In my earliest memories I have three sisters. One seven years older like the difference in age between my kids. One two years younger. It was a women's world from my first perspective. I asked them my first logical question, " when will I be a girl so I can go to school?" The world was lacking in justice and it seemed this boy was oppressed. I was already wrestling with assumptions—about power, gender, access—that still haunt the Gospel story of Lydia
Looking back, I wasn’t wrong to feel that something was off. The boys weren’t actually better off — not really. They were being shaped by the same forces that hurt all of us. The systems that told them to be in control were also teaching them to disconnect from themselves, to fear weakness, to equate love with dominance. It wasn’t that they were free and I wasn’t — it’s that none of us were. Empire and patriarchy don’t just sort people; they deform everyone. In God’s kingdom, there aren’t categories of control. There are just people, and the possibility of being made whole.
Lydia’s faith in Christ redefined her relationship to the lucrative purple trade, realigning her work, home, and identity. Her foundation shifted from empire to Kingdom..
It's purely speculative, but it's not hard to imagine that Paul, had he seen a woman in his vision, might have hesitated or even doubted whether he should go to Macedonia at all. God, knowing the hearts and limitations of humans, orchestrated the encounter in a way that bypassed any hesitation. By sending Paul a vision of a "man of Macedonia," God made it easier for Paul to take that first step forward without even fully understanding why he was being called to this particular place and people.
Once in Philippi it wasn’t an issue. Lydia’s faith, her position in society, and her quick acceptance of the Gospel proved to be a pivotal moment for the spread of Christianity in Europe. God knew that Lydia’s heart was already prepared and simply had to bring Paul into that divine moment. In the Balkans, there’s a saying: “They were on the face of the place”—meaning, they were exactly where they needed to be, at the right time, on the right ground. Just as God knew Paul needed the vision of a man to move forward, He also knew that when Paul arrived, Lydia would be the one ready to receive him.
He saw a man’s need—
God sent him to a woman.
Peace makes its own way.
Foundational beliefs are the core convictions that shape how we see the world, interpret experiences, and make decisions. They act as an anchor—providing stability in uncertainty, guiding moral choices, and uniting communities around shared truths. Whether religious, philosophical, or personal, these beliefs answer life’s deepest questions. Who are we? Why are we here? What matters? When neglected or eroded we risk drifting toward confusion, division, or meaninglessness. But when clearly defined and lived out, they foster resilience, purpose, and transformative action—like Lydia’s quiet revolution in Philippi.
This is the story of Lydia – a woman God used to crack open history. Not through a palace coup or a military victory, but through a riverside baptism that changed everything. From Acts 16:9-15 I read from the amplified bible:
9 Then a vision appeared to Paul in the night: a man from [the Roman province of] Macedonia was standing and pleading with him, saying, “Come over to Macedonia and help us!” 10 And when he had seen the vision, we (including Luke) tried to go on into Macedonia at once, concluding that God had called us to preach the gospel to them.
Luke is continuing his story in Acts. I wonder if Paul would have written this book differently. It seems a simple change to make the vision of Lydia. Luke is writing a theological reflection—not just journalism. He recorded why they were going to Macedonia. The words have more than their purpose. Faithful obedience doesn’t always come with full understanding—Paul went because of the vision, but the real mission unfolded in an unexpected way. He expects crisis but encounters a thriving businesswoman.
11 So setting sail from Troas, we ran a direct course to Samothrace, and the next day [went on] to Neapolis; 12 and from there [we came] to Philippi, which is a leading city of the district of Macedonia, a Roman colony. We stayed on in this city for several days; 13 and on the Sabbath day we went outside the city gate to the bank of the [Gangites] river, where we thought there would be a place of prayer, and we sat down and began speaking to the women who had come there.
Why meet by the river? Because Philippi had no synagogue. Jewish custom required ten adult men (a minyan) to establish a synagogue. Philippi, as a Roman military colony, likely had a very small Jewish population, possibly too small for a synagogue. Philippi became a retirement colony for the Roman army after the battle of Philippi 100 years earlier. It is very likely there were a number of Jewish women married to soldiers there.
