Lydia, and the refashioning of the self in Christ (May 25)

Readings, Rev 21:22-22:5, Acts 16:9-15, and John 14:23-29
Image,  Lydia, Silvia Dimitrova (2009)

Over the last few years I have been reading, in fits and bursts, the Les Rougon-Macquart series of novels by French author, Émile Zola. Zola’s novels are set in France’s Second Republic and capture the way cataclysm, societal upheaval, and cultural and economic change can afford people a chance to make themselves anew. The limits of just how daring this new can be, and the various misfortunes that befall both protagonist and their relations in its pursuit are all part of the novels’ enthralling world. What Zola captured of course, is not a novel invention. Shifts and movements in society can create cracks in former impenetrable walls allowing individuals to forge a new path, change their fortunes, re-write their stars. And usually, the bigger the upheaval, the greater the potential for ascent, which provokes the question about what the upheaval Christ’s resurrection makes possible, when the reality of new creation breaks forth in the subjects of his kingdom?
 
We are going to consider this question through the figure of Lydia. In a manner similar to Tabitha some weeks back, the textual details for Lydia are scant, but dense. Some of what we have retains a level of speculation based on historical research, other aspects are gleaned from a close reading of Luke’s account in conversation with Paul’s letters.
 
We can begin with her name, which may not really be a name, at least not in the sense we are familiar. Lydia (the woman) was from Thyatira, which was a city in a place called Lydia. To be named after a place was a practice often associated with slaves – who may be named this way not out of affection, but utility. It is a way of dehumanising and enforcing, at the base layer of identity, a gap in status and worth. There’s a similar occurrence in the Old Testament, with Hagar. Hagar, Sarah and Abraham’s slave, though from Egypt, is not an Egyptian name, but is the Hebrew for “foreigner,” “alien” or “sojourner.” She, like Lydia, is named in a way to distinguish difference and disregard, place rather than personhood.
 
And yet, if this is the case, by the time we reach the scene by the river, Lydia’s fortunes have turned around. We are introduced to Lydia as a dealer in purple cloth. Purple, we might know from our Advent godly play stories is a royal colour. It was a difficult dye to source and produce, making it exclusive. And, like most things that are exclusive, it was expensive. Lydia it thus appears, was a woman of some wealth. This fact is further emphasised by her ability to host Paul and his travelling companions at her house (alongside her normal household). Implying that not only her pantry but her house was large enough to accommodate them (and not only them, it turns out, because later in this chapter we will read that the emerging church in Philippi was meeting in her home).
 
But her fortunes have turned in another way. Whether or not she was at one point enslaved, she would of, at one point, been under the authority of father or husband. And yet, in this story there is no mention of such a figure. Lydia doesn’t check with anyone before inviting Paul to stay in her house, and the detail that it was her household that was baptised further emphasises her autonomy and authority in her home and business.
 
But there are further remarkable details in the character of Lydia. I mentioned before that she is described in the story as a worshipper of God (or God fearer in some texts). This is a term for a Gentile who worships YHWH, adhering to Judaism without being a full convert. This too I take as a sign of boldness, of Lydia’s capacity to strike out: to be drawn to and compelled by a religion, a people, a story other than her own and devote herself to it.
 
Perhaps part of her remaking came from having the Torah opened to her. To hear, as perhaps a former slave, named for a place, this holy text proclaim that we are all made in the image of God, that God freed the slaves in Egypt, that God is the protector of the orphan, the widow, and the foreigner, that God knows not only our name but the hairs of our head.
 
Or perhaps it was the story of Hagar that she found not only herself but her potential. Perhaps it was in hearing God meet Hagar in the wilderness and make a new life for her and her child in freedom that Lydia drew strength to transform her outer circumstances and inner sense of worth and capacity. Perhaps when she heard Hagar name God, The One Who Sees, she knew that here, with these people, in this story, she too was seen at last.
 
And then, here at the river, listening to Paul extol the gospel, the Lord opened her heart. Like the disciples walking to Emmaus, like the Ethiopian in the chariot, her heart is opened to see Jesus as the fulfilment and continuation of the story of God which has already renewed her life. In so doing, she is able to remake, or refashion, her life once more. She takes another risk (at this point she has perhaps made a habit of it), she invites Paul and his companions to stay, she listens to them, discusses with them, learns with them, and becomes the visible site of the emerging Jesus movement, the latent church of Christ in Philippi.
 
And risk is the right categorisation here. Paul will shortly be seized by crowds, stripped and flogged, and thrown in prison. We know from Paul’s letters this was not an isolated event for the apostles, nor for those leading and participating in these early house churches. So Lydia takes no small risk in joining this movement, in opening her house, in declaring this allegiance. She risks her business, the wealth and security it has afforded her to make a life so different from what it once was or might have been. She risks her household, she risks her autonomy and freedom. But such risks can be taken by those who know the love of God, and feel encouraged to pursue the call of Christ in the company of the church.
 
The resurrection of Christ upturns the world, we have returned to this point again and again since Easter. Not only does it defeat death and conquer sin, but in this act, Christ, the Good Shepherd, calls us by name and leads us into newness of life. And at the heart of this newness is the community of Christ we call the church. This community of disciples where the old dividing walls are not only cracked but broken down. In this community, the old hierarchies and designations: Jew and Greek, male and female, slave and free are robbed of their power to assign worth and status. Instead, the church becomes a place in which we are all remade as disciples, as priests, as siblings. It is this kind of place that someone like Lydia – whatever her past – can exercise her gifts and leadership, remaking her life in the image of Christ as a blessing for her whole community.
 
And this is what distinguishes the kind of remaking the gospel makes possible, from what might more commonly emerge after other societal upheavals. The goal is not the forging of a self-sustained, self-aggrandised individual, but to be remade into a self-for-others. The goal is to let the depth of love and worth we find in God allow us to run the risks that come when we open our heart to the call of Christ and the need of our neighbour. This kind of remaking, exemplified by Lydia, made possible in the Spirit, is the kind we are all invited into. The shape of our story will be different to hers for all the obvious reasons, but the potential is shared. For the gospel she heard, the baptism she undertook, is the same as the one which opened our heart and led us to this household of God’s grace.
 
There is another, albeit brief lesson I want to tack on here. It is a reminder and encouragement to us all – that not only is our task this kind of remaking of the self in the image of Christ’s own generosity and grace, but it is to help one another do the same. It is to be, and continue to become a community that fosters, encourages, and nourishes others to be like Lydia. To create an ecosystem of support and safety that allows the remaking of the self in the image of Christ. A community which removes material hurdles, advocates against systemic disadvantage, that doesn’t cling to old names, roles, or limits, but believes that the Spirit has been poured out on all flesh and that we are the body of Christ in the very giving and receiving of the Spirit’s gifts. A community which celebrates and encourages one another in every glimpse of Christlikeness and neighbourliness in our midst. This we do, until the day comes when these remakings are perfected in the fullness of the new creation, and we live with God face-to-face, the light of the city in the age to come.