Learning the Secret

Philippians 4:10-20
October 29, 2023

William G. Carter

I rejoice in the Lord greatly that now at last you have revived your concern for me; indeed, you were concerned for me, but had no opportunity to show it. Not that I am referring to being in need; for I have learned to be content with whatever I have. I know what it is to have little, and I know what it is to have plenty. In any and all circumstances I have learned the secret of being well-fed and of going hungry, of having plenty and of being in need. I can do all things through him who strengthens me. In any case, it was kind of you to share my distress. You Philippians indeed know that in the early days of the gospel, when I left Macedonia, no church shared with me in the matter of giving and receiving, except you alone. For even when I was in Thessalonica, you sent me help for my needs more than once. Not that I seek the gift, but I seek the profit that accumulates to your account. I have been paid in full and have more than enough; I am fully satisfied, now that I have received from Epaphroditus the gifts you sent, a fragrant offering, a sacrifice acceptable and pleasing to God. And my God will fully satisfy every need of yours according to his riches in glory in Christ Jesus.  To our God and Father be glory forever and ever. Amen.

 

This fall, we have been working our way through Paul's letter to the Philippians. Today we get to the purpose for writing the letter. This is a thank you note – with a very long introduction. It’s taken a while for him to get to this. I don’t know why it takes so long to get to writing a thank you, but I will confess that it usually takes me far too long to acknowledge a gift.

Today that’s what we hear Paul doing. The Philippians sent him a large sum of money. It was delivered by Epaphroditus, who risked his life to get it to the apostle. And Paul wants to write to his donors to acknowledge the gift. But it’s a most unusual note. For one thing, it’s too long. A thank you note should be brief. Like this:

Dear Mr. and Mrs. Carter, Lucinda and I want to thank you for the toaster oven.

Of the seven toaster ovens we received at our wedding, we like yours most of all.

We appreciate your generosity. Sincerely yours, Mark.

Now, that's long enough. The note doesn't need to say anything more. They got the gift. That’s enough. But listen to Paul's letter. He goes on for two whole pages of stationery. And the tone is all wrong. He says, "I rejoice in the Lord that you finally revived your concern for me.” You thought of my again…finally. That word "finally" is harsh.

Fortunately, the ink is still wet, so Paul eases his tone. "Well, I knew you were concerned, but you didn't have an opportunity to show it. Yet I don't really need the gift," he continues. "I've learned to be content in every way." (This is supposed to be a thank-you note, if you missed that.

"I don't sit around my prison cell waiting for care packages to arrive. I know how to get by on very little. I know how to receive an abundance. Christ gives me the strength to handle whatever happens. Nevertheless, you were the only ones who remembered me. Of course, I didn't ask for the gift. (He doesn't back off, does he!) Even though I received it, you didn't really give it to me, you gave it to God."

Now what kind of note is this? If this is how the apostle says thank you, it’s no wonder why the Christians in Philippi were the only ones who ever sent him a gift. Most of the time Paul wouldn’t let anybody put a few dollars in his pocket. He told the church in Corinth, "I preach free of charge." That's not something I'd say. I have groceries to buy, a mortgage to pay, and obligations to meet. But that’s what Paul said to that other church.[1] But the church in Philippi was different. He thought of them as partners in the Gospel.

Even so, he seems awkward as he acknowledges the gift. He's not entirely comfortable. "No other church shared in the matter of giving and receiving," he says. "But I didn't seek the gift. I have more than enough. Yet your gift is a fragrant offering." Can you feel his awkwardness? Gifts can make us uncomfortable.

Years ago, I clipped an article by a man who wrote about his memories of Christmas. As a child, he began planning for the holiday in February. He scribbled out the next year's wish list before the winter snow melted off the ground. Each year he listed a full page of toys which he wanted more than anything else. Then he waited impatiently. When Christmas finally came, his joy erupted. Packages were ripped open. Wrapping paper and bows went flying in delight. What killed his happiness, he says, was the presence of his mother. She insisted he write thank-you notes for every gift received. As he put it,

Every present under our Christmas tree was just the visible tip of an iceberg of obligation. My mother tracked each package as meticulously as a U.P.S. driver, and her master list haunted my siblings and me for the rest of winter vacation. Bells would be ringing, snow would be falling, our friends would be sliding down our street on brand-new Flexible Flyers - and my sister, my brother, and I would be bent over tear-spattered sheets of stationery, whimpering.[2]

Receiving a gift can be an awkward moment because it is a significant moment. In the language of the New Testament, the occasion is so profound that the same word is used for both the giving and the receiving of a gift. The word is charis, which is usually translated "grace." The word can be translated as "gift." It can also be translated as "thanks." It doesn't matter if it's being given (gift) or being received (thanks). The whole exchange happens equally between the one who gives and the one who receives. At its best, both giver and receiver are marked by the same graciousness. 