When stone walls could not be raised, the faithful turned to water. In cities where a synagogue could not be founded—whether for lack of numbers or favor—the river became their sanctuary. Its banks offered no carved columns, no scroll ark or cantor’s chant, but its gentle current carried the rhythms of a more ancient liturgy.
To the worshipers of the Most High God, the river flowed like a living Torah—murmuring of Eden, of exile, of the Jordan crossed in faith. There, under open sky, prayer was not confined by mortar but moved with the wind and the water. It was a temple without walls, consecrated by absence and longing.
A river, in the absence of a synagogue, became more than convenience; it became covenant. It recalled the washing of the priests, the tears of exiles by Babylon's streams, the baptisms of a wild-eyed prophet crying out in the wilderness. To pray by the river was to remember that God is not bound to any temple made by human hands.
It was to trust that the Spirit still hovers over the face of the waters, and that holiness, like water, flows downward—finding its way to the lowest places, to the forgotten margins, where heaven kneels to meet earth. The water cycle mirrors the grace cycle—what goes down comes back up, made new.
Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took up a basin—not in spite of being Lord, but because he was. The hands that shaped the earth’s waters now cupped them to cleanse dust from disciples’ heels. Divine gravity pulls holiness downward: from throne to basin, from power to towel. Here, the river’s testimony echoes—sacredness does not cling to heights.
14 A woman named Lydia, from the city of Thyatira, a dealer in purple fabrics who was [already] a worshiper of God, listened to us; and the Lord opened her heart to pay attention and to respond to the things said by Paul. 15 And when she was baptized, along with her household, she pleaded with us, saying, “If you have judged me and decided that I am faithful to the Lord [a true believer], come to my house and stay.” And she persuaded us.
Lydia is called a “worshiper of God,” a term used for Gentiles who respected the Jewish God but were not full converts like Cornelius.
Cornelius is introduced, in Acts 10, as a Roman centurion stationed in Caesarea—an outsider to Israel, yet described as "devout," prayerful, and generous to the poor. Though he is a Gentile, he reveres Israel’s God and regularly prays. His story marks a turning point in Acts: God gives both Cornelius and Peter visions that lead to their unexpected encounter. When Peter enters Cornelius’ house—something he was previously forbidden to do under Jewish law—he sees the Holy Spirit fall on Gentiles, just as it had on Jews at Pentecost. This convinces Peter and the early church that the Gospel is truly for all, Jew and Gentile alike.
Both men (Peter, Paul) assume they’re being called to their own kind—Cornelius as a Roman soldier but a man, Lydia but a woman. But God flips the expectation. In both cases, the Gospel moves forward through unexpected people in unexpected places, and the apostles must catch up to what the Spirit is already doing. God reaches out to them first, upending any sense that apostles are in full control.
Lydia, draped in purple, represents both Rome’s prestige and its transformation. Philippi is the burial ground of the Republic. This shift signals how divine purpose subverts human assumptions. Lydia’s conversion reframes her trade: imperial luxury baptized into spiritual stewardship. A merchant of purple—rare and powerful in a male-dominated economy. Her home becomes the first church in Europe.
In 42 BCE, Brutus and Cassius made their last stand there against Antony and Octavian. The battle wasn’t just about power, but the soul of Rome: shared liberty or imperial rule? When Brutus fell, the Republic died with him. The Senate would never recover. Octavian took the name Augustus – and there in Philippi, the empire was born. But empires, like all things built on force, carry their death within them.
Philippi was a city built on death – the death of the Roman Republic. A century before Paul arrived, Brutus fell here, his corpse legend says draped in imperial purple. Now Lydia, a merchant of that same purple, becomes God’s unlikely general – her home the beachhead for Christ’s invasion of Europe. Paul arrived—not with legions but with a vision.
