Homily 39 — Acts 17, verse 32, to 18, verse 17

“And when they heard of the resurrection of the dead, some mocked; and others said, We will hear you again about this matter. So Paul went out from among them. But some men joined him and believed, among whom were Dionysius the Areopagite, and a woman named Damaris, and others with them. After these things Paul left Athens and came to Corinth.” [a]

What can be the reason that Paul is in such a hurry to leave Athens? He had persuaded some of them so far that they said they would hear him again, and there were no dangers. Probably he knew that he would do them no great good; and besides, he was being led by the Spirit to Corinth. For the Athenians, though they loved hearing strange new things, still did not really attend to him. This was not what they cared about; all they cared about was always having something to talk about, and that is what made them hold back from him. But if this was their habit, how is it that they accuse him, “He seems to be a proclaimer of foreign gods” (Acts 17, verse 18)? Yes, but these were things they had no idea what to make of. Even so, he did convert Dionysius the Areopagite and some others. For those who took care to live rightly quickly received the word; the rest did not. To Paul it seemed enough to have sown the seeds of the teaching.

So, as I said, he was led by the Spirit to Corinth, the city where he was to stay. “And he found a certain Jew named Aquila, a native of Pontus, recently come from Italy” — for he had spent the greater part of his life there — “with his wife Priscilla, because Claudius had ordered all the Jews to leave Rome” (verse 2). For although it was in the reign of Nero that the war against the Jews was brought to its end, still, from the time of Claudius onward it was already being fanned into flame — at a distance, it is true — so that, if nothing else would do it, this might bring them to their senses. And now they were being driven out of Rome like public pests. This is why Providence arranged for Paul to be brought to Rome as a prisoner: so that he would not be driven out as a Jew, but, being under military custody, would even be guarded there.

Having found these, “he came to them; and because he was of the same trade, he stayed with them and worked, for by trade they were tentmakers” (verse 3). Look what a good reason he found for living in the same house with them! For here, of all places, it was necessary that he accept nothing, as he himself says, “so that in the thing they boast of, they may be found to be just as we are” (Second Corinthians 11, verse 12). So it is arranged by Providence that he stays there. “And he reasoned in the synagogue every Sabbath, and persuaded Jews and Greeks.”

“And when Silas and Timothy had come from Macedonia, Paul was wholly taken up with the word, testifying to the Jews that Jesus is the Christ” (verses 4 and 5). “And when the Jews opposed him and blasphemed” — that is, they tried to beat him down, they set upon him — what does Paul do then? He separates himself from them, and in a way that inspires great fear. He does not say now, “It was necessary that the word be spoken to you,” yet does he not hint at it darkly? “And when they opposed him and blasphemed, he shook out his clothes and said to them, Your blood be on your own heads; I am clean. From now on I will go to the Gentiles” (verse 6). [e]

“And he left there and went into the house of a man named Justus, one who worshiped God, whose house was next door to the synagogue.” See how, even after saying “From now on,” he still does not neglect them. So it was to rouse them that he said it, and that is why he came to Justus, whose house adjoined the synagogue: so that even from this, from the very nearness, they might be stirred to jealousy. “And Crispus, the ruler of the synagogue, believed in the Lord with all his household.” This too, more than anything, was enough to bring them over. “And many of the Corinthians, hearing, believed and were baptized. Then the Lord spoke to Paul in the night by a vision: Do not be afraid, but speak, and do not keep silent; for I am with you, and no one will attack you to harm you; for I have many people in this city” (verses 8 to 10). See with how many reasons he persuades him, and how he puts last the reason that weighed with him most of all: “I have many people in this city.”

Then how was it that they attacked him? And yet, the writer tells us, they got nowhere; they only brought him before the proconsul. “And he stayed there a year and six months, teaching the word of God among them. And when Gallio was proconsul of Achaia, the Jews rose up with one accord against Paul and brought him before the judgment seat” (verses 11 and 12). Do you notice why these men were always contriving to turn the offenses they charged into a public matter? See it here: “saying, This man is misleading people into worshiping God contrary to the law. And when Paul was about to open his mouth, Gallio said, If it were a matter of some wrong or wicked crime, O Jews, it would be reasonable for me to bear with you. But if it is a question of words and names and of your own law, see to it yourselves; for I will be no judge of such matters. And he drove them from the judgment seat” (verses 13 to 16).