There is no human occasion that more clearly reveals what God is doing in our hearts than the giving and the receiving of a gift. It is a tender moment. It is a demanding moment. It is a revelatory moment. That is, the way we receive a gift reveals who we are and what we're made of.

Now, there's no evidence that Paul was ungrateful. To the contrary, he told the Philippian people, "I thank my God whenever I think of you." (1:3) And he meant it. This is the most affectionate document in the whole New Testament. It could be that Paul is nervous how the gift may damage their relationship. Gifts can do that! Some gifts are given in such a way that they ruin the very thing they wish to establish.

Have you ever read the book Spoon River Anthology, by Edgar Lee Masters? It's a book of epitaphs from the people of the fictional town of Spoon River, Illinois. From the grave, the townspeople tell the truth about their lives. One woman, Constance Hately, reveals why her two adopted nieces grew up to despise her.

 

You praise my self-sacrifice, Spoon River,

In rearing Irene and Mary, Orphans of my older sister!

And you censure Irene and Mary for their contempt for me!

But praise not my self-sacrifice, and censure not their contempt;

I reared them, I cared for them, true enough! - -

But I poisoned my benefactions with constant reminders of their dependence.[3]

Aunt Constance said, "Girls, I took you in when your mother died. I never want you to forget it. As long as you live beneath my roof, as long as you sit at my table, I want you to remember that your very lives depend on me." Year after year, they grew to detest her . . . because of what she provided for them and how it was given.

All the more remarkable, then, that Paul thanks them for the gift, yet refuses to orbit around their generosity.

He says, "I know how to have a lot. I know how to have a little. In every occasion I have learned how to be content. I have been initiated into the secret." That's an unusual phrase: "I have been initiated into the secret." Paul doesn't explain it. He keeps it a secret. Yet I’ll bet some of us will understand what he's talking about.

Did you ever notice how some people never ask for a gift, and when they receive one, they are absolutely delighted and strangely free? And others receive a gift, and they are unsatisfied? The first group of people knows the secret, while the second group doesn't have a clue.

Did you ever notice how some people can give and give and give, and when somebody gives them something, it fills them with abundant joy? And then there are others who constantly give and give and give. Yet if someone should ever try to give them something, the giver is pushed away. Do you know why that happens? It's because they do not know the secret.

Any guess what the secret is? Paul never says, but I have a hunch. And if you promise to keep it a secret, I'll tell you what I think it is. It’s the secret that sets us free from having to possess a lot of things. It’s the secret that sets us free to receive a lot of things. It works both ways. In fact, I have met people who know their Bibles, yet totally miss the secret. Do you know what it is?

It’s the fundamental secret of the Christian life, the only secret that really matters, the one true piece of evidence that signifies that God in Christ is transforming your life. Here it is. The fundamental secret of the Christian life is gratitude. An attitude of gratitude.

"I can have a lot, or I can have a little. Either way, I'm grateful."

"I can receive the money, or I can live without the money. Either way, I'm grateful."

"I can appreciate the way you share my difficulties, or I can be content by myself.

  However life turns, my heart is full of gratitude. Christ is sufficient. " 

That's the secret. It’s rooted in our experience of the greater generosity of God. Anybody who knows it, embraces it, lives it, is free. Absolutely free.

Back in the heyday of the Reformation, the Geneva Catechism asked the question, "Should we be grateful to other people when they perform some service for us?" The answer: "Of course we should, precisely because God honors them by channeling through their hands the good things that flow to us from the inexhaustible fountain of his generosity. In this way he puts us in their debt, and he wants us to acknowledge it. Anyone, therefore, who does not show gratitude to other people betrays ingratitude to God as well."[4]

God has so arranged the world that we depend upon the gifts of others for our daily survival. Every breath of life, every heartbeat, every conscious thought is a gift. Every person we meet, every friend we make, every relationship that warms the heart and challenges the soul is a gift. Every opportunity to work, every meaningful task, every dollar earned is a gift. And the final work of God is not merely to fill our lives with good things, but to teach us to receive all things with gratitude.

 So let me say it: I am grateful for all of you. You make our ministry possible. Your sharing in the Gospel commitment moves mountains and nourishes bellies. You show the love to Christ in the commitments that you make and the songs that you sing. Most of all, God shows the generosity of heaven through you. I am grateful for your faith, your hope, and your love. So, I’ll never tire of saying thank you.

