1
Corinthians 1:18-25
Lent
3
March
4, 2018
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. For it is written, ‘I will
destroy the wisdom of the wise, and the discernment of the discerning
I will thwart.’ 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? 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. For Jews demand signs
and Greeks desire wisdom, but we
proclaim Christ crucified, a stumbling-block to Jews and foolishness to
Gentiles, but to those who are the
called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God. For God’s foolishness is wiser than
human wisdom, and God’s weakness is stronger than human strength.
Years ago, a church in New England observed its
300th anniversary. The well-starched congregation set about to
celebrate in fine style. They scheduled special speakers, had a big party, and,
as you might expect, dug into their own history.
It’s amazing what you can discover when you
poke around in your own archives. According to the local historian of that
church, the sanctuary had extensive repairs in the year 1831. When the building
was shored up, they added a steeple with a bell. Then something extraordinary
happened. The historian writes: “When the steeple was added, one agile Lyman
Woodard stood on his head in the belfry with his feet toward heaven.”
These days, nobody knows who Lyman Woodard was.
There are no other stories about him, no other reports of curious behavior. All
that exists is that he stood on his head. The act was counter to New England
prudence and practicality. It was a crazy, goofy thing to do. And it was
curious enough to be written down in perpetuity for the local church’s
archives.
But for anybody who has really received the
Christian faith, it wasn’t curious at all. There’s something about our faith
that seems upside down.
In the history books of Israel, there are
accounts of the younger son being chosen before the older brother. Or the last
brother in line, the little one, selected to rule over the others. Or, in the
words of the prophet Micah, “From you, O little town of Bethlehem,
insignificant and almost forgotten, will come the Messiah.”
When Jesus arrives, he continues the
upside-down nature of faith. In his stories as in his teachings, the last
becomes first and the first is last. The weak are strong, and the powerful are
removed from their thrones.
And as the apostle Paul reflects to the early
Christian believers, the wisdom of God looks like foolishness to the world. The
weakness of Christ is our strength.
He’s speaking specifically of the cross. Paul is
aware the power of the cross is completely upside down to the average person
who doesn’t know anything else about it.
I’m not sure what the people of Corinth knew
about crucifixion. The only crucifixions that I’ve heard about were in ancient
Israel. The Roman Empire executed those who were deemed troublemakers in the
most brutal and public way. They rounded up the thieves, the abusers, and the
insurrectionists. After roughing them up in broad daylight, they nailed them to
wood and hung them by the highways. The message was clear: “Don’t let this
happen to you.” The empire thought they needed to do that in Israel.
In the Greek city of Corinth, across the
Mediterranean Sea, we don’t know how many troublemakers ended up on crosses. Corinth
was a wealthy city, a seaport for global commerce, a crossroads for ideas. It
was cosmopolitan enough to generally synch with the rest of the empire.
And here comes Paul, speaking of Jesus as the
savior of the world. What was the evidence of his power? What strength did he
reveal? Paul says, “He was put to death on a tree.” It’s upside down.
Jesus doesn’t come from the planet Krypton,
strong and mighty, with incredible powers. He was a first century woodcutter.
He blended in so thoroughly that his own brothers thought he lost his mind when
he began to preach and heal (Mark 3). It’s true that he got his orders from
somewhere else, but arguably any other Jew could have gotten the same orders if
they paid attention to their own Bible.
What distinguishes Jesus, especially for Paul,
is his death. He believes in the resurrection, too; he has encountered the
Risen Christ. Yet when Paul speaks of death and resurrection, he frequently condenses
the whole three-day Christian Passover by saying, “We preach Christ crucified.”
That, for him and for us, is the power of God.
It’s worth pondering: how is this power?
How is the cross the power of God?
Maybe it only makes sense when you’re standing
on your head. Christians profess Jesus is the Savior of the world, that he is
the Son of God. But he wasn’t born in a big city. His Nazareth parents were so
poor they couldn’t afford a lamb when they took him to the temple to be circumcised;
in fact, they had a purchase a couple of birds as an alternative. One of the first
potential followers of Jesus made fun of his hometown. And he died young, very
young, in the most shameful way in his culture.
If he was indeed the Son of God, then he intentionally
had to hold back on his power. He couldn’t show it all at once, not to mere
mortals, at least, because it would have blown all the circuits and burned out
the fuse box. Like God speaking to Moses, “If you were to see me face to face,
you would be incinerated.”
So, Christ holds back. Elsewhere Paul says, Jesus
“emptied himself,” that he chose to be a servant, that he gave himself for the
life of the world, that he did not come to intimidate or compel, but to invite,
to converse, to develop a relationship with us over time. If we were to see who
he is, all at once, it would be too much.
But we see enough of who he is, it awakens us
to the true shape of grace.
