Waiting for the train.
That's where the President of the United States of America was when,
from behind, he felt a painful sensation against his shoulder.
Throwing up his hands and shouting, “My God, what was that?”, the
same burning bored into his back as the second bullet pierced his
clothes, nicked his lumbar vertebrae, and came to an abrupt halt
behind his pancreas. Amid the frenzy, surrounded by shocked
spectators like Secretary of War Robert Todd Lincoln (who couldn't
help but feel something familiar about the scene), the President of
the United States collapsed to the floor. It was about 9:30 on a
Saturday morning. July 2, 1881.
What sort of a man was
James Abram Garfield? An Ohio boy born in a log cabin, whose father
died before he was two. Poor and sensitive, he worked on the canals
and read all the books he could find. Leaving home in his teen
years, he put himself through college, got hired to teach languages,
wooed his wife Lucretia over pages of Greek classics, preached on a
circuit in local churches, became a lawyer, got elected to state
senate, led troops in the Civil War, got elected to Congress. When
his toddler son Eddie died in October 1876, Garfield told his pastor
how “the hope of the gospel... is so precious in this affliction.”
Nearly four years after Eddie's death,
Garfield was nominated as a presidential candidate somewhat against his will
and in spite of his protests. He stayed home and off the campaign
trail, but won the election – and dreaded it! He wrote in his
diary, “I must confront the problem of trying to survive the
presidency,” and he'd later complain that being president didn't
leave him enough time to study. The Sunday before his inauguration,
he received communion in his Ohio church before setting off for
Washington. Sworn in on a snowy March Friday, President Garfield
could be found in a Washington church two days later. During his
presidency, he missed church only when there was sickness in the
family, like the month he nursed his wife through a nearly fatal bout
with malaria, May 1881. He used to tell his pastor, “When I meet
the duties of each day as best I can, I cheerfully await whatever
result may come.” ...And then came a madman's bullets that July
morning, not quite four months in office.
The shots were not
immediately fatal. He had several months to attempt to convalesce
under the medical care of the time. In spite of pain and
embarrassment, confined to bed, Garfield stayed patient and gentle,
and tried to promote good cheer. The president prayed often. Once
transferred to a Jersey Shore beach house next to a chapel, he loved
to listen to the hymns mingle with the crashing of the waves. When
Sundays rolled around, he would remark that the day belonged to the
Lord. Informed that his church in Washington was praying for him,
'besieging the mercy seat' for him, he got emotional and declared,
“They have been carrying me as a great burden so long, but when I
get up, they shall have no cause to regret it.” His pastor, though
seldom allowed to visit by the doctors, heard enough of those weeks
to be able to say of President Garfield, “His mind dwelt much upon
Christ and his work during the terrible trial. … There is not the
slightest question of his thorough preparation for death.” Oh yes,
the President was fully conscious there was a live possibility of his
soon being live no more. To those around him, he repeatedly said, “I
know God and trust myself in his hands. I must be prepared for
either life or death.” But privately to his wife one night, he
added, “I wonder if all this fight against death is worth the
little pinch of life I will get anyway.” Still, he fought to live
because he knew how his departure would deprive those closest to his
heart of his company. That fight did at last close with his
departure from the flesh on Monday, September 19, 1881 – two months
to the day short of his fiftieth birthday.
The President of the
United States had died from his infected wounds nearly eighty days
after he was shot. Eulogies, memorial services, and sermons cropped
up all over the country. Here in Pennsylvania, one preacher
celebrated Garfield's “combination of genuine statesmanship and
genuine Christianity,” and said that when “in the prime of life,
in the midst of usefulness, with all the materials of activity around
him and honors fresh upon him, he was suddenly struck down by an
assassin, and he calmly, meekly, almost joyfully submitted to his
fate. … 'For me to live is Christ and to die is gain,' and come
death how, come death when, come death where it may, this hope
remains: 'For me to live is Christ and to die is gain.'” A
preacher in Kansas, granting that Garfield was an imperfect man and
made mistakes, insisted that “he was far above the average
statesman, and that for him to live was Christ, to die was gain. …
I would linger over the fact that he lived and died a Christian
gentleman.” A preacher in Iowa declared that Garfield “endured
as seeing Him who is invisible. … When reminded by his faithful
wife that it was his duty to life, he agreed that it was, and said
that he would make the best fight for life that he could. Ready to
die and even wishing to depart, he did his best to live, as it seemed
to him that his work was not yet done. … His mental condition, in
this dark hour, was that of Paul when he said..., 'Christ shall be
magnified in my body, whether it be by life or by death, for to me to
live is Christ, and to die is gain.'”