 (c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved,/

---

[1] 1 Corinthians 9:14-18.

[2] David Owen, "No Thanks," The New Yorker 18 December 1995: 128.

[3] Edgar Lee Masters, Spoon River Anthology (New York: Signet Classic, 1992) 10.

[4] Quoted in B. A. Gerrish, Grace and Gratitude (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993) 45.

We Go High

Philippians 4:1-9
October 22, 2023
William G. Carter

Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved. I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion, help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my co-workers, whose names are in the book of life.

 

Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.

 

Finally, beloved, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is pleasing, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things. Keep on doing the things that you have learned and received and heard and seen in me, and the God of peace will be with you.

Some of us are old enough to remember camp songs. I have never forgotten one. We gathered round the campfire as our song leader strummed three enthusiastic chords on the guitar. That’s all the song required. He paused and pointed a finger at one of the kids and said, "What are you thinking about?"      

"I'm thinking about school." So, they sang, "Thinking about school, school, school. Thinking about school, school, school..."

"How about you?" he said, pointing to a young lady. She blushed and said, "I'm thinking about boys." So, they sang, "Thinking about boys, boys, boys. Thinking about boys, boys, boys..."

"What about you?" as he pointed to somebody else. “Basketball." They sang, "Thinking about basketball, basketball, basketball . . ." That was the point of the song. Whatever was on their minds provided what they began to sing about.

Today we hear the apostle Paul break into singing. We know what's on his mind. He taps his tin cup on the bars of his prison cell and sings, "Thinking about joy, joy, joy. Thinking about joy, joy, joy...” Or to put it in his words, “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, Rejoice!"

This is one of striking details of his letter to the Philippians, Paul keeps talking, singing, and thinking about joy. It happens at least 12 times in the four short chapters of this document. Joy bubbles out of his soul, despite his circumstances.

And there are plenty of circumstances. Most likely, he's an old man near the end of his travels. He is a prisoner of the Empire, deprived of basic necessities, and separated from those he loved. There is troubling news from the small congregation that he loved so deeply. In his absence, rival evangelists had invaded the church. “Beware of those dogs,” he says. Not only that, but there’s also an argument in fellowship hall between Euodia and Syntyche, whoever they were. 

Yet rather abruptly Paul interrupts himself to sing, "Rejoice in the Lord always; again I say, Rejoice!"

We cannot escape the extraordinary character of the author of this letter. Pondering the uncertainty of his future, he speaks of freedom: "I can die, I can live, I can see you or stay away: yet in all circumstances, I am free." Addressing the cracks in the church’s unity, he quotes an old hymn: "Set your minds on Christ Jesus, who emptied himself for others." Last week, we heard Paul offer to scrap his own resume. "I'm willing to lose it all," he said, "if I might be found in Christ Jesus."

This is a most uncommon human being. He sings about joy. He encourages gentleness. He says, "Don't worry." Then he offers a benediction: "May the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, guard your feelings and your thoughts in Christ Jesus."

It would be sufficient to stop there, don't you think? Except Paul is a preacher. He has more to say, even after the benediction. No sooner does he say "Amen," than he goes on to say what's really on his mind... because he wants it to be on our minds, too. Let me paraphrase what he says:

Can you think of anything truthful? Anything honest?

Can you recall what is righteous? Remember what is pure?

Do you have a sense of what is lovely or reputable?

Can you imagine a virtuous action? Can you think of a good deed?

If so, wrap your brain around these things!"

At first, this sounds like a healthy dose of positive thinking. Look on the bright side. Keep your chin up. Turn that frown upside down - and all those familiar cliches. You can probably think of a few more. It’s a well-worn strategy to counter the negativity, and there’s so much of that. That toxic cloud can roll into any situation.

Somebody told me about going to a family reunion, the first reunion in a dozen years. The meal was tasty and a little bit fattening. The conversation was full of memories and laughter. But then the conversation moved on to the front porch and the family began to play a game. Bob said the game was called, “Ain’t it awful?” Maybe you’ve been privy to the game. It’s played by reciting a series of questions:

"Ain't it awful about Cousin Tom?"

"Ain't it awful about the steel plant closing down?"

“Ain’t it awful our new car turned out to be a lemon?”

Twenty minutes of that and all the pleasant feelings of the reunion had been snuffed out. “Ain’t it awful.” This is what was on their minds. Not the joy of being together, not the memories they shared, not the hopes common to every breathing soul, but a well-worn list of grumbles. Awful, indeed. 

