Sometimes, It’s Not What You Say, But How You Say It

Acts 17:22-31

Today I’m going to tell the story of Lefèvre d’Étaples. I know what you’re thinking: “Lefèvre d’Étaples? We already know all there is to know about that guy.” But I’ll go ahead and tell his story anyway. It’s a great story with an even greater tie-in what I find to be the most fascinating element of Paul’s sermon on the Areopagus (also known as Mars Hill).

A little set-up for the story.

So, we all know that the Old Testament was originally written in Hebrew, and the New Testament in Greek. In 405 AD, Eusebius Heironymous Sophronius, also known as Jerome (but don’t ask me why), completed a 23-year-long task of translating these Scriptures into Latin (a translation commonly referred to as the Vulgate).[1] In the 16th century, at the Council of Trent, the Vulgate became the official Biblical translation of the Catholic Church, even though nobody spoke Latin anymore (again, don’t ask me why).

So the story goes in the early 1520’s, a little over 11-hundred years later, in a small church in a small town outside of Paris, France, the congregation listened, minds-blown, as the Gospel was proclaimed in their mother-tongue: French, not Latin! This was the work of Jacques Lefèvre d’Étaples (or Jack Staples). Staples later wrote to a friend about this occasion, “You can scarcely imagine with what ardor God is moving the minds of the simple [people] in some places to embrace his Word.” Looking beyond the somewhat insulting comment about “simple people”, this was a BIG deal! “At that time, the Catholic Church and theologians in Paris opposed the use of translations of the Bible in common languages.”[2]

Prior to becoming a Bible translator, Staples had “dedicated himself to restoring the original meaning of classical works of philosophy and theology.”[3] In this quest, he began studying the standard Bible of the Catholic Church, the Latin Vulgate. He concluded that “the study of divine truth alone promises…the highest happiness”, and gave up on philosophy to strictly work on translating the Bible.[4] Why? He was convinced that “simple people”—let’s just say “common folk”—needed to be able to understand and interpret the Scriptures on their own. In order to do this, there needed to be a translation of the Bible that was accessible to all. This same impetus also inspired Martin Luther and John Calvin—who were instrumental in the Protestant Reformation.

Staples, not-surprisingly, ruffled some feathers with this courageous undertaking, but he defended his work saying, “how will [the church] teach [people] to observe all that Jesus Christ commanded, if they are unwilling that the [people] should see and read the Gospel of God in their own language?”[5]

The church tried to silence Staples, and had it not been for the intervention of French King Francis I, he would have been condemned as a heretic.[6]

Speaking of heresy, let us return to Athens, Greece, to the Areopagus—where in 399 BC, Socrates had been condemned for heresy. There, on the same spot, Paul delivered a 1st century address to a crowd of Epicurean and Stoic philosophers (Acts 17:18)—that address is today’s Scripture from Acts. What makes this address so interesting to me, and what inspired me to share the story of Lefèvre d’Étaples, is not so much what Paul said, but how he said it. Rather than starting with Scripture, which would have had no impact on this audience, Paul begins by mentioning what would be familiar to all of them: an altar ‘To an unknown god.’ And rather than criticizing them for this altar (and all the other altars to all the other gods), which in his other writings he clearly defines as idolatry, he praises them for their religiosity. He knows they’re looking for truth, and rather than condemning them for looking in the wrong places, he applauds them and “ministers to their searching.”[7]

Paul could have easily turned his audience off by acting like another nut with a soapbox and a bullhorn shouting Scriptures and condemnations. Instead, he captures their attention by translating the message of the Gospel into a recognizable vocabulary and relevant context. I was humbled and well-reminded of the importance of this by the performance review I requested back in December. Robbie collected your reviews and comments and gave me the basic overview in the January session meeting. I was flattered by the overwhelming kindness and appreciation shown, but I wasn’t looking for a pat-on-the-back. I was looking to grow and improve as a pastor, and so it was the constructive criticism that I appreciated most of all. One of the common critiques that I heard and have (hopefully) taken to heart was paraphrased by Robbie as such: “You’re too smart for us, man.” What that meant was, “Your vocabulary is, at times, abstruse.” Using big words and being smart are two different things, but I got the point. (By the way, I looked up “difficult to understand” in a thesaurus and “abstruse” was the first word that popped up.)

