October 2 - Proper 22, Year A (RCL)
We Episcopalians
have a tradition.
It’s the tradition
of following a prescribed set of readings
each Sunday,
a set that includes readings from the Old Testament, the New Testament, and the gospels.
The lectionary is provided for us
near the back of the prayer book,
and it directs us to readings for every Sunday of the year,
on a three year cycle.
In Year A we read the great stories of Genesis and Exodus,
some epistles,
and the gospel of Matthew.
In Year B we read the stories of the kings of Israel and the wisdom writings,
some more epistles,
and the gospel of Mark.
And in Year C we read the prophets,
yet more epistles,
and the gospel of Luke.
And parts of the gospel of John and the book of Acts
are squeezed into all of the years.
Reading the bible like this
means that we get the sweep of the story of the people of God,
the overall shape
and the essential core of it.
We’re not alone in doing this.
Eleven other denominations in the US follow this lectionary,
although not all of them require churches to use it in the way that we do,
along with Christians throughout the world,
and Roman Catholics use a lectionary
that is pretty similar.
One of the things about the Sunday lectionary
is that because we only come together once a week
and our time here is limited,
they have to pick and choose
what the most important words are
for us to hear,
the things
that are essential for us
to catch the vision, the essence
of this faith of ours.
Most of the time,
they do a pretty good job of it.
But sometimes, sometimes
the place they choose to begin or end our readings
makes a substantial difference to the way
we hear them.
Cut adrift from their context
the words seem to make no sense,
or at least
convey something quite different
to what their writer
originally intended.
And today, in our epistle reading, it’s one of those days.
The way we read it this morning, the apostle Paul says,
If anyone else has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless.
Putting it simply,
Paul
is boasting.
He’s telling us
how wonderful he is.
He has the right pedigree, at least in religious terms,
the sort of thing that would entitle him to be a leader,
even a ruler,
among the people of God.
Now he goes on to say,
that he doesn’t consider those things important
in the grand scheme of things,
that relative to his faith in Christ
they aren’t really important,
but you can’t help but think when you hear him,
that he’s protesting
just a little too much,
and deep down
he really wants us to know and respect him
for his religious pedigree.
But that all changes
when you read it
in the context he originally wrote it in,
when you go back a couple of verses
before the lectionary told us to begin.
He starts this whole section of the letter to the Philippians,
this second half, with the words,
“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord.”
So the whole focus
is on celebrating
in the context
of our faith in Jesus Christ.
And then he warns the Philippians
against people who might get in the way of their rejoicing,
who might lead them astray
from celebrating
the good news of God in Christ.
And the particular people he’s concerned about
are the ones who say
that you have to be circumcised
to be a real follower of Jesus.
Now remember,
the Philippians
live in Greece. Some of them are probably Jews who’ve moved there
for business,
but others
are converts from other religions.
And while the Jewish men
were circumcised when they were born,
the others
weren’t.
And Jesus, when he told the apostles to go make disciples
didn’t tell them
to circumcise them;
no, he told them to baptize them.
And in case we were in any doubt,
remember the time the centurion came and asked Jesus to heal his servant?
Jesus
didn’t say, no, because you’re not circumcised;
he praised the man’s faith,
and sent him home, where the man found his servant
healed.
Paul is clear.
No matter what anyone else is saying,
whether you are circumcised or not
doesn’t make any difference
to Christ.
All that matters
is your faith.
And then he goes on
with the words that we read at the beginning of our lectionary reading.
If anyone else has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more: circumcised on the eighth day, a member of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew born of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless.
All that stuff
that sounds like he’s boasting, it’s not something to be proud of - it’s something to be ashamed of!
Because until Paul met Jesus
on the Damascus Road,
he had all the right credentials -
all except the one that really mattered.
Faith.
And as far as he’s concerned,
he might as well write off
all the rest. In fact, not just write it off
but actively reject it.
Because all those credentials
actually got in the way of him
meeting God in Christ.
Because he could check all the boxes
he didn’t think God
had anything new to show him.
He was convinced
that what he knew
was the fullness of God’s revelation,
and anything or anyone who presumed to find God
outside of those traditional boundaries
was a heretic
and must be stopped
at all costs.
That’s how Paul ended up
persecuting the first Christians,
and it was only the sheer nerve of God
confronting him on the Damascus Road
and temporarily blinding him
that finally got his attention
and turned him to Christ.
And now, now Paul can’t imagine life without Christ.
It’s the best thing
he’s ever done -
actually the best thing
that God
has ever done.
And because God
reached out to Paul - not because of, but in spite of
his qualifications,
because God reached out to Paul,
Paul can thing of nothing more important
than reaching back to God,
with all of his strength
and all of his life.
So what about us?
I don’t, you might be surprised to know,
I don’t, on a typical day,
hear people say, well I’m circumcised
and so God better pay attention.
But occasionally, just occasionally, I do hear other things a bit like it. Usually not from someone’s own mouth,
but from someone else describing them.
Things like
“Well, you know, they’ve been members for fifty years”
or
“They’re cradle Episcopalians - they should know”
or
“They worked so hard for the church”
or
“Their family were founding members”
or
“They’re the most generous.”
And usually what the person speaking is suggesting
is that those other people
should somehow get some sort of free pass
with God.
That they’ve earned it.
But think about it for a minute.
The heart of our faith
is that Jesus died for us.
Is there anything you could do
that would earn you the right
to have someone
give up their life for you?
Is there anything you could do
to make
God
owe you?
I don’t think so.
If you went to church ten times, would God owe you then?
Or twenty, or fifty, or even ten thousand?
If you gave a hundred dollars, would God owe you then?
Or a thousand, or ten thousand, or a million?
If you bought a series of grave plots, enough for your great great grandchildren, would God owe them?
What’s the number
that would tip you over
into God owing you?
It’s a silly question; it makes no sense.
The God who has given us life,
and who has given us new life in Jesus Christ, how could God
ever owe us?
God doesn’t owe us,
but God invites us, God invites us, constantly, relentlessly,
to follow him.
God reaches out to us,
and invites us
to reach back, and to rejoice, to enjoy
the grace God gives us in Jesus Christ.
© Raewynne J. Whiteley 2010