He was dying. He called for a celebration, and he was dying. It was an October day, 794 years ago, and in the hut he'd chosen, a middle-aged evangelist was on his deathbed. He'd labored twenty years in the gospel. By this point in his life, he'd become disabled – almost blind, could barely eat, in constant pain. But he was okay. He knew that it wasn't the end; it was the beginning. He called two of his friends to him – brothers in the faith, brothers in their vows. And he asked them to sing the praises of the Lord to him with a joyful spirit. He asked them, sad as they were to see their beloved mentor in such state, to rejoice anyway – rejoice that the dawn of heavenly life was so close for him. The day of his death, he asked them for their joy. Because by nightfall, he knew his own joy in the Lord Jesus would be very, very full.
What led him to that point in life? Forty-four years earlier, he'd been born in the town where he ended his days, born the son of a prosperous Italian silk merchant and his French wife. The boy had grown, lived a good life, worked for his dad, did well for himself. But several experiences forced his life off his envisioned track. Twice he enlisted in the military. He was a prisoner of war for a year. He felt dissatisfaction with what he'd known. He consorted with beggars and felt the tug at his heart to change. Then came the visions – like when his prayers were interrupted by the voice of Christ, speaking to him from the cross, calling him to action. So he acted. He sold expensive cloth and gave the money away. When his father sued him in court, he renounced everything – even the very clothes his father had bought him, stripping himself of them in public. He turned to menial labor. He begged in the street, not for money or bread, but for stones to rebuild old churches. He nursed the sick. And one day, in his mid-twenties, hearing a passage from the Gospel read in church, he felt it click with his heart. In a heartbeat, he set out in imitation of the first disciples, as a poor preacher in the countryside, wandering from village to village. As he walked the country roads, he'd think about Jesus, he'd sing songs to Jesus, and it wasn't unusual for him to forget where he was headed and just start praising Jesus, crucified and risen, aloud to the hills and the valleys. And from those who fell in love with his example and joined him, a movement was born.
Maybe you've heard of this man, maybe you haven't. His name was Francesco – or as we say, Francis. He was from a town in Italy called Assisi. And I would suggest to you that, as we turn our ears today to Paul's vision in the four verses we read this morning, St. Francis of Assisi can teach us a lot about putting Paul's words into practice, a lot about making them real in the flesh-and-blood lives we actually live. People like him, those the church got accustomed to singling out as saints, offer us 3D pictures in living color of what's written in 2D on the pages of our Bibles in black and white and red. So where might we begin?
After wrapping up his intervention – we talked about that last week, the tale of Euodia and Syntyche – the very next thing Paul writes is a verse I'm sure many of you have memorized: “Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, rejoice!” (Philippians 4:4). Don't you love that verse? It's so simple, so clear, so crisp; so encouraging and challenging all at once. Of course, Paul didn't come up with the idea. No, he found it in his Bible already. Psalmists sang lines like, “Rejoice in the Lord, O you righteous ones, and give thanks to his holy name” (Psalm 97:12), or like, “Let the righteous one rejoice in the Lord and take refuge in him” (Psalm 64:10). Prophets, too, could shout, “I will greatly rejoice in the Lord; my soul shall exult in my God, for he has clothed me with the garments of salvation...” (Isaiah 61:10). This is the language of Israel's age-old faith, brought by Paul into the midst of the Philippian church – emphatically and repeatedly – and, through them, into our midst here.
And the first thing to realize is that this is first and foremost a command to the whole church, not to individuals. Paul's talking to the church as a church. And what he's saying to them is not primarily a command to feel a certain way, but to do a certain thing. Rejoicing isn't mainly an emotional state (though it can come from and lead to emotional states); it's an activity. The Roman world (including Philippi) was just chock-full with feasts, festivals, celebrations. On most public Roman holidays, work was forbidden; sometimes sports were involved, sometimes plays, sometimes parades. And if Rome and its colonies like Philippi could throw big parties for idols – lost, false, and dead – can't the church throw its own style of party for the One who is Way and Truth and Life? See, that's why we're here. This is a weekly festival called the Lord's Day. On it, we gather together to rejoice, publicly, in the Lord Jesus whose day it especially is. This is the Lord who threw his life around us to become our garment of salvation. This is the Jesus who died and rose to be our refuge. This is the Jesus who will come to this besieged colony as a Savior from heaven. And he certainly deserves our joyful celebrations!