When Paul addresses the Philippians, it sounds like he’s pointing over their heads, as if to say, “Look up!” He could complain as loudly as anyone but chooses not to do so. He could write to say, “Here in prison, the food is lousy, the bed is hard, the guards are brutal, the rules are oppressive, the people in charge are non-responsive. Ain’t it awful?” But he doesn’t go there. At least, not in this letter.

Some students of this letter believe Paul is appealing to the intellectual heritage of his listeners. If you’re from Philippi, you are ankle deep in the thinking of the great Greek philosophers. Plato, Aristotle, and the rest spent a lot of mental energy exploring the great virtues of the universe. “The truth is always dangling above our heads,” said Plato. Down here, all we see are dull shadows and thin representations. But if we pursue the truth, the real truth, it can free us from the mortal ills that come from being human.

No doubt, then, if a few of the Macedonian minds in Philippi nodded in agreement when the apostle appeals to the true, the honorable, the just and pure. “Isn’t that the intellectual quest for all of us?” they said. Don’t invest in the illusions of this shadow world. Look beyond them. Penetrate through them. Pursue the wisdom hidden from casual observers. Search for the truth.

Noble thoughts, to be sure. Except that the truth is precisely that the food is lousy, the bed is hard, the guards are brutal, and all the rest. And there’s precious little in Paul’s present circumstances that could be construed as commendable, excellent, or worthy of praise. Philosophical thinking can ease human pain only so much. I can say that with authenticity since I was a philosophy major in college. Plato was no help when I had a roommate who snored. Aristotle taught me nothing to improve my undergraduate love life.  

Certainly, Paul is raising his sights. At the end of each of his letters, he loves to give advice. That’s what he is doing here in chapter four. Earlier in the letter, he told his friends, “Don’t worry about me.” In the middle of the letter, he said, “Think about others, and not only about yourselves.” As he begins to sum up his thoughts, he reveals his own deep spiritual training. He won’t be sidetracked by the small stuff or the temporary difficulties. He will stay focused on the matters that count most.

This is good advice. What are you thinking about these days? Whatever occupies our spirits will shape who we are. If we lose a day watching mindless television shows, it does something to us – it takes something away. If we’re constantly tapping our phones, we risk losing connections to those at the dinner table. If all we do is worry, worry will shrink us.

By contrast, I remember a remarkable Presbyterian who brewed a cup of coffee and memorized three psalms every morning. That was his breakfast. That was his spiritual discipline. And he explained, “If I ever lose my memory, I want something else to be there.” A deep reservoir of scripture filled his mind.

Sometimes it happens by repetition without us realizing. The father of a friend did lose his memory. Alzheimer’s Disease erased his mental blackboard. But when the carolers came by at Christmas, he knew all the words to every carol and sang along. They had been engraved upon his soul by way of his mind.

His mind. Did you notice that Paul is always talking about the mind? He encourages his friends to “have the same mind.” He says his opponents “set their minds on earthly things.” Most important, Paul says, “Have the mind of Christ.” And that gives me a hunch about what is most on his own mind. What matters most to Paul is not Paul. As distracting as they might be, he is not fretting over his troubles. As much as he loves the Philippians, his favorite church, he does not think obsessively about them.

No, he has already told us: Christ Jesus is of “surpassing value.” There’s nobody more important than him. He is the One who is true, honorable, just, pure, pleasing, commendable, excellent, and worthy of praise. This is the One who did not regard equality with God as something be exploited, but emptied himself in service, giving himself for world in need. This is how Jesus thought. How he still thinks. There isn’t anything more excellent than that. Paul says, “If there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.” They will sustain your joy.

My first trip to Scranton was in the fall of 1986. The Presbyterians gathered in a big church downtown to welcome the Rev. Benjamin Weir as their guest. Ben and his wife Carol had served as mission workers in Lebanon. One day in Beirut, Ben was abducted by terrorists and kept in captivity. He was held as a prisoner for 16 months. Just like the apostle Paul.

We strained forward to listen to his story. At first, he admitted his fear, even his despair. Yet he held onto a verse from the book of Proverbs: “Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and do not rely on your own insight. In all your ways acknowledge (the Lord) and he will make straight your paths (3:5-6).” The more he recited that verse, the more he noticed in his cell.

• The chain that bound him to the radiator was a reminder that he was bound to Christ.
• The light bulb on a strand of wire resembled Michelangelo’s painting in the Sistine Chapel, of God reaching out to spark Adam with life.
• Two electrical outlets with plastic covers reminded him of the ears of God who hears our cries.
• Three pegs on the wall recalled the Holy Trinity.
• The French doors in his room were full of slats, almost too many to count, resembled the cloud of witnesses, those saints both living and dead who knew the faithfulness of God first-hand.

