Treasure in Clay Jars
A sermon by Revd Dr Sam Wells
Readings for this service: 2 Corinthians 4: 1-12
There’s a great tradition in the Church of England. Perhaps most of the clergy, about all of the retired clergy, and a disturbingly large number of the laity, at some stage toward the end of the week or over the weekend, fumble their way towards the letters page of the Church Times. Why they take on this self-imposed flagellation, it’s hard to say. Because very quickly, however joyful and inspiring a week they’ve had, they discover that actually they had no idea how much there was to moan about. The Church Times tries to be different from the national daily papers. Without being trite or unctuously cheerful, it seeks to bring to wider attention good and happy things happening all over the church. But each week its letters page tells a different story. Correspondents far and wide leap to point out that things aren’t so simple; in fact everything’s been very badly handled; the church has gone to the dogs, and the world is approaching hell, transported by a simple handbasket; all the wrong kind of ideas are in fashion, and some pretty second-rate people are in charge of everything; it’s all a total disgrace, as I’ve written 43 times previously to point out. Why do people read such sad correspondence? Maybe to remind themselves that things aren’t really as bad as all that, and to resolve to do their duty and get a life.
The great critic of Christianity Friedrich Nietzsche used to say the problem with Christians was that they didn’t look very redeemed. There’s something inescapably glass-half-empty about much, perhaps most, of the church. Even though God in Christ has redeemed our past through forgiveness and created our future through everlasting life, we still find a way to say it was disappointing the final hymn was a little bit flat or the youth group was a little boisterous or the bishops should have spoken out about the demise of saying grace at lunch in primary schools. The point about the redemptive power of the Church Times letters page is that when you’re feeling miserable, the last thing you want is to see people who’re cheerful, especially if you suspect it’s a cheeriness that’s superficial or just for show. Instead what you want is to encounter people worse off than you, which alone makes you feel maybe things aren’t that bad really, and, after all, worse things happen at sea; or alternatively people making an almighty fuss about something really quite trivial, which occasionally provokes you into ironically thinking, ‘Maybe my issues aren’t as momentous as they seem to me, and maybe someone else would think I was making a mountain out of a molehill too.’
The Apostle Paul was a man of many gifts, but it’s probably fair to say he wasn’t blessed with a particularly large streak of irony. In Second Corinthians chapter 4 he’s clearly having a tough spell in ministry. Don’t let anyone tell you the Bible presents a fanciful rose-tinted picture of the life of faith. Quite the contrary: Paul frequently lists the hardships of an apostle in such terms that he seems on the edge of a nervous breakdown. But that only makes his reflections the more fascinating, because if it was simply a pathway to glory we’d struggle to relate to it, but in reality it’s all-too human. Paul describes succinctly exactly what we’re tempted to do when things aren’t going our way. He’s talking about preaching the gospel, but what he’s portraying pretty much goes for anything we started off doing conscientiously and with great enthusiasm, but find isn’t turning out as planned. He’s got four manifestations. You may want to think of them in relation to your life of faith, or alternatively they may apply to your regular work or personal challenges.
Here’s the first. You find yourself changing the message. Paul calls it ‘falsifying God’s word.’ What he means is, telling people what you think they want to hear. One person calls it diplomacy, another calls it being a chameleon, another says it’s being spineless. It doesn’t usually happen overnight. In A.J. Cronin’s 1937 novel The Citadel a young doctor, Andrew Manson, arrives in a Welsh mining town and marries Christine, a local teacher. Having struggled with every sinew to improve the lives of his miners, once his research is published he takes up a private practice in London, where quickly he makes easy money from idle patients and lazy surgeons. His wife no longer recognises who he is. Andrew Manson’s done exactly what Paul is describing: he’s started giving his patients what they want, rather than what they need. Anyone who’s been a pharmacist, a teacher, a pastor or a parent knows what that means. It’s gaining the whole world but losing your soul. Paul’s having none of it.
The second thing Paul talks about doing in the face of adversity is manipulation. When it comes to things that really matter to people, like health, or faith, or love, the line between charm and manipulation can be a very fine one. It can start with flattery, progress to a show of neediness, then flip to a tone of great authority, and then slip into ingratiating requests. What starts as an apology suddenly becomes a criticism; a compliment somersaults into a demand for money; you start by being sympathetic and quickly you’re made to feel guilty. In no time you’ve said or done something you’d never normally do, and often like a gambler pressing in more and more coins, you keep going seeking to justify the mistake you can’t believe you’ve made. Paul’s an expert with words and emotions: such experts can be dangerous. Like a hypnotist, the manipulator has you under their spell. But Paul’s having none of it. He wants the truth to stand on its own merits.
