Acts 9:1-20
Immediately something like scales fell from his eyes, and he could see.
I was 27 years old. I had recently come through a disastrous marriage, and was still recovering from the emotional trauma of it all when my ex-husband declared bankruptcy, leaving me on the hook with several of his creditors. I had paid a high price for that marital mistake, and now I was going to have to pay again. It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. And I was bitter.
Then I went on a business trip to New York City, and while our sales staff was working the convention floor, the creative staff followed the art director on a tour of the best stores in Manhattan. She led us in and out of all these expensive shops—pointing out designers she liked, even encouraging us to “buy a souvenir for yourself” —when all I could afford was an I-heart-New-York magnet. We moved in and out of the July heat, walking for what felt like miles in my high heel shoes and business suit. By the end of the afternoon my head was pounding, my stomach was churning, and I just wanted to go home.
Instead we all gathered back together for dinner—probably 16 or 18 of us, in a small Italian restaurant. Now, if you’ve ever dined in New York City, you probably know that their idea of a table for 16 would not be our ideas of a table for 16—not even in the Old Port. I ended up on the booth side, crammed in shoulder to shoulder, with at least three people on either side. There was no printed menu, and when the waiter rattled off the list of what was available, I ordered the only thing I’d heard of. As soon as our food arrived, and the aroma hit my nose, my stomach flipped. I needed to get away from the food, but I was trapped in the booth so I tried to send the food back without making a scene. But the waiter, in good Italian style, bellowed, “You don’t like your food? I’ll bring you something else!” Then, not only did I feel sick, but also embarrassed. I didn’t want anybody looking at me. I didn’t want to explain anything. I just wanted to get away.
I ended up going outside to get some fresh air—or as fresh as the air in New York City gets in July.
I was standing there in my rumpled suit, clutching my white linen napkin, feeling immensely sorry for myself, and crying. Suddenly a man stopped in front of me. He tilted his head to try to catch my eye. “You OK?” he asked. I nodded. He didn’t look convinced. He held out a bottle. “Want some water?” I shook my head. He reached into his pocket. “How about a cigarette?” “No thanks,” I said at last. “I’m fine.”
He nodded and took a few steps away, then stopped and looked back. “If you’re gonna’ stand there for a minute, could you do me a favor? Could you watch my house?” And he pointed to a cardboard box.
Immediately something like scales fell from my eyes. My problem seemed so small in comparison that for the first time in a long time, I could see the pain of another.
It’s so easy to get caught up in our own misery that we lose all perspective. I’m not suggesting that, if you’re going through a difficult time, you should deny it by saying “other people have it worse.” Pain isn’t relative, and demeaning your own sorrow does not help it heal. But if we allow our own struggles to blind us, we will never know anything beyond our pain. Sometimes we need something to smack us upside the head in order for the scales to fall away.
Unfortunately, I don’t seem to learn my lessons well because God keeps repeating them.
When I became a foster parent, I was certainly aware of child abuse and neglect and the many reasons that children might be placed into the foster care system. Of course, knowing in theory, and seeing the abuse on an infant in your arms, are two very different things. Still, the need for foster care families was not new to me. What was new to me was the system because I’d had no experience with the social service system until then. As wards of the state, foster children qualify for government assistance—specifically the WIC program, which provides formula and nutritious food for children at risk. It came in the form of vouchers that stated specifically what was covered—what kind of formula, what size bottle of juice, etc.
But Joshua didn’t do well on regular formula. He had really bad eczema and he needed a formula called Nutramigen. But Nutramigen cost $25 for a 12 ounce can, which lasts a few days. The 23-year-old “nutritionist” at the WIC office was probably just following orders when she refused to honor the prescription written by his doctor, when she ignored the form—their form—that Joshua’s doctor had completed, saying he needed Nutramigen. She insisted we try the soy product first. I tried to explain what the doctor had told me: that the soy product would not only not solve his problem, but it would add new ones. The young woman looked at me disdainfully and said loud enough for everyone to hear, “You can’t just walk in here and get Nutramigen!” like I was asking for filet mignon.