But as we practice rejoicing like this together, and as wear that garment of salvation and turn to that refuge from day to day, it begins to change us on the inside. The 'rejoicing' Paul commands isn't an inner state, but it often can trigger inner changes. It starts to rewire our heart and our mind. And soon, even in circumstances that don't themselves 'spark joy,' we can rejoice not just outwardly but inwardly. What does it look like when we do that?
I can't help but think of St. Francis. Early in his preaching journey, he was walking through a forest on a winter day, singing softly, when a band of thieves confronted him. Asking him who he was, he said he was the herald of the Lord. Sneering, they beat him and threw him into a snow-filled ditch. As they went away, he rolled back and forth, he stood, he shook off the snow, he jumped out of the ditch. And we're told that, “exhilarated with great joy, he began in a loud voice to make the woods resound with praises to the Creator of all.” Later in his career, there was a time when he earnestly sought God to show him what was ahead. The message came back clearly that there were many trials and tribulations held in store for Francis. And how did he respond? Francis “remained undisturbed and happy,” those who knew him tell us, “singing songs of joy in his heart to himself and to God.” His friend remarked that Francis was always “rejoicing in hope because of his boundless love.”
And what Francis practiced, he also preached. He urged those who went with him to “show themselves joyful, cheerful, and consistently gracious in the Lord.” He invited us to “rejoice when we fall into various trials,” so long as their outcome could be “for the sake of eternal life.” And perhaps he really did once speak the teaching attributed to him later on: “Spiritual joy springs from integrity of heart and the purity of constant prayer … It is the fate of the devil and his minions to be sad, and it is our lot to rejoice always and be glad in the Lord!”
Francis found and tasted what Paul meant in this verse. And I just wonder, brothers and sisters: what if we all were a bit more like them? What if Christians were famous for our joy, the way Paul was, the way Francis was, the way both of them would've loved to see us? What if the church were known for throwing a Jesus shindig that puts other parties to shame? What if we were known for being a people of celebration? What if we could face the threats of this world like Francis faced the thieves? Let the devil have his destined doldrums. But we have the Lord Jesus Christ, whose cross it's an honor to bear and whose life makes the stars dance in their rhythms! So let us get a reputation as the people of joy.
Having asked this of us, the next thing Paul says probably looks very straightforward. If you read from the ESV – English Standard Version – like I read from, it says, “Let your reasonableness be known to everyone.” But on the other hand, if you read from the New International Version, which I know some of you carry, then it says, “Let your gentleness be evident to all.” Then again, on the third hand, if you're the type to grab the American Standard Version (and I don't know if any of you do), you'll read, “Let your forbearance be known unto all men.” And, of course, if the English of good ol' King James I is still your style, what you'll read there is, “Let your moderation be known unto all men” (Philippians 4:5a). So... what's up with that?
Well, Paul picked a word that can carry lots of different nuances. To the ancient Greeks, it could describe being indulgent and lenient, it could say something was flexible and bendy, and to Aristotle it was the word you'd use if a judge followed the spirit of the law instead of the letter because the case was too exceptional for the strict and unbending law to fit right. If somebody is the sort of person who takes less for himself even when he's got the law on his side, somebody who settles a case for less in damages than they're legally owed, then this word would be for them. In the Greek Bible, it describes God as gentle or forbearing or tolerant: “It is you, O Lord, who are kind and gentle and abounding in mercy to all who call on you” (Psalm 85:5 LXX [= Psalm 86:5]). So let's take a look at this verse's challenge for us from three different angles.
