The Open Air

Text: Philippians 3:4b-14

Paul writes about claustrophobia and about the open air.

He writes about forest-covered narrowed-horizon New England and about the open plains of the midwest where you can see the weather coming miles away. He writes about Tokyo with its twisty narrow streets and about Paris with its grand wide boulevards. He writes about oppressive, stultifying relationships and about partnerships of shared adventure and enthusiasm.

He writes about these things, but not in so many words.

Paul writes about things of the flesh. Not about flesh itself, not about our body’s joys and foibles. When Paul speaks about the flesh, he means things of this world. He means stuff. Stuff that we carry around with us. Stuff we store away. Stuff we fret about. When Paul writes about flesh, he means all the things to which we are so attached and so attracted, all things that we hope will give us comfort, safety, and a sense of purpose. Some of that stuff is material. Material goods. Shoes and iPods and wallpaper. Lines of credit. Student loans. But mostly not. On Paul’s own list are things of accomplishment and birth. Status, class, ethnic origin, positions of authority and responsibility, titles, reputation, the respect of friends and colleagues. It’s things and things associated with things.

Paul had been a hot ticket in Palestine. He had been an enforcer for the power elite. He searched for followers of Jesus and brought them to justice. He himself was a member of the power elite. He was skillful, sophisticated, and well-educated. He was a faithful worshipper. he knew what to wear and how to meet and greet. He was the right people. Besides all that, Paul was a Roman citizen, a man of special privilege that extended beyond Palestine to all the Roman empire.

Paul trusted these things, as we do, to protect him, give him purpose, bring him peace of mind, and provide him a solid base for action. But in his life, things did not prove trustworthy. What Paul depended on turned out to be not dependable. They did not bring him what he needed. The things Paul turned to were worse than unreliable. They were harmful.

Things—material and immaterial—make demands on us. We think they serve us, but we serve them. They require maintenance. They require polish. The require upkeep. They require dealing with. Taking out, putting away, classifying, certifying, and qualifying.

Things define us. And they define us often in ways in which we do not want to be defined. We are known by the things we keep. And we are known by the things we are born into. We are known by the skills we have acquired. I’m a craftsperson. I’m a scientist. I’m a person of faith. I’m a protector of others. I’m an enforcer, says Paul, I’m a Roman, I’m a follower of Jesus.

Things speak for us. They tell others what to expect from us. But more often than not they lie. Things of the flesh tell lies about us. We are not what we have or have accomplished. Things of the flesh steal us, they steal who we are. They steal our future. They are liars and cheats. They do not give us what they promise.

Paul says so. I trusted in the flesh, he says, but now I regard all those things as so much rubbish. Worse than worthless.

This is not a glorification of poverty. It does not glorify loss—inflicted or accidental—and turn it into gain. This passage, at least, is not about self-denial or suffering. It does not mean that material things and accomplishments are useless. Paul eats. Paul exploits his Roman privilege. Paul writes letters. Paul uses his skills of persuasion.

But it does mean that things have very little to do with him. They have lost their power over him. He is not seduced by their demands. They do not define him. They do not speak for him. What has changed for Paul is that he no longer trusts in the flesh. The flesh is not trustworthy. It is trash.

What is trustworthy, what is not trash, Paul says, is Jesus. I want to know Chrst, he says. I want to gain Christ. Jesus is different from those other things, that trash. This is a ongoing realization to Paul. Something that proves itself to him again and again. Changing one’s point of view, no matter how lovely the new scene, is not easy. I press on to the goal for the prize. I’m looking that way, says Paul. Forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead.

This passage of Paul’s is not a book of rules for good Christians. It is not a big “should.” It is a poem. A poem of praise and thanksgiving. Paul sees and knows from his experience that the things of the flesh press in on us. To trust in the the flesh is claustrophobic. Things take our breath away and suffocate us. We, who are designed to need things are not designed to be trapped by them.

We are designed to be free. Paul’s passage is a long and enthusiastic sigh of relief. Turning to a new kind of life, he can breathe again. Thank God!

A few minutes ago we baptized [a child just baptized]. Among other important things, baptism is a kind of initiation into a point of view. We say that to be baptized is to be reborn, to be born renewed. How can a young child be reborn? But we are born, as Paul says, to the flesh, to the world of stuff. We are baptized into Christ. What [the child's] sponsors and parents promised was to show her that point of view. Paul’s point of view. To keep her eye on the prize. To make sure that she knows what counts as rubbish. And to keep her free.

A monk recently described humans as a bit of gold, but a bit of gold buried in a trash heap. Paul does not want to be found in that trash heap. I want to be found in Christ, he says. I want to be surrounded by Jesus, he says. Not by junk.