Now there was a disciple in Damascus named Ananias.
So, back in the nineties, I ran a nonprofit research organization in Chattanooga. We were responsible for providing other nonprofits and governmental agencies with outside, nonbiased information so that they could make decisions and stuff like that.
Well, during this time, the city elected a new mayor, Jon Kinsey. And his staff approached me and asked what was the number one thing the new mayor should do when he took office. I said, “Go on a tour of the city from the point of view of the homeless.”
And he took me up on this. So, one wintery day, we were riding around in a van, visiting places he never thought he'd see. From crack houses to innner-city tree houses, we ran the gammut.
Then at the end, I told him I wanted him to see a place on the side of Missionary Ridge. When we got there, all he saw was a battered up bungalow with a bunch of kids playing outside, and women sitting on the porch, smoking cigarettes and talking. I could see it in the mayor's face: he was thinking, “OK, not the nicest place in the world, but not that bad either.”
“So, why are we here?” he asked. And I told him. The place was rented out by a guy called, “Pastor” Johnny. “Pastor” Johnny wasn't a pastor at all. In fact he was a predator. He offered up his place to any homeless woman with children who was so drugged out that she couldn't get into a typical shelter in the city.
The price of admission? "Pastor" Johnny got his pick, not just of the women, but of the children. And as often as not, those children would soon disappear, victims of the sexual slave trade that makes it's way up and down I-75 with the help of local mobsters.
From the point of view of the women, on a cold, icy winter's night, their choice was sleeping with their kids in some dumpster, or taking their chances with “Pastor” Johnny. And as much as we find it hard to comprehend, sometimes some people will come to the decision that THIS is the better option.
The mayor just stared at me for quite some time. “How is this happening?” he finally asked. I started to tell him all the reasons, ranging from corruption in the police department, or that police priorities were protecting the life and property of the rich, to the fact that Johnny keeps moving locations when the heat is on.
But a colleague that was with me interrupted: “We're all blind to it, when we need to be. Even you.”
We left the mayor outside his plush corner office at City Hall with a lot to think about.
Our first reading today, from the Book of Acts, is familiar to most off us, especially those of us who attend churches named after our patron saint, Paul. It's the story of Paul's conversion. Back in the day, when he went by the name of Saul, our hero was no hero at all.
He made his career persecuting this new sect of Jews called Christians, trying to get them to come back into the fold of the traditional, old ways. And persecuting in his day didn't just mean calling them out or levying a fine.
It often meant hounding them to death, whipping up the crowds until they killed the poor souls, then moving on to the next spot to start all over again. Never looking back, never thinking about the destruction he left in his wake.
Then one day, it happened. He was struck blind, and Jesus's voice is heard saying, “Why do you persecute me?” and eventually Saul repents, gets his sight back, becomes Paul, and goes on to have many adventures and write letters with run-on sentences. True conversion.
But so often ignored in this story is the other blind man. Ananias.
Now Ananias wasn't really blind. He could see perfectly well. And when Jesus appeared to him and told him about Saul and told him that he wanted him, Ananias, to help Saul and befriend him, and love him, all Ananias can see before him were the persecuted Christians, and this man, Saul, lighting the match that caused all the trouble.
Ananias was so blind with anger toward Saul that he was blind to Jesus, too. He was blind to Jesus' love for the man who had nothing but hatred in his heart for so long. And he was blind to how that love, the love of God, can so deeply change a soul, if only....
If only what? If only we had walked into that house on Missionary Ridge and told Pastor Johnny that we loved him because Jesus commands us to love him? The man was evil. And we can't be blind to that evil.
And this is the hardest part about being a Christian. During the next few weeks, we will be hearing passages that focus on the different aspects of life that make Christians Christians and that make Church Church.
But friends, none of it is easy, and if you think it's going to be, you're doing it wrong.
And there will be times when we'll want to strike out. To punish. To mete out justice. Or maybe just to hurt. We see this all the time in the halls of power lately. How the option to cause pain is the first option taken.
I still think of “Pastor” Johnny, and I still get filled with anger and disgust. I'll admit it.
And I also think of Ananias and how much like him I am. How blind I am to Jesus so often in my life.
The story is short on details, but I'm willing to bet that there was a whole range of emotions in Ananias when Jesus told him to care for Saul. I'll bet he came back with, “Oh, no, no, no, no. No way, no how.” I'll bet he fought and kicked.
And I'll bet Jesus just stayed there with him, waiting for him to work through it all. And then, like he asked Peter, Jesus asks Ananias, “Do you love me? Then feed my sheep. Feed my sheep.”
It's hard. It's so very hard sometimes. To really love. Not just to theoretically love. But to really love. Because, let's admit it, so many people are hard to love. Because, let's admit it, most of the time we will fail. Because, let's admit it, most of the time we don't even try.
“Pastor” Johnny met his end a couple of years later. The Mayor had his house condemned, and he had moved on, and the homeless network lost track of him. But one day the Mayor called my office and told me to read an article in the day's newspaper. Johnny had moved down to Dalton, Georgia and had met his end at the hands of a local mobster. That's the end of Johnny's life.
And it's easy to be happy with this, because I didn't have to put my faith on the line. He was dead, and we can let the dead bury the dead.
But when I was thinking about these lessons we heard today, for some reason I started thinking about something and, like Saul, the scales fell from my eyes.
Jesus came to the world as a baby, not just to be human among us, but to be a baby among us. To be vulnerable and in need of love. And friends, we were all somebody's baby. All of us.
Maybe it's too late for Pastor Johnny. Maybe it's too late. But maybe next time I can see someone vulnerable, targeted, falsely accused, and in need of God, in need of love.
And maybe when I see somebody falling under the influence of lies and fear and propaganda, being taught to hate and not love. Maybe I can remember to remember: it's not to late for them.
And it's not to late for migrants laboring in our fields, for kids hiding in closets of our schools, for the elderly counting their pennies and splitting their pills. And for those feeling alienated, left behind, learning to hate from an early age. For all those wondering how many promises will be broken before things get better.
With God's help, maybe we can, each of us, go out and love, even just a little. Maybe we can look into the eyes of someone else and not be blind and see Jesus looking back at us.
Maybe.
Amen.