"The Wisdom of God" (1 Cor 1:18-31)

Like for Like

The World Cup is in full swing now…and I’m pretty certain this is as close to heaven as I’ll get this side of death.

But reading this Sunday’s scripture has given me a different pair of eyes through which to watch these matches. Recently in a United States match, one of the opponents cynically chopped down a US player with a swing of his leg. The referee called a foul but didn’t issue any further punishment, such as a yellow card. The US players were incensed. A few minutes later, Tyler Adams, who is one of the leaders of the US team, a short, scrappy defensive midfielder, committed a robust challenge against the previous offender. Let’s just say he made sure his tackle left a mark. He received a yellow card but seemed nonplused. In an interview after the game, Adams was asked if his challenge was an act of retribution. He responded: “If I see one of my guys get kicked, I’m going right after them.”

I’ll put my cards on the table. When I saw Tyler Adams rush into that full-blooded tackle, I felt a surge of satisfaction—right in line with the sentiments he expressed after the match. Against a tough opponent, you need to show you’re no pushover. If they hit you, you hit them right back.

It’s the wisdom of our world. Maybe a bit unsavory, but I think most of us feel that rush of satisfaction when we see the little guy stand up for himself. I remember growing up and watching countless sitcom television shows that included among their catalogue an episode where a youth is getting bullied at school and receives the tough wisdom of the streets (usually from his father) that if he wants the bullying to stop he has to hit back. Finally he does. Regardless of whether he’s victorious or he comes home pummeled to a pulp, his deed is considered a victory, and the show ends on a happy note. Finally, he stood up for himself.

“Christ Crucified” Is Not Common Sense

The same time that I was watching these sitcoms, I was learning at church about Jesus. I was taught that the crowning moment of his life was the cross…where he did not fight back. I scratched my head. What was going on here? The cross didn’t make sense by the world’s logic. “Christ crucified” is not common sense.

And yet much of what I learned at church passed right over this fundamental contradiction, with barely a nod. I remember there were various courses and books at church that presented Jesus as the epitome of worldly wisdom in all walks of life. There was a course about how Jesus was a consummate business leader, and how CEOs should model their practice after him. (I scratched my head, wondering how forgiving all of your debtors was going to grow your business; cf. Matt 6:12; 18:22.) There was a book that explored how Jesus lived by democratic principles and how therefore the fight for democracy around the world was crucial for the kingdom of God. (I scratched my head, wondering why Jesus repeatedly disarmed his own followers if the fight was so crucial; cf. Luke 9:54-55; Matt 26:52.) There was a course about how Jesus was a champion for family values. (I scratched my head, wondering about the numerous sayings in which he spoke of the necessity of leaving one’s family or hating one’s parents or families being divided by the gospel; cf. Mark 10:28-30; Luke 14:26; Matt 10:34-36.)

I don’t doubt that much of this literature had good intentions. It was showing the supremacy of Jesus, after all. That’s what the world needed to see, right?

Perhaps…but as we see in today’s scripture, what the world sees first in Christ is likely not supremacy, but strangeness. Difference. Contradiction. Or as Paul puts it, “foolishness” and “weakness….”

18    For the message about the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. 19 For it is written,

                “I will destroy the wisdom of the wise,

                                and the discernment of the discerning I will thwart”—this is a quote from Isaiah 29:14.

20 Where is the one who is wise? Where is the scribe? Where is the debater of this age? Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world? 21 For since, in the wisdom of God, the world did not know God through wisdom, God decided, through the foolishness of our proclamation, to save those who believe. 22 For Jews demand signs and Greeks desire wisdom, 23 but we proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles, 24 but to those who are the called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. 25 For God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.

As a person intimately familiar with the Jewish scriptures, Paul knows that God’s wisdom is not common sense. There is a rich tradition in the Jewish scriptures (the Old Testament) that maintains the strangeness and mystery of God’s wisdom. We see this in the quotation of Isaiah 29:14. We see this in the book of Ecclesiastes, which is one long quest for wisdom that is never fully satisfied. I’ve included on today’s scripture handout a portion of Job 28, which describes wisdom as a mystery hidden beyond the limits of the world. Wisdom cannot be found in wealth and power. It cannot be found at the ends of the earth; even death can only say, “We’ve heard a rumor of it with our ears” (Job 28:22). The point is not to despair but rather to accept that God’s wisdom is not something that can be grasped. The moment we humans have knowledge of something, is the moment we try to leverage that knowledge for our own gain. (All those books and studies on the supremacy of Jesus were, in my opinion, an attempt to domesticate Jesus for the sake of advancing our own projects.)

It strikes me as significant that Paul refers repeatedly to the cross and identifies Jesus as “Christ crucified.” Why does Paul not refer instead to the empty tomb and “Christ resurrected”? Why not choose a nickname or a handle that points to God’s power and victory? I think the answer is simple. Paul wants to ensure there is no confusion: the gospel is ultimately not about power and victory, but about love. And the ultimate symbol of God’s love is the cross, where instead of fighting back, Christ utters forgiveness; where instead of seeking retribution, Christ reconciles. There’s no way around it. From the outside, from the world’s vantage point of common sense, love looks weak and foolish.

God’s Choice

26   Consider your own call, brothers and sisters: not many of you were wise by human standards, not many were powerful, not many were of noble birth. 27 But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong; 28 God chose what is low and despised in the world, things that are not, to reduce to nothing things that are, 29 so that no one might boast in the presence of God. 30 He is the source of your life in Christ Jesus, who became for us wisdom from God, and righteousness and sanctification and redemption, 31 in order that, as it is written, “Let the one who boasts, boast in the Lord.”

Last week, we read in the gospel of Matthew how Jesus invites those who are “weary” and “carrying heavy burdens” (Matt 11:28)—quite likely those whom the world considers “wise” and “intelligent” (cf. Matt 11:25)—to take his yoke upon them and to learn from him who is “gentle and humble in heart” (Matt 11:29). I emphasized the point that this is the only direct identification of the character of God’s heart: “gentle and humble.” Not “proud” and “strong,” not “confident” and “self-assured.” “Gentle and humble.” Even as I made that point, however, I sensed a rebuttal. “Gentle and humble” could be easily confused, couldn’t it, with being a doormat or a pushover? (I suppose that’s why some people mocked the early followers of Christ. They followed a crucified God…which is to say, a doormat God, a pushover God.)

I’m reminded of how the folk singer Pete Seeger once remarked how some people confused Mister Rogers with being a “namby-pamby” pacifist. Maybe what he taught was suitable for little children, but come on, man—grow up. In the real world, it’s eat or be eaten.

When Mister Rogers stood before Congress to advocate for funding for his children’s program, he shared with them one of the songs that he’d written for his program. His sincere conviction was that most children’s television shows taught violence as the solution for one’s problems. From his faith—which he rarely revealed in public (the point for him was not posturing or winning adherents to an institution, the point was the message itself)—from his faith, Mister Rogers drew the conclusion that there was a radical alternative. It was the way of Christ. Listen to the words of the song that he read before Congress:

What do you do with the mad that you feel When you feel so mad you could bite? When the whole wide world seems oh, so wrong... And nothing you do seems very right?   What do you do? Do you punch a bag? Do you pound some clay or some dough? Do you round up friends for a game of tag? Or see how fast you go?   It's great to be able to stop When you've planned a thing that's wrong, And be able to do something else instead And think this song:

I can stop when I want to Can stop when I wish I can stop, stop, stop any time. And what a good feeling to feel like this And know that the feeling is really mine. Know that there's something deep inside That helps us become what we can. For a girl can be someday a woman And a boy can be someday a man.

Paul’s encouragement to the Corinthians who follow the “weak” and “foolish”-looking Christ is not the promise that one day things will change and they will rise above their stations and be presidents or CEOs or celebrities. Rather it is the assurance that God’s most precious work is being done in the shadows where they live, in the unseen corners of the world, in the overlooked crevasses of obscurity. Repeatedly he declares, “God chose…,” “God chose…,” “God chose….” And who has God chosen? The “foolish,” the “weak,” the “low” and “despised.”

