It’s hard not to love this text.  It’s harder to know what to do with it, especially in a congregation which doesn’t get much Paul.  This sermon could have used a few more day’s editing, but after preaching two sermons three days ago, it will have to do. 

I was fascinated to hear comments at the door, however, as they were quite different than usual.  I got several, “That really made me think” or “I’ll have to think about that.”  And many, “You were really thought provoking.”  I much rather get these than, “I enjoyed that” but I’m looking forward to getting my committee’s feedback for more details.

Gospel Foolishness

1 Corinthians 1:18-31

I don’t claim to understand British politics of today, let alone those of years past. But I did find David Owen’s analysis of Tony Blair in last Sunday’s Times rather fascinating. Lord Owen, former foreign secretary and a medical doctor, has written a book entitled, “In Sickness and in Power,” chronicling illness in the heads of government over the past 100 years.

In the excerpt published in the Times under the headline “Inside Blair’s Brain,” Lord Owen describes the symptoms of Tony Blair’s supposed illness, particularly in regards to the invasion of Iraq. These symptoms include:

• the unwillingness to explore difficult issues regarding the invasion of Iraq in manners that might draw out criticisms of Blair’s own position
• the firm belief in his purpose despite evidence to the contrary
• total confidence in himself mixed with a restless, hyperactive manner

Lord Owen, in the paper, diagnoses Blair not with high blood pressure, or a genetic disease, not with diabetes or shingles, but with hubris syndrome, described as excessive self-confidence, restlessness, and inattention to detail.

Owen understands Tony Blair, leading up to the war in Iraq, to have been operating under the influence of a different sort of wisdom than that which got Blair to Downing Street in the first place. Blair perceived a wisdom, but if it was a wisdom at all, it was flawed and incomplete.

Paul, when writing to the church in Corinth, knew nothing of Sadaam Hussein, WMDs, Sunnis or Shias. But Paul did know plenty about perceived wisdom and its strange ways in the world. You see, the church in Corinth was fighting amongst itself. Different leaders thought they had the corner on the truth, and were speaking out against other church leaders. They argued over who had the right gospel, about who’s interpretation of the cross was flawed. And then Paul comes along and says, “No no, you’ve got it all wrong. This is not about you and your petty arguments. You’re too focused on human wisdom. The true gospel is about the power of Christ and the wisdom of God.”

Well, that sounds ok doesn’t it? This is church after all, we’re supposed to talk about Christ and God’s wisdom. I can imagine Blair nodding away, the Corinthians sitting back and figuring Paul’s rebuke wouldn’t be too bad.

And then Paul goes on to explain the strange and surprising wisdom of God. Then things start to get a bit messy, eyebrows begin to raise, a few feet start fidgeting, for Paul does not comfort with cool assurances–everything will be alright, Jesus is your best friend, just come to church pay your pledge, sit back relax and enjoy the show.

No, Paul does what Paul does best: Paul complicates matters immensely.

In thirteen verses, Paul uses the Greek word for “foolishness” or “folly” six times.

“For the message about the cross is folly” he begins. A verse later Paul asks, “Has not God made foolish the wisdom of the world?” And later, Paul says God’s foolishness is wiser than human wisdom.

Foolishness. Folly. Absurdity. What kind of wisdom is that? Paul is neither tame nor tepid. We in the American south have a word for what Paul’s up to, it’s used sometimes to describe preachers who get a bit too good for their own good–Paul is meddling.

• Oh, don’t you meddle with my hard-earned retirement fund Paul.

• Oh Paul, you can preach the gospel, but don’t you worry about how I spend my free time.

• Paul, watch it now, don’t you meddle with my responsibilities for the poor–I already wrote a check.

Friends, we better look out, Paul’s preaching God’s wisdom as foolishness. I’d say it’s safer for us just not to pay attention. Foolishness? That sounds a bit too radical for church.

There’s something particular to the British character that fears foolishness. British culture is prim and proper, it colors inside the lines, it enjoys a civilized cup of tea, it values precision, reason, and logic. The popularity of books, though declining in the US, continues to rise in Britain. Let’s be honest, none of us likes wants to be thought of as foolish, that’s elementary, my dear Watson.

But–I’m sorry to say–Paul does not write about British (or American) order, precision, or etiquette. Rather Paul writes of a wisdom of God that is inherently un-comfortable, up-setting, im-proper. God’s wisdom, turns upside-down everything we thought we knew about the world. God’s wisdom takes its power in Christ nailed to the cross, it laughs at proper manners, God’s wisdom shows its love in humility on a bloody tree.

Paul writes, “The world failed to find God by its wisdom, so God chose by the folly of the gospel to save those who have faith.”

The message of the cross as sheer folly. Christ crucified as foolishness. Paul’s at it again. Or rather, God is meddling, and we better look out.

God’s wisdom, you see, is not what we expect. We would figure God to align with the powerful of Jesus’ day, to show God’s power in superior strength, to fight to the last and overthrow the powers of Rome, to claim the human throne as human leaders have done for years.