The city that had buried the Republic now midwifed the Gospel. In Lydia’s riverbank conversion, something holy happened: the emblems of empire were reclaimed—not by force, but by faith. The purple once draped over fallen senators now signaled not status but baptism.
Paul likely would not have followed a vision of a woman. God accommodates Paul’s assumptions, then subverts them. Lydia initiates a long arc of female partnership in Paul’s ministry. A Macedonian man pleads for help in Paul’s vision. But when Paul arrives, it is a woman—Lydia, draped in the purple of legions and senators—who becomes the first European Christian.
She sold purple cloth, a luxury item reserved for the wealthy and elite; purple dye was expensive. This suggests she was an independent businesswoman with substantial means. The fact that she had a household under her authority implies she was either a widow or unmarried and the head of her family.
Lydia is considered the first documented convert to Christianity in Europe. Her home became one of the earliest house churches in Philippi. While we don’t know who made up her household, their shared response suggests a community ready for something new. Later, one of the first purpose-built churches in Europe would rise in Philippi, not far from the river where she met Paul. Its octagonal shape and layers of older foundations suggest that the gospel didn’t erase what came before—it grew from it..
In John 14:23–29, Jesus speaks of abiding, peace, and the coming of the Holy Spirit. If anyone loves me, he will keep my word, and my Father will love him, and we will come to him and make our home with him.
God's work in us is often veiled until after the fact. Paul expected a man. He got Lydia. Jesus says God will make his home with us—not in the expected temple, or in political restoration, but in everyday places and people. It was Lydia—wealthy, devout, and outside all his assumptions. She didn’t fit the vision. She wasn’t in need in the way he expected. She was already praying. Already listening. And yet—she was the one. The Spirit had opened her heart. And her home became the beginning of common wealth in Europe.
“We will come to them and make our home with them.” (John 14:23)
While Paul was guided by a vision of a man in need, it was Lydia—a woman of faith and influence—who became the gateway for the Gospel's expansion. This narrative serves as a reminder that God's mission often unfolds in unexpected ways, challenging our assumptions and broadening our understanding of divine purpose
He saw a man’s need—
God sent him to a woman.
Peace makes its own way
God’s relentless pursuit is by any means necessary. As with Lydia, God works through cultural constraints, human biases, and even flawed systems to reach people. Using a vision of a man to bring Paul to a woman, imperial roads to spread the Gospel, and persecution to scatter believers (Acts 8:1–4).
Scripture repeatedly shows God breaking barriers to save "all nations" (Matthew 28:19)—Gentiles like Lydia, outcasts like the Samaritan woman (John 4), and enemies like Paul himself. 2 Peter 3:9 explicitly states that God’s slowness is not indifference but mercy: "The Lord is not slow to fulfill His promise as some count slowness, but is patient toward you, not wishing that any should perish."
Jesus’ parable of the wheat and tares (Matthew 13:24–30) suggests God allows good and evil to coexist until the full number are gathered. Every moment of waiting means more souls brought in. God’s will for universal salvation (1 Timothy 2:4) doesn’t override human free will. He patiently woos, convicts, and orchestrates circumstances—like Lydia’s prepared heart intersecting with Paul’s journey—but doesn’t force compliance.
If God’s priority were speed over salvation, evil could end instantly. Longsuffering suggests every life—even those persisting in rebellion—is worth enduring for. Romans 11:32 hints at a grand reconciliation: "God has consigned all to disobedience, that He may have mercy on all." Early theologians like Origen and Gregory of Nyssa saw this as evidence of God’s ultimate restoration (apokatastasis).
In The Problem of Pain C.S. Lewis writes that God’s desire to save all doesn’t negate hell’s reality—but hell exists only because Love respects even the most stubborn "No."