When history gets told, most of the focus rests on emperors and kings and presidents, on wars and battles and espionage and high-stakes diplomacy. But according to Paul, God’s history is happening mostly in the shadows, with the obscure and anonymous. I think immediately of little children learning from Mister Rogers, their hearts and minds quietly shaped into alignment with Christ. I think of hospitals and recovery communities and reading circles, where care takes precedence over control. I think of little churches and crowded living rooms, where the strange Wisdom of God—the Wisdom of love and peace and reconciliation—is taught.

Paul doesn’t spend much time trying to refute the negative name-calling that Christ-followers might receive. Doormats? Pushovers? Paul just shakes his head, and says, “You are doing things God’s way. ‘He is the source of your life in Christ Jesus, who became for us wisdom from God’” (cf. 1 Cor 1:30). If you want to know what God’s wisdom looks like, look at Jesus.

As I was reminded while watching the World Cup, the wisdom of the world is to stand up for yourself (and your team), which really means to fight back. It is a wisdom we see across the realms of life, whether in business or relationships or politics. I wonder: does this mean that the way of Christ is not standing up for yourself? I don’t think so…. I think what we see in Christ crucified is Christ standing up—not just for himself, but for the kingdom of God, for a new creation, a new way of living together. It’s the same thing we see in Mister Rogers’ song, where “I can stop, stop, stop anytime” is a defiant refusal of the way of the world, a defiant insistence on living a different way. This quiet insistence from Christ and from his followers like Mister Rogers on forgiveness and reconciliation is standing up alright, but it’s a “standing for” something, rather than “standing against” someone. Their strength is not the strength of this world, but the strength of God. It is not force but steadfastness. Like a living stream of water, quietly shaping all that stands in its way.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
Your body bears
The scars of your love—
And we are your body
Here on earth.
…
Help us to learn
The wisdom of God,
That we might not seek our own greatness
But something even greater.
In your gentle and humble spirit, we pray: Amen.

Letting Go(d) (Matt 11:25-30)

The Fisherman at Rest

I’d like to open today with a story told by Anthony de Mello, who was an Indian Jesuit priest and psychotherapist. (I’ve actually told this story once before, but…it’s worth recycling!) It goes like this:

The rich industrialist from the North was horrified to find the Southern fisherman lying lazily beside his boat, smoking a pipe.

“Why aren’t you out fishing?” said the industrialist.

“Because I have caught enough fish for the day,” said the fisherman.

“Why don’t you catch some more?” asked the industrialist.

“What would I do with [them]?” responded the fisherman.

“You could earn more money,” was the reply. “With that you could have a motor fixed to your boat and go into deeper waters and catch more fish.

“Then you would make enough to buy nylon nets. These would bring you more fish and more money. Soon you would have enough money to own two boats…maybe even a fleet of boats. Then you would be a rich man like me.”

“What would I do then?” the fisherman asked.

“Then you could really enjoy life,” the industrialist said.

“What do you think I am doing right now?”[1]

The Wisdom of Our World

Now, I know this story intends to demonstrate the absurdity of our greed, the way we chase more and more and miss out on the gifts right in front of us. But I’ll be honest. There is a small part of me that feels some sympathy toward the industrialist. I suppose this feeling comes from the part of me that learned the value of a strong work ethic. Just think of all the sayings in our culture that promote a competitive work ethic. “It’s a dog-eat-dog world.” “It’s ‘survival of the fittest.’” “First come, first served.” “The early bird gets the worm.” “Don’t put off until tomorrow what you can do today.” And last of all: “Early to bed, early to rise, makes a man healthy, wealthy, and wise.”

Yet at the start of our scripture for today, Jesus takes on a different tone toward our conventional wisdom. His words suggest that the fisherman, not the industrialist, was onto something….

A Puzzling Prayer

25   At that time Jesus said, “I thank you, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, because you have hidden these things from the wise and the intelligent and have revealed them to infants; 26 yes, Father, for such was your gracious will.  27 All things have been handed over to me by my Father; and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and anyone to whom the Son chooses to reveal him.

On the face of it, this is a puzzling prayer. Why would Jesus give thanks that his teaching—the good news—has been hidden from some people? Why would Jesus give thanks that only some people will understand the good news, not all?

I think the key is to notice to whom Jesus’ teaching has been revealed. Namely, “to infants” (Matt 11:25). Surely, Jesus is not only speaking literally here about a particular group of people. Rather he is naming the condition by which anyone may receive his teaching. “Infants” are needy creatures. They are not self-sufficient but rather dependent on the help of others. They are desperate and trusting. In the same way, to receive Jesus’ good news, a person must become like an infant and relinquish the illusion of self-sufficiency, of being in control. They must acknowledge their need. They must trust in a power that can do what they cannot do for themselves.

Jesus does not come to deliver his good news only to “infants.” He comes pleading that we all become like “infants,” like little children, that we might all receive the good news.

And if becoming like an infant is the condition that predisposes us to God’s love, then notice the opposite condition that prevents our reception of God’s love. Jesus says “the wise and the intelligent” cannot comprehend the good news. Again, Jesus is not singling out a group of people but rather naming a condition. When anyone lives under the illusion of self-sufficiency, when anyone considers themselves wise and intelligent and able to manage fine enough on their own—thank you very much—in that condition, it is impossible to receive the full extent of God’s love.

God’s Wisdom Calls to the World-Weary “Wise”

28   “Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. 29 Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. 30 For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

Biblical commentators have keenly observed that Jesus’ invitation here bears a remarkable resemblance to an invitation made by the character of Wisdom in Proverbs. If you’ll remember, last week we met Lady Wisdom in Proverbs 8. There, God’s Wisdom is personified as a woman who is with God before the creation of the world. She is God’s “master worker” in the project of creation, and she delights in all of life as it emerges. Proverbs regularly portrays her as God’s ambassador, inviting us into the good life. Listen to the opening verses of Proverbs 8: “Does not wisdom call, and does not understanding raise her voice? On the heights, beside the way, at the crossroads she takes her stand; beside the gates in front of the town, at the entrance of the portals she cries out: ‘To you, O people, I call, and my cry is to all that live. O simple ones’”—“simple ones” is not unlike Jesus’ “infants”—“’learn prudence.’ … Happy is the one who listens to me, watching daily at my gates, waiting beside my doors. For whoever finds me finds life’” (Prov 8:1-5, 34-35).

In a similar way, Jesus calls to all who walk the road of life and invites them to find joy and contentment in his way. But what I find most remarkable about Jesus’ invitation is his implication that what passes for wisdom in our world is actually enslavement and a heavy burden. When he calls to the “weary” and those “carrying heavy burdens,” I think he is crying out especially to “the wise and the intelligent” whom he named a few verses earlier and who have thus far been closed to the good news. I think he is drawing a connection between what passes for wisdom in our world—“it’s a dog-eat-dog world,” “the early bird gets the worm,” etc.—and this feeling of exhaustion, of always being a little behind, of never having or being enough.

I think back to the story of the fisherman and the industrialist. When the industrialist says “[With some improvements] you could really enjoy life,” and the fisherman responds, “What do you think I am doing right now?”—the fisherman is declaring his contentment. His soul is at rest. Implied in his expression, however, is that his counterpart is not at rest. To always be seeking more, calculating, planning, competing, never resting, never satisfied is to be exhausted. To be enslaved. We all know this to some degree. Though none of us are wealthy business tycoons, we all live in a world that tells us we should be. We live surrounded by screens that tell us that we don’t have enough, that we haven’t achieved enough, that the world is on the brink and might collapse if we don’t win enough control…. It is exhausting. And it makes slaves out of us, extracting effort and attention not toward the care and nurture of ourselves and others but toward the never-ending struggle for control and for more, more, more.

The Gentle and Humble Heart of God

Last week, as we read the opening verses of the gospel of John, we came across the idea that God’s Wisdom—God’s logos or logic underpinning all creation—had been lost or forgotten. God’s Word is in the world, yet the world does not know him (cf. John 1:10). I think we have plenty of evidence for this in our own culture, where our nation’s ever-increasing GDP is tragically matched by increasing rates of anxiety, depression, and addiction.

For this reason, when Jesus, the embodiment of God’s wisdom, cries out to us who are weary, he must first address the mistaken lessons we have learned. He must invite us to learn a different way. “Learn from me,” he says (Matt 11:29). In the Greek, the word “learn” comes from the same root as the word “disciple.” To put it very simply: as disciples, we are learners. We are unlearning the way of the world and relearning God’s way. And we do that by imitating Christ. “Learn from me.”

