Text: Philippians 3:4b-14
There are at least two ways to hear these words of Paul in his letter to the Philippians.
Paul, who is in jail (it is hard to say where and when), writes to the church at Philippi, comforting them that he is all right. And, as usual, advising them about how to be a better community of people who follow Christ. In this passage we just heard, he writes to warn them of the teachings of what Paul calls the “dogs and evil workers.” That part the assigned reading somehow skipped over. As Paul often does, he is making a case.
One way to hear his words are as a polemic against materialism. And against our worshipping of accomplishments. Against, as Paul says, our confidence in the flesh. By which he means not our bodies—this is not about that kind of morality—not our bodies so much as our soul’s captivation with stuff, things, achievement, and conversely our fear of their loss. I have spoken about this before, interpreting this passage as some kind of scriptural support for deaccessioning. Get rid of all that stuff, and you will be free. Not intending to question the ethics of having and hoarding, though that is a good thing to question. But to offer a promise of freedom from its burdens. Nonetheless, those sermons always sounded like: get rid of your stuff, you’ll be better for it. More law than gospel.
Still, there is some truth in that (I’m not ready to let it go just yet) and to hear Paul that way is not a mistake. After all, he does say that a bunch of things that he and we value he now counts as rubbish. He gives us his résumé. On it are things both 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.
Before he met Jesus, Paul had been an enforcer for and a member of the power elite. He searched for followers of Jesus and brought them to jail. He was skillful, sophisticated, and well-educated. He was a faithful worshipper. he knew what to wear and how to meet and greet. He knew how to be smooth when he had to be. He was the right people.
What he does not talk about here, but which are just as much things of the flesh, are our fears that are the flip side of our résumés. Of being alone—at any age. Of being sick and helpless, in the hands of others. Of not being able to think straight. And all we do to keep those things at bay.
We trust in things of the flesh because we think that they are safe, attainable, and effective. By good and energetic action we can ensure the health and life of us and our friends and family.
But that is not true, says Paul. All these things that he thought were so great he now reckons, now figures, now counts, as rubbish. As refuse. The word he uses means things pretty disgusting. Like the grad-doo that ends up in the gutters on Cambridge streets after a long and wet winter. He is not talking about stuff you just don’t like but which you might decide to store away in the cellar or attic for a while. This is stuff you want to get out of your house and life as soon as possible.
I hold these things, Paul says, to be a loss. The word in this case means not something mislaid and sought for. But something which causes damage and it’s good riddance to bad rubbish. The word literally means not tamed. These things of the flesh narrow our lives and hem us in. We might consider how much time and energy we give to these wild things.
Yet even so, and in spite of the picture I just painted, Paul does not say these things in themselves are bad things. “I too,” he writes just before this passage, “I too have confidence in the flesh.” Not had. But present tense. Many fleshy things are useful. Pens to write with, shoes to walk with, roofs to keep us dry.
Paul trusted these things, as we do, to protect him, to give him purpose, to bring him peace, and to provide a solid base for action in life. But in practice they did not. It is just that none of these things ever got him one bit closer to where he wanted to go. Where he wanted to be.
The things are rubbish not in themselves. They are rubbish only compared to Jesus. Which is, finally, the second way to hear this passage. The words of Paul about the dangers of things of the flesh might be compelling and useful to us. I find them so. But without Jesus in the picture they are only musings of a wise man on clean living. Paul’s relationship with Jesus Christ overwhelms his admiration for things he once valued, still values. But they no longer bless him. Jesus does.
We want to be blessed. We want to be favored. We want to live the good life. When we say at the end of the Sunday worship, “the Lord bless you and keep you,” we are hoping for each other that we all get to live fine lives. That we will be safe, and have peace of mind, to know beauty in the world and joy in our friends, to feel like we rest on good foundations.
Christ has given Paul blessings. You can feel it in Paul’s writings. In so many words and so often he tells his churches and us: “I feel so blessed I can hardly stand it.” Blessed in spite of his ailments and all. Much more blessed than he was with that rubbish.
The feeling I get from Paul—and this is total speculation—is that in Christ he feels a unity that all the other things in his life never gave him. Our stuff and our accomplishments, accentuated sometimes by our fears, are fragmented. They are never quite whole, and never have what it takes to make us whole.
I want to know Christ, Paul says. (Maybe—I wonder—to know as Peter did. Jesus’ friend. To be connected with Jesus in the deep and pervasive way that you know someone you love.) I want to be found in Christ, Paul says. I want to gain Christ. Paul does not want to know about Christ. Paul wants to find in Christ a unity of life and spirit and that comes from being a part of the larger story of God and God’s world.
Not that he is—or we are—already there. Not that I have already obtained this, he says. It is not something Paul or we accomplish. It is the intervention of God, not our own power, that lets us know Christ. It is a blessing. Brothers and sisters, Paul says, rejoice in the Lord.
What has happened to Paul is that his eyes are different. He sees that he was looking for the good life in all the wrong places. But now he has had a glimpse of what is possible. He sees that knowing Jesus Christ will bring him nearer to where he wants to be. He has decided to act as if he did. For that he is already blessed. Just wanting that is a blessing.
Lent is a time when we try to be quiet enough to be open to the workings of the Holy Spirit. How do we stand with regard to rubbish and to Jesus? Where do we want to be? Are we getting there? Who will guide us there?
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