In seminary, I was taught to be an academic theologian. We write exegesis papers and study homiletics (fancy words for “research papers” and “preaching sermons”). We use words like epistemology, ecclesiology, and eschatology on the daily. This vocabulary makes no sense to most people. All preachers run the risk that Paul expertly evaded in his Mars Hill address: the risk of turning people off to the Gospel rather than engaging them in the truth that God’s story is already (and will continue to be) a part of their story.

How do we proclaim this good news in the common tongue and in a manner relevant to the common context of our audience? This is one of the most important questions of evangelism. How should we tackle it? Well…how did Paul?

First off, he did not condemn people for opinions or practices that differed from his own. This is a surefire way of becoming immediately disregarded by your audience. No one wants to continue listening to a person who has just told them “You’re dumb, and you’re wrong, and you’re going to hell.”

Second, Paul looked for what he and his audience had in common. They were both looking for truth, seeking higher meaning, and inspired by the natural patterns of life, and growth, and death. Both Paul and his audience are awed by the beauty and mystery of what they are able to observe in the world around them. “How can people look up at the stars or ponder the mysteries of the world without imagining a real, though still unknown, divine force behind it all?”[8] Whereas for the Greeks this wonder guided them to build a shrine to an unknown God, for Paul this wonder confirms what his faith guides him to believe about the God of Scripture, who happens to be the God of Creation and the God of life. Paul even appeals to a pagan poet to connect the lives of his audience to the powers of the God of creation in whom “we live, and move, and have our being.”

Resurrection, however, is a mystery which cannot be observed in the natural world. This brings us to the third lesson we can learn from Paul’s address, don’t open with the heavy stuff. Just as you shouldn’t open conversations about faith with criticism, you also shouldn’t open with stuff that is going to sound crazy to people with whom you have yet to establish trust or credibility. There are elements of faith that go beyond what we can observe and experience. A responsible practice of observation and interpretation, therefore, is little more than good science. Science is important and ought to inform and influence our faith, but even Einstein himself said that “Science can only ascertain what is, but not what should be…”[9]

Faith guides us beyond the seen, beyond what we know and experience, into a realm of what is possible in God. Rather than rigid and fragile, as some might fear, faith is surprisingly resilient and flexible. To build a life upon only that which is seen and already known is therefore limiting, and, in a world of sin, liable to perpetuate problems, pain, and the powers that be. Life built on faith threatens the status quo, but forms the only foundation upon which a future of freedom from sin is possible.

How do we deliver that message to people who find faith to be foolish or frightening? How do we inspire and enlighten without coming across as arrogant? It’s the lesson demonstrated by Lefèvre and Paul: we’ve got to learn and respect the context and common tongue of our audience, and, most importantly, we’ve got to learn about and respect their curiosity. You cannot preach to someone’s certainty. This is why Paul’s use of the Unknown God was brilliant. He chose to preach to his audience’s curiosity. Why did I ask you for your “questions of the cross”? Because I wanted to preach to your curiosities. I wanted to minister to your searching.

There has long been an animosity between faith and science. But, but there is also a common curiosity that inspires the two. Out of respect for that common ground, I close with another quote from Albert Einstein, “The important thing is not to stop questioning. Curiosity has its own reason for existing. One cannot help but be in awe when [they] contemplate the mysteries of eternity, of life, of the marvelous structure of reality. It is enough if one tries merely to comprehend a little of this mystery every day. Never lose a holy curiosity.” Amen.

[1] http://www.christianitytoday.com/history/issues/issue-28/405-jerome-completes-vulgate.html

[2] https://wol.jw.org/en/wol/d/r1/lp-e/2016405

[3] Ibid.

[4] Ibid.

[5] Ibid.

[6] Ibid.

[7] Willimon, William H. “Acts” from Interpretation: A Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching. Westminster-John Knox Press, Louisville, KY. 1988. P. 143.

[8] Ibid. 143.

[9] Einstein, Albert (1930). "Religion and Science," New York Times Magazine (Nov. 9): 3-4.