Jesus immediately proceeds to tell us what we’re learning: a heart that is gentle and humble (Matt 11:29). Remarkably, this is the only passage in the Bible that explicitly identifies the character of Jesus’ heart, and by extension, God’s heart. The words used are not “confident” and “self-assured,” or “strong” and “proud.” The words are “gentle and humble.” This is our God’s heart. This is what we are learning. As followers of Christ, we are not learning how to make friends and influence people. We are not learning the art of the deal. We are not learning how to live our best life now. We are learning how to be gentle and humble.

And we see this gentle and humble heart repeatedly in Jesus across his life and ministry, who insists in the gospel of John, “I can do nothing on my own” (John 5:30), who frequently steals away to deserted places to pray (precisely because he cannot do it on his own), who does not reprimand the folks who interrupt his day but shows care for them, who does not ignore little children but lifts them up, who does not insist on being honored and served but who honors and serves, who does not judge and humiliate and exclude tax collectors and others of shamed repute but rather sets a table for them and welcomes them as God’s own children.

Letting Go(d)

The wisdom of God is not a strategy. It is surrender. To have a gentle and humble heart like Christ is not to take, but to open up.

There are a couple of slogans popular in Twelve Step and recovery communities that express very well and very succinctly the movement from a world-weary heart to a gentle and humble heart. The first is a catchphrase you may have heard before: “I’m sick and tired of being sick and tired.” Whenever we or others find ourselves saying these words, we are on the cusp of hope. We are on the cusp of hearing our Lord’s invitation to us. For this is the point at which our own wisdom fails, at which our own weariness and heavy burdens become too much. This is the point at which we’re ready for a different wisdom.

The other saying is simple: “Let go, and let God.”

The industrialist insisted to the fisherman that he could do so much more. And the thing is, he was right. The fisherman could have done so much more. Been so much richer. Been so much more secure. But in so doing, he would have missed out on the gifts that God was giving him right where he was.

Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ,
Who is gentle and humble in heart,
Teach us how to let go
Of what will not satisfy,
So that our hearts will be open
To receive what will.
…
Teach us to rely not ourselves,
But on the love of God. Amen.

 

---

[1] Lightly adapted from Anthony de Mello, The Song of the Bird (New York: Image, 1984), 132-133. 

Lost Wisdom (John 1:1-5, 10-13)

“Everything I Needed to Know, I Learned at the Table”

Many of my earliest memories revolve around the table. I suppose it’s no coincidence. At what other place do we gather so frequently over the course of a single day? We go to bed once, each night. We brush our teeth twice, in the morning and at night. But we sit down at the table three times: morning, noon, and evening. I imagine that for many of us, some of life’s most fundamental lessons are learned first at the table.

I remember holding hands while someone prayed a prayer of gratitude. Here I learned the lesson that the food on these plates does not magically appear out of nowhere. It comes from the earth and from the hard work of other hands and from the generosity of whoever has set the table. I remember waiting as plates were passed around the table; I remember learning to say, “Please pass…” or “May I please have…?” I remember learning not to take the last piece of something without asking if anyone else would like it. Here, I was learning the lesson that other people have needs and desires just as I do. Just grabbing food from plates willy-nilly would deprive others of food. Sharing was the way that we could all be satisfied. I remember learning to chew with my mouth closed and to use my inside voice. Here, I learned the lesson of respect; how I behave has an effect on others. I remember learning to say “thank you” at the end of each meal and to ask to be excused. Here, I learned the lesson of gratitude, of showing appreciation for the work and generosity of others.

The table taught me many lessons. But in summary, it taught me the lesson that I am not the center of the universe. It taught me to be aware of others and to consider their interests before my own.

Of course, that’s not all that I’ve learned at the table. I remember later—in middle school and high school—how certain criteria determined whether you belonged at a table. Did you wear the same kind of clothes as others at the table? Did you participate in the same kinds of after-school activities? I remember how some tables were considered more important or popular than others. I remember how threats and violent force were sometimes used to obtain coveted candies or treats that belonged to someone else. I remember how folks would trade foods, exchange this for that. At these tables, I was learning the way of the world: the way of status, possessions, and power; the way of calculation, judgment, exclusion, and force. At these tables, I was inclined to forget the earliest lessons I’d learned of grace and sharing. Instead I was learning self-interest: how to navigate a world of competing desires so that I might get what I want, so that I might secure my portion against the threats and competition of others.

One last table memory comes to mind…. It was my first year studying abroad in Sheffield, England, and I was attending an Anglican church. One Sunday morning, the neighborhood drunk—a homeless man whom everyone knew by name—stumbled into the sanctuary and down the middle aisle, asking for something to eat. The priest paused where he was in the sermon and graciously welcomed the man, inviting him to sit on the front row and to wait for the Lord’s supper. When it came time to share the bread and the cup, the man stumbled forward along with the rest of us to receive the bread and the cup. I don’t know what the experience meant for that man. But I know that for myself and others in the church, the moment was a memorable lesson of what we already knew about Christ. Centuries ago, people asked about Jesus, “Why does he eat with tax collectors and sinners?” (Mark 2:16). His opponents had gleefully condemned him as “a drunkard and a glutton” (Luke 7:34), not because he overate and overdrank but because he ate and drank with the wrong people. At that table on that Sunday morning, all the lessons we’d learned in the world—about the importance of prestige, possessions, and power, about judgment and exclusion and force—all those lessons were erased, and in their place we relearned the lesson of God’s love and grace: the lesson that the goodness of life is an unearned gift generously offered to all of us from a deep, infinite source of love.

“In the Beginning…”

According to the gospel of John, this lesson of love and grace is baked into creation. It is the fabric with which all the world is woven. If you could take a spiritual DNA test of everything in the world, you would find this distinctive divine mark of love and its unending grace….

1   In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. 2 He was in the beginning with God. 3 All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being 4 in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. 5 The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

John begins his gospel by going back to the beginning itself, insisting that the Word—or logos in the Greek—is how everything in creation came to have life. Later in the same chapter, John reveals that Jesus is the embodiment of God’s Word, God’s logos—and that word logos bears resemblance to an English word that I find helpful here, which is logic. In other words, when God creates all things, there is a certain order or logic to everything. In the same way that the mathematical equations express scientific realities fundamental to the universe, such as gravity and energy, Jesus embodies and expresses the spiritual realities that are foundational to all life.

John’s creation story draws from a rich Jewish tradition that declares Wisdom to be an integral player or character in the creation of the world. We find hints of this tradition in the Old Testament. Proverbs 8 offers us a compelling portrait of a personified figure of wisdom, sometimes called “Lady Wisdom” by commentators. She calls out to anyone who will listen, instructing them in God’s way. In the latter half of Proverbs 8 (which I’ve included on our scripture handout today), we hear from Lady Wisdom directly. She insists that she existed before creation and that when God began creating the world, she was a craftsperson who helped God. “At the first, before the beginning of the earth…I was beside [God],” she says, “like a master worker” (Prov 8:23, 30). Later she declares, “Happy is the one who listens to me…for whoever finds me finds life” (Prov 8:34-35). The picture that emerges from this portrait of Lady Wisdom is that she holds the blueprints of creation—not necessarily a detailed building plan, but rather the various spiritual principles that underlie life, that make for a structurally sound and ordered creation.

All of this to say, the life that emerges in creation is not simply a matter of elements and atoms and molecules, of carbon and oxygen and photosynthesis. It is more profoundly a matter of love and grace: a matter of mercy and forgiveness, patience and gentleness, change and growth.

So when John insists that the Word—the divine logos, the divine logic—was an instrumental part of creation, and then identifies that logic with Jesus Christ, John is saying that in Jesus Christ we can see the spiritual reality that lies hidden behind all creation. I imagine that, no matter how far science advances, we will always be scratching our heads about what precisely lies behind our wide and mysterious universe of planets and stars and dark matter. I imagine we will never recover what exactly lies behind what science calls “the Big Bang.” But according to John, we already know the even profounder Wisdom that underlies and holds together all creation…and we know it in the person of Jesus Christ.

And as we all know, wisdom is not the same thing as knowledge. Knowledge is what is in your head: ideas, thoughts, equations. Wisdom is what is in your heart and your body: habits, reflexes, muscle memory. Jesus does not come to teach us ideas that will get us into heaven. As God’s wisdom in the flesh, he comes to show us the Way of life: the habits and reflexes that make life good, that bring heaven down to earth. And he teaches us all this by example, for that is how we learn. We learn by imitating and by experiencing.

