The sermon preached by Fr. Ernie on May 14, 2.023

The Unknown God

by Ernest Boyer 

Today’s reading from the book of Acts gives the fullest and most complete account we have of what a sermon by Saint Paul looked like. It’s a beauty, too. It’s also a sermon that we badly need today. That’s because Paul was in Athens, the center of Pagan culture. The people there knew little of God and nothing at all of Jesus. That meant that Paul would have to start at the beginning. He’d also have to keep it simple. The thing is, our situation today is not all that different. Our ideas of God have gotten so twisted and confused that most people just don’t want to hear it. And as for Jesus — well, in a time when his name has become for some an excuse for racism, exclusion, narrow-mindedness and violence how can anyone not turn away in disgust. Somehow, we need to sweep all that away. We too need to go back to the beginning. We also need to keep it simple.

So, where do we start? Well, why not start here Paul did? He began by noticing that that the Athenians had an altar to what they called “the Unknown God,” so we could start with the Unknown God too. We’d begin with a question: Have you ever wondered why there is something rather than nothing? We might ask. Maybe you haven’t thought of it in so many words but it’s a thought that occurs to all of us. Why are we here? Why is the world here? How did it get here? What does it all mean?

Do you know the answers to these questions? Some people believe they do, but no one knows for sure. Do you think we ever will know for sure? Some people think so, but I’m convinced they’re wrong. I’m quite certain that there are things — some important things — that we will just never know, things beyond human comprehension. Some disagree with me. They’re convinced that sooner or later we’ll know everything. Literally everything. It amazes me that anyone can believe this.

It reminds me of something that happened to me a few years back. At the time I had a dog. His name as Loki, named after the Norse god of mischief. It was my job to walk Loki every afternoon. We had a routine, Loki and I. We’d always walk at the same time. It got to the point where, or if I forgot, Loki would casually wander into the room and sit down in front of me, looking up in expectation. Usually when this happened I would just get up, go for the leash and together Loki and I would go out the door. But there was one afternoon when I was reading when Loki came in. The day was rainy and I was enjoying my book. I looked at my watch and I saw that it was actually a little earlier than usual, so I decided not to get up right away. “Why should I interrupt my reading just because my dog was a little impatient?” I thought. He can wait a few minutes. So I continued to read.

I no longer remember what book it was, but let’s just say I that was reading the Bible. Let’s also say that at that moment I was turned to today’s story from the book of Acts. As I read, I could see Paul in my mind standing in that square in Athens preaching to people who’ve never heard the story of God. I was right there with him, hearing his words. But then I heard a little whining sound and looked up to see Loki sitting before me staring at me intently. Do you know what I’m talking about? Have you ever had a dog try to get your attention? Loki was watching my every move. He seemed to be studying my expression, reading my body language, looking for any sign at all that I was about to get up. And I thought: what does he think I’m doing? Does this dog understand any of this?

As far as Loki’s concerned, I’m keeping him waiting for no good reason. In his eyes I’m doing nothing at all, just sitting with some dusty old object in my hand. Perhaps he does have a sense of what a book is. He’s seen one before, of course, and knows the smell of its paper and binding. But what if I turned it around, held up a page to him and pointed to the print? He’d see nothing but black lines. It would mean absolutely zero to him. There’s no way that he could even begin to imagine how those tiny lines and dots were actually something called “words” — written words, a silent language — that were able to open up for me and become a whole separate world from the one he knew. There was no way that his mind could even begin to grasp how a few squiggles on a page could take me to places and times I that I have actually never known in real life, allowing me to witness the actions and hear the words of people who have in fact been dead for centuries. Not only does he know nothing of any of this, he doesn’t even know that he doesn’t know it. Does he have even the smallest inkling of what I’m doing? Of course not. His mind stretches only so far. Beyond that, complete emptiness. Loki thinks I’m right in front, and in one sense I am, but in another sense I’m in an entirely different world, one he can never know.

And how about us? Our minds go further than any dog’s, of course, but are they without any boundaries at all, or do they have limits too? Are there things that we will simply never know also? Are there things for us similar to the idea of reading for Loki — things that we not only don’t know, but don’t know that we don’t know? Or do we actually believe that our minds are limitless, that we either do know all or we will know all in time? The idea’s absurd. Our capacity for understanding stretches far, far beyond that of a creature like Loki, but in the end it stops too. There comes a point where we hit a brick wall, a point where we don’t even know what we don’t know. Everything beyond that point is a mystery. Many thousands of years ago our ancestors came up with a very special word for that mystery. They gave a name to that reality that lies beyond where our minds can travel. We called that mystery “God.”

So is there a God? Of course there is. About that there can be no doubt. God is the reality that lies beyond what we can ever know. The thing is, just because we can never know it, how can we possibly discover what that mystery we call God is actually like? Can this reality we call God be trusted? Is God a reality that cares about us? Does God even know we are here? This is what the Athenians meant by the Unknown God and for centuries our ancestors considered the possibilities. They explored every option. Some said God was one way. Some said another. There were even wars to decide who was right, which is of course a ridiculous way to answer such a question.

Then 2000 years ago a man came among us. At first there seemed nothing remarkable about this man. He was poor, an outcast, part of the faceless masses, yet one more oppressed member of a conquered people. But little by little people began to see that he was different. Part of it was how he treated people. He treated EVERYONE with respect and love. Beyond that, he had such profound trust for the mystery that lies beyond what we can never know, that he saw it not only has his friend, he saw it also as a loving parent, someone he could trust completely, someone always guiding and shaping his life for the good. Not only that, he told us that this was who God was for all of us too.

Many people loved this man, but some people feared him. They sensed correctly that he had a power — a power that they didn’t understand — and the rulers grew afraid. They had him killed and for a time we thought that that was it. It was all over. But then there came a moment when we knew that he was still among us, that the power that he had been given was greater even than death, that the love that he had shown us was able to conquer even the worst of human evil, and again he showed us that all this power was in us too. And for the first time we discovered the truth of the Unknown God. We learned at last what the mystery that lies beyond what we can know is truly like. It is like this man. It had been in him all along. And now we knew that it was in us too.

This is the story of Christianity. In many ways it’s very simple. It’s also deeply profound. If you take it seriously it changes everything. It changes you. You’ll never see the world the same again. You’ll never again see yourself the same way either, and every person you meet will be a revelation. It opens up the possibility of a life of such richness. Such beauty. Listen to it and you’ll begin to hear the music of the universe, the music of eternity. And it’s beautiful. It’s beautiful. It’s so beautiful.

This is the story that Paul told the Greeks in Athens. It is the one we’ve been trying to tell ever since. We just need to follow Paul’s example. We need to keep it very simple. Amen,

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