Peter and Paul Sitting in a Tree

Text: Galatians 2:15-21

On the city streets you overhear things you probably should not. The other day someone walked by the front of the house talking on her cell phone. She was explaining to her friend that she was planning to break up with her fiance. But it was secret. She didn’t want anyone to know. Just her best friend. Plus, it turns out, everyone who lives on Tremont Street between Hampshire and Cambridge.

The odd things about these overheard conversations is that you only hear the one part. Tremont Street only heard half the argument. We had to figure out, if we cared to, what her friend was saying in response.

This text from Galatians is a little like that. Paul is the woman with the cell phone. Peter is the best friend on the other end whose comments we do not hear. The future of the church is the topic of conversation. Paul is afraid, it seems, that Peter is reneging on a deal: what the church is and who is part of it.

I’ll talk more about their argument in a minute. But like most arguments, the speakers use a kind of shorthand. A special vocabulary that both understand. Paul and Peter, for all their disagreements, share a view of things. They both agree that God has a place in the life of the world, that God is active in the lives of people, that God knows and cares about what people do. They both agree that it is good to receive God’s blessings, and that whether you do or not makes a big difference in your life. They are both Jews like Jesus. They know of God and God’s history with God’s people.

Paul and Peter agree that it is possible to be out of sorts with God. In fact, being out of sorts is the plight of humans. It is the feeling we have that things are not going the way they should be. That the world is in distress. That we cannot quite get on top of things. That things that ought to be smooth turn out to be rough and gritty. That we do the wrong things and do not do the right things.

It is the nature of humans to suffer. At the same time, it is the nature of humans to desire blessing. Blessing is another word for God’s favor on us. Which is another way to say that we hope for good lives nourished by love and fellowship and filled with humor and beauty. Blessed lives.

Paul and Peter agree that sin keeps us from God’s favor. That is the definition of sin. Sin is that thing that keeps us apart from God. We and God are meant to be in a harmonious relationship. Sin is a break in that relationship. Sin is not some violation of the rules. But it is those things that we do that keep God’s blessings away.

Justification, the word used so often in today’s reading and throughout Paul’s writings and especially admired by Lutherans, is the restoration of our relationship with God—and the resulting blessings—that sin has broken. Paul and Peter agree about that, too. Justification is making things right. Reconciling things. It is exactly the kind of restoration you might enjoy if you patched up a broken relationship with your significant other. Who knows why the relationship soured? That’s not the issue. The issue is how to make things good again.

And about that, Paul and Peter do not agree. Paul says that making things right does not depend on something we have to do. No extra chores or sweet gifts will justify us. And they are not necessary. Peter says sometimes they are.

So Paul’s argument in brief goes like this:

1. People are estranged from God. Things are clearly not right with the world, and things are often not right with us.

2. Jesus came to reconcile us with God, to fix that estrangement. To bring us peace with God and with one another. How that works is unstated.

3. The law—the commandments given at Sinai and later embellished somewhat—had guided people in right ways, but they are not essential. The law is not necessary in regards to being aligned with God. No one, Paul says, will be justified by the works of law.

4. Therefore: anyone, not just those who have been given the gift of the law, can be reconciled or justified. Gentiles are, too. It is the faith of Christ—which is what Paul says, not our belief in Christ—the faith of Christ that is critical.

What Christ does, not what we do. Our significant other welcomes us back just because. Not because of what we do but because of what he or she does—which is to forgive us and embrace us. That is what grace means—loving for no good reason.

Paul’s particular complaint about Peter, is this: Peter refuses to eat with Gentiles. The law forbids it. By refusing he shows that he is honoring the law. He is putting the law ahead of his fellowship with other Christians. His actions create two classes of people. Paul thinks that Peter really thinks that there might just be a few little things that people must actually do to be OK with God.

The little things in this case are especially those things that preserve the boundaries between Jews and Gentiles. But Paul says to Peter: the boundaries between Jew and Gentile are no longer operative. There is no longer Jew or Greek, slave or free, male or female. The separation that evidently seems so important to Peter—and similar separations between people that we now days consider important—is as nothing to God.