I don’t think it is a coincidence that Jesus made a name for himself at the table. The table is where many of us learn our first lessons of life. If I were to tell my life’s story through my memories, I might start by saying, “In the beginning was the table….” According to John, Jesus was in the beginning of all creation as the Word. But in a similar way, he taught us all at that beginning point of our lives—at the table.

“Rejoicing and Delighting”

10   He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. 11 He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. 12 But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, 13 who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.

According to John, the world has lost sight of God’s Wisdom. The world no longer knows the Word—the logos, the logic— that is foundational to life. To be blunt, the world has lost its way. God’s way. That is why Jesus comes to us, to reveal to us what has been forgotten, what has been lost. And according to John, what has been lost specifically is the awareness that we are “children of God” (John 1:12-13).

Consider for a moment the lesson that Jesus teaches at tables. How he eats “with tax collectors and sinners” (Mark 2:16). How he gives pride of place to the last and the least and the left out (cf. Luke 14). I think, for example, how he invites himself to Zacchaeus’ home, to the house of a man who is a reprehensible traitor in the eyes of his fellow Judeans, and how there he proclaims Zacchaeus to be “ a child of Abraham,” which is to say, a child in God’s family, a son of God. That is the lesson that Jesus teaches at tables. Perhaps not always with words, but instead with repeated practice, with habits of humility, by routinely lifting up others. At the table, he teaches that you are a child of God. Your enemy…a child of God. The foreigner…a child of God. The homeless person…a child of God.

In Proverbs 8, Lady Wisdom declares herself always to be delighting and rejoicing in God’s creation: “I was daily his delight, rejoicing before him always, rejoicing in his inhabited world and delighting in the human race” (Prov 8:30-31). I see the same thing in Jesus, who delights in welcoming others as fellow sisters and brothers, as fellow children of God.

At tables—which are, I imagine, the “beginning” for many of us—Jesus embodies the Wisdom that was at the very beginning, the Wisdom through which all things come into abundant life. It is a counterintuitive Wisdom, a lost Wisdom, a Wisdom that cuts against the grain of our world’s way of power, possessions, and prestige. It is the Wisdom of love and grace, of mercy and forgiveness, of patience and gentleness. It is the Wisdom of knowing we are not the center of the universe but rather children of God with many brothers and sisters.

And every time we gather around the table, we are reminded. Taught again. Trained in the habit of our wise Lord, who delighted in all creation at its beginning, just as he delighted in the company of tax collectors and sinners, the lowly, the last, and the left out.

Prayer

Lord Jesus Christ,
God’s Wisdom in the flesh,
May your table manners shock us
In their difference
From the ways of our world.
May your table manners teach us anew
How to live well and abundantly
In the way of love and grace. Amen.

The Gentle Ones (Phil 4:4-7)

A Parable

Once upon a time there lived a vibrant animal community in a large meadow that supplied all the creatures’ needs. Life was pleasant and easy. Until one summer when there fell upon the meadow a terrible drought. For weeks there was not a drop of rain. Every day the sun bore down relentlessly on the meadow with a withering heat. A rumor began to circulate among the animals. The Sun must be upset with them. It must be punishing them. Why else would it beat down on them continually without letting any rain fall?

Soon the animals turned on each other. They began blaming the Sun’s displeasure on one group of animals after another.

First they blamed the reptiles: the lizards and the snakes. Surely it was their difference—their creepy, scaly skin—that the Sun didn’t like. The reptiles responded hotly. Their eyes flared up and they spit out venomous threats against anyone who spoke against them. They became known as “the angry ones.”

Next the animals turned on the foxes. They were so crafty and cunning, surely the Sun didn’t like them. In response to this accusation, the foxes bore a heavy grudge against the other animals. They decided that the real problem was a lack of appreciation for their foxy ways, and so they resolved to get more foxes into seats of power in the meadow’s government. There they would be able to impose their superior ways on the rest of the animal community. These foxes became known as “the resentful ones.”

Next the animals turned on the sheep. They could be so stubborn sometimes; maybe the Sun was upset with them most of all. The sheep responded by hanging their heads low and wandering off to sulk by themselves. They stewed in their self-pity and became known as “the pouting ones.”

Last of all, the animals blamed the moles, the voles, and other small rodents. They could be sneaky, you know; maybe the Sun was unhappy with them. In response to this accusation, these little creatures chittered about in terror and scurried off to hide underground. They became known as “the fearful ones.”

All the while, the drought continued. Then one day a band of joyous otters were spotted swimming upstream in the river that ran through the middle of the meadow. All the meadow animals—steeped in their fear and anger, in their resentment and self-pity—turned against these strangers. Surely they were the cause of the drought. The Sun must have seen them swimming through and taken a disliking to their exuberant ways. It was trying to teach them a lesson.

What happened next, however, was most surprising. The otters seemed completely unfazed. They did not react with fear or anger. On the contrary, they continued to play about joyfully in the water, sharing fish with the others when they caught them, offering children of other animals to ride on their backs and to enjoy the cool spray of the water, singing songs while they relaxed under the shade of big, leafy trees. These strange otters became known as “the gentle ones.”

Gradually the other animals became curious about these “gentle ones.” They lived with such a different—and if truth be told, attractive—spirit, even in this drought. How could they live this way? When the other animals asked the otters why they were so different, they smiled and responded: “Every day is a gift from our Creator, who loves us so much. And who loves you too, just as much. The sun is not angry with us. It is one of the Creator’s good gifts, just like the rain. These gifts come and go, but we don’t worry because the Creator loves us and gives us everything we need. Even now, if we only care for each other as the Creator cares for us, there is enough for everyone.”

A deep quiet followed this response, until finally the eldest otter broke the silence and said, “Listen to your breathing. That is the Creator’s breath: the Creator breathing in you. The Creator is always near. The One who breathed life into you waits to breathe his Spirit into you as well. All you have to do is open the door of your heart and make room. This One will give you all that you need.”

In the weeks that followed, the drought continued. But some of the meadow animals began to live with the otters, “the gentle ones,” and slowly these animals changed. No longer did they see the sun as an angry god. Instead they saw the Creator’s fingerprints all around them, and they gave as freely as they received. They became more joyful, more peaceful—more gentle.

Just as Much a Spectacle

According to the book of Acts, the Holy Spirit made a real spectacle out of the Christ-followers who were gathered together in Jerusalem on that first Pentecost. There was a heavy gust of wind that swept over them, a fiery luminescence glowed above their heads, and they began speaking in other languages, so that all of the Jewish pilgrims in Jerusalem—this was in the middle of a pilgrimage harvest festival, after all, known as the Feast of Weeks—all of these Jewish pilgrims heard the gospel proclaimed in their native language.  By all accounts, that first Pentecost was quite a wondrous and surprising event.

I have to be honest: I’ve never experienced anything remotely like this in my own faith journey. There was a time when I was disturbed by the fact I hadn’t had an encounter like this. Did this mean I didn’t have the Holy Spirit? Was I not a true Christian? Indeed, there are some Christians today who have turned the biblical account of that first Pentecost into something of a litmus test for faith. The idea is that if your faith experience is not “Pentecostal”—if it doesn’t bear the marks of that first spectacular Pentecost—then it is lacking or incomplete.

But as I read today’s scripture in Philippians, I realize I’m not alone in missing out on that original Pentecost experience. Neither Paul nor the Christ-followers in Philippi to whom he writes were at the original Pentecost. They do not encounter and start following Christ until later. Granted, Paul’s first encounter with the Spirit of Christ is quite a spectacle itself: a blinding light, a disembodied voice, something like scales later falling from his eyes. But we do not hear about anything like this for the Christ-followers in Philippi. I would imagine that many of them come to Christ as you or I did—quietly, with the fireworks taking place not above our heads but somewhere deep within our hearts.

But is it really fair to say that the Spirit has made less a spectacle of people like us than it did of the first Christians? As I read today’s scripture, I think not. The Spirit can make just as much a spectacle of people like you and me.

