"Hope For Outsiders"—July 25, 2019
“So then, remember that at one time you Gentiles by birth, called ‘the uncircumcision’ by those who are called ‘the circumcision’—a physical circumcision made in the flesh by human hands—remember that you were at that time without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world.” (Ephesians 2:11-12)
At first, I almost don’t want to remember.
Nobody wants to remember a time when they didn’t belong. Nobody wants to dredge up the old memories of not fitting in, of not having a circle of support from loving hands. Nobody wants to have to relive, even for a short time, what it was like to be the odd one out, even if later on it got better.
I have to admit that some part of me hears these words today from Ephesians like Paul is trying to make me remember my junior-high-school self, and I am not terribly fond of that past life. “Remember,” he seems to say, “what it was like to be the wallflower, the nerdy kid, the clumsy kid. Remember braces on your teeth and acne on your face. Remember seeing how the other kids seemed to have a vast social network of friendships and tween romances.” In other words, Paul seems to be saying to me, and to all of us in whatever ways we experienced it, “Remember what it was like to be on the outside looking in.”
Of course, there are a lot of more serious ways to be an outsider. There are stakes a lot higher than my just being the last one picked for middle school social functions once upon a time. There are folks treated as "less than" because of where they come from, how they worship, what color their skin is, or who they love, and they know far more powerfully than I do what it is like to be dismissed or despised as an "alien" or "stranger." All of that is what Paul is trying to call to mind as he writes here. The dirty looks. The silent treatment. The way people look the other way or treat you like you don't matter. All that comes with being regarded as "other," as "alien," as "stranger."
The apostle isn’t trying to be cruel. He’s not just rubbing in the most awkward years, the most isolated times, of our lives for the sake of making us feel miserable. He just wants us to be able to understand what a precious gift it is now that we do belong, and that we belong permanently, irreversibly, irrevocably. We do belong now, because of Christ. We do have an endless circle of loving hands—at least two of them scarred by nails—supporting us and holding us up.
There is no edge of threat in Paul’s voice—he isn’t warning us to shape up or else risk losing the gift of belonging that we have now. Rather, he just wants to point us back long enough for us to remember that we weren’t owed this gift of belonging, and we didn’t bring it about ourselves by our own popularity or congeniality. On our own we didn’t bring anything to the table—and now we have been given everything. “Remember,” Paul says, “what it was like before you knew you were held by a love that will not let you go. Remember what it was like with the nagging doubts that you might be on the outside looking in forever. Remember what it was like to fear that it was just you against the universe. And remember it, so that you will know the relief and the peace of realizing you never have to face those fears again. You are loved forever. You now belong.”
People who have been outsiders-looking-in at some point in their lives (and I suspect we have all been there at some point or another) know from their own experience that none of us are born with the guarantee of being accepted, or made to belong, or held dear. It is not something we are owed in this life. That makes us all the more aware, all the more grateful, to be given the assurance that now we are accepted, now we do belong, and now we are dear to God. And unlike the fickle promises of your social cliques from middle school and adolescence—or honestly, even the fickle promises that people make to us in adulthood!—the hope we have of belonging in Christ is a sure one. We won’t get booted out of the cool kids’ lunch table because we stopped wearing their kind of shoes. We won’t be left out of the jokes and the conversation because we live in the wrong part of town. We won’t be abandoned to fend for ourselves because we didn’t feel confident in our acceptance enough to speak up when we needed to. You may have to deal with all of those worries with other people in life, even as adults, but you never have to worry about it between us and Christ.
“So then, remember that at one time you Gentiles by birth, called ‘the uncircumcision’ by those who are called ‘the circumcision’—a physical circumcision made in the flesh by human hands—remember that you were at that time without Christ, being aliens from the commonwealth of Israel, and strangers to the covenants of promise, having no hope and without God in the world.” (Ephesians 2:11-12)
At first, I almost don’t want to remember.
Nobody wants to remember a time when they didn’t belong. Nobody wants to dredge up the old memories of not fitting in, of not having a circle of support from loving hands. Nobody wants to have to relive, even for a short time, what it was like to be the odd one out, even if later on it got better.
I have to admit that some part of me hears these words today from Ephesians like Paul is trying to make me remember my junior-high-school self, and I am not terribly fond of that past life. “Remember,” he seems to say, “what it was like to be the wallflower, the nerdy kid, the clumsy kid. Remember braces on your teeth and acne on your face. Remember seeing how the other kids seemed to have a vast social network of friendships and tween romances.” In other words, Paul seems to be saying to me, and to all of us in whatever ways we experienced it, “Remember what it was like to be on the outside looking in.”
Of course, there are a lot of more serious ways to be an outsider. There are stakes a lot higher than my just being the last one picked for middle school social functions once upon a time. There are folks treated as "less than" because of where they come from, how they worship, what color their skin is, or who they love, and they know far more powerfully than I do what it is like to be dismissed or despised as an "alien" or "stranger." All of that is what Paul is trying to call to mind as he writes here. The dirty looks. The silent treatment. The way people look the other way or treat you like you don't matter. All that comes with being regarded as "other," as "alien," as "stranger."
The apostle isn’t trying to be cruel. He’s not just rubbing in the most awkward years, the most isolated times, of our lives for the sake of making us feel miserable. He just wants us to be able to understand what a precious gift it is now that we do belong, and that we belong permanently, irreversibly, irrevocably. We do belong now, because of Christ. We do have an endless circle of loving hands—at least two of them scarred by nails—supporting us and holding us up.
There is no edge of threat in Paul’s voice—he isn’t warning us to shape up or else risk losing the gift of belonging that we have now. Rather, he just wants to point us back long enough for us to remember that we weren’t owed this gift of belonging, and we didn’t bring it about ourselves by our own popularity or congeniality. On our own we didn’t bring anything to the table—and now we have been given everything. “Remember,” Paul says, “what it was like before you knew you were held by a love that will not let you go. Remember what it was like with the nagging doubts that you might be on the outside looking in forever. Remember what it was like to fear that it was just you against the universe. And remember it, so that you will know the relief and the peace of realizing you never have to face those fears again. You are loved forever. You now belong.”
People who have been outsiders-looking-in at some point in their lives (and I suspect we have all been there at some point or another) know from their own experience that none of us are born with the guarantee of being accepted, or made to belong, or held dear. It is not something we are owed in this life. That makes us all the more aware, all the more grateful, to be given the assurance that now we are accepted, now we do belong, and now we are dear to God. And unlike the fickle promises of your social cliques from middle school and adolescence—or honestly, even the fickle promises that people make to us in adulthood!—the hope we have of belonging in Christ is a sure one. We won’t get booted out of the cool kids’ lunch table because we stopped wearing their kind of shoes. We won’t be left out of the jokes and the conversation because we live in the wrong part of town. We won’t be abandoned to fend for ourselves because we didn’t feel confident in our acceptance enough to speak up when we needed to. You may have to deal with all of those worries with other people in life, even as adults, but you never have to worry about it between us and Christ.
We belong.
You belong.
I belong.
We belong.
Remember, for a moment, what it was like once not to know that kind of love. But don’t linger there for very long in this day. Know that you are claimed now and that God’s claim on you will never expire.
Lord God, stake your claim on us again, and let us know for certain you are with us.
Remember, for a moment, what it was like once not to know that kind of love. But don’t linger there for very long in this day. Know that you are claimed now and that God’s claim on you will never expire.
Lord God, stake your claim on us again, and let us know for certain you are with us.
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