Sermon, June 10 2007 -- Galatians 1:11-24

“Revelation Days” (Galatians 1:11-24)
Rick Olson, June 10, 2007

Personal revelation is out of favor in orthodox Christian circles—that’s orthodox with a little ‘o’, meaning mainstream. We have a closed canon, a closed list of books of Scripture we consider to be authoritative, even though it’s a different list than most Christians have, and although we admit of the possibility of it, I don’t know of anybody in recent times whose personal visions or revelations have been incorporated into mainstream Christianity, with the possible exception of Joseph Smith, who was visited by Jesus and Elijah and Moses in the New York woods—along with assorted apostles and prophets, over the years. And even though his religion is the only one that is uniquely American, and even though Latter Day Saint-ers vehemently argue that it is, in fact, a form of Christianity, Christians point to Smith’s “revelations” with derision and scorn, perhaps ending with the question “wonder what he was smoking?”

Most latter-day personal revelations haven’t been nearly so successful. Take the case of Emanuel Swedenborg—in 1744 he had a vision in which the Lord opened his eyes, and from then on, he could freely visit heaven and hell, hob-nob with angels and demons, and do all kinds of other cool things. The Swedenborgian church based on his writings still exists—my Oregon dentist was a Swedenborgian, much to his Lutheran-minister father’s disgust—but they’ve never been very big. Contrast this to Christianity which—a strong argument can be made—is based as a religion on Paul’s revelation described in this passage. Certainly, Christianity wouldn’t have the same shape if Paul hadn’t had that revelation, which Luke described as happening on the Damascus Road, although Paul himself never said as much. The most he ever said about it we just read—that the gospel is not from a human source, nor was he taught it, but that he received it through a revelation of Jesus Christ. And you know what the Greek word for revelation is, don’t you? It’s apocalypse . . . Paul did not get the gospel from a human source, nor was he taught it, but received it through an apocalypse of Jesus Christ.

And what an apocalypse that must have been . . . maybe Luke was right, maybe God did knock him off his mule and blind him on that ol’ Damascus road . . . it must have taken a whole lot of shakin’ to move Paul, who was by his own account an über-Jew, trying to destroy the church, persecuting it beyond measure, and though he probably wasn’t using violence—the New American Standard translation of “beyond measure” is more accurate—he paints a picture of a very dedicated defender of the tradition, advanced in Judaism beyond many of his contemporaries. And so it must have been something quite dramatic to make Paul mend his ways, something quite outside normal experience, whether he was knocked off his mule or not . . .

And if it seems he’s being a tad defensive about his position as apostle, he probably had a good reason . . . he’s probably under attack by the shadowy false teachers he’s writing to warn the Galatians about. Were they saying “Ol’ Paul, now, he’s not a real apostle, he didn’t come by his revelation, his apocalypse, first hand, he had some coaching, some teaching . . . lookit—those pillars of the church up there in Jerusalem, James and Peter and John, gave him these revelations, he doesn’t have direct apostolic authority, he didn’t get it directly from the Lord” and Paul is saying “No. This proclamation, this Gospel that I’m preaching came by direct revelation from our Lord Jesus Christ, even though I did go up to visit Cephas (also known as Peter) and James the brother of our Lord . . .” And then he’s off to the races, detailing his travels to the regions of Syria and Cilicia, telling the Galatians—and 2000 years later, us—that although the Judean churches didn’t know him by sight—only hearing about him as the one doing all that persecuting—though the Judean churches didn’t know him by sight, they’re even as we speak glorifying God because of him.

And this is a very valuable passage from an historical point of view, because it’s one of the only places we get his biography from him, instead of being filtered through tradition and Luke’s memories thirty years later. But for sermonic materiél it would seem to be a little bit thin, nothing to see here from a theological standpoint, except for the fact that Paul infuses everything with theological depth . . . and in particular, when he speaks of his own experiences, it’s to illustrate some larger truth about the Gospel, and this is no exception. He says he was advanced in Judaism, and that word “Judaism” is very rare in the Greek of the period, it occurs nowhere else in the New Testament, and it carries the connotation of one immersed in the traditions, who is playing the game by the traditional rules, living a good life by the best standards of his people.

And suddenly, it’s all transformed, and he says “When God was pleased to reveal his Son to me,” and notice that the subject of the sentence has changed . . . before it was I, as in I violently persecuted the church, I was advanced in Judaism, I was zealous for the traditions, I, I, I. Then, bam! All of a sudden, it’s God—God set me apart before I was born, God called me through his grace, God was pleased to reveal to me . . . The shift in emphasis from Paul’s agency, Paul’s actions to those of God is striking, and that shift in grammar mirrors the shift in his life . . . all of a sudden, it’s not Paul doing it all, it’s not Paul pulling the strings, living his life, it’s God.