“Be Known as the Gentle Ones”

4   Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice.  5 Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. 6 Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. 7 And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

In the heart of a prison, Paul writes with a most surprising attitude: “Rejoice, rejoice!” he urges his fellow Christ-followers. He reminds them that God is near, and that prayer—talking and listening to God—will give them something even better than understanding; it will give them peace.

But what jumped out to me this week as I read this famous text for the umpteenth time is that little line: “Let your gentleness be known to everyone.” It is a curious expression, if you think about it. Paul is not simply saying, “Be gentle to others.” Surely that is what he desires, but his invitation goes further than a simple exhortation to “be gentle.” What he is really saying is something like, “Make gentleness your reputation before all people. Let yourselves be known as the gentle ones.” To be known for one’s gentleness would require much more than ticking off a box (“There! I did my gentle deed for the day…”); it implies sustained, rigorous habits of behavior. Reputation is not built on a good deed here, a good deed there, but on a way of living. This really caught my attention, because truth be told, I’m afraid that many people do not look upon Christians as “the gentle ones.” They look upon Christians and see instead resentment or anger or fear. I don’t say this as an indictment on Christianity or our fellow Christians. I see it as a simple truth that many Christians—likely including ourselves, in some ways—have yet to be converted to the way of Christ.

Think for a moment about the people in your life whom you would call “the gentle ones.”

I think of a handful of teachers (including some Sunday School teachers); I think of a few nurses and workers who serve in assisted living facilities; I think of communities of support for people with intellectual disabilities and for people recovering from addiction. And truth be told, most of these people I’m thinking of are in fact followers of Christ. Their faith has led them to assume the gentle “mindset” or “attitude of Christ” (Phil 2:5); it has led them gradually onto that path of downward mobility that Paul sings about in Philippians 2 (Phil 2:6-11).

Maya Angelou once said, “I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.” Her words strike on the hard gospel truth that the way of Christ is less about getting it right and more about treating others right, that the way of Christ is less about being in control and more about caring for others and ourselves. What distinguishes a follower of Christ is not just the proclamation they make, but even more the spirit of gentleness in which they live. “You will know them by their fruits,” Jesus says (Matt 7:15-20). You will know them by how they make you feel.

For that reason, I conclude that even if we do not speak in other languages, even if we do not have tongues of fire resting over our heads, even so the Spirit can make just as much a spectacle of us as it did of those first followers of Christ. For to be known as “the gentle ones” in our world, is indeed a most spectacular thing. A thing that turns heads. A thing that makes others curious, makes others ask, “What’s with those people?”

Many people in our troubled world are continually asking themselves and others around them, “How are we going to fix this mess?” The really odd thing about us Christ-followers—the thing that makes us stick out like a sore thumb—is the peace we have, the gentle spirit in which we can live. We’re not trying to figure it all out, because “in Christ, God has already made history come out right.” In Christ, we—and the world—have all we need.

Prayer

Gentle Christ,
Your way appears narrow and difficult
To the eyes of the world,
Yet you assure us
Your yoke is easy and burden light
…
May your Spirit of faith
Grant us peace,
So that we might live, like you,
As God’s gentle ones,
Ambassadors of God’s kingdom.
Amen.

"The Attitude of Christ" (Phil 2:1-11)

Not Playing the Same Game

This spring I’ve gotten my first taste of coaching soccer as an assistant coach for my nephew’s soccer team. At our first practice, it became clear that some of our players had a bad habit that would need to be addressed immediately. Namely, using their hands to control the ball. As you probably know, “no hands” is a fundamental rule in soccer. You can use your feet, your thighs, your chest, your head—but not your hands. If this bad habit persisted in any of our players, then we would have a real problem on our hands. They would effectively be playing a different game.

In one sense, Paul and the Philippians (the Christ-followers to whom he writes in Philippi) are dealing with a similar situation. They are not playing the same game as the world around them, and it’s causing a real problem. (Paul wouldn’t be in prison if it weren’t.) Twice in his letter to them, Paul encourages the Philippians to “live as citizens”—not of Rome, but of a different world (cf. Phil 1:37; 3:20). If you listen to the Greek words that Paul uses here—politeuomai and politeuma—you can hear what he’s getting at. Following Christ means living by a different politics. To be clear, Paul’s not talking here about partisan politics. He’s not telling the Philippians they need to move to the right or to the left, that they need to be more Republican or Democrat. He’s telling them that following Christ means they don’t even play that game.

Which begs a big question, “Okay, then. What game are they playing?”

The Old Game

1    If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, 2 make my joy complete: be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind. 3 Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. 4 Let each of you look not to your own interests, but to the interests of others.

Christ-followers who lived in the Roman empire daily faced significant social pressures, if not outright persecution. When they went to the market, they were often required to burn incense before an altar of Caesar and to declare, “Caesar is lord”...which is an awkward thing to do and say if the confession of your faith is “Jesus is lord.” When their neighbors or friends hosted social gatherings, the meat that people would eat together was often first sacrificed to a Roman god, which again put Christ-followers in an awkward place—if they ate the meat, would others assume they put their faith in the god to whom it had been offered? Beyond these common situations, Christ-followers often sidelined themselves from other popular activities—like attending the local sauna or the games at the coliseum—because these pastimes frequently celebrated sexual promiscuity and violence. By not playing the same game that their neighbors played, many Christ-followers earned confused and suspicious looks from others. “Who are these weirdos?” (Imagine how today we might look on people who never go to the gym or the movies, and you’ll get an approximate sense of how Christ-followers were seen back then.)

The raised eyebrows and disapproving frowns that Christ-followers endured, the shameful rumors and disgraceful gossip that they withstood—not to mention the risk of actual imprisonment, as Paul  himself has suffered—all of this forms the backdrop to Paul’s words of encouragement in today’s scripture. Notice how the first two verses are a call to unity. Essentially, “stick together, be strong!” There is a fundamental truth here: community gives us a strength we do not have on our own. If you’ve ever been a part of a book club or an exercise group or any other sort of regular group activity, you’ve likely experienced this truth. The support and accountability of others help us to do what we could not on your own.

But Paul’s words turn quickly from encouragement to warning—specifically warning against “selfish ambition” and “conceit.” I’m reminded of a phrase that appears sporadically in the book of Judges to describe the gradual disintegration of the people of Israel: “And everyone did what was right in their own eyes.” It is a dynamic that threatens any community. When personal preference becomes more important than the interests and well-being of others, division and conflict quickly follow. The church is no stranger to this experience. The so-called “worship wars”—hymns or praise songs, organs or guitars—have divided congregations for years. Similarly, ambitions of “church growth”—which means growth measured by bottoms in the pew and by bucks in the plate—have resulted in many spiritual casualties, as ministries and members not deemed profitable or productive have been sidelined.

Paul’s warning against ambition and conceit, however, is not only about the potential for division and conflict, which would themselves be quite detrimental for a church that is already swimming upstream against culture. Paul’s warning is also (and perhaps more importantly) against “playing the old game,” which is to say, the game that they used to play but stopped playing. The game of ambition and self-importance. The game of competition and conflict. The game of trying to climb the ladder. That is the game that the world plays—the world of the Roman empire 2,000 years ago, the world around us today. But according to Paul, Christ-followers don’t play that game.

So, if the old game is selfish ambition, what is the new game? What is the game we Christ-followers are playing?

“The Mindset of Christ”

5 Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus…

“Mind” here refers not to what you think, but how you think. If you’ll remember, a moment ago Paul was calling his audience toward unity. This should not be confused with uniformity. Thinking the same thing would be uniformity. When a couple centuries later the Roman empire and the church join forces, there is a push toward creeds and doctrinal statements, which seek uniformity. “Let’s all think the same thing.” 

Paul is inviting his audience not to think the same thing, but to think the same way. Personally, I think the word “mindset” or “attitude” is a better translation for what Paul is getting at: “Let the same mindset (or attitude) be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”

The Franciscan priest Richard Rohr gets at this “mindset” or “attitude” of Christ with a provocative theoretical question. I’d invite you to chew on this long after today’s service: “Is it better to be right in the wrong spirit, or to be wrong in the right spirit?” Personally…I think it is better to be wrong in the right spirit. Which is to say, how we think (about others, about ourselves, about the world) is more important than what we think. How we think—our mindset, our attitude, the spirit in which we live—is what aligns us with Christ or not. Christ whose mindset or attitude was not ambitious but meek, not haughty but humble, not controlling but caring, not bitter but benevolent, not oriented toward productivity but patience. Christ cares less about us getting it right (what we think), than about us treating others right (how we think of others). Some of the most Christlike people I know have intellectual disabilities. They couldn’t recite a creed or a doctrine of faith to save their life. But they would treat you better than most people would. Their mindset, their attitude—humble, simple, meek, trusting—how they think is more aligned with Christ than anything you’ll find among the sharpest financial or business or political minds.