This Gallio seems to me to have been a man of good sense. Notice: when they had said, “He is misleading people into worshiping God against the law,” he “cared for none of these things.” And notice how he answers them: “If it were” some matter touching the city, “some wrong or wicked crime,” and so on. “Then all the Jews seized Sosthenes, the ruler of the synagogue, and beat him before the judgment seat. And Gallio cared for none of these things” (verse 17). Their beating of him he did not take as an insult to himself. So insolent were the Jews. But let us go over again what has been said.

“And when they heard” (Acts 17, verse 32) such great and lofty teachings, they did not even pay attention, but jeered at the resurrection! For, it says, “the unspiritual man does not receive the things of the Spirit” (First Corinthians 2, verse 14). “And so,” it says, “Paul went out” (verse 33). How? Having persuaded some, and mocked by others. “But some men,” it says, “joined him and believed, among whom were Dionysius the Areopagite and some others” (verse 34). “And after these things,” and so on. “And he found a certain Jew named Aquila, a native of Pontus, recently come from Italy, because Claudius had ordered all the Jews to leave Rome; and he came to them, and because he was of the same trade, he stayed with them and worked, for by trade they were tentmakers” (Acts 18, verses 1 to 3). [i]

This Aquila was from Pontus. Notice how the crisis was hurrying on, not in Jerusalem or near it, but at a greater distance. And Paul stays with him, and is not ashamed to stay. In fact it is for this very reason that he stays, because it was a fitting lodging; to him it was far more fitting than any king’s palace. And do not smile, beloved, to hear of his trade. It was good for him: just as the wrestling ground is more useful to the athlete than soft carpets, and to the soldier the iron sword is useful, not the golden one. “And he worked,” though he was preaching. Let us be ashamed, we who have no preaching to occupy us and yet live in idleness.

“And he reasoned in the synagogue every Sabbath, and persuaded both Jews and Greeks” (verse 4). But “when they opposed him and blasphemed,” he withdrew, expecting in this way to draw them all the more. For why else, after leaving that house, did he come to live right beside the synagogue? Was it not for this? For it was not that he saw any danger here.

But that is why Paul, having testified to them — he is not teaching now, but testifying — “shook out his clothes,” to frighten them not by words only but by action, “and said to them, Your blood be on your own heads” (verse 6). He speaks all the more forcefully because he had already persuaded many. “I,” he says, “am clean.” So we too are answerable for the blood of those entrusted to us, if we neglect them. “From now on I will go to the Gentiles.” So also when he says, “From now on let no one trouble me” (Galatians 6, verse 17), he says it to frighten them. For the punishment did not frighten them as much as this stung them.

“And he left there and came into the house of a man named Justus, one who worshiped God, whose house was next door to the synagogue” (verse 7). And he stayed there, wishing by this to convince them that he was in earnest about going to the Gentiles. And so, notice: as soon as he had done this, the ruler of the synagogue was converted, and many others too.

“Crispus, the ruler of the synagogue, believed in the Lord with his whole household; and many of the Corinthians, hearing, believed and were baptized” (verse 8). “With his whole household”: notice how the converts of those days did this together with their entire households. This is the Crispus he means when he writes, “I baptized none except Crispus and Gaius” (First Corinthians 1, verse 14). I take it that this same man is also called Sosthenes: plainly a believer, since he is beaten, and he is always at Paul’s side. [l]

“And the Lord said in the night,” and so on. The number of the “many people” persuaded him too, but Christ’s claiming them as his own moved him more. Yet he also says, “Do not be afraid,” for the danger had now grown greater, both because more people believed and because the ruler of the synagogue had believed. That was enough to rouse him. It was not that he was being rebuked for being afraid; it was so that he would not suffer any harm: “I am with you, and no one will attack you to harm you” (verses 9 and 10). For the Lord did not always allow them to suffer harm, so that they would not grow too weak. And nothing grieved Paul so much as people’s unbelief and their setting themselves against the truth; this was worse to him than the dangers. That is why Christ appears to him now.

“And he stayed a year and six months,” and so on (verse 11). After the year and six months, they set upon him. “And when Gallio was proconsul of Achaia,” and so on (verses 12 and 13) — because they no longer had the use of their own laws.