 On and on, his imagination kept spinning as he looked around the room, correlating common things with the virtues of a God who loves us. Sixteen months later, Ben Weir emerged mentally intact, spiritually fit, emotionally grounded. A reporter asked, "Rev. Weir, how did you survive sixteen months of captivity without falling apart?

 Ben answered, "I guess it depends on what you spend your days thinking about."

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

Who Do You Think You Are?

Philippians 3:4(b)-14
October 15, 2023
William G. Carter

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. Yet whatever gains I had, these I have come to regard as loss because of Christ. More than that, I regard everything as loss because of the surpassing value of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord. For his sake I have suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but one that comes through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God based on faith. I want to know Christ and the power of his resurrection and the sharing of his sufferings by becoming like him in his death, if somehow I may attain the resurrection from the dead. Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal; but I press on to make it my own, because Christ Jesus has made me his own. Beloved, I do not consider that I have made it my own; but this one thing I do: forgetting what lies behind and straining forward to what lies ahead, I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call of God in Christ Jesus.

Back in junior high school, the English teacher offered advice about writing. She said, "When you compose a paragraph, never use the word 'I' more than once." It's bad form. It leads to sloppy syntax. Most of all, it puts you in the center of attention, which is a problematic place to be. These days, this is counter-cultural counsel. In so many places around the neighborhood, there is an overemphasis on me, myself, and I. 

The advice about writing paragraphs was amplified when it came to personal correspondence. "When you write a letter,” she said, “never use the word 'I' more than once in the entire letter." You are corresponding. It’s two-sided communication, and your side must not come off as overbearing. When people open a letter from you, they don’t want to read, "I did this, I did that, I vacationed here, I ate a fabulous meal there.” This might be good advice if any of us compose a letter for the holidays, namely, “Don’t write the kind of Christmas letter that you wouldn’t want to receive. Me, myself, and I. It’s bad form.

The Apostle Paul didn't have Mrs. Davis for 8th grade English class. If he did, he wouldn't have written the paragraph we have heard today. Every sentence begins with the word "I. "I have confidence. I have more. I have gains. I have losses. I have suffered. I want to know. I press on." Every sentence, the I’s have it. If we didn't know better, Paul wants the spotlight on him.

Like the story that a preaching professor tells. After visiting a church to preach a sermon, he was chatting in the back of the sanctuary with a few people. A deacon was tidying up the pews. Her son was playing around her. He ran up and down the aisles, then around the chancel. Then he climbed up in the pulpit and - BOOM - discovered the microphone was still on. "Hey everybody!" he yelled. "I'm the preacher! Look at me! Look at me!" Somebody murmured to my friend, "I think we’ve heard that sermon before."

Paul says, "I have confidence. I have gains. I have losses." Look at me! And what do we see? Three things.

We see a man born with a lot of privileges, first off. He has been born into the chosen people of God. He didn’t choose his birthright. It was given to him as a gift. “Let me tell you about them,” he said. Born into the twelfth tribe of Israel, the tribe of Benjamin. His blood is one hundred percent Hebrew. Circumcised on the eighth day, received into the covenant as every Jewish son. He didn’t choose that, either. It was a gift, as any of us who are born with privileges.

Second, he has plenty of accomplishments. “Let me tell you about all the things I’ve gotten done in my life.” Went to the academy to study Scripture, memorized all the parts that a faithful believer needs to know. Taught to interpret the Bible, and defend the truth, and teach others how to live by the Word of God. “I spent a lot of time engraving the commandments of God onto my soul. I expended even more energy getting those commandments embodied in the way I live.” Paul says, “In every conceivable way, I have lived by the Book.”

He has privileges, first, and accomplishments, second. And third, do you know what those privileges and accomplishments are worth? Absolutely nothing. “Look at my garbage can,” he tells us. “I’ve thrown my privileges away. My accomplishments smell like the stuff you scrape from the bottom of your shoes.” It’s all gone. It has no value. Paul says, “I’ve thrown it all away”.   

Now, pause here a second and ask with me, what’s going on in this man? Perhaps it’s the fact he currently resides in a prison. Paul the Privileged Achiever is now the grizzled old man in Cell Block C. Stripped of his scholar’s robe, he wears the striped tunic of a convict. In addition to that Star of David he wore so proudly around his neck, there are shackles on his legs that are chained to the wall. What do all the privileges and accomplishments matter when you are a guest in the emperor’s dungeon? Not very much.