This same Love also invites us into the hard work of saying ‘Yes.’ Lewis unpacks this in Mere Christianity (Book III, Chapter 3: “Social Morality”), where he reflects on temptation:
“No man knows how bad he is till he has tried very hard to be good. A silly idea is current that good people do not know what temptation means. This is an obvious lie. Only those who try to resist temptation know how strong it is. After all, you find out the strength of the German army by fighting against it, not by giving in. You find out the strength of a wind by trying to walk against it, not by lying down. A man who gives in to temptation after five minutes simply does not know what it would have been like an hour later. That is why bad people, in one sense, know very little about badness — they have lived a sheltered life by always giving in. We never find out the strength of the evil impulse inside us until we try to fight it: and Christ, because He was the only man who never yielded to temptation, is also the only man who knows to the full what temptation means — the only complete realist.”
When I talk with my students, we often frame it in terms of good and bad decision-makers. I tell them that good decision-makers get to go on field trips. The bad decision-makers stay behind and think they’re winning: they get their devices, extra snacks, and no real demands. But it’s not freedom—it’s being sidelined. Give them fifteen minutes and most aren’t even enjoying the games. They're just... stuck. Disengaged. It is not much fun being told to be quiet.
The real gift is the trip—the experience of being trusted, challenged, and brought somewhere new. That’s where growth happens.
The heart of Christ wept over Jerusalem (Luke 19:41) and prayed for His persecutors (Luke 23:34). It’s a radical hope—one that challenges us to participate in His patience. Just as Lewis exposes our blind spots, Lydia’s story reveals how God works beyond them.
A Macedonian man pleads for help in Paul’s vision. But when Paul arrives, it is a woman—Lydia, draped in the purple of legions and senators—who becomes the first European Christian. This is no accident. The Gospel advances not through the fists of soldiers, but the hands of merchants; not in the halls of power, but in households where empire’s symbols are rewoven into baptismal gowns.
Philippi was where the Roman Republic died. Here, Brutus fell—and whether or not Antony shrouded him in purple, the image remains of a republic buried in the dye of imperial luxury. Lydia’s trade in that very dye makes her conversion a symbolic reversal. Her purple now serves a kingdom not of this world.
Paul’s vision showed him a man. Perhaps if the figure had been female, Paul—shaped by patriarchal expectations—would not have gone. But God met Paul where he was and led him where he needed to be. In Lydia’s home, the Gospel began a new kind of conquest: not of territory, but of hearts.
Today, as institutions falter, Lydia’s story presses a question: Where do we invest our purple—our labor, our prestige, our allegiance? In the power structures of Philippi, or in the river where empires are washed away?
Jesus embodies the res publica—not as a Roman senator or revolutionary, but as the architect of a commonwealth where power is inverted. His kingdom redeems the republican ideals of dignity and shared purpose, not by seizing institutions, but by baptizing hearts like Lydia’s.
Lydia’s story whispers across centuries: The river still runs, and the purple of our labor can still be dyed anew. The Republic died at Philippi, but in its ruins, a baptismal font overflowed
Paul, trained to see male authority as normative, is led to a woman who becomes his first European collaborator. God’s vision began with a man’s cry, but its fulfillment rested on Lydia’s hospitality—a pattern that would repeat with Phoebe, Priscilla, and Junia.
Where Will You Wear Your Purple?
Lydia’s story asks: Will we invest in the empire’s fading glory, or in the Kingdom’s unshakable hope? For the powerful: How can you use your influence for God’s purposes? For the overlooked: God sees you—your story isn’t over. For all of us: Baptism isn’t just a moment; it’s a lifetime of redirection.
Like Lydia, we’re part of God’s unexpected, unstoppable story.
Look at the chaos that follows Lydia’s baptism: Paul is arrested, beaten, and jailed. The city erupts. By morning, the magistrates beg these troublemakers to leave town (Acts 16:39). Humanly speaking, this should be the end of the story—another failed mission in a hostile empire.
But God isn’t finished.
Because while Paul moves on, Lydia stays. Her home—the first church on European soil—becomes a hidden well in the desert. Think of who gathers there: The jailer, fresh from a suicide attempt, now cradling his baptized family (16:33-34). The enslaved girl, freed from exploitation, perhaps finding new dignity among Lydia’s weaving looms.