Not Grasping

Paul follows this fundamental instruction—“let the same attitude be in you that was in Christ Jesus”—with what most scholars and historians agree is the oldest recorded Christian hymn. Indeed, it is quite likely that the words we’re about to read were composed before any of Paul’s letters, before any of the gospels, before anything else in the New Testament. It is rich in meaning, but for today, let’s read it in the context of Paul’s invitation to have the same attitude as Christ. In other words, let’s read it asking, “What is a Christlike attitude?”

6                 who, though he was in the form of God,

                                        did not regard equality with God

                                        as something to be exploited—or “grasped”  (we’ll come back to this word)—

7                 but emptied himself,

                                        taking the form of a slave,

                                        being born in human likeness.

                    And being found in human form,

8                                     he humbled himself

                                        and became obedient to the point of death—

                                        even death on a cross.

9                    Therefore God also highly exalted him

                                        and gave him the name

                                        that is above every name,

 10              so that at the name of Jesus

                                        every knee should bend,

                                        in heaven and on earth and under the earth,

11               and every tongue should confess

                                        that Jesus Christ is Lord,

                                        to the glory of God the Father.

If there were any doubts that Christ—and his followers—play a different game than the world plays, then they are put to rest with this hymn. The world—with its “selfish ambition” and “conceit”—is all about upward mobility. Life becomes a game of climbing the ladder. Getting to the top. But in this hymn, we see the opposite from Christ, whose game is humility, who is all about downward mobility, who descends continually—from the form of God to the form of a human to the figure of a criminal crucified on a cross. To be clear, this hymn is not promoting self-punishment or self-debasement. Rather the point is solidarity. Christ descends in order to be with us, every one of us, even us who are on death row, even us whom society has judged and shamed and put to death. Because of Christ’s radical descent, there is no experience that can separate us from him. His descent is for the purpose of companionship with every single one of us, no questions or conditions.

Biblical scholars point out that one key phrase toward the beginning—“did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited” (and other translations have it as “grasped”)—seemingly alludes to the story of Adam and Eve in the garden. Whereas Adam did regard equality with God as something to be grasped, and so grasped after the forbidden fruit, Christ does the opposite. His attitude, his mindset is not about “grasping.” It’s about companionship. It’s not about moving up. It’s about being down to earth, being connected with everyone.

“Downward mobility” is not a tagline that would sell well in our culture today (and I imagine it was no different in first century Rome). But this ancient hymn insists that Christ’s descent is in fact one and the same as Christ’s glory. God exalts Christ—not because he’s been through the wringer and God compensates him with a luxurious afterlife, but because God affirms what Christ did as what is good and beautiful and true. It is as though God looks out upon all the world and points to Jesus, saying, “Yes, that is the way. That’s the game I want them to play. That’s the pattern, the blueprint, the way of abundant life.”

The hymn concludes on a wildly, defiantly hopeful note. It insists that one day God will not be the only person to recognize Christ’s greatness—everyone else will too. Everyone will be brought to their knees. And not because their arms have been twisted in a game of cosmic mercy. But because their hearts have been pierced with the goodness and beauty and truth of Christ. And so it is that they will no longer declare “Caesar is lord” but rather “Christ is lord.”

May it be so now in our lives—until the day when it is so in all the world.

Prayer

Humble Christ,
Whose downward mobility confounds the world
…
May your way bring us to our knees
In awe and wonder
And inspire us to live with the same attitude,
Not grasping to be right or to be powerful,
But letting go to be with each other,
Especially with the last and the least among us.
Amen.

"A Good Work" (Phil 1:1-18)

“God Intended It for Good”

Toward the beginning of the Bible, there is a story about the strange way that God works in our world. It’s the story of Joseph and his brothers. You might remember how, early on, Joseph’s brothers become envious and resentful of Joseph for the way their father, Jacob, seems to favor him and for the way Joseph flaunts his favored status. Joseph’s brothers sell him into slavery , and as a result he endures many hardships. But through several fortuitous turns of events he rises to great power in Egypt and ends up saving the Egyptians and many others, including his own family, from a horrible famine. Although he reconciles with his brothers, they harbor doubts about his sincerity. When their father, Jacob, dies, they fear that Joseph will take his revenge, and so they throw themselves at his feet and declare themselves to be Joseph’s slaves.

But Joseph responds, “Do not be afraid! … Even though you intended to do harm to me, God intended it for good, in order to preserve a numerous people…. So have no fear; I myself will provide for you and your little ones” (Gen 50:20-21). Many readers have interpreted Joseph’s words as a declaration of God’s providence, a pronouncement of the way God powerfully manipulates events toward the good. They envision a God high in the clouds, pulling invisible strings. According to this interpretation, “everything happens for a reason.” God is a masterful orchestrator, causing seemingly bad events—such as the brothers’ selling Joseph into slavery—only to turn them later to the good.

Personally, I am not persuaded. Such an interpretation seems ultimately to justify evil behavior. It uses the logic that the ends justify the means, that God may cause bad things to happen (like hurricanes or genocide) in order to achieve a good end. But this seems to me like the way of the world, where a desirable end like profit can justify something bad like the neglect of people, where a desirable end like military victory can justify something bad like the collateral damage of innocents. I do not see this ends-justifying-the-means logic in Christ, who forgives unconditionally no matter the end, who gives without expectation of a beneficial return. No, I do not think the favorable outcome of Joseph’s story is the result of a divine puppeteer, who causes things like family separation and unjust imprisonment in order to save many people from a famine. I think the favorable outcome results from Joseph’s choice to live as God lives: with trust, with patience, with forgiveness. Think about it this way: God could have engineered events precisely as they happened in the story, and yet if Joseph had chosen not to forgive his brothers, it all would have been for nought. God did not cause bad things in order to achieve a good end. Joseph chose God’s way in the face of bad things, and God’s way redeemed the situation toward a good end.

To say God was not pulling the strings is not to say that God had nothing to do with the way things turned out. God had everything to do with it! The only difference is, in this interpretation, God is not the cause of everything that happens. Rather God is a call in everything that happens. A call that Joseph heeds. To trust, to be patient, to forgive. In this way, Joseph’s story becomes a picture not of God’s providence—not of God masterfully pulling invisible strings, causing events to align just so—but rather a picture of God’s grace, a picture of God’s gift or possibility hidden in every situation.

One does not have to say that everything happens for a reason or that God is the cause of everything to be able to affirm the even more profound truth that God can use anything for good.

“I Thank My God”

1   Paul and Timothy, servants of Christ Jesus,

To all the saints in Christ Jesus who are in Philippi, with the bishops and deacons:

2   Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord Jesus Christ.

3   I thank my God every time I remember you, 4 constantly praying with joy in every one of my prayers for all of you, 5 because of your sharing in the gospel from the first day until now.

You wouldn’t know it from these opening verses…but Paul’s letter to the Christ-followers in Philippi is written from prison. Of all Paul’s letters, this one is commonly identified as being his “letter of joy.” Eighteen times throughout the letter he expresses his joy or refers to the joy of others.

We see in these opening verses the foundation for Paul’s joy, namely gratitude. “I thank my God every time I remember you” (Phil 1:3). Now, I don’t think Paul is thanking God as an invisible puller of strings, as someone who providentially brought Paul and the Philippians together. I think his gratitude has instead to do with the depth of their relationship, with the love that has drawn them closer to one another and to God.

To put Paul’s gratitude in the simplest terms: when Paul looks backwards, he sees God. In the love that has drawn him and others into community. In the patience and trust that has kept them strong in trying times.

I’m reminded of a line in the Big Book, the book that Alcoholics Anonymous and many other twelve step groups regularly recite. “We will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it…. No matter how far down the scale we have gone, we will see how our experience can benefit others.” Paul has a checkered past, for sure, but when he looks backwards, he sees not his own shame but God: how has God has changed him, used him, brought him into the abundant life of the gospel and into community with others who are also on the Way. And he is so grateful that even in a place like prison, he can share his joy.