Three states. Three
preachers. All three – and plenty of others – faced with a
personal tragedy gone national, and turned for understanding to these
same specific words of an ancient apostle of the Lord. Paul wrote
those words late in his two years of house arrest, awaiting the
resolution of his legal case in Rome. All indications suggest to
Paul that the charges will be dropped, as his accusers need to come
to Rome to press the case against him and, thus far, have never shown
up. But so long as he's chained to the Praetorian Guard, Paul knows
he's still a prisoner, and still has the prospect of the death
penalty hanging over his head. He has to take seriously the notion
that he could soon be killed.
But Paul knows that the
gospel is on trial just as much as he is. Paul has been tormented
both inside the church and outside – inside, by the ill-willed
evangelists trying to discourage him, as we heard last week; outside,
by the persecution that was keeping him cooped up. So Paul turns to
the words of another man who was tormented outside and inside –
outside, by intense experiences of loss and poverty; inside, by
so-called 'comforters' whose accusations tore at and bruised him.
That man was Job. In one of Job's speeches, he tells his
'comforters' to “keep silent”
(Job 13:5), and says that he'll keep hoping in God (Job 13:15).
“This will turn out for my salvation, that the godless
shall not come before him. … Behold, I have prepared my case; I
know that I shall be in the right”
(Job 13:16,18). And Paul quotes Job's words word-for-word, saying,
“I will rejoice, for I know that – through your prayers
and the supply of the Spirit of Jesus Christ – this will
turn out for my salvation”
(Philippians 1:18b-19). Paul expects to be saved, to be delivered,
to be vindicated. But it could look two ways.
On
the one hand, Paul could be saved, vindicated, by being released.
The Romans could set him free. And then Paul would keep living in
this world a while longer. One way Paul could be saved is to live.
What does Paul think of that option? He announces, “For
me, to live is Christ!”
(Philippians 1:21a). Jesus Christ is everything that need be said,
everything that can
be said, about Paul's life. By this point, having matured from his
stellar start to this late point in his Christian walk, Paul has been
conformed profoundly to the pattern of Jesus Christ. Now, every
moment of his day is suffused with Christ's Lordship. Squeeze Paul,
and the grace of Jesus leaks out. Hold Paul up to the light, all
you'll see is Christ. When Paul wakes up, he'd tell you it's about
Jesus. When Paul eats, he'd tell you it's about Jesus. When Paul
talks, you can hear for yourself it's about Jesus. The very
definition of life itself, in Paul's heart, has been redrawn. Christ
equals Life! Life equals Christ! After all, as he writes in another
letter, Christ is “the
image of the invisible God … All things were created through him
and for him, and he is before all things, and in him all things hold
together”
(Colossians 1:15-17). Paul takes that thought so seriously that
there's nothing you can show Paul, nothing you can tell Paul, and he
won't see or hear Christ in it. There's nothing you can put on
Paul's tongue that won't make him taste the goodness of Christ.
There's nothing you can place within Paul's reach that he won't lift
up to Christ as a thank-offering of praise. To Paul, Christ sums up
everything that life means, everything that has value about the
world.
And
so to live, for Paul, just means to keep seeing Christ in every
glance, keep hearing Christ in every sound, keep encountering Christ
reflected in all things, since all things hold together in Christ.
But more than that, if Paul is set free, if Paul is allowed to keep
living, then it will mean more months or years of ministry. He will
keep proclaiming Christ, will keep ministering Christ to others.
Paul explains, “If
I am to live in the flesh, that means fruitful labor for me”
(Philippians 1:22a). And others will be able to taste that fruit and
its sweetness – it will be beneficial for other people if Paul gets
to live longer. In particular, it would be helpful for the
Philippian church, which could really use his continued help. “To
remain in the flesh is more necessary on your account,”
he tells them (Philippians 1:24). If the Romans release him from
custody, he can run right over and build them up, make them a
stronger church – he can “continue
with you all, for your progress and joy in the faith, so that in me
you may have ample cause to glory in Christ Jesus because of my
coming to you again”
(Philippians 1:25-26). That's what it means to live, when to live is
Christ. Nearly fifteen centuries after Paul, Martin Luther remarked,
“We have no other reason for living on earth than to be of help to
others.” That was true for Paul!