Let me say it straight: we killed the Son of
God, and God didn’t kill us. That’s the heart of the Good News; everything else
is commentary. We crucified Jesus and he didn’t strike back. He came back, but
he didn’t strike back. That teaches us that justice is not about retaliation.
Some might choose revenge; but God refrains…in mercy.
Now there are some people who look at the cross
and come up with elaborate theories about what happened in God’s heart and
mind. I’ll simply say there has always been a lot of speculation, as if a
preacher could know the heart and mind of God.
For instance: some might declare how God is
furious at the world because of all its sin. So, God demands payment for
trespassing on God’s holy turf. And seeing as no mere mortal could pay for all the
world’s sin, God sends his own Son to be the scapegoat, to bear the punishment that
we deserve – just like an Old Testament sacrificial lamb. Jesus takes our
place, and he gets what we deserve, and that after Jesus is killed, God
is happy again. And if you grew up chewing on the book of Leviticus, I suppose
you might come to that conclusion.
But let me point out the obvious: that we
are the ones who put Jesus on the cross. People just like us schemed, maneuvered,
condemned, and took up the hammer and nails.
Some speculate the cross was God’s will, that
it happened because God wanted it to happen, or God allowed it to happen, or
something like that. True enough, the cross of the Christ was the inevitable
clash between heaven and earth. But this the heart of the Gospel: heaven decided
not to punish earth for our sin of sins.
Salvation comes, but not from an angry God who
balances the cosmic books by killing off his own Son. Salvation comes from a
God of mercy who chooses to forgive the worst thing we could ever do. This God decides
punishment is not the way to win over a consistently clueless human race. This God
sends Jesus back (with scars) to preach peace between enemies, to proclaim a wider
inclusion of who actually belongs to God, and to invite those who trust the
Good News to advance this mercy as the primary act of divine justice.
The cross reveals the deep wisdom that God is
not interested in obliteration. God’s heart is all about search and rescue. This
is the shape of grace. And it’s best understood by those who need the grace.
Remember the stories of Jesus. Over and over,
who are the ones who come to him? The little ones, like the children and those
who become children all over again. Who else approaches him? The hurting ones, those
with weary bones and broken hearts. Or the ones who are so weak that their
friends must open a hole in the roof and lower them down. And don’t forget
those who are possessed by evil and wish to be free. They come, they see Jesus,
they find release.
Conversely, who are the ones who miss out on
Jesus? The list includes those who think they’re in charge of the world, or the
powerful and the well-connected, or the experts in religion who have God
figured out and therefore dismissed… and don’t forget that one poor man who was
so rich and had so many possessions that he just can’t unhook from all he has
to travel with Jesus.
Here is the larger truth: God shows divine
favor most clearly, not when we are strong, not when we are wise, but when we
have the greatest need. The wisdom that the world dismisses as foolishness is found
in the first and greatest Beatitude: “blessed are the poor in spirit.” Notice
who it says: not the rich and famous, not the tall and suave, not the strong
and self-assured – but those who actually need God. They are the ones who
discover that God is on the cross – and that God is also with them, in the ongoing
work of saving them and the world.
I have reached an age where I have begun
burying some of my friends. One of them will be remembered this afternoon at a
funeral downtown. Of all the words of tribute offered in her memory, one of the
elders of her church said it best: “Virginia led us without ever raising her
voice.” She never needed to shout or dominate to invite people to walk in God’s
way. How humble, how Christ-like!
But I think of another preacher, Julie Ruth
Harley. She was serving a church in suburban Chicago when she was diagnosed
with ALS, that fearsome disease that eventually took her life. The final sermon
she preached was on Christmas Eve. She spoke from a wheelchair, and she was
thinking about Jesus. Listen:
What are we to make of this God, who comes
to us, swaddled and helpless, lying in a manger? Isn’t this the last place we
would expect to find God? I’ve thought about God in a new way during the last
several weeks since I learned I have ALS, or Lou Gehrig’s disease. My body is
rapidly regressing, and I am beginning to take on the characteristics of a
small child.
Why does God choose vulnerability rather
than strength? Why does God choose dependence rather than autonomy? Why does
God choose to come as a child who cannot walk or talk? I have come to the
conclusion that the Word becomes flesh in a body like mine, which is so weak it
must be rolled to this church in a wheelchair.
I thought I was glorifying God when I was
at the height of my physical powers – competing in a triathlon or hiking up a
mountain. But perhaps the message of Christmas is that God is glorified just as
fully when I allow others to take care of me.[1]
Do you hear the mercy? She didn’t have to be
strong, because she is saved by a Savior who is stronger than her. And the
evidence of that Savior’s strength was in his vulnerability.
This is a deep mystery. The Savior of the World
would be the One on the cross. Does that make any sense to you? I hope so. And
if not, you may need to stand on your head.
(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
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