I slunk out of the office—again embarrassed, again almost tearful, because I was just trying to do what was best for the child in my care and I was made to feel like a demanding freeloader. Then I realized. Here I was, forty some years old, with a college degree and a master’s, and I was silenced by shame. I couldn’t advocate for my child’s needs. And if I couldn’t, how could a young mother with limited life experience and limited education or even limited English possibly advocate for hers?
I became a foster parent, and immediately something like scales fell from my eyes.
Those who serve on the committee for Community Crisis Ministries, who hear the stories of people in need of assistance, say the same thing has happened for them. Sure, they knew the needs in theory. But it’s different when the theory becomes a person. Their eyes have been opened.
Of course, sometimes we see too much. Sometimes our eyes are opened and we think, “Oh, I didn’t want to see this much suffering. Wait! Where are those scales! Put them back on!”
Of course, we can’t. And we wouldn’t really want to. Once we see, we want to help. That’s why we have Community Crisis Ministries. That’s why you give money every year: because you know about people in need and you want to make a difference.
But so far I have used our scripture only as a jumping off place—using the metaphor of the scales falling from Saul’s eyes to remind us of the times we have needed to see more clearly. That’s only a small part of the story so let’s look at the text again.
Saul, of course, was on the road to Damascus in order to seek out followers of Jesus so that he could arrest them and take them back to Jerusalem. The line that really stands out to me is the very first verse: He was “breathing threats and murder against the disciples” of Jesus. What does it mean to breathe threats and murder? Not just speak them, but breathe them … as if they are a part of your very being … as if that which keeps you alive is the destruction of another. He was so concerned about protecting the purity of his religion that he thought he needed to destroy anyone who disagreed with it.
When Saul encountered the risen Christ on the road to Damascus, Saul asked who he was. The answer was: “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.” The answer was not: “I am Jesus, whose followers you are persecuting.” After all, “Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me,” he said. Jesus so identified with those in need that he was the persecuted.
I can’t help but think of the laws that have been passed in the last weeks and others being proposed, even within our state, that throw open the doors to persecution and discrimination. Proponents of the laws like those passed in North Carolina and Mississippi claim they are protecting religious freedom, religious liberty. But they are making Saul’s mistake. Saul thought the followers of Jesus were a stain on Judaism. He thought his religion had to be protected, had to be purified, and so he persecuted others, breathing threats and murder. Oh, we’re much more civilized now. Now we’re just breathing hate and oppression. I don’t know what it will take for folks to see the truth—to see that God doesn’t need protection, and neither does Christianity. If your faith is so fragile that showing kindness to others can shatter it, then your problems are bigger than who you serve in you restaurant and with whom you share a bathroom.
Our story about Saul provides a warning to those who try to legislate hate. The scripture says that Ananias “laid his hands on Saul and said, “Brother Saul, the Lord Jesus, who appeared to you on your way here, has sent me so that you may regain your sight and be filled with the Holy Spirit.’ And immediately something like scales fell from his eyes, and his sight was restored.” “When Saul finally can see again, who’s the first person he probably sees? It’s precisely the kind of person to whom he’d devoted his life to exterminating.”[1] Three days before, he would have arrested Ananias and carted him off to Jerusalem in chains. Three days before, he thought the purity of his religion had to be protected from Ananias and everyone like him. Three days before, his religion had closed his heart.
This is the warning to those who legislate hate: you better be careful, because the one you want to exterminate may just be the one with the power to open your eyes.
Let us pray that our eyes will be opened, too.
Open my eyes, Lord. Help me to see your face. Open my eyes, Lord. Help me to see.
Open my heart, Lord. Help me to love like you. Open my heart, Lord. Help me to love.
[1] Bratt, Doug. Center for Excellence in Preaching.