…Except he says he threw it all away. He regards his assets as “rubbish.” Hmm. Perhaps you noticed that I skipped over a description of one of his “accomplishments.” He puts it this way, “as to my zeal, I was a persecutor of the church.” That is, “I thought I was doing the right thing, and I was wrong.”   

This is the terrible truth of the man which lies close to all his bravado. Paul the Over Achiever and Super Believer had grown furious with some of his fellow Jews. They said the Messiah had come; he did not believe it. They said this man Jesus had been crucified; Paul knew what it says in his Bible, that anyone hung up on a tree is cursed by God. They said this cursed Jesus was alive again, and Paul said that cannot happen. With the conviction that came from his privileges and accomplishments, he decided to get rid of these Jesus Believers once and for all. Wipe them off the face of the earth!

You may remember what happened. Riding his way to the pogrom, a Bright Light blinded him. And the Bright Light spoke to say, “I am Jesus, whom you are persecuting.” Suddenly, all that Paul believed that he was, all that Paul had given years to accomplish, all of that did not matter very much. “I regard it all as loss,” he says, “in order that Christ Jesus would find me.” Lost and found.

I don’t know if you’ve ever lost it all. Or ever lost a good bit of what you had. It is not a pleasant experience. Those of us who have been through it say it tastes like chewing on charcoal. Everything you presumed, gone. Everything you worked for, falling through your fingers. Everything you thought was right, interrupted. Everything you believed was your strength, doesn’t count for much anymore. The loss can be traumatic.

Yet for Paul, this was the beginning of wisdom, holy wisdom. In losing everything, he found Christ. Or better stated, Christ found him. This is the truth of the Gospel: when everything you have is swept off the table, Jesus Christ is still there for you. With searing honesty, you can confess it’s not about the blessings and advantages that came from my birth; it’s about the holy and generous life to which Christ calls me. It’s not about the greatness of my personal achievements; it’s about the saving love of Christ who does for us what we cannot. He redeems us, a technical term referring to buying someone out of their slavery. In this case, slavery to themselves.

So, when Paul says to the Philippians, “I – I – I, he’s really saying Christ, Christ, Christ.” The overachiever gives up and lets God forgive him. That’s how can say, “Look at my incredible zeal – I was persecuting the church of God.” He puts it right out there, a continuing confession of how wrong he was, and how gracious God is. He comes to the conviction that what matters is not who we are, nor what we've done. No, what matters is the far-surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus rules over us with hands once punctured by our own nails.

That's the essence of the Gospel, of course, but it's still a tough pill to swallow. This is a high achievement town, full of generally good-hearted people who work hard and reach high. We push our children to do well, to step up, to climb the ladder. If they stumble or fall, we feel embarrassed and suffer in silence. I can’t count how many kids soar out of here, only to have their wax wings melt, perhaps transfer to a much lesser school, slip out of contact for a while, or worse.

Some time back, I reconnected with one of our confirmation graduates and asked, “What have you been up to?” She said, “Got out of rehab about six months ago. Opiates, needles.” Last thing I expected her to say, so I tried to shift gears quickly. She stopped me and said, “No, it’s OK, Rev. Really, it’s OK. I hit bottom, and for the first time in ten years, I got real. Couldn’t have gotten through it without Jesus and his grace.”

I paused, didn’t know what to say. I never do. She touched my arm. “For me, it’s day by day. Every day. And I feel alive like I didn’t before.” Now, there’s somebody who was lost but is found.

Charles Cousar, who taught New Testament at Columbia Seminary, says we are close to the true shape of the Christian life. When Paul says, “I want to know Christ,” Dr. Cousar says this is not a matter of acquiring information or developing a particular mindset. It’s not developing an imaginary friendship, nor engaging in a mystical vision, nor an ability to recount a lot of Bible stories. To “know Christ” is to affirm our whole lives are shaped by death and resurrection.[1] We lose what we once believed was our greatest strength. We gain in Christ what we can never achieve by ourselves. We die to our passions, our urges, our obsessions. We are raised by his grace.

It’s just like the early church and how they practiced the sacrament of baptism. Those baptized went down into the water, literally buried in the water. Then they were lifted up, reborn, renewed, and dressed in a new white gown to show that the powers of death had no dominion over them. Death and resurrection. Knowing Christ. It is the great mystery of our lives, lives that are woven by grace to the eternal life of Jesus.