It is not that Paul necessarily likes Gentiles. He might not. But Paul’s likes or dislikes—no matter how heartfelt and even sensible—are not germane. Nor are ours.

The gospel of Jesus Christ includes all people by its nature, according to Paul. The church is inclusive not because it is nice to include people. It is fundamental to Christ. If we say there is any item by which we can exclude people from the community of the faithful, then by saying so we are saying that that item counts with God. But only Christ is essential. To put such boundaries between people is therefore to deny the power of Christ. Peter, says Paul, is doing that.

That’s his argument.

Perhaps this argument seems to you to turn on a fine point. Are Peter and Paul so far apart? In one sense, no. They agree on most things. In another sense, absolutely. They disagree on something fundamental.

Paul, unlike Peter, sees sin to be whatever is “all about me.” Sin comes from putting yourself at the center of the universe. Or to be less grand, at the center of your life. Preserving, nourishing, and caring for yourself first. Me first. Even when you are generous and charitable and compassionate, in the end it is what you do that is important. And in your relationship with God, what you do is important, too.

Paul denies this. He says that his center, his self, has died. In its place Jesus now lives in him. “It is no longer I who live, but it is Christ who lives in me.” For Paul, there is nothing he can do to fix things up with God because Paul is gone. Jesus rules Paul’s life. Paul reaches the harmony and peace that he wants by losing himself.

Peter—we are guessing, because he is on the other end of the phone conversation—Peter preserves himself. Peter says that while it might not all be about him, some of it is. The stuff we talked about earlier.

It is short work to go from “all about me” to “all about us.” As soon as there is something we do that we think God values, we begin to worry about people who do not do it. Whether “do it” means some action, or holding some belief, or having some special background or characteristic, or not. If it is something about me that brings God’s blessing to me, and you don’t have or do that thing, then you will not be blessed. You. And then: you all. And from there, sadly, some go to “you are anti-blessed”—that is, condemned. It is a slippery slope. Paul will have none of it.

Paul’s life—and to be fair, Peter’s too—was a life that struggled to be self-less. It is what Paul saw in Jesus’ willing death, and what in Jesus Paul himself wished to be. He was not always successful, as none of us are. But he created new Christian gatherings and nurtured them by saying over and over: Not “me first,” but God first, community first, service first. Me last.

Galatians is often described as Paul’s treatise on Christian freedom. Perhaps so. What we gain by losing ourselves is freedom. But not so much freedom from the law, as usually proclaimed. Not freedom from rules and codes. It is freedom from the need and effort to bless ourselves.

It is not easy to deny yourself and trust in God. Such trust is fragile and requires constant mending. As Paul says, we live, after all, in the flesh. But he also reminds us that we are, thankfully, mended not by our own skills with spiritual needle and thread, but by God’s grace. From which all blessings flow.

Thanks be to God.

Giving Up

Text: 1 Kings 17:8-24

Perhaps you see this story in Kings as a story about power. If so, you would not be alone. The Bible makes lots of people think about power. A lot of the stories in it talk plainly about power. God is powerful. God’s power helps people be powerful. The power of the righteous is greater than the power of the unrighteous. Good is more powerful than evil. Even when it seems that evil is powerful, it turns out that good is more powerful. As in the story of the passion. Paul writes about the power of sin and the power of being baptized into the resurrected Christ. The people whose scripture is the Bible believe that in the end the power of God overwhelms and fills the universe.

All this talk of power makes some people squeamish. We modern types are not thrilled about talking about acting powerful or being acted on by someone else who is powerful. Though we do it—sometimes do act powerfully and we sometimes are jerked around by powerful others—we do not like talking about it. That is, we would prefer to think of ourselves as both humble and at the same time in control.

In the story of Elijah and the widow, there is a lot of ordering and demanding. God makes demands on Elijah. God makes demands on the widow, Elijah makes demands on the widow. The widow is pretty much at the end of the chain as well as being at the end of her rope. We might ask whether the demands on her are just and loving or exploitative and cruel. Some weird things happen here. One is that after the widow tells Elijah that she has nearly nothing and is about to die by means of despair, Elijah says to her, That’s fine. Go ahead and do that. But before you do, make me some food and serve it to me. And the widow does. Elijah has nothing. The woman has nothing. But even so, this is not a fair transaction among equals. So it is not a great story for those who feel that the world runs—politically, economically, or emotionally—on rational exchange between willing agents.