So
if Paul is set free, that would be salvation or vindication for Paul.
But what if Paul isn't set free? What if the trial goes on? And
what if it ends with the judge sentencing him to lose his head? What
if these experiences set in motion a chain of events that lead to
Paul's heart no longer beating, Paul's lungs no longer drawing
breath? Paul sees that, too, as an occasion of vindication or
salvation. Because at the same time he'd be standing before Caesar's
court on earth, tethered to the gospel, he'd also be standing before
God's heavenly court. And an earth ruling against
Paul on account of the gospel spells a heavenly ruling for
Paul on account of the gospel – which means execution is just the
prelude to being welcomed into the fellowship of angels and saints in
heaven.
And
so, Paul explains, just like for him “to
live is Christ,”
just the same, for him “to
die is gain”
(Philippians 1:21b). It's not that death is gain because it ends a
bad thing, as if this world were an awful place he can't wait to
escape. That's not what Paul means. Death is gain, for him, because
he expects it to mean getting something better. If Paul is to die,
it'll be a martyr's death. But he expects that death to usher him
into the personal presence of the Jesus he so wildly yearns for.
Now, he sees Christ, hears Christ, touches Christ in things, in the
reflections pervasively present throughout the created order. But
then, on that day, he'll see Christ himself, not in a reflection but
in reality. And he'll be crowned with the reward of Christ's love in
a way Paul knows he still can't experience while here in the present
world. Paul has been working for years, not for earthly treasures,
but storing up treasure in heaven by investing in the gospel. To die
means to finally reap the gains, the profits.
When Paul looks toward the ultimate future
that he believes will begin at his death, Paul isn't merely guessing
what lies beyond that leap into the darkness. No, Paul has
certainty, Paul has assurance, Paul has a hope that can never
disappoint him. When that train pulls out of the station, Paul knows
the tracks continue beyond the rails he can see. Paul knows there's
a place to go, and he knows which train he's boarded. Death, in
Paul's case, whenever it comes, will mean “to
depart”
from the realm of flesh and earth “and
to be with Christ”
(Philippians 1:23b). At the moment of his death, Paul is certain
that his consciousness, his personally aware inner self, will be
ushered and transported into the presence of the Risen Lord, will
behold the glory of the Father in the face of the Son, will lay the
eyes of his soul on the beatific vision of Beauty itself, will be
awash in immortal joy even as he yet awaits the pitching of the tent
of a new creation. That is what will happen when Paul dies. And
compared to the mixed-bag of experiences we get here, with aches and
pains and sorrows mingled alongside pleasures and joys, the
destination Paul has in mind “is
far better”
(Philippians 1:23b).
Now,
from different perspectives, both
living and dying can be good outcomes! “Which
I shall choose, I can't tell! I am hard pressed between the two,”
Paul says (Philippians 1:22b-23a). It's a tough choice! Paul is
just glad that Christ is magnified, Christ is glorified, Christ is
honored and made much of, in either scenario – “now
as always, Christ will be magnified in my body, whether by life or by
death”
(Philippians 1:20b). It's much like the Iowa preacher said of
President Garfield: “Ready to die and even wishing to depart, he
did his best to live, as it seemed to him that his work was not yet
done.” Just like Garfield had a church praying for him, Paul's got
one praying for him, too. “I
know that through your prayers and the supply of the Spirit of Jesus
Christ, this will turn out for my salvation”
(Philippians 1:19). Because the Philippians are praying, Paul
believes God will give them what they ask for, the version of events
that helps them, even if it isn't quite what Paul would like, since
Paul's burning “desire
is to depart and be with Christ, which is far better”
(Philippians 1:23b). Paul is convinced that, with the gospel
vindicated as having a place in Roman society, he'll be released:
“Convinced of
this, I know that I will remain”
(Philippians 1:25a). Paul was right. Set free for a couple more
years of fruitful labor, only then would he be again arrested –
this time not in house arrest but in Rome's worst prison, and would
finally be beheaded for the sake of Christ. A man who knew him
recalled the day Paul was “removed from the world and went into the
holy place, having proven himself a striking example of endurance”
(1 Clement
5.7).