Last year, we lost Frederick Buechner, the great spiritual writer. Long before his twilight years, he told us about his understanding of Christian experience: 

We find by losing. We hold fast by letting go. We become something new by ceasing to be something old. This seems to be close to the heart of the mystery. I know no more now than I ever did about the far side of death as the last letting-go of all, but I begin to know that I do not need to know and that I do not need to be afraid of not knowing. God knows. That is all that matters. Out of Nothing God creates Something. Out of the End (God) creates the Beginning … All's lost. All's found.[2]

“I want to know this,” says Paul. “I have lost what I once treasured and gained even more. I’ve had a taste of all of it, but not quite the whole thing. So, I press on. And the one thing I know: I make Christ Jesus my own because he has claimed me as his own.”

Who did I think I am? Can’t remember. Now I belong to Christ.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

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[1] Charles B. Cousar, A Theology of the Cross (Philadelphia: Fortress Press, 1990) 160-161.

[2] Frederick Buechner, "All's Lost - All's Found," A Room Called Remember (San Francisco: Harper & Row, 1984) 189-90.

Side By Side

Philippians 2:19-30
October 8, 2023
William G. Carter

I hope in the Lord Jesus to send Timothy to you soon, so that I may be cheered by news of you. I have no one like him who will be genuinely concerned for your welfare. All of them are seeking their own interests, not those of Jesus Christ. But Timothy’s worth you know, how like a son with a father he has served with me in the work of the gospel. I hope therefore to send him as soon as I see how things go with me; and I trust in the Lord that I will also come soon. 

Still, I think it necessary to send to you Epaphroditus—my brother and co-worker and fellow soldier, your messenger and minister to my need; for he has been longing for all of you, and has been distressed because you heard that he was ill. He was indeed so ill that he nearly died. But God had mercy on him, and not only on him but on me also, so that I would not have one sorrow after another. I am the more eager to send him, therefore, in order that you may rejoice at seeing him again, and that I may be less anxious. Welcome him then in the Lord with all joy, and honor such people, because he came close to death for the work of Christ, risking his life to make up for those services that you could not give me.

Let me begin by admitting an insider secret from my line of work: not every scripture text lends itself easily to a sermon. Maybe some of you think a preacher’s task is easy. Open the Bible and let the words fall out. Once in a while, that could happen. But not often. 

I like to work ahead. The second week in May, I start planning my sermons for the whole next year. By the first of June, the worship committee gets an Excel spreadsheet from me. There are titles and topics. The musicians begin picking their music. Two of our great volunteers start selecting some of the hymns. And I’ll say, “Oh, Philippians – we haven’t looked at that letter for a while. Let’s do that.”

And then in October I get to these two paragraphs in chapter two and wonder, “What was I thinking?” The text seemed so promising when I took an initial glance. At sermon writing time, that pleasant little text is sticking out its tongue, as if to say, “You aren’t getting anything out of me.”

When that happens, perhaps the preacher is not in a frame of mind to see what’s hiding in the text. Or maybe it will take a while to find something helpful to share. The Bible is infinitely interesting, but not always obviously so. Once in a while, hopeful on rare occasions, there simply isn’t much there.

For instance, you don’t hear me preach a lot of sermons from the book of Proverbs. Here is a proverb from Proverbs 15: “The eyes of the Lord are in every place, keeping watch on the evil and the good.” Can we get an eighteen-minute sermon out of that? Not sure. Proverbs are wise one-liners discerned from life experiences. They are conclusions, not stories. Put a proverb into the air and it will shut down conversation.

Or the opening two or three chapters of the Old Testament book of Numbers. Moses takes a census of the tribes of Israel. Perhaps you came to church today to learn there were 151,450 people in the camp of Reuben (Numbers 2:15), but I’m going to guess the people around you will start to slip out when we start reciting their names.

So, I am sure you were listening when I read today’s text. Paul is sharing the travel plans of two men we do not know. “I hope to send Timothy to you,” he says. “And I know you were worried about Epaphroditus. All of us were worried. He was in bad shape, almost didn’t make it. But he wants to return. I want him to go. And maybe I will get back to see all of you sometime.” That’s the text for today. Travel plans. Can you get a sermon out of that?

Next month, I have a church meeting at headquarters, so I am flying out to Louisville. As the plans developed, I learned I’d have a bit of free time. Two friends live out there, so I dropped them a note: “My flight gets in early. How about grabbing some lunch?”  Terry responded, “Sounds great. I will pick you up from the hotel and we will find something interesting to eat. Can’t wait to see you again.” Now, can anybody make a sermon out of that? I don’t know.

