Ben Camino's Baccalaureate, Part Two
[You really ought to listen to Part One first; if you have, then go ahead and start the soundfile and read along or not as you wish]
Beware of dogs. The past is rubbish. Press on.
No, “beware of dogs” does not indicate that Paul was tracked down by the Roman guards using a team of trained hounds. A close look at the passage makes clear that Paul is talking about legalism and pride, especially pride about legalism. Beware, he says, of those who insist on the Jewish practice of circumcision in order to be considered a true Christian; and beware, especially of those who boast about it.
If any person ever had reason to boast about legalistic righteousness, Paul declares, it was I. Once upon a time, I considered myself a good Jew, a good Pharisee, a zealous opponent of false religions (Christianity, in fact), and just an all-around holy guy. Beware, he says, of that kind of thinking. Such externals may not, ultimately, have a lot to do with our relationship with God. If what you learned at university was that meeting your deadlines, getting to chapel regularly, adhering to a specific code of behavior (even a very fine one), participating in mission trips ever year, and feeling really good about yourself because of all that, you weren’t paying attention.
Not your righteousness, not your GPA, not your Student Leader Award gets your any credit where it counts. Paul understood that dependence on and thankfulness for the Giver of every good gift, not pride in those gifts, is what counts in human life. Sometimes we might even need some time out of the spotlight (in prison for example) to remind us of that. Don’t neglect this truth. Beware of dogs.
If any person ever had reason to boast about legalistic righteousness, Paul declares, it was I. Once upon a time, I considered myself a good Jew, a good Pharisee, a zealous opponent of false religions (Christianity, in fact), and just an all-around holy guy. Beware, he says, of that kind of thinking. Such externals may not, ultimately, have a lot to do with our relationship with God. If what you learned at university was that meeting your deadlines, getting to chapel regularly, adhering to a specific code of behavior (even a very fine one), participating in mission trips ever year, and feeling really good about yourself because of all that, you weren’t paying attention.
Not your righteousness, not your GPA, not your Student Leader Award gets your any credit where it counts. Paul understood that dependence on and thankfulness for the Giver of every good gift, not pride in those gifts, is what counts in human life. Sometimes we might even need some time out of the spotlight (in prison for example) to remind us of that. Don’t neglect this truth. Beware of dogs.
And remember the second truth, which grows out of it – the past is rubbish. It was a misguided but rich American who boldly but wrongly proclaimed “history is bunk.” But this is not at all what Saint Paul or yours truly has in mind at all. I mean, history was one of my seven majors in college before I settled on a full-time career in as an ironist. From the light or dark of his prison cell, Paul realizes that all those past achievements, all those things he had once trusted in, count for nothing compared with the present opportunity to grow into a deeper, fuller, better version of himself.
In his characteristic style, never one to pull any rhetorical punches, Paul says he has, for Christ, “suffered the loss of all things, and I regard them as rubbish.” Yes, I had the right national identity, yes I had the right religious credentials, yes I had the right educational experiences, yes, at least according to my culture, I did all the right things. But none of that matters now. Not ultimately anyway. I am in prison. No one here is very interested in my resume. But I can know God here. I can fellowship in his sufferings here. I can know a foretaste of heaven right here. So I might as well throw all that other stuff on the to-be-incinerated pile, because that is exactly what is going to happen to it eventually. Big fire. Lots of resumes. Lots of ashes.
But seriously. Does Paul want us to throw everything on the trash pile? All our senior papers? Our framed volunteer tutor certificates? Our all-conference trophies? Is he suggesting we throw away everything in search of some deep, mystical spiritual experience. No,I don’t think so. From the looks of things, Paul did not get rid of his knowledge of language, writing, or rhetoric. Or the literature of the Old Testament. He didn’t throw away his writing utensils. So at least remember what you learned in your English courses.
More seriously, some of the things we carry with us are the very expressions of our relationship with Christ and, in him, with his world. In fact, Paul charges us to “hold fast to what we have attained.” You can’t hold fast to something at the same time as you throw it away. Hold on to some things, definitely. But maybe throw away some others. What Paul does is encourage the Philippians and us to take this time to reflect upon our pasts, to evaluate as he did in prision, and as Bonhoeffer did twenty centuries later, what we have learned and what we have become.
Part of that reflection will result in a rejection. Some of you perhaps have experienced that this spring. Part of that reflection will lead us to reorient ourselves towards the future. To remind ourselves again of where we are heading and how we should be traveling. To think again of our traveling companion John (not Paul) Bunyan, sometimes we simply need a night in prison, especially if it’s in the city of Vanity Fair, to help remind us of our highest priorities and our ultimate goals.
More seriously, some of the things we carry with us are the very expressions of our relationship with Christ and, in him, with his world. In fact, Paul charges us to “hold fast to what we have attained.” You can’t hold fast to something at the same time as you throw it away. Hold on to some things, definitely. But maybe throw away some others. What Paul does is encourage the Philippians and us to take this time to reflect upon our pasts, to evaluate as he did in prision, and as Bonhoeffer did twenty centuries later, what we have learned and what we have become.
Part of that reflection will result in a rejection. Some of you perhaps have experienced that this spring. Part of that reflection will lead us to reorient ourselves towards the future. To remind ourselves again of where we are heading and how we should be traveling. To think again of our traveling companion John (not Paul) Bunyan, sometimes we simply need a night in prison, especially if it’s in the city of Vanity Fair, to help remind us of our highest priorities and our ultimate goals.