The next thing Paul mentions is the easiest way to come to terms with our own failure: blame the audience. If you’re a stand-up comedian, and no one laughs, you come off stage and you say, ‘They’re so stuck-up – they’ve got no sense of humour.’ If you’re selling hot dogs on the street and no one’s buying, you say, ‘They don’t know what’s good for them.’ If you’re giving a lecture and everyone’s yawning, you say, ‘Imbeciles! I’m surrounded by fools!’ The journey of humility is one that draws you to realise maybe it’s not all everyone else’s fault. Not long ago I was at a party and three friends posed with fetching smiles and I was walking by and said ‘I’d be glad to take your picture.’ So one handed me her phone and I just couldn’t get a good image on the screen. First it was blank and then it only seemed to show a picture of me. Finally after fits of giggles one of my friends had mercy on me and showed me how to reverse the lens so it actually showed the three people I was trying to take a picture of. The next day I was sent a picture taken by another photographer, of three people convulsed in laughter at someone trying and failing to take a picture of them. That someone was me. The three people weren’t to blame. The phone camera wasn’t to blame. I was to blame. I’ve since become more accomplished at flipping the lens from selfie to regular, and back. It’s not that hard. That’s what Paul’s asking us to do. Don’t blame others just because it’s not going well for you.
And the fourth thing Paul highlights as our response to adversity is pointing to ourselves. Bad evangelism has over the centuries been a mixture of all four of these errors, but perhaps the worst is to try to turn people into versions of ourselves. A Greek myth tells of the hunter Narcissus, who was led by the goddess Nemesis to a pool, where he saw his own reflection and fell in love with it. He was so absorbed in his own image that he lost the will to live, and stared at the pool until he died. It’s possible to do just the same whether proclaiming the gospel, leading an organisation, playing in a sports team or waiting for a bus. You just say, ‘This is all about me! I’m the centre of this amazing drama! Everyone’s getting at me, why are you all looking at me, everyone has to listen to me.’ Paul says no, actually it’s not about you. Get used to it. There’s billions of us here. They all think it’s about them too. Stop being so mesmerised by your own reflection.
Four mistakes we’re all in danger of making when things don’t go our way. Four things we all tend to say when we feel like raining on someone else’s parade. Lying. Manipulation. Blame. Narcissism.
Paul’s insights apply to almost any walk of life. But what he’s talking specifically about is how we commend our faith to others. And here’s the biggest insight of all. Paul says, we think we’re the best representatives of Christ when we’re successful, and stylish, and convincing. That’s why we’re tempted to lie, manipulate, blame or switch to permanent selfie. But Paul says, actually it’s not like that. Think about a clay jar: a fragile item of pottery you’d carry a candle in. It breaks the first time you drop it or nudge it into a surface or plate. That’s what we’re like. What’s important is not how robust we are, but the treasure we’re carrying. And Paul talks about two kinds of treasure.
The first is the kind we glimpse but can’t comprehend, we know but seem somehow to forget: ‘the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.’ The light – like a candle in a dark room, that changes everything. The knowledge – this amazing discovery, like the news Mary Magdalene broke to the disciples when she said, ‘I have seen the Lord!’ The glory – the very presence of God, shimmering, and making us shiver with wonder. The face: all the truth of forever and everywhere utterly present in the face of this one person. That’s the indescribable treasure: the light of the knowledge of the glory of God in the face of Jesus Christ.
But the second treasure is possibly even more amazing: it’s in the two contradictory words, ‘but not.’ Once you cut out the excuses and the shortcuts and the denials, you find you’re afflicted, perplexed, persecuted, and struck down. Everything you wanted to avoid. But see the light of the glory of God in the face of these two words: but not. ‘We are afflicted, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.’ We get to share Christ’s crucifixion: but only so we get to share his resurrection also.
You can hate Paul, you can be angry with Paul, you can try to ignore Paul. But in the end, he’s telling us the truth. Stop lying, stop manipulating, stop blaming, stop making it all about you. Open your eyes and see the light, open your mind and receive the knowledge, open your heart and feel the glory, open your soul and behold the face. And revisit all your life’s failures. Recognise you were afflicted, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed. Let Jesus’ death and resurrection take place in your own body. And see what the glory of God can do.