We are reminded once again that, before the letters of Paul were ever considered scripture, they were letters, handwritten notes to keep in touch, to share information, to express concern, to connect with one another. In the first century, nobody picked up the phone or logged on for a Zoom meeting. They didn’t send e-mails or text messages. They sent notes, usually with someone who was traveling in that direction.

Paul is in jail; Timothy is with him. Epaphroditus arrived with a letter from the Philippians. The journey almost killed him, but he had to get there. He was bringing a gift of money from the church to assist Paul. Today, Paul is writing to say he is sending Epaphroditus back home. As we will hear later in the letter, he wants to express his gratitude. “Thank you for the gift.” But is that all that’s going on? No, there’s more.

The longer I lingered over this little travelogue, the more I began to notice. “I hope in the Lord Jesus to send Timothy to you,” Paul says. “There’s nobody else like him. He cares about all of you – and I love him like a son.” Now, that is interesting, maybe. Love, concern, care – this is more than a simple itinerary. This is a note from a Christian who is deeply connected to other Christians. He offers his heart to those people.

Think of the correspondence that we send and receive. It doesn’t always function at that level. Yesterday, I paid two bills and put them in the mail. Purely transactional. I didn’t tell the lawn mower repairman that I love him like a son. At the same time, the Fed Ex man delivered a set of Christmas cards that we created from a good picture of our family. The Fed Ex guy did not ask, “Can I wait here and take a look when you open the package?”

Take note of the subtle difference. Paul is connected – connected to his friends, connected to his fellow Christians. There is a deeper level of engagement. This letter is more than a letter.

Listen to what he calls Epaphroditus. Three words to describe his relationship: he is “my fellow soldier” for the Gospel, not a military term per se, but recognition that the two of them serve in the same spiritual battalion. They serve on the same team. They are united in the same purpose.

And then, Paul calls him, “my fellow worker.” The word is “synergos” – “syn” means “together,” like “synagogue,” the word for an assembly. And “ergos,” the word for work or energy. “We work together,” says the apostle, “side by side we serve.” There is no hierarchy here; the two of them are united in what they do. This is one of Paul’s favorite words for describing his companions.

And then, one of Paul’s favorite words of all: he is my “brother.” Even though they are not related by blood, there is a family bond between them. It is affection, but more than affection. They share in the life of Christ. They are bound to one another. They share the same work, but more than that, they share the same heart.

Let me pause to recognize what we are seeing here. What looked at first appearance as a rather dull segment of an ancient letter is revealing something far richer. These people are knit together in a web, a community, a system of relationships. Whatever they believe about God and Christ and Spirit is expressed in the way they are living with and for one another. Faith for them is not a bullet point list of ideas; it is a life lived with love and support. Faith is embodied by real people who show real concern for one another.

Have you seen it? Yes, and we know it when we see it. One of the remarkable gifts of our family of faith is the way we handle funerals. Maybe there are other churches that do what you do; all I know is what you do. We offer a luncheon, free of charge, for anybody who would find that helpful. No charge, no time limit, no shortage of home baked cakes and cookies. And there are plenty of volunteers to prepare, serve, and clean up. If the family wants to pay for the meal, it’s my job to say, “Thank you, but this meal is a gift for you and your loved ones.” If they insist, I suggest they contribute to the next meal for somebody else. Pay it forward, but under no obligation to do so.

And what happens? A church family feeds and eats together. Everybody is regarded as brother, sister, sibling, cousin, crazy uncle, whatever. Something happens in the shared experience that we cannot quite describe. Some of us don’t quite have the words for it – which means it is the work of the Holy Spirit. God is forging a new community out of people who used to be strangers. Christ is here, present somehow.

At one of the recent funeral luncheons, a family member pulled me aside to say, “I’ve never seen anything like this, especially in a church.” She was stunned by the high level of love and support that all of you showed her. She did not have the words. Neither do I.

But we have the apostle Paul’s words: “fellow soldier,” “synergos” – fellow worker, “brother” – “sister” – family. I tell you when we discover we are part of the household of faith, this is the work of God, Christ, Spirit, the Word, the Gospel. We can marvel at it. We can thank God for it. Most of all, we can stay at it and spread the love around.

I will say it again. The Gospel is not a list of ideas. It is faith embodied by real people. They translate the big words of grace, providence, justice, and compassion into specific acts of holy love. That is how the Gospel is work. And it is the power of God to transform the world.

Meanwhile, I return to where I began: not every Bible text opens up into a sermon. I wish that we the case, but we always must wait for the Spirit. Sometimes we have to sit with the Bible open, linger for a while, and hope that God says something. From experience, I can tell you that’s true.

And I will tell you what I also believe to be true: you may be the only sermon that some people ever see.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.