Here is Paul’s conversion, described in a few terse words of Greek, and it doesn’t really matter if he was thrown off a mule or not, or if he went blind to Damascus or not, because the point is the same—it’s not Paul who does the converting, it’s God, who—and notice the predestination in this sentence—set me apart, who chose me before I was born. And in fact, Paul’s writings in Galatians—here and later in the letter—are among the most fruitful places for predestination, for election in the entire New Testament. God set Paul apart before he was born, and Paul had no more choice in the matter than my cat does when I feed her. Probably even less, because my cat whines until I get sick of her and feeder her; whining doesn’t work with God . . .

This whole notion of predestination stands in direct opposition to one of our most cherished notions—that we have free will. You’d think that instead of “for God so loved that he gave his only begotten son” it was “for God so loved the world that he gave us freedom to choose” . . . of course it isn’t, but you’ve got to understand that the notion of predestination doesn’t have anything to do with day to day life, whether we decide to go to the store or not, or turn on the TV at eight instead of nine . . . for John Calvin, who most famously developed the doctrine—although it was a bedrock of Augustine’s and Luther’s beliefs as well—for Calvin, it only applied to salvation, or justification as he put it . . .

And yet it’s still a real sticking point in a lot of Christians’ craws . . . and I won’t embarrass any of you with a show of hands, but I’ll bet there’s more than a few of you out there who can’t wrap their minds around the notion that we don’t have the choice about whether to be a Christian or not . . . and I think it’s because our whole national identity is based on the notion of rugged individualism, the kind of I-make-my-bed-and-lie-in-it, I’m responsible for my own actions kind of deal so that it really pains us to think that we don’t have this choice in everything. It’s almost as if we’ve elevated free will as the ultimate example of God’s love, over and above a little thing called coming down to earth and dying on a cross.

The Gospel that Paul preaches is not of a human origin, and yet many times we act like it, don’t we? Many of us have adapted its teachings to our own personal circumstances, to accommodate our own political views, or to support our way of life . . . for Paul it’s just the other way around. Look at what he says: I didn’t confer with anyone, I didn’t ask anybody’s permission, I just hit the Gospel trail, I went away at once to Arabia and then back to Damascus . . . his whole life is turned around, and he begins tramping all over Asia Minor and the Middle East, proclaiming the Gospel and establishing churches everywhere he goes, to one of whom he’s writing this letter.

Paul’s life is transformed by his conversion to the Gospel, and I wonder how many of us can say that? There’s a radical reversal, from I to thou, and it’s summed up in the responses of the churches in Judea. It is such a profound turn-around that they are amazed at the transformation, even though they’ve never met Paul. They’re convicted, convinced, converted from afar, and they can do nothing but glorify God because of it.

Living in Oregon, I met a lot more folks who would admit they were disgusted with the church than you tend to do here on the buckle of the Bible belt . . . and if I had a nickel—ok, maybe a quarter, in these days of inflation—if I had a quarter for every time I heard one of them say to me “the hypocrisy of the church is why I don’t attend any more,” I’d be a rich man today. They say Christians talk a good show but behave just like everybody else. They back-bite, gossip, ignore the poor and down-trodden and cheat on their taxes, just like we do. What good is Christ in their lives? And although it happens just a little too frequently, although in some of them it’s just an excuse to stay in on Sunday morning, others of them have a point: if it doesn’t change our lives, if we don’t behave as if we are in a relationship with God, what possible right do we have to ask them to join us?

Paul didn’t have that problem . . . his whole life turned around as if on a dime, he immediately quite persecuting the church and began to live as if he were converted. And it paid off . . . people could tell the difference, he was a positive witness for Christ, and people were amazed and glorified God because of his conversion. Paul’s conversion led to true repentance, in its original sense of turning-about. After God changed him, his response to that change was to become a witness to Christ, his old life fell away—metaphorically, he lost that life—and he began to live for Christ.

And that’s the other great lesson of this passage, folks—God’s saving grace, God’s revelatory apocalypse invites a response from us, individually and corporately . . . it invites us to turn our individual lives around and live for Christ, to live as Paul did, as if we are redeemed, not like everybody else who happens to take an hour or two out on Sunday mornings. Corporately, the church needs to step out into the world, taking risks, proclaiming the Gospel no matter what the fashion, no matter what the cost . . . it needs to take seriously its role as the prophetic body of Christ, existing in the world but not of the world, and perhaps, if we do, someday, the world will glorify God because of us. Amen.