What therefore you worship as unknown, this I proclaim to you. Acts 17:23b
In medieval Europe, a woman unable to care for an infant would sometimes place half a torn playing card among the child's effects before giving it over to the care of an orphanage, keeping the other half for herself. The card would be torn precisely so that there could be no question that the two halves belonged together. The mother hoped that, one day, she might be able to reclaim her child by reuniting the halves.
Imagine being such a child. If you knew what that torn playing card was for, it would be more precious to you than anything else you possessed, no matter how worthless it looked to anyone else. And if you didn't know exactly what it was for, well, you'd still treasure it, if only because it was something left with you by the one who gave you life. Either way, whether you knew it or not, it would be a priceless clue to finding the answer to the most important question of your life: Who am I?
When Saint Paul spoke to the learned Athenians at the Areopagus (Acts 17:22-31), his eye was drawn to one altar among the many dedicated to the pagan gods. Unlike the other altars, this altar was practically derelict: no elaborate sacrifices, no lush rituals, no myths to explain why it was there, no priests to maintain it. Someone, long ago, had set it up, maybe just in case some strange god was in that place, or maybe for some other reason... but who can remember?
And on that altar was engraved this dedication: To an unknown god. They might as well have carved a huge "?" in that stone. It was as if that altar was pleading, "For whom am I made?".
To anyone else, that altar would have seemed a worthless thing. But Saint Paul saw in it something like that torn playing card. He saw in it evidence that the pagan heart was aching with the question: Who am I? Which is really the question: For whom am I made?
And Saint Paul wanted those wise Athenians not just to ache with that question but to burn with it.
So Saint Paul gently but relentlessly unveiled for them the truth about that much neglected altar "to an unknown god" - that its very incompleteness is what made it the best and wisest and truest of all the altars. Why? Because of all the altars in the Areopagus, this was the only one that didn't pretend to be sufficient. It was the only one that left open the question: For whom am I made?
And it was therefore the only altar that left silence enough, and humility enough, for an answer to be given. That we are made for the God who raised Jesus Christ from the dead. That even though we grope for him, as if in darkness, he is truly very near us. That we are his offspring. That our calling is high - and to neglect it, perilous.
Every child born into this world has, among its possessions, a torn playing card. In its heart, there is built an altar upon which is written: To an unknown God. Worthless things, in and of themselves. Except that there is One who holds the other half. Except that there is One who longs to be known as much as you long to know.
Your incompleteness, your brokenness, is the only thing that God requires. If only you seek, God will give you everything else.
In medieval Europe, a woman unable to care for an infant would sometimes place half a torn playing card among the child's effects before giving it over to the care of an orphanage, keeping the other half for herself. The card would be torn precisely so that there could be no question that the two halves belonged together. The mother hoped that, one day, she might be able to reclaim her child by reuniting the halves.
Imagine being such a child. If you knew what that torn playing card was for, it would be more precious to you than anything else you possessed, no matter how worthless it looked to anyone else. And if you didn't know exactly what it was for, well, you'd still treasure it, if only because it was something left with you by the one who gave you life. Either way, whether you knew it or not, it would be a priceless clue to finding the answer to the most important question of your life: Who am I?
When Saint Paul spoke to the learned Athenians at the Areopagus (Acts 17:22-31), his eye was drawn to one altar among the many dedicated to the pagan gods. Unlike the other altars, this altar was practically derelict: no elaborate sacrifices, no lush rituals, no myths to explain why it was there, no priests to maintain it. Someone, long ago, had set it up, maybe just in case some strange god was in that place, or maybe for some other reason... but who can remember?
And on that altar was engraved this dedication: To an unknown god. They might as well have carved a huge "?" in that stone. It was as if that altar was pleading, "For whom am I made?".
To anyone else, that altar would have seemed a worthless thing. But Saint Paul saw in it something like that torn playing card. He saw in it evidence that the pagan heart was aching with the question: Who am I? Which is really the question: For whom am I made?
And Saint Paul wanted those wise Athenians not just to ache with that question but to burn with it.
So Saint Paul gently but relentlessly unveiled for them the truth about that much neglected altar "to an unknown god" - that its very incompleteness is what made it the best and wisest and truest of all the altars. Why? Because of all the altars in the Areopagus, this was the only one that didn't pretend to be sufficient. It was the only one that left open the question: For whom am I made?
And it was therefore the only altar that left silence enough, and humility enough, for an answer to be given. That we are made for the God who raised Jesus Christ from the dead. That even though we grope for him, as if in darkness, he is truly very near us. That we are his offspring. That our calling is high - and to neglect it, perilous.
Every child born into this world has, among its possessions, a torn playing card. In its heart, there is built an altar upon which is written: To an unknown God. Worthless things, in and of themselves. Except that there is One who holds the other half. Except that there is One who longs to be known as much as you long to know.
Your incompleteness, your brokenness, is the only thing that God requires. If only you seek, God will give you everything else.
