Paul
here. I know, I know--it's been a while.
But in my defense, it's really nice up on Cloud Fifteen. Had to leave Cloud Nine . . . It got too crowded
with those rowdy Cappadocian boys, and at least on fifteen we don’t have any 70 virgins like some other clouds I could mention . . . Anyway, I’m here now, and for
some reason, I feel compelled to explain in this
letter one of the more underrated passages in that other
letter, the one you call the Second letter to the Corinthians, though it
was more like the two-hundred and second
letter. Those people needed a lot of letters.
The
thing you have to understand about the Corinthians is that they were one arrogant
bunch. Growing up in that city made them that way: it was situated on an isthmus overlooking two gulfs. And because of this, it was a rich city, an economic trade-center and
a power-broker for much of the Mediterranean world. I remember the first time I entered it, right
before I started the church: the first thing I saw was the Temple to Apollo,
which wouldn’t have bothered me so much, except what came along with it was the slavish worship of athletes, whose pictures sold
everything from razor blades to under-cloaks. (Speaking of razor blades, I just
love those Gillette Mach 3’s, and
that Rogain . . . well, let’s just
say I get a lot less burnt on the old noggin.)
Anyway. Not long after I set up my church there, pride
started to get the best of some of its members, and they started to play those
little power-games that they play in churches.
You know, some group or another within the church gets protective of its
turf, that sort of thing. And, oh yes, the people with money, who
didn’t have to work as hard as some of the ores, would arrive early for the communion
suppers and eat up all the good stuff, and they thought that just because they
gave more money, they’d have more influence.
I tell you, working with the Corinthians made me understand just exactly what Jesus meant by the camel
and the eye of the needle.
After
things had been quiet for a year or two after my first letter, some
“super-apostles” show up and I swear: do those guys just follow me around
wherever I go, teaching against me? First
the Galatians and now this . . . Talk about a thorn in the side . . . they show
up, preaching some kind of prosperity doctrine or something, about how we’re
already justified, already saved, so we can do anything we want, and I know that’s not how it is . . . And what’s worse, they’re boasting about all their mystical and
spiritual experiences to back it all up.
And you know how I feel about
bragging . . . Didn’t I say that if I boast, I boast in the Lord? Didn’t I? I thought it was pretty clear . . . if you
must boast, boast in God, ‘cause everything we do, everything we have comes from him, not from us, so how
can we boast of something someone else has
done?
Ok,
Paul just take a few deep breaths . . . There . . . That’s better. The new people apparently didn’t get the memo about it all, ‘cause there they
were, boasting about their “revelatory, mystical experiences,” as if they had
cornered the market on these things,
and from what I had heard, it was working, they were driving a wedge between
the congregation I’d begun and me. And
the thing was, I’d had mystical experiences too, when the gospel was revealed
to me fourteen years earlier, but I hadn’t talked about them, ‘cause what good
would it have done? Would it have advanced
the Gospel one iota? I don’t think so . . .
But
it was becoming clear that I had to say something,
lest all the the trust and authority I’d carefully built up over the years
be in vain. And I hate boasting and had wasted a lot of ink saying so. So I did something kind of silly: I put it as
having happened to some other guy,
like the patient of some shrink trying to pretend it’s some other guy who likes to dress up like a
chicken and lay fake eggs. (And yes, we
have shrinks on Cloud Fifteen: we have to with all the Baptists . . . did you
know they think everyone has to believe just
like them to be saved? Crazy . . .)
Anyway, I coyly say “I know this . . . man . . . who was taken up to the third
heaven (that’s the place we all thought was closest to the inner sanctum. Boy were we wrong about that!). I know a man who was
taken up to the third heaven—whether in or out of his body, I don’t know, but God knows—and I know that this person—whether in or out of his
body, I don’t know, but God knows—was caught up into paradise and told secrets so secret that he couldn’t utter a word
of it to anybody else.” And note that I
repeated the bit about whether in his own body or out of it in proper rhetorical
fashion, ‘cause it’s important: I wanted them to know that this “man” was just
a tool, he had no control over the matter whatsoever, God was completely in
charge, so how could he be boasting when telling about it? Of course, anybody with the intelligence of
an earthworm would know I was talking about myself, maybe even the “super-apostles”
would get it. And though I didn’t want
to let them in on what actually happened—it was too personal and, frankly, none
of their business—it did serve to let
them know that it had happened. (This
was years before Luke claimed it
happened on the Damascus Road, getting most of the details wrong in the process.) And I concluded my report by saying “on
behalf of a guy like this I’ll boast
but as for myself, I’ll not boast except of my weaknesses.”
You
can see how clever I was being, can’t you?
