handwriting to be clean and tight, just like he trained his staff to be the same. He ran a tight ship, and everybody in the palace knew it.
Because of his loyalty and diligence, he had come to be respected by the whole royal staff. Eventually, the Candace herself had even entrusted him with keeping charge of the entire treasury; and yet he could tell by how they looked at him and spoke to him that may respect him, they may even like him, but he would never be one of them. Not quite male, not quite female, he didn’t have a place in their world.
It was because of the privilege and authority that he enjoyed in his position of royal treasurer that his dreams of pilgrimage were re-awakened. An ordinary eunuch may not be allowed into the temple, but he was no ordinary eunuch. He had worked hard to get where he was; surely a high-ranking official from a royal court would be granted an exception. Perhaps there, among God’s people, he might finally feel like he belonged somewhere. Once the thought occurred to him, it remained lodged in the back of his mind, a niggling hope that he couldn’t quite ignore. He started losing sleep at night because his excited heart would pound with possibility as he lay in bed, and so he asked the Candace for leave to visit Jerusalem.
When he arrived, it was everything he had dreamed it would be. The streets were filled with pilgrims, all come in to worship for the festival. He joined his retinue to the throngs of people pouring into the temple, his chest swelling with joy and his eyes brimming with tears of happiness as he entered the outer courts. He went to the money changers to get the temple coins and purchased the offering for his sacrifice, then he approached the gate to the inner courts, the butterflies in his stomach fluttering—only to be stopped by the temple police.
He tried to explain who he was, to tell them that, yes, he was a foreigner, but that he was a court official of the Candace of Cush, and a proselyte from birth. They might have made an exception for his ethnicity, but his soft, high voice and his androgynous features were unmistakable. He knew he couldn’t argue with the police when they quoted that wretched law to him. Nothing he could say or do, no amount of hard work or focus could change the situation; he could not be allowed in because of who he was. He turned and went, deflated, and spent a few more minutes taking in the sights and sounds of the outer court before he left the temple. The tears brimming in his eyes now were distinctly more bitter.
With no reason to stay in Jerusalem, he set out for home. To pass the time (and to find some solace), he began reading from a copy of the scroll of Isaiah that he had brought along. He had selected Isaiah to accompany him on his journey because he had always found hope in the prophet, who had promised:
| Do not let the foreigner joined to the LORD say, “The LORD will surely separate me from his people”; and do not let the eunuch say, “I am just a dry tree.” For thus says the LORD: To the eunuchs who keep my sabbaths, who choose the things that please me and hold fast my covenant, I will give, in my house and within my walls, a monument and a name better than sons and daughters; I will give them an everlasting name that shall not be cut off. And the foreigners who join themselves to the LORD, to minister to him, to love the name of the LORD, and to be his servants, all who keep the sabbath, and do not profane it, and hold fast my covenant-- these I will bring to my holy mountain, and make them joyful in my house of prayer; their burnt offerings and their sacrifices will be accepted on my altar; for my house shall be called a house of prayer for all peoples. (Isa 56.3-7) |
It was evidently a promise for a time not yet come, but it gave the eunuch hope, nonetheless.
As he read from the scroll, searching for those words so that he might read them again and be reminded of that hope, he saw a young man running up to his chariot. At first, he felt a flash of fear: was this man going to try to rob him? His second thought was shame—that when this man got close enough to see who he was, he would run the other way. But instead of demanding money or retreating in disgust, the man asked him a question: “Do you understand what you are reading?”
How could he understand? He had spent his life in service to a people that had made him a eunuch and then despised him for being what they made him. He worshiped a God who apparently did not want him, a God whose prophets spoke with contradicting voices. Did he belong to God’s people or not?
He said as much to his young visitor, and then, much to his surprise, he heard himself inviting the stranger to ride with him. Even more to his surprise, the young man climbed into the chariot and introduced himself.
“Tell me, Philip,” the eunuch asked, “Is the prophet writing about himself or about… someone else?” He had almost asked, “or about me,” but caught himself. He remembered his silence before the temple police when they questioned him about his anatomy. He hadn’t opened his mouth, then, either; what could he say to argue against God’s law? Being turned away at that gate had been humiliating, unjust. He couldn’t change who he was or what had been done to him, and yet that was what had kept him out. His flesh had been taken from him, and with it, his ability to have a normal life. All that was left of him was just a dry tree.
Philip began to speak. He began to tell the eunuch about Jesus, relating his story to the words of Isaiah. He explained how, in love, God became human to tear down all the divisions that separate humanity from God; how, even though this ministry of reconciliation cost Jesus his life, God raised him up to new life. He told the eunuch about how God’s love had been life-giving for the community of disciples in Jerusalem; that sharing in God’s love had given them life that persecution and death could not quench. In Jesus, God had resurrected them, too.
It was then that Philip surprised him a third time. “I’m not even supposed to be here,” he said. “The Twelve commissioned me to distribute bread to widows, but it seems that God had other plans. My job is to feed the hungry, and God sent me here, to you. When I found you, you were reading from Isaiah, and the Spirit told me to run up and join you. I guess God thought you must be hungry, too.”