But
Paul writes openly these reflections on life and death – what each
of them means to him – because Paul's aim is for his mature way of
thinking to become contagious. He wants the Philippians to catch it.
And the church, in her wisdom, has preserved this letter for nearly
two thousand years in hopes that we might catch it too. So what
about us? How do we look at life? What does it mean to live? And
how do we look at death? What does it mean to die?
During
the past year, indeed the past several years, our congregation has
known its fair share of friends who've died, who've taken their
departure from the flesh. For some of the younger among us, that
might be a parent or grandparent or great-grandparent. For some of
the elder among us, that might be a spouse or a sibling, a child or a
cousin, a nephew or niece or neighbor. Many of those who have
departed our company that way have died, hopefully, in Christ. So,
to the extent they were like Paul, they can expect the same things he
can. If for Paul 'to
die is gain,'
then for them to die was also gain. And in that we can rejoice, even
amidst the sorrow of parting here. The same will be true for us as
we face the prospect of death. We may not be standing on trial for
our lives in a Roman court, and we may not be bedridden with an
assassin's bullet in our guts, but – whether time or virus or
ailment or accident – all of us must face the question. For us,
will death mean gain? And if death will mean gain, are we willing to
look at it as a gain? Not that we should be careless, for our bodies
are a stewardship, but what if we learned to look at the prospect of
death through Paul's eyes, and see the gain in it?
Likewise,
during the past year, our congregation has known its fair share of
friends who have not died, who are remaining here in the flesh. Look
around you, and you might just spot one! And you'll see yet another
one in the mirror! You are still here in the flesh. You are still
alive. Your lungs draw breath. Your heart beats. Maybe your body
needs a little help to keep rolling on, but roll on it does. For
Paul, 'to live
is Christ.'
What about for you? Does life mean Christ to you? Sleeping and
waking, eating and drinking, laughing and loving – are these
day-to-day actions made living parables that preach Christ to your
heart? Are you awake to how it's in Christ that everything in life
holds together? You can be – and then you can shout, “To live is
Christ! To live is Christ!” He's got you here for a reason. Like Luther said,
there's no other reason to get another day here than to help others
in it. To remain in the flesh means an opportunity for fruitful
labor. Now, maybe you wonder how that can be – maybe some of you
are practically housebound right now. But there's fruitful labor you
can do! You can listen to a neighbor's hurts and joys. You can
spend an extra ten minutes praying for your world. You can call a
friend. You can write a letter. In all these ways, you can minister
Christ to at least one small slice of the world – what more does
God ask? So what if we learned to look at life through Paul's eyes,
and see the Christ of it all – to love and serve others and, as
President Garfield put it, to then “cheerfully await whatever
results may come”? Perhaps such fruit, served here and there to
the hungry, can bring with it healing for nations like ours.
Of
course, none of these grand views of life or death can hold up
without a real, living, risen Son of God. Paul told the Corinthians,
“if Christ be
not raised..., your faith is in vain”
(1 Corinthians 15:14). Without Christ, things don't hold together.
Without Christ, to live can't be Christ: the basic stuff of life
can't be wrapped up in him. Without Christ, to die can't be gain:
there's nothing profitable about the vain, bleak destiny that knows
no Jesus. Without Christ, no labor is fruitful, for Jesus is the
life in the root. Without Christ, departure has no blessed
destination, no glory shining forth at the other end of these
darkened halls.
But,
thanks be to God, 'without Christ' is never the name of the game!
With Christ, living can be wrapped up in him! With Christ, labor can
be fruitful in abundance! With Christ, dying can be a profitable
venture and a welcome at the end of a journey, be it long or short.
With Christ, we have an “eager
expectation and hope”
of vindication, if we but cling to him. So I urge you, brothers and
sisters, this very day, to get deeper into Christ, that life and
death might be Christ and gain to you! “For
none of us lives to himself, and none of us dies to himself. For if
we live, we live to the Lord, and if we die, we die to the Lord. So
then, whether we live or whether we die, we are the Lord's. For to
this end Christ died and lived again: that he might be Lord both of
the dead and of the living”
(Romans 14:7-9). So in life or in death, let Christ be magnified in
your body, amen!
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