And notice how prudent he is. He does not say straight out, “I do not care,” but, “If it were a matter of wrong or wicked crime, O Jews, it would be reasonable for me to bear with you; but if it is a question of teaching and words and of your own law, see to it yourselves, for I do not choose to be a judge of such matters” (verses 14 and 15). He taught them that such things are not matters that call for a judge’s sentence, and that they do everything out of order. And he does not say, “It is not my duty,” but, “I do not choose to,” so that they would not trouble him again. So too Pilate said in Christ’s case, “Take him yourselves, and judge him according to your law” (John 18, verse 31). But they were just like men drunk and out of their minds.

“And he drove them from the judgment seat” (verse 16): he shut the court against them completely. “Then all” the Jews “seized Sosthenes, the ruler of the synagogue, and beat him before the judgment seat. And Gallio cared for none of these things” (verse 17). This, more than anything, is what set them on to this violence: their belief that the governor would not even stoop to notice it. It was a splendid victory. Oh, the shame they were put to! For it is one thing to have come off the winner in a dispute, and another for the other side to learn that the judge cared nothing for the whole affair. “And Gallio cared for none of these things” — and yet the whole thing was meant as an insult to him! But of course they acted as though they had been given authority.

Why did Sosthenes, though he too had authority, not beat them in return? Because his side had been trained otherwise — so that the judge might learn which party was the more reasonable. This was no small benefit to those present: they saw both the reasonableness of the one side and the audacity of the other. He was beaten, and said nothing.

Let us imitate this man too. To those who strike us, let us return blow for blow — with gentleness, with silence, with patience. These wounds are more painful; this blow is greater and heavier. For to show that what hurts is not being struck in the body but being struck in the mind: we often strike people, but since it is done in friendship, they are even pleased. But if you strike someone who is nothing to you, and do it insolently, you have hurt him terribly, because you have touched his heart. So let us strike their heart. That gentleness strikes a harder blow than fierceness, come, let us prove as far as it can be done with words.

The sure proof, of course, comes from deeds and experience; but if you like, let us also look into it with words, though we have often done so already. In insults, nothing pains us so much as the opinion of those looking on. It is not the same thing to be insulted in public and in private. The very same insults we bear quite easily when we suffer them in a lonely place, with no one there to witness them or know of them. So true is it that what hurts us is not the insult in itself, but having to suffer it in front of everyone. For if someone were to honor us in front of everyone and insult us in private, we would still feel grateful to him. The pain, then, lies not in the nature of the insult but in the opinion of the onlookers: we do not want to seem contemptible.

What, then, if that opinion is on our side? Is not the man who is trying to disgrace us more disgraced himself, when people give their verdict in our favor? Tell me, whom do the bystanders despise? The one who insults, or the one who is insulted and keeps silent?

Passion, of course, suggests that they despise the one who is insulted. But let us look into it now, while we are free from that excitement, so that we are not carried away when the moment comes. Tell me, whom do we all condemn? Plainly the one who insults. If he is our inferior, we will say he is even mad; if our equal, that he is a fool; if our superior, still we will not approve of it. For which man, I ask you, deserves approval? The one who is worked up, tossed by a storm of passion, raging like a wild beast, disgracing in this way the nature we all share? Or the one who lives in calm, in a harbor of rest, in the even temper of virtue? Is not the one like an angel, and the other not even like a man?

The one cannot even bear his own troubles; the other bears even those of others as well. The first cannot even put up with himself; the second puts up with another too. The one is in danger of shipwreck; the other sails in safety, his ship carried along by favorable winds. For he has not let the squall of passion catch his sails and capsize the boat of his understanding. Instead, the breath of a soft, sweet breeze blows on it — the breath of forbearance — and carries it along in great calm into the harbor of a wise and even temper.

Think how it is when a ship is in danger of sinking. The sailors do not know what they are throwing away, whether what they lay hands on is their own or other people’s property. They throw the whole cargo overboard without distinction, the precious and the worthless alike. But when the storm has passed, they count up everything they threw out and weep, and for the loss of what went overboard they cannot even feel the calm. It is the same here. When passion blows hard and the storm rises, people fling out their words and do not know how to keep any order or fitness. But when the passion has passed, they call to mind what kind of words they uttered, and they count the loss and cannot feel the quiet, remembering the words by which they disgraced themselves and suffered a very heavy loss — not of money, but of their name for moderation and gentleness. Anger is a darkness.