Euodia and Syntyche, later named by Paul as gospel partners; (Phil. 4:3) Indeed, I ask you too, my true companion, to help these women [to keep on cooperating], for they have shared my struggle in the [cause of the] gospel—proof that Lydia’s leadership sparked a movement of women shaping the church.
Christianity flourished in Philippi. Churches were built, including the Octagonal Church of Philippi—a rare design signaling an early Christian architectural shift. But by the 7th century, earthquakes, invasions, and shifting trade routes led to decline. The city was gradually abandoned.
This is the paradox of God’s Kingdom: The church grows best when the world thinks it’s buried. No fanfare. No purple banners. Just a merchant, a jailer, and a handful of misfits breaking bread in the shadow of Caesar’s colonies.
Lydia’s purple was never meant for emperors. It was dyed in the quiet waters of a river where the Gospel outflanked empire without an army. But history shows us the temptation: to take that same purple and drape it over thrones, to confuse the Kingdom of God with the kingdoms of this world.
And here we stand today—inheritors of both legacies. The faith that once flourished in households like Lydia’s now flirts with palaces of power. The absurdity should stop us cold: The Messiah who warned against lording over others now has His name brandished like a battle cry.
But the river still runs.
Not to the halls of power, but past them. Not to the seats of empire, but to the unexpected places where God still works—through the overlooked, the uncredentialed, the merchants and mothers and misfits who know power isn’t taken, but transformed.
So let me ask you: Where will we kneel? At the altar of influence? Or with Lydia, where the water is deep enough to drown our old allegiances— and rise, clothed in something new?
The gates of hell won’t prevail against the church—not because we storm them, but because the gospel turns jailers into brothers and merchants into mothers of the faith.
In Judaism, the faithful needed ten—a minyan of adult men—to form a worshiping community. This sacred number preserved wisdom and unity, ensuring that no one stood alone before God. But when Jesus declared, “Where two or three gather in my name, there am I with them” (Matt. 18:20), He unveiled a new economy of grace. No longer bound by thresholds of quorums or lineage, the presence of God now dwells wherever the name of Christ is confessed—whether in Lydia’s home, a jailer’s household, or a riverbank prayer meeting.
This wasn’t a rejection of Jewish devotion, but a fulfillment of its promise: the Spirit moving beyond walls, beyond numbers, beyond human qualifications. The God who met Abraham alone, who heard Hagar in the wilderness, now staked everything on a new covenant—sealed not by demographics, but by a confession.
And she persuaded us.
"When you stood up for justice your country replied
by throwing it back in your face.
When you tell me your story
are you making amends for all of the hatred you saw?
Will you tell all the people about the people that cry out for God
not for country or war?" (G.Nash)
Lydia’s house church didn’t overthrow Rome. But in her home, empire’s colors were repurposed, the Spirit found welcome, and the first European spark of the Kingdom was lit. Not by might, nor by power—but by a woman by the river, whose heart the Lord had opened.
Consider the irony: In Rome's military colony, women shaped the church's mission. Where Caesar's legions marched, sisters labored side by side. Their conflict testifies to their shared authority.
This was Lydia’s legacy—
not one woman alone, but a community
where purple-dyed hands broke bread
and healed divisions.
She traded in color and meaning,
listened with the courage to change,
opened her home—and history turned.
Still by rivers, still among strangers,
women unravel the seams of power
with hands stained peace.
Let Us Pray:
God of surprises,
You lead us where we least expect—
from visions of power to moments of grace.
Take the "purple" of our lives—
our work, our wealth, our influence—
and baptize it for Your purposes.
Make us agents of Your upside-down Kingdom,
where the overlooked become leaders,
and every heart can find a home by Your river.
Startle us with Your calling again today.
Amen.
Benediction
Go now—startled by grace,
clothed not in empire’s purple,
but in the unstoppable love of Christ.
The God who called Lydia by the river
now sends you to rewrite stories.
Walk in wonder.
Amen
Nottingham UMC 5/25/2025
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