“Grace”

6 I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work among you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ. 7 It is right for me to think this way about all of you, because you hold me in your heart, for all of you share in God’s grace with me, both in my imprisonment and in the defense and confirmation of the gospel.

In these verses, Paul turns from the past to the present. He discerns God’s handiwork in the Philippians; God has begun “a good work” among them (Phil 1:6). He explains that he thinks this way because the Philippians share with him in “God’s grace” (Phil 1:7).

Paul’s words paint a very different picture of life than the one that predominated back then (and predominates still today). The popular picture of life (then as now) is that each person makes plans and then either achieves them or doesn’t. Of course there are twists and turns along the way, but we like to think we’re in control and our lives are either a success or a failure.

But Paul’s words suggest that our lives are God’s work, that we are dependent on grace. And grace is just a religious word for “gift.” What Paul is saying, I think, is that at every turn in our lives there is always a divine possibility. Even in the worst of circumstances, such as your brothers selling you into slavery, God is there, desperate to turn a bad situation toward the good. Not with a flick of the divine wrist and a tug of some invisible string, but with a call to choose life: to trust (rather than despair), to be patient (rather than hurry and worry), to forgive (rather than seek revenge). God’s grace—God’s possibility—is always there for us to choose.

“Harvest”

8 For God is my witness, how I long for all of you with the compassion of Christ Jesus. 9 And this is my prayer, that your love may overflow more and more with knowledge and full insight 10 to help you to determine what is best, so that in the day of Christ you may be pure and blameless, 11 having produced the harvest of righteousness that comes through Jesus Christ for the glory and praise of God.

If grace looks backwards with gratitude for how God has used the past or can use the past, it looks forward with hope toward growth. Paul’s prayer for the Philippians is that their love would grow and that they would yield a “harvest of righteousness” (Phil 1:11), which is to say their growth would bear fruit.

It’s worth drawing a contrast here. The typical worldview—namely, that we are in control of our lives—tends to look backwards with regret and forward with fear. There’s regret for what has been lost in the past and fear for all the ways things could go wrong in the future. But a worldview of grace, which sees God’s gift around every turn, looks backward in gratitude and looks forward with hope toward growth. Everywhere it looks, grace sees God’s possibility.

“For Christ”

12   I want you to know, beloved that what has happened to me has actually helped to spread the gospel, 13 so that it has become known throughout the whole imperial guard and to everyone else that my imprisonment is for Christ; 14 and most of the brothers and sisters, having been made confident in the Lord by my imprisonment, dare to speak the word with greater boldness and without fear.

15   Some proclaim Christ from envy and rivalry, but others from goodwill. 16 These proclaim Christ out of love, knowing that I have been put here for the defense of the gospel; 17 the others proclaim Christ out of selfish ambition, not sincerely but intending to increase my suffering in my imprisonment. 18 What does it matter? Just this, that Christ is proclaimed in every way, whether out of false motives or true; and in that I rejoice.

Yes, and I will continue to rejoice….

Paul’s words here make me think of the therapeutic tool—you may have heard of this before—that distinguishes between “got to” and “get to.” It is a little trick to help reorient our attitude. Imagine that you are with you are with your family on a road trip, and you hit traffic. There’s no way around it. You’re going to be stuck in the car for an hour longer than you expected. The typical reaction is, “Oh man, we got to wait here in traffic for another hour. What bad luck.” But if we change the “got to” to “get to,” it becomes something like: “We get to spend an hour longer together. We could talk, we could play a game, we could learn more about what’s going on in each other’s lives.”

Now, I’ll confess, I’m suspicious of tools like this. They seem like trite mind-tricks; in theory they might sound great, but in practice they can be quite difficult. Does anyone really expect a group of people cooped up in the same car to rejoice at being stuck in traffic for an hour longer? But I have to admit, even if this tool is more difficult in practice than in theory, it hits upon the solid rock of the gospel. It hits upon the thing that Paul is hitting upon in today’s scripture, namely grace. It hits upon the fact that God’s gift—God’s possibility—is hidden within every moment of our lives, waiting to be chosen, received, cherished, celebrated. It hits upon the “good work” that God is doing in us and in our world, if you would believe it.

Paul may not have known the “got to”/“get to” trick. Instead, he has his own phrase: “For Christ.” “My imprisonment is for Christ,” he says—“I get to be here, for Christ”—and I imagine he would say the same for anywhere else he was. “This is for Christ.” Which is to say, God’s grace is here. God can do something great here, if I believe it.

Our circumstances may seem far removed from Paul, who wrote his letter from a dungy Roman prison. But the truth is, life can get to feeling like a prison wherever we are, particularly when we’re in a “got to” mindset. Paul’s strange joy in today’s scripture could perhaps serve as a spark for us wherever we are, a reminder that our faith is in a God whose grace—whose gift, whose possibility—can redeem the darkest of situations. And so we can look back not with regret but with gratitude, and we can look forward not with fear but with hope for growth, because we like Joseph have faith that God is doing a good work among us—if you would believe it.

Prayer

Dear Christ,
You lived in God’s grace,
Giving thanks for what was,
Even as you looked forward with hope toward what could be
…
May your example
And the example of others like Paul
Inspire us to look for God’s gifts
Wherever we are
And to trust that God can redeem
Anything. Everything.
Amen.

"Rather Strange" (Acts 17:16-31)

Because of a Table

Caleb Campbell grew up in church, but as a teenager he became resentful toward Christianity. At the time, he understood the gospel primarily as a negative message, a list of don’ts: “Don’t do these bad things, or else God will punish you.” But Caleb noticed that many people who went to church were also doing things on the don’ts list: smoking, drinking, dancing, R-rated movies. In his adolescent mind, Caleb decided Christianity was a farce and its followers hypocrites.

One night at a party in high school, a group of tough-looking guys invited Caleb to join them: “Hey bro, come here. Have a beer.” Caleb felt “a thrill at being seen and chosen and eagerly took up their offer.” These guys were neo-Nazis, and before long Caleb had shaved his head and joined their crew, happy to be accepted without a purity test, happy to have found what seemed like real camaraderie. Of course, some other stuff came with the territory: getting into bar fights, heckling interracial couples, proclaiming white supremacist propaganda. But for a while, it felt worth it to Caleb. It felt like a family.

In his 20s, however, Caleb saw cracks in the surface of this happy community. “As I surveyed my skinhead peers,” he says, “I saw they had no real joy, financial stability, or actual strength. Instead, they were running from the law, ruining their careers, and destroying their families.” Disenchanted, Caleb gradually drifted from them and found himself in a lonely place once again.

Today, Caleb is a pastor. He remembers with awe and wonder what changed everything for him. A church had seen his information in the local classifieds for musicians (Caleb was a drummer) and had called to ask if he’d help out with their music. He did for a little while, figuring even if he didn’t believe in Christianity or the church, it was something good to do. But eventually one of the guys on the music team, Seth, invited him over for dinner. And then again the next week. And the next. “No agenda, no pressure,” Caleb recalls. “Just warm hospitality.” Finally, when Caleb was ready to talk, Seth asked him about his anger with Christianity. The floodgates opened. Caleb had so much resentment that it all came tumbling out. Rather than argue with him, Seth simply nodded and agreed. He said, “I share some of your concerns. I think Jesus does too.” Over time, Caleb came to hear a different gospel than he had before. Not the fearful old story of a punishing judge, but the genuinely good news of a God whose unconditional love was changing everything. Caleb’s heart softened, and he became a follower of Christ.

And not, he insists, because of an argument or a debate. But because of a table.[1]

From Contempt to Compassion

16 While Paul was waiting for them in Athens, he was deeply distressed to see that the city was full of idols. 17 So he argued in the synagogue with the Jews and the devout persons, and also in the marketplace every day with those who happened to be there. 18 Also some Epicurean and Stoic philosophers debated with him. Some said, “What does this babbler want to say?” Others said, “He seems to be a proclaimer of foreign divinities.” (This was because he was telling the good news about Jesus and the resurrection.)

Remember how Paul (previously named “Saul”) used to treat with contempt the people with whom he disagreed? How he “breathed threats and murder” against those Christ-following heretics (Acts 9:1)?