Foolishness: God came to accept torture and execution.
Foolishness: God showed love not by beating humanity, but by showing us the way to live.
Foolishness: God contradicts the dominate understandings of what is godly–strength, power, supposed superiority.

Professor Paul Fiddes comments, “By choosing to reveal himself fully in a crucified man God contradicts all notions of what it means to be ‘divine’; by becoming weak and a prey to death God makes foolish the wisdom of this world which understands power to be the ability to inflict suffering, or at least to escape from it.”

So I wonder, with what power do we align ourselves? Are we happy to be seen as worldy wise, as indistinguishable from our neighbor? Are our churches just another social club, doling out funding to charities when our excess allows. Or are we living the gospel of foolishness?

A few years ago, the Church of Scotland General Assembly took, head-on, the problem of filling rural charges. As I understand it, at that time ministers looking for a new charge were less likely to take a call to a rural church as the compensation was much lower than other charges. So the General Assembly decided to make the salaries of all ministers equal, no matter whether they served a rural parish, or one in the financial district of Glasgow. Gospel foolishness, they thought.

A few years later, however, churches have found ways around this foolish even playing field. Congregations are buying large, beautiful manses with every mod con available. Come to our church, we have a manse with six bedrooms. Come to our church, we have Turkish rugs. Come to our church, we have a sauna, a large garden, a sun room, and a new kitchen that is to die for.

This move to fix up manses, perhaps, only makes sense. Churches are caught up in the world’s wisdom as much as other organizations. Why should a minister with several children have a smaller house than a parishioner living alone? Why should a minister have to sacrifice family comfort when not many others are?

I can’t blame churches–like St. Columba–that are trying to keep up with the market, and considering the purchase of a manse it understands to be commensurable with the congregation.

But what does this wisdom say? Buy more, be happy. Look strong, and you will get a strong minister. I suppose poorer churches can just fend for themselves.
We’re not very good at this foolishness, at counting wise what the world counts as weakness. It’s so very difficult. We find ourselves in a world in which it seems every neighbor is spending the few hundred pounds to upgrade to the newest flat screen television, a world in which, those few hundred pounds, would keep a family alive in Sudan for years.

Paul writes, “God has chosen what the world counts as weakness…God has chosen things without rank or standing in the world, mere nothings, to overthrow the existing order.”

Mere nothings.

It’s difficult to align ourselves with mere nothings. It’s foolish in the world’s eyes. After all, St. Columba’s is the sixth largest church in Scotland, and Alloway’s budget  larger than St. Columba’s. We don’t think of ourselves as mere nothings, but of some of the strongest congregations in the land.

Flannery O’Connor’s best known short story, “A Good Man is Hard to Find” is the story of several mere nothings. The story, set in the middle of last century, follows a family’s last car journey. It’s a loving family, but one with its difficulties–the grandmother is rather cantankerous, and gives annoying advice already known by her son, Bailey.

On a mistaken whim, the grandmother instructs Bailey to drive the family car off the highway onto a dirt road. The family realizes what the grandmother sought on this dirt road is merely in her imagination. Next, the family cat gets loose in the car, causing a crash, and the car is upturned. Along come three men in a dark “hearse-like” automobile. The one called, “The Misfit” is the group’s leader, and we learn he has recently escaped from the penitentiary. Before the group of convicts murder the family, the grandmother pleads her case before The Misfit, appealing to his Christian convictions.

The Misfit responds, “Jesus was the only One that ever raised the dead, and He shouldn’t have done it. He thrown everything off balance. If He did what He said, then its nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow Him, and if He didn’t, then it’s nothing for you to do but enjoy the few minutes you got left the best you can.”

It’s surprising to the reader to hear the gospel from the mouth of a murderer, a mere nothing of society. But in O’Connor’s story, the Misfit is the only character who seems to comprehend the foolishness that is the folly of the gospel.

Perhaps The Misfit had been reading Paul who writes, “God has chosen what the world counts as weakness…mere nothings, to overthrew the existing order.” As The Misfit puts it, “Jesus thrown everything off balance.”

Who are The Misfits of our society? Who are the mere nothings of Ayrshire? Those addicted to drugs and alcohol? Those who raise their children differently than we would? Those who don’t have time for church as we know it? Those who are struggling with The Misfits’ conundrum: If Jesus “did was he did, then it’s nothing for you to do but throw away everything and follow him.”

I don’t know, but Paul is confident that the gospel is not found in the wisdom of the world–not in the halls of 10 Downing Street nor the luxury boxes of the Roman Coliseum. The gospel, in all its foolishness, is found in the bloody cross; it allies itself with mere nothings.

As Frederick Buechner writes: “In terms of human wisdom, Jesus was a perfect fool. And if you think you can follow him without making something like the same kind of fool of yourself, you are laboring not under the cross, but a delusion.”

Are we fools for Christ? Do we seek the updside-down wisdom of God? Are we aligned with God, overthrowing the existing order not with pride, but mere nothings?