It is also not a great story for those feel that the way to safety and riches is by making sure that things go right. Making sure. That is, by taking and keeping control of things. This is not a good story for people—I’m one of them—who double check, figure out, and plan carefully. And then worry and fret about whether it will all work out. And perhaps it is not a good story for those who actually are in control—more or less—because they do live lives of abundance. None of those things describe the life of the widow of Zarepthath.

The story proceeds through a series of offers. Though they sound like commands (or demands, as I said), they leave open the chance that they will be disobeyed or refused. Elijah, who has already tried to hide away from God, could have tried to again. And the widow could have sent Elijah packing—which is probably what most of us would have done.

The offers to the woman, though, are made with the arrogance that goes with compassion. A sense that what I’m demanding is better for you. It puts us off, even if it is true. And it puts us off because the person making the offer does it from the position of power. Elijah has the power to feed the woman and her son indefinitely in exchange for just a wee bit of cake now.

The woman accepts the offer and does as Elijah said. It is not clear why. Perhaps she does it out of hope for food from the prophet. Perhaps she does it out of despair—why not, what else can she do? Or perhaps she does it because Elijah has distracted her from her troubles. As a parent might a child: go ahead and run away from home, but first how about a little soup and grilled cheese?

In all these stories today—the two episodes from Kings and the raising of the dead son in the Gospel of Luke—someone invites someone to do some thing. Elijah or Jesus. It sounds like a command. Give me some cake. Give me your son. Rise up. But it is a proposal, a proposition. And in all the stories, the offer is accepted.

In all the stories, the offer is the same: You have nothing. It is the end of the line. No food. No breath. I will give you plenty. Where there is no food, I will give you abundant food, unending. Where there is no breath, I will give you abundant breath, unending.

This is the conviction of our faith. Where there is sadness, God brings joy. Where there is fear, God brings peace. Where there is death, God brings life. Unending.

Is it necessary—I want to know this—is it necessary that to accept God’s offer of abundance that we must have nothing? Or must we purposely let go of everything first in order to accept? And if so, can we? Is this what Paul means in Romans when he talks about dying to sin?

We know that in those moments when things seem darkest that we are most open to listening for suggestions from God. When we are at wits end, or have suffered greatly, or can hardly move from our house because of fear. It seems at those moments that we have nothing. We know that our desire to “make sure” will be unrequited. That moment, when we realize that—that we are powerless—that moment is the bottom by definition. That is what the bottom is. It is as low as we need to go. We give up to God because there is nothing more for us to keep.

Can we do this without hitting bottom? It seems that God’s offer of abundant life is actually always open. But it remains just an offer—it remains unconsummated—as long as we want to keep our power. Can we become powerless enough to accept it? Is it even possible to just let things go by act of will? Isn’t that an oxymoron? Those who wish to save their life must lose it, Jesus taught us. The disciplines of our faith—prayer, song, sacraments taken in humility, serving others—are tools, tactics, techniques for giving ourselves away.

We all find ourselves in trouble sometime or other, some way or other. Then what? What happens then? To which horse do we hitch our wagon to get us out and on? Do we rely on ourselves and our attachments—things, friends, skills, attitudes, privileges, and energy—to make things go right? In that case, we have to ask ourselves: how has that worked for me so far? Are things going the way I want them to? Will a little adjustment here or there fix things right up? Or do we let go, saying to God: I cannot do this by myself. Things are out of control. I do not have the power. In that case, we have to ask ourselves whether I trust God when God says to us: Give me your self.

In his ministry, Jesus makes two kinds of promises. The first is that in giving yourself to God you get abundant life. Which includes sustenance and joy and peace and life. And the second is that Jesus shows us the way to do that.

God is powerful. We follow the way of Jesus not to take on the power of God for ourselves, but to be able to let go of our own claims for power in the light of God’s.