We see a completely different person today. The translation we have, which includes words like “argued” and “debated,” can be a little misleading. The Greek words themselves can also simply mean “discuss” or “converse”—one of the Greek words, symballo, literally means something like “to throw back and forth,” suggesting that the dialogue is a friendly game of conversational catch.

What’s most revealing to me is what Paul says in these games of conversational catch. “He was telling the good news about Jesus and the resurrection” (Acts 17:18). That is a far cry from “threats and murder” (Acts 9:1). Paul’s transformation in Christ—“it is no longer I who live, but Christ who lives in me” he writes in one of his letters (Gal 2:20)—this transformation manifests in a dramatic change of attitude. Toward those with whom he does not see eye to eye, Paul no longer shows contempt. He shows compassion. He no longer breathes curses against them, but blessing.

He desires that they hear the good news of God’s love. 

“It Sounds Rather Strange to Us”

19 So they took him and brought him to the Areopagus and asked him, “May we know what this new teaching is that you are presenting? 20 It sounds rather strange to us, so we would like to know what it means.” 21 Now all the Athenians and the foreigners living there would spend their time in nothing but telling or hearing something new.

What do you think sounded “rather strange” to the Athenians?

I imagine the idea of a crucified God struck them as rather strange. In a letter to the Corinthians, Paul himself acknowledges that the crucified God seems like weakness and foolishness to the world (cf. 1 Cor 1).

The Greek tradition is no stranger to the idea of the divine. Greek mythology is full of gods and goddesses. But they behave very differently than the crucified God. They frequently act like petulant children, impulsive and prideful, putting themselves first and giving little thought to the consequences of their actions. What we learn from the Greek pantheon of gods and goddesses, is not unlike what we learn from our popular culture today. Greek mythology teaches lessons like: it’s a dog-eat-dog world. Better to strike than be struck. Better to be feared than loved. If you want peace, get ready for war.

So yeah, when Paul starts proclaiming the good news about a crucified God, whose compassion for the world is so great that he endures death rather than to inflict it on a single soul—I imagine his audience are scratching their heads.

Paul Believes in the Athenians

22    Then Paul stood in front of the Areopagus and said, “Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way. 23 For as I went through the city and looked carefully at the objects of your worship, I found among them an altar with the inscription, ‘To an unknown god.’ What therefore you worship as 

unknown, this I proclaim to you. 24 The God who made the world and everything in it, he who is Lord of heaven and earth, does not live in shrines made by human hands, 25 nor is he served by human hands, as though he needed anything, since he himself gives to all mortals life and breath and all things.

Remember how at the start of today’s scripture, Paul was “deeply distressed” by all the idols he saw around him. On top of that, his audience shows perplexion toward his message, referring to it as “strange.” I imagine that the old Paul (which is to say, “Saul”) would have reacted with bitter accusations and denunciations, telling these idol-worshipping Athenians they were godless and destined for God’s wrath.

But this new Paul, transformed by Christ, begins instead with an affirmation, with words that might even be construed as praise: “Athenians, I see how extremely religious you are in every way” (Acts 17:22). Some readers think that Paul is cunningly employing a rhetorical strategy. He’s buttering them up, ingratiating himself to them, only so he can pull them more persuasively to his side in just a moment.

But what if his words are no strategy? What if they are genuine? To me, Paul’s affirmation of the Athenians’ religiosity is a beautiful expression of love. Remember how Paul writes about love in his letter to the Corinthians: “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things” (1 Cor 13:7)? Well, here we see Paul believing in the Athenians. Put more colloquially, he’s giving them “the benefit of the doubt.” He believes that they are faithful, even if maybe they have misplaced their faith a little bit. (Paul, after all, is no stranger to misplaced faith, as we might recall from his earlier days as a zealous persecutor of Christ-followers.)

All this to say, Paul builds a bridge between himself and his audience. “We are both people of faith,” he seems to say, before going on—“Let me share a little more about mine.” And then he shares his faith in the one God who created all things.

Pointing to the God Already There

26 From one ancestor he made all nations to inhabit the whole earth, and he allotted the times of their existence and the boundaries of the places where they would live, 27 so that they would search for God and perhaps grope for him and find him—though indeed he is not far from each one of us. 28 For ‘In him we live and move and have our being’; as even some of your own poets have said,

                    ‘For we too are his offspring.’

For me, today’s scripture provides a model for how we as Christ-followers might relate to our surrounding culture. Tragically, the prevailing model today seems to be what is known as “the culture wars,” where the idea is that Christianity is losing ground in our culture and must fight back to preserve its dominance in society. Hence the legal struggles and legislative battles and bitter debate, as Christians seek the force of law to impose their way again on society.

But what we see in Paul is not a denunciation of the surrounding culture nor an argument against its misguidedness, but rather the spirit of a companion who begins by affirming the truth he sees. Paul quotes twice here from Greek tradition, both times to shore up his assertion that God is indeed near.

Paul’s response to culture is neither fight nor flight. Instead it is a patient discernment of where God already is already at work in the culture. Paul points out how God is already present. Paul does not presume to bring God to the Athenians. He has already been at pains to emphasize the misguided idea of idols: no one can hold or handle God. Paul’s role is not to introduce the Athenians to God, but to point out where and how they are already acquainted with God—and to invite them deeper into that relationship.

I can’t help but think here of how Caleb was graciously welcomed into the church. How the friend who hosted him for dinner week after week did not try to change his mind or correct his thinking, but rather how he affirmed the truth of Caleb’s experience and suggested that Christ was already with Caleb in this experience. Perhaps Christ was also disappointed with the superficiality and hypocrisy that Caleb saw in much of the church. Perhaps Christ also wanted something more than that. At that dinner table, Caleb discovered Christ was already with him—and it changed his life.

For the Salvation of the World

29 Since we are God’s offspring, we ought not to think that the deity is like gold, or silver, or stone, an image formed by the art and imagination of mortals. 30 While God has overlooked the times of human ignorance, now he commands all people everywhere to repent, 31 because he has fixed a day on which he will have the world judged in righteousness by a man whom he has appointed, and of this he has given assurance to all by raising him from the dead.”

It is difficult to read this passage and not immediately imagine a scene of punitive judgment. It is difficult to read this passage and not envisage Caleb’s childhood picture of Christianity, namely “Do what’s right, or God will punish you.”

But I am convinced this is a case of our domesticating scripture according to our own ways. I think that this picture of punitive judgment is one that we humans, who are prone to judge and condemn, have superimposed on scripture. We have made God in our own image. In the gospel of John, Jesus insists, “I came not to judge the world, but to save the world” (John 12:47), and “God did not send the Son into the world to condemn the world, but in order that the world might be saved through him” (John 3:17). In other words, when the world is “judged in righteousness” by Jesus, it is not for the condemnation of the world but for its salvation.

The Greek word for judgment (krino) refers literally to a process of discrimination or discernment, a process of determining what is good and bad, of keeping what is good and letting go of what is bad. Christ is judge not as a punisher but as the criterion that shows us what is good and what is bad. The strangeness of Christ (whose vulnerable way of love seems weak and foolish) surprises us: what we thought was bad is good. What we thought was weakness is strength. What we thought was losing is winning. As Caleb discovered in his transformation from neo-Nazi to follower of Christ, it is not power and fear that bring life, but patience and compassion. It is not fistfights and force that bring life, but a table and hospitality.

So when Paul calls his audience to repent, it is not with a threat hanging over their head, but with a promise that pulls them forward. He is not breathing “threats and murder” as he did in his earlier life, but “good news.” And the good news? It’s “rather strange.” A crucified God whose forgiveness covers the sins of the world and brings life from death. A crucified God who comes not with contempt but with compassion, not with condemnation but as a companion. A crucified God whose kingdom gains ground on this world not on a battlefield, but at a table.

It is this God who turns lives upside-down in the best of ways: Paul’s and Caleb’s. Yours and mine.

Prayer 

Christ of the cross,
Christ of the empty tomb,
Who is near to each of us,
Whether we know it or not
…
Grant us eyes to see
Your strange spirit
At work in our world,
And hearts hospitable
To others,
That we might affirm your presence with them already
And share the good news of your love.
Amen.

 

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[1] This story comes from Caleb Campbell, “The Gospel Comes for a Neo-Nazi,” https://www.christianitytoday.com/2025/05/gospel-neo-nazi-skinhead-christian-nationalism-pastor/, accessed April 27, 2026.