First up, we might read this verse as calling for our forbearance, for our flexibility and leniency. Francis lived that. As one of his early biographers tells us, Francis was “compassionate and lenient to everyone.” Another one remembers that he and his associates were, from the start, “often mocked, objects of insult, stripped naked, beaten, bound, jailed; and, not defending themselves with anyone's protection, they endured all of these abuses so bravely that from their mouths came only the sound of praise and thanksgiving.” To read about that, to hear about that, it's very obvious that Francis was definitely the sort of man who'd settle for less than the law entitled him to – all for the sake of being flexible, being lenient, being forbearing.
And we can be more like that. But does the church have a reputation for being flexible and lenient? That seems the very opposite of the stereotype we're saddled with. Not to say that we should care less about righteousness or about justice! The ancient and medieval legal thinkers who talked about this leniency or equity actually said it was a type of justice or righteousness – just the kind that recognizes when a general law needs to be applied sensitively in special cases. And does the church at large have a reputation for being forbearing, for putting up with mistreatment and not making a big fuss about it? For some of history, that was the case; now, that's less obvious, less evident. Brothers and sisters, let's be more obviously forbearing, more obviously flexible. May we never break the bruised reed or snuff out the smoldering wick (cf. Isaiah 42:3)!
Second, we might read this verse as calling for our gentleness. And again, Francis demonstrates that pretty well – he was gentle toward everything and everyone. A friend of his remembered that even wild animals often “recognized his feeling of tenderness toward them and sensed the sweetness of his love.” They knew he was a gentle man. Once, someone brought him a wild rabbit that had been caught alive in a trap. After Francis softly chided the rabbit for having let itself get caught, this rabbit ran to him and curled up in his arms while he pet it. Every time he set the rabbit down to let it go its way, it jumped back into Francis' lap, until he finally asked his friends to carry it into the woods. Another time, as he walked through the valley, he found a place where many birds of different types had all gathered. With excitement, Francis ran in to see them – and none flew away. “Filled with great joy,” he started telling the birds how much God loved them and had given them, and how they should always sing their praises to him. And when Francis finished, he was able to walk back and forth through the flocks, able to touch them, for they trusted him. Only after he'd given them his blessing did they fly away.
So gentle was Francis that, if he saw a worm on the road, he'd pick it up and tenderly set it down somewhere it would be less likely to get stepped on. And whenever he encountered bees, he'd compliment them on the artwork of their hives and give them a sip of red wine to help them through the winters. All this for animals, and Francis was no less gentle toward humans – he treated each human person with the same gentleness and compassionate care he had for a bird, a rabbit, a worm, or a bee. He also preached what he practiced. In his rules for those who followed in his footsteps, he told them, “I counsel, admonish, and exhort my brothers in the Lord Jesus Christ, when they go about in the world, not to quarrel or argue or judge others, but let them be meek, peaceful, modest, gentle, and humble, speaking courteously to everyone, as is becoming.”
In the latest county police log, what do we find? Stories of aggravated assault, of theft, of fraud. Around the world, we hardly hear of better: school shootings, airstrikes, massacres, wars and rumors of wars. The world is a violent place. And in this country, the tensions of the hour press us to speak in rude and brash ways, as we argue over partisan politics, argue over the virus, argue over everything. A rude and cruel and violent world could do with some more people in it famous for gentleness – people famous for being safe and welcoming to all living things, just because they're God's creatures; people famous for being tender and loving; people famous for “speaking courteously to everyone,” for “a gentle tongue is a tree of life” (Proverbs 15:4). Peter reminds us to bear witness “with gentleness and respect” (1 Peter 3:15), that a “gentle and quiet spirit” has “imperishable beauty” and is “very precious” in “God's sight” (1 Peter 3:4). And when Paul here talks about letting our gentleness be known to everyone, he means for it to be obvious to people outside the church looking in. Bit by bit, as we remind ourselves to be gentle with our hands and words, our gentleness can become an obvious fact.