“The fool,” says Scripture, “has said in his heart, There is no God” (Psalm 13, verse 1). Perhaps it is fitting to say the same of the angry man too: the angry man has said, There is no God. For Scripture says, “In the greatness of his anger he will not seek” after God (Psalm 10, verse 4). Let any devout thought come in, and anger shoves it, drives it all out, throws it all into confusion. [m]

When you are told that the man you abused did not speak one bitter word, do you not feel more pain for that than you inflicted? If in your own mind you do not feel more pain than the man you abused, go on abusing. But even if there is no one to call you to account, the judgment of your conscience will take you aside in private and give you a thousand lashes, when you think how you poured out a flood of abuse on someone so gentle, so humble, so forbearing.

We are forever saying these things, but we do not see them shown in deeds. You, a human being, insult a fellow human being? You, a servant, your fellow servant? But why am I surprised at this, when many even insult God? Let this be a comfort to you when you are insulted. Are you insulted? God too is insulted. Are you reviled? God too was reviled. Are you treated with contempt? So was our Master too. In these things he shares with us, but not in the opposite things. For he never insulted anyone unjustly — far from it! He never reviled, never did wrong. So it is we who share with him, not you. For to bear it when insulted is God’s part; to be merely abusive is the devil’s part.

See the two sides. “You have a demon” (John 7, verse 20), Christ was told; and he was struck in the face by the high priest’s servant (John 18, verse 22). Those who insult others unjustly are in the same class as these men. For if Peter was even called “Satan” (Matthew 16, verse 23) for a single word, much more will these men, when they do the works of the Jews, be called what those men were called, “children of the devil” (John 8, verse 44), because they did the works of the devil.

You insult: who are you, I ask, to do it? No — rather, the reason you insult is precisely that you are nothing. No one who is human insults. So what is said in quarrels, “Who are you?”, ought to be turned the other way round: “Insult away, for you are nothing.” Instead, the phrase is, “Who are you, to insult?” And the answer comes, “A better man than you.” Yet it is just the opposite. Because we put the question wrongly, they answer wrongly, so the fault is ours. It is as if we thought insulting was for great men; so we ask, “Who are you, to insult?” and that is why they give this answer. We ought to say the opposite: “Are you insulting? Go on insulting, for you are nobody.” Whereas to those who do not insult, we should say, “Who are you, that you do not insult? You have risen above human nature.” This is true nobility, this is greatness of spirit: to say nothing mean-spirited, even when a man may deserve to have it said to him.

Tell me now, how many are there who do not deserve to be put to death? Yet the judge does not do this himself; he questions them — and not even that himself. But if it is not tolerated that a judge, sitting in judgment, should speak with a criminal himself, and instead he does everything through a third person, how much more is it our duty not to insult those who are our equals in rank. For all the advantage we will get over them is not so much to have disgraced them as to be made to learn that we have disgraced ourselves. So then, in the case of the wicked, this is why we must not insult even them. In the case of the good there is a further reason: they do not deserve it. And there is a third: it is not right to be abusive.

But as things are, see what comes of it: the one being abused is a man, the one abusing is a man, and the onlookers are men. What then? Must the animals step in between them and settle things? That is all that is left. For when both the wrongdoers and those who enjoy the wrongdoing are men, the part of peacemaker is left to the animals. It is just as when the masters of a house quarrel: nothing is left but for the servants to reconcile them — even if it does not turn out that way, the nature of the thing demands it. So it is here. Are you abusive? Well you may be, for you are not even human.

Insulting seemed to be a mark of high birth; it seemed to belong to the great. Yet it belongs rather to slaves, while speaking kindly belongs to free men. For as doing harm is the part of the one, so suffering harm is the part of the other. The abusive man is like some slave, some old crone, stealing the master’s property. And just as some hateful thief and runaway sneaks in with a set purpose and looks all around, wanting to filch something, so this man, just like him, peers narrowly on every side, working out how to fling out some taunt.

Or perhaps we may picture him with a different kind of example. Suppose someone stole filthy vessels out of a house and brought them out in front of everyone. The stolen things do not disgrace the people robbed so much as the thief himself. Just so this man, by bringing out his words in front of everyone, casts disgrace not on others but on himself, by pouring out this language and fouling both his tongue and his mind. For quarreling with bad men is just as if someone, for the sake of striking a man sunk in rotting filth, should defile himself by plunging his hands into the muck.

So, reflecting on these things, let us flee the harm that comes from it and keep a clean tongue, so that, being free from all abusiveness, we may be able to pass through this present life with all strictness and attain the good things promised to those who love him, through the grace and mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, with whom, to the Father and the Holy Spirit together, be glory, power, and honor, now and always, and forever and ever. Amen.