All Saints, Dorval
February 4, 2024
The 2013 PSU production of “Les Misérables”. Enjolras at centre.
For an obligation is laid on me, and woe to me if I do not proclaim the gospel!
Saint Paul was the greatest apostle and evangelist of all time; it is barely an exaggeration to say that without him, we would not have the Christian Church in any form that we would recognize as such.
So when we hear these words, it is tempting to think that they exist in an entirely different reality than the humdrum one we live in – a TV-worthy reality of shipwrecks, miracles, executions, and visions of God.
And when we get to the end of the reading, and Paul says, “I have become all things to all people, that I might by all means save some,” we could be forgiven for rolling our eyes and going, “Maybe you have, Paul, but I actually have boundaries and would like to get a good night’s sleep occasionally.”
But notice what actually appears on the list of identities that Paul claims for himself just before he makes the final sweeping statement. “To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to gain Jews.” And “to those under the law,” and “to those outside the law”, and “to the weak”.
Jew, under the law, outside the law, weak – these are all things that Paul already was. And yes, “under the law” and “outside the law” contradict each other – but it is a core part of Paul’s identity that he is simultaneously the most strictly observant Jew imaginable, and also the apostle to the Gentiles, having put his faith in being saved by the grace of Christ. For Paul specifically, there is no contradiction here. Paul doesn’t say he became a Gaul, or a Persian, or a woman, because that would be impossible. Rather, he’s highlighting the different aspects of his own personality and experience that he has leaned into, has exaggerated, in order to reach those who share those identities.
So it’s not about becoming literally all things to all people, but rather about employing every aspect of who you are to connect with people who have those aspects in common, in order to convey the truth of the good news of Christ’s victory over death.
In 2013, when I was living in Plymouth, New Hampshire, and serving as the rector of the local Episcopal church, I was also theoretically the very part-time campus chaplain at the university in town. I say “theoretically” because nobody really knew what to do with me in the role, least of all myself (and the New Hampshire state university system takes a similar approach to freedom of religion as the province of Quebec takes to laïcité, i.e. trying to pretend that if you don’t let people talk about it it will go away, so my ability to actually communicate with the student body was severely limited).
However, that spring, I found myself sitting in the campus theatre as the chaplain to a department production of Les Misérables (if you want to know the story behind why I was there in the first place, ask me at coffee hour). The cast was rehearsing one of the barricade scenes from act 2, and when they came to a stopping point and the director gave them a five-minute break, the young man playing Enjolras jumped down from the stage, made straight for my row, and said, “They tell me that my character is a Christ figure. Can you help me understand what that means?”
Parish ministry had been particularly exhausting and frustrating that week, and had felt particularly disconnected from anything that Jesus actually told us to do. So as I looked into the face of this enthusiastic student, I felt a surge of tremendous gratitude that someone actually had questions about God that I could answer.
To the theatre kids, I became as a theatre kid, in order to win theatre kids.
To the farmers, I became as a farmer, in order to win farmers – and talked about the theology of compost.
To the parents, I became as a parent, in order to win parents – and compared notes about how giving birth and raising babies gives insight into the nature of God.
To the sci-fi and fantasy fans, I became as a sci-fi and fantasy fan, in order to win the sci-fi and fantasy fans – and came up with all kinds of comparisons between the Harrowing of Hell and the journey of the fantasy hero.
You get the idea. (And this is one reason it’s important for clergy to have interests outside of church!!)
God gives us our different identities, interests, and enthusiasms not to compete with God, but so that God can meet us in every aspect of our lives, and that we can share those encounters with those who also share the identities.
I suspect that Paul was an uncomfortably intense person to interact with, and we’re not called to imitate his evangelical strategies precisely. But we can certainly learn from them, both in terms of how to invite God into every aspect of our lives, and how to connect with others and learn how to talk about those experiences.
And since the Primate is preaching this afternoon, I’ll have to take my chance to sing Dion’s praises in this sermon instead. One of the things that makes him such a great person, colleague, and Christian is that he epitomizes this idea of living his faith and connecting with people across all his identities. As a musician, as a gay man, as a person of Afro-Caribbean heritage, as a spouse, son, brother, uncle, and I’m sure in a myriad of other ways, Dion radiates the joy of Jesus in a completely authentic way that encourages others to join him in that joy.
Paul, as complicated as he could be a lot of the time, was also on fire with the joy of having been found, saved, loved, and known by God in Jesus Christ. Let us all seek such joy, and having found it, announce it to the world in the way that is most true to the selves God made us to be.
Amen.
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