Philip didn’t know how right he was. A moment ago, he hadn’t belonged anywhere. Not fully a man, not really a woman; too Jewish to be Gentile, but too Gentile to be Jewish; there was nowhere where he fit in. He had had no life, he’d been dead; but if God had raised Jesus from the dead, there was hope for him, too. God had even sent this young man out of the blue to proclaim this resurrection to him, a young man who had treated him not like a eunuch, but like a friend. Because Philip was able to look past his identity and see him as just another person, maybe this community of his could accept him, too, missing appendage and all. “I wish I could be a part of that,” he told Philip.
“You can,” Philip said. “We are baptizing more and more people every day.”
“Even though I’m a eunuch?” he asked?
“Why would that matter?” Philip responded. “God loves you the way you are, and that’s good enough for us.”
Over Philip’s shoulder, he spotted some water—little more than a mud-hole, but even that dirty little patch of water was enough to re-awaken that niggling little hope in his mind. Maybe he did belong to God’s people, after all. “Look, here’s some water. What’s to stop me from being baptized?”
Coming up out of the water, the eunuch realized that Isaiah’s prophecy had come to pass. Before, he had been just a dry, lonely tree; but now joined to Jesus and the community he created, he was a branch on a vine: one branch among many, sharing a life that came from beyond him. Filled with hope, he was ready to go back home and face the world again, ready to live as a part of God’s community, ready to share the good news of a God’s life-giving love.
As he read from the scroll, searching for those words so that he might read them again and be reminded of that hope, he saw a young man running up to his chariot. At first, he felt a flash of fear: was this man going to try to rob him? His second thought was shame—that when this man got close enough to see who he was, he would run the other way. But instead of demanding money or retreating in disgust, the man asked him a question: “Do you understand what you are reading?”
How could he understand? He had spent his life in service to a people that had made him a eunuch and then despised him for being what they made him. He worshiped a God who apparently did not want him, a God whose prophets spoke with contradicting voices. Did he belong to God’s people or not?
He said as much to his young visitor, and then, much to his surprise, he heard himself inviting the stranger to ride with him. Even more to his surprise, the young man climbed into the chariot and introduced himself.
“Tell me, Philip,” the eunuch asked, “Is the prophet writing about himself or about… someone else?” He had almost asked, “or about me,” but caught himself. He remembered his silence before the temple police when they questioned him about his anatomy. He hadn’t opened his mouth, then, either; what could he say to argue against God’s law? Being turned away at that gate had been humiliating, unjust. He couldn’t change who he was or what had been done to him, and yet that was what had kept him out. His flesh had been taken from him, and with it, his ability to have a normal life. All that was left of him was just a dry tree.
Philip began to speak. He began to tell the eunuch about Jesus, relating his story to the words of Isaiah. He explained how, in love, God became human to tear down all the divisions that separate humanity from God; how, even though this ministry of reconciliation cost Jesus his life, God raised him up to new life. He told the eunuch about how God’s love had been life-giving for the community of disciples in Jerusalem; that sharing in God’s love had given them life that persecution and death could not quench. In Jesus, God had resurrected them, too.
It was then that Philip surprised him a third time. “I’m not even supposed to be here,” he said. “The Twelve commissioned me to distribute bread to widows, but it seems that God had other plans. My job is to feed the hungry, and God sent me here, to you. When I found you, you were reading from Isaiah, and the Spirit told me to run up and join you. I guess God thought you must be hungry, too.”
Philip didn’t know how right he was. A moment ago, he hadn’t belonged anywhere. Not fully a man, not really a woman; too Jewish to be Gentile, but too Gentile to be Jewish; there was nowhere where he fit in. He had had no life, he’d been dead; but if God had raised Jesus from the dead, there was hope for him, too. God had even sent this young man out of the blue to proclaim this resurrection to him, a young man who had treated him not like a eunuch, but like a friend. Because Philip was able to look past his identity and see him as just another person, maybe this community of his could accept him, too, missing appendage and all. “I wish I could be a part of that,” he told Philip.
“You can,” Philip said. “We are baptizing more and more people every day.”
“Even though I’m a eunuch?” he asked?
“Why would that matter?” Philip responded. “God loves you the way you are, and that’s good enough for us.”
Over Philip’s shoulder, he spotted some water—little more than a mud-hole, but even that dirty little patch of water was enough to re-awaken that niggling little hope in his mind. Maybe he did belong to God’s people, after all. “Look, here’s some water. What’s to stop me from being baptized?”
Coming up out of the water, the eunuch realized that Isaiah’s prophecy had come to pass. Before, he had been just a dry, lonely tree; but now joined to Jesus and the community he created, he was a branch on a vine: one branch among many, sharing a life that came from beyond him. Filled with hope, he was ready to go back home and face the world again, ready to live as a part of God’s community, ready to share the good news of a God’s life-giving love.
Jesus Mural of Faith, Hope, Love, and Peace, from Art in the Christian Tradition, a project of the Vanderbilt Divinity Library, Nashville, TN. Original source: https://www.flickr.com/photos/36847973@N00/3342340183.
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