09.04 | Playing the Fool

2 Corinthians 11

‘Five times I received at the hands of the Jews the forty lashes less one. Three times I was beaten with rods. Once I was stoned. Three times I was shipwrecked; a night and a day I was adrift at sea; on frequent journeys, in danger from rivers, danger from robbers, danger from my own people, danger from Gentiles, danger in the city, danger in the wilderness, danger at sea, danger from false brothers; in toil and hardship, through many a sleepless night, in hunger and thirst, often without food, in cold and exposure. And, apart from other things, there is the daily pressure on me of my anxiety for all the churches. Who is weak, and I am not weak? Who is made to fall, and I am not indignant?’

2 Corinthians 11:24-29

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When it comes to board games, I’m just a little bit competitive. I try not to be, because I like to appear relaxed and affable, unruffled in defeat and humble in victory. 

But it’s a sham. When I start playing a game, my inner competitor sees the prey and starts the hunt. This can be a challenge with younger kids. When we play games, I’ve had to work hard not to be that dad who takes too much pleasure in winning against small children.

Yesterday, Paul was pretty plain. When it comes to the comparison game, he said, I’m not playing. He took the high ground, opting out and naming his very good reasons for doing so. He sat watching, but with a clear line: This is beneath me. I’m not playing.

Today, he backtracks. He gets sucked in. He still thinks the whole game is foolish, but he lets his guard down and joins in. 

And yet, the way he plays it is fascinating. Because the stuff he boasts about is really strange.

What could he have said?

He could have counted the churches he’s planted. He could have pointed to his impressive rabbinic education. He could have reminded them that he would have had the entire Old Testament memorised. He could have recounted the miracles God had worked through him. He could have remained them that he’d raised the dead. He could have gone back to his extraordinary conversion experience, struck blind and then miraculously healed after being intercepted by the risen Jesus on the road to Emmaus. 

He could have done all this. That would make sense. That’s what I’d want to boast in. The testimonies of victory and fruitfulness and achievement. People love those stories. They make Christianity look good and appealing. We’re so used to cultural values of success, comfort, and achievement, that when we think of boasting in our faith, we only think to tell those stories of when it all worked out, when the miracle happened and the prayer was answered, and when our courage in the face of fear gave way to a victory. 

There’s nothing wrong with this. All these things can and should be told for the glory of God. The book of Acts does tell exactly such stories. They raise faith and expectation and demonstrate the power of Jesus’ death over all the powers of darkness. Bring them on.

And yet, when playing the fool in the comparison game, Paul plays it by a different set of rules. It demonstrates a totally different set of values, which in turn give a totally different idea of what the true heroics of Christianity look like.

Rather than pointing to the magnitude of his achievements, Paul points to the magnitude of his endurance. 

Here is where the true heroism of faith happens: when it was brutal and painful and hard, but he kept going anyway. When his body was beaten; when he was in prison; when he was swimming for his life from the shipwreck; when he was exhausted and hungry and freezing and under immense pressure.

Those were the times he boasts about.

What might we say?

When the doctor gave us the bad news. When our finances looked impossible. When we were grieving and criticised and weeping and snotty. When what we had deeply hoped for didn’t happen. These may have looked like moments of defeat, and yet they are more truly our very moments of boasting when, in the very weight of the pain, we hold onto the God we worship through comfort and crisis, and keep on going. Because He, our treasure and our God, is worth it.

We’re going to get some scars. But, children of God, keep going. Your simple endurance is your greatest act of worship. It is the stuff that the fools of the Kingdom can most truly boast about.

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Reflect:

This is not the flimsy spirituality of a hedonistic age. It goes deep. Enter this reflection with a lot of kindness for yourself. The Father meets you in this with utter love and with a deeper love for your wellbeing than you can possibly imagine.

Let your mind wander back over those painful moments, maybe that you’re in right now.

Paul gives us something utterly extraordinary today. It offers us a great reframing from the story we tell about our sufferings.

What if they were not failure and being abandoned; what if they were the moments that most greatly expressed our devotion? What if, in the coming age of endless beauty and joy, they were the substance of our greatest boastings?

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Pray:

Father,

This is a prayer for times of pain.

And it comes with a caveat:

I’m quite happy with those times of pain to give way to times of beautiful victory, joy, and fullness:

Bring them on.

But, Father,

In this moment,

I trust you.

I trust you to measure to me only what I can handle.

And so,

This day—

For I cannot speak yet of tomorrow—

I give you my decision to keep going.

You are my God,

Not just in the easy times,

But you are my God in the tears too.

Help me to tell the right story about my sufferings,

That in these very places,

I would not see defeat,;

I would know you never forsake me;

I would learn how greatly you trust me.

Bring me to seasons of deeper joy than I can yet imagine,

And let my story always tell 

Of a God who was enduringly faithful to me

And that I was was enduringly faithful to you.

In Jesus’ Name,

Amen

Old Testament: 

For those also reading the Old Testament this year, your additional readings are here:

Joshua 14-17 | Proverbs 12:8-12