At the same time I’d shown that I had the kind of visions the “super-apostles”
are nattering on about, and how little I thought
of them, how little value they really are when the rubber meets the
road. In fact, far from being signs that
I was some super-man, some super-Christian,
they were signs of my weakness. And could I
help it if they concluded that they were signs of weakness in the “super-apostles?” Of course, any cleverness I show comes from God, so I’m not boasting
about it, you understand . . .
But
if I were to boast, I could, I
wouldn’t be a fool, I wouldn’t be lying, but I won’t, so that no one may think better of me than what is seen in me or heard
from me. Actions speak louder than words,
even words as exceptional as the revelations I received on that trip to
Paradise . . . revelations so remarkable
that to keep me from being too
elated, to keep me from getting a big head,
a thorn was given me in the flesh, a messenger of Satan to torment me, to keep me
from being too elated. Or so I thought
at the time . . .
And
over the years, I’ve heard all kinds
of speculation about this thorn. It’s
managed to keep us all amused up on
Cloud Fifteen . . . We even have a pool going on when somebody’s going to
figure it out. (I have next November, by
the way.). Over the centuries, whole forests
of paper have been sacrificed speculating about it, but nobody has managed to get
it . . . the most popular opinion, because
biblical scholars have dirty minds, is that it was something to do with sex. Maybe I had some kind of problem with women, the theory goes, somebody's even
speculated I was gay. No that there’s
anything wrong with that, you
understand . . . Others speculate I had some kind physical defect or another—not debilitating one, you understand, or I
couldn’t have stomped around the Middle East planting all those churches—but some kind, maybe bad eyes or body odor
or something. Finally, I’ve heard that
the thorn referred to all my opponents, like those blasted “super-apostles”
themselves, or all those morons that flogged and imprisoned and stoned me . . .
But it’s none of those things, though one is in the ballpark . . . And I’m not
going to tell you what it was, because,
once again, it's none of your business.
Anyway,
back in the day, I thought that God had, kind of like with Job, allowed Satan
to give me this affliction to keep me from getting a swelled head. See, in those days, we thought everything—good, bad and indifferent—came
from God. Now, of course, we know
better, we know that, basically, stuff happens, and that God is not the author
of it all . . . But back then, I was anguished about it, it drove me crazy, embarrassed me, even, and I
prayed to God three times about it,
asking him—like Jesus did himself—to take it away, but God wouldn’t. But I did
get an answer of sorts, and it blew me away: “My grace is sufficient for you,
for power is made perfect in weakness . . .”
power is made perfect in
weakness . . . what a blow—I didn’t like suffering any better than anyone else,
and if anyone thought this trip to the third Heaven made me into some kind of uber-Christian, some kind of spiritual
giant, that should’ve disabused them of the notion . . . I get afflicted just
like the best of them, just like the worst
of them. Just like everyone, really. And now I know that God doesn’t bring
affliction, God doesn’t want our
pain, but God can help use it for good . . .
Well. I’ll bet you're wondering “why us?” Why did you choose to write your letter to
us, to Greenhills Community Church, Presbyterian? Why not Christ Cathedral or St. Peter in
Chains, why not the National Cathedral in Washington D.C? Well, to that I say: why not? Why not GCCP? You’re certainly no less deserving of it than
those big, rich churches . . . And besides, it's not about deserving, grace never is . . . It's also not about power, or pride
of place—if it were, Jesus would’ve been born in the Emperor’s palace instead
of some stable, surrounded by smelly cows and goats and chickens.
It’s
about need, and all those rich and
powerful congregations already have all they need . . . I wrote this letter to
the small churches, to the faithful congregations that are wondering if there’s
a place for them in the world.
Congregations that are aging, shrinking, wondering if they’ll be around for very much longer. Do you all have that problem? Are you anxious about what’s going on? You are not the Lone Ranger, you know . . .
And
I wonder if you’ve ever thought about what God told me . . . power is made
perfect in weakness . . . not in
strength, not in huge congregations that invite presidents to speak, or world
leaders. Not in churches with thousands
of members that have golden endowments and senators in the pews. Power is made perfect in weakness. Remember:
God’s strength is weakness to the
world, and the world’s strength—numbers, fat endowments, multiple worship
services for every age—is weakness to God.
Sisters
and brothers, power is made perfect
in weakness . . . Every little group of faithful Christians has value, every
group has unique qualities to offer God.
You just have to figure out what they are, and what God wants you to do
with them. I know you are concerned about it, I know you’re anxious, but if
you’re open to it, if you’re truly seeking, truly listening to the moving of the Holy Spirit, God will show you the
way. I believe that, and I’ve been
around for more than a few years, you know.
Well,
I gotta go . . . I thank God for your faithful witness for so many years on the
corner of Winton and Cromwell. May God
bless you and keep you and make his face shine upon you all the days of your
lives. The Apostle Paul . . . out.
No comments:
Post a Comment