Finally, always a fraught word with Ben Camino, but this time I do really mean finally, Paul challenges us to press on. He is not there yet, but he is headed in the right direction. We might join the mockers for a moment and ask, “Excuse me Paul, but isn’t this prison time a slight detour?” No. It is, as Bonhoeffer humorously referred to his imprisonment, “an unexpected sabbatical.” Most important, we should note that Paul refuses to make the same mistake he made back in his earlier legalistic days: “Not that I have already obtained this or have already reached the goal, but I press on.”
Press on. As I have already suggested, this is where my speech (is that what it is?) starts sounding rather like a stereotypical graduation speech. I own that. But truthfully, if all it means is “get up and get going” as is sometimes popularly thought, you don’t need to hear it. You’re already moving. Or, at least, you are definitely ready to get moving after the last few months.
But pressing on is not just moving on. And it’s not just moving aimlessly about. It’s moving in a certain direction with a certain attitude for a certain purpose. That direction, the usual interpretation goes, is heaven: “I press on toward the goal for the prize of the heavenly call.” But the Greek work translated here as “heavenly” should be translated “upward.” Given the entire context, I am sure Paul wants us to keep the goal of heaven before us in our times of imprisonment, persecution, isolation, and the like. But equally important is the theme of maturity, which is threaded throughout the letter.
The upward call is the call to move up not just move. And it is the call to move up not just to heaven but to a new level of maturity (the stations of the cross, the stages of growth, I mentioned several hours ago). This mature outlook forgets (relatively speaking of course) the mistakes and failures (and even the successes) of the past and looks forward to the continual improvement of the good work which God has begun. So, press on in success and failure. Press on in hope and in sorrow. Press on despite our circumstances, seeking to bring all of your life into fellowship with the one who came a downward path to find you and life you up to be with him. Pressing on may mean sharing that path with him.
As the popular bumper stickers say, “Prisons happen.” No, wait, it was . . . sheesh, what was it? “Pandemics happen.” They do, they have, they will. We still celebrate today. Heck yes we do. We still rejoice today. We still kiss somebody today, just make you’ve been at least introduced. But, it is a little sad (I’m not saying I’m sorry) because all these celebrations are more than a little subdued, more than a little constricted compared to what we think we ought to have. And I will give you this. I wish we had that. I do love a good celebration. And I do wish you had the biggest, baddest graduation and graduation party every seen on the face of the planet.
Still, for those who are still with me (quit thinking about that kiss), days come when life looks like a jail and, to tell the truth, God looks like a jailer. We probably all knew that in our heads a little bit. More of us now know it in our bones and in our guts. And we find ourselves trying to figure it out. That’s a good thing.
I hope that Paul’s letter from a Roman jail will help you today and in those days ahead. Let’s speak the truth. Let’s not be ignorant. Great grandpa wouldn’t like that. Some days you just have to step it up, march somewhere you’d rather not go, and say goodbye to some things you aren’t ready to say goodbye to. But that’s not the whole story. Not at all. Remember the lessons Paul learned from his prison experience, remember the lessons you have learned/are learning from your strange spring semester of 2020. Remember Ben Camino’s dad with shrapnel in his leg and a bullet in his butt who said loudly to anyone who had ears to hear, “I’m one of the lucky ones.” And he knew it. And he didn’t forget it.
If anything you ever sang in chapel, read about in Biblical Literature, told others about in a Daytona Beach spring break “mission trip” is true, it will be true in the dark, difficult isolation. If the coming of Jesus Christ into this world means anything, it means that there are some problems that are only solved through suffering hardship, and that sometimes we must be emptied before we are filled. And although the apostle Paul, or whoever your Paul is or was, cannot be with you in person, you can work it out, knowing that Christ is with you. Also, I think Paul would like me to say this too: make your mentor proud.
And remember too his final advice to his friends in Philippi. Beware of the dogs of legalism and pride. It’s a relationship with him not your transcript that will help you stand on that final graduation day. The past is rubbish – so hold on to the good and get rid of the junk that will come to fill your life and clog your spiritual arteries. And finally, press on. Not just any direction, but upward. Strive to find that best self, what Gerard Manly Hopkins called that “immortal diamond” which is your life made complete in Jesus Christ.
Does it sound like too big of a job? It does to me. Nevertheless, I leave you with a final phrase from Saint Paul’s letter from his unexpected sabbatical time in a Roman jail:
I am confident of this, that the one who began a good work in you will bring it to completion by the day of Jesus Christ. (1.6)
Before we say goodbye, just know that I will start feeling sorry for you again exactly thirty seconds from now. I just didn't want to tell you that. I didn't want to emphasize that. We have bigger concerns. Deeper things. Care and cure are from the same English root. I care; so I'm pointing towards the cure. But each of us, of course, needs to care about the unique persons God puts in our way. Still, I think I've been as true as I can be to the message of Paul's letter from a Roman jail, and the burden on his heart for the care/cure of the dear people he is addressing.
There’s an old gospel song I learned somewhere along the way, apparently not in Our Lady of Mercy Catholic Church, my childhood religious home. But somewhere. It goes like this.
I’m not sorry
I’m not sorry
I answered the Master’s Call
Jesus took my heavy load
Now I’m on the glory road
And I’m not sorry at all.
Sorry.
Not.
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