Third, we might read this verse as calling for our reasonableness or our moderation. And let's face it: in today's polarized climate, driven by sound bites and the cycle of outrage, our country and our world so desperately need people whose reasonableness and moderation are obvious. The world needs people who think carefully before they talk, people who empathize with others' legitimate concerns, people who try to look for the option that's most workable for everybody while still being just and kind and godly. And as nice as it would be to say that Christians in this country have this reputation for being especially reasonable, for being extra fair and extra balanced, for being the ones who step in to ease tensions and calm tempers... that's not what you're likely to hear said about Christians if you listen to those who aren't. We may not be able to lift unfair stereotypes born of anti-Christian bigotry, but we can make sure not to justify them. And we make sure of that by doing what Paul advises here. What if we were known for our gentleness, our forbearance, our reasonableness?
Paul goes on to say, “The Lord is near! Don't worry about anything” (Philippians 4:5b-6a). Which was a tall order. Because the Philippian Christians lived in a hostile city that didn't like their faith, and they lived among stresses not so unlike the stresses we might face when things get bad. Which is why Paul again turns to the prayer-book of Israel. After speaking about how his persecutors have “drawn near... with evil purpose,” one psalmist declares, “But you are near, O Lord, and all your commandments are true!” (Psalm 119:150-151). We hear how “the Lord is near to the brokenhearted and saves the crushed in spirit” (Psalm 34:18). We're assured that “the Lord is near to all who call on him, to all who call on him in truth” (Psalm 145:18). Paul's looking back to those assurances in the psalms and giving them to the Philippians – and to us. And that's good news, because “he who is in you is greater than he who is in the world” (1 John 4:4). The Lord's nearby presence – near to us when we're broken, near to us when we're threatened, near to us when we call on him in truth – is just bigger than the pandemic, bigger than the politics, bigger than the personal and private things we struggle with.
Since the Lord is near to all who call on him, Paul goes on to tell us that calling on the Lord is exactly the sort of antidote we need to our worries. “Don't worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God” (Philippians 4:6). He doesn't tell us to make known our demands or our bargains, but our requests: humbly accepting that God's decisions will be right, and that he's free to refuse, and that we can't pressure or cajole him. Paul adds that it's all predicated on giving thanks – that thanksgiving is the secret ingredient, thanksgiving is the fabled eleven herbs and spices, thanksgiving is the special sauce that gives our prayers the flavor God loves. Coupled with thanksgiving, we're free to bring God our prayers and petitions “in everything”: nothing's too big, nothing's too small. And as this covers the different sorts of situations we'll face, it means that we ought to make our grateful requests known to God quite often.
And again, Francis can help us see an example. A year after he died, an old friend became the bishop of Rome, and this Pope Gregory IX reflected on how Francis had tamed his body through “countless nights of prayer” and had “made an altar of his heart for the Lord and offered upon it the fragrance of devout prayers.” Another who knew Francis called him “tireless in prayer.” He said that Francis's “safest haven was prayer – not prayer of a fleeting moment, empty and proud, but prayer that was prolonged, full of devotion, peaceful in humility. If he began at night, he was barely finished at morning. Walking, sitting, eating, drinking, he was focused on prayer. He would spend the night alone praying in abandoned churches and in deserted places where, with the protection of divine grace, he overcame his soul's many fears and anxieties.” It's not that Francis didn't have the fears or have the anxieties; it's that he overcame them through prayer. And his prayers were thankful – he and his friends “hardly ever stopped praying and praising God” and always “gave thanks to God for the good done.” Francis urged us that “in every place, in every hour, at every time of the day, every day and continually,” we should “give thanks to the Most High,” the “Savior of all who believe and hope in him and love him.”
What might our lives look like, I wonder, if we did what Paul said – did it more the way Francis tried to do it? What if we found prayer our safest haven? What if our prayers were prolonged, humble, devout? What if we prayed when walking, prayed when sitting, prayed when eating, prayed with each sip of water? What if our prayers and thanksgivings wrestled each fear and each worry into submission? What if our hearts became altars for the incense-offerings of fragrant prayers to the Lord? If we lived even 10% more like that, what would we become, what would we know, what would we experience?
Paul has an answer to that question: “And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus” (Philippians 4:7). In Paul's world, the Romans had brought what they called 'the Roman peace' by imposing it on the world, guarding cities through force with their military might. And Paul is writing to Christians from a very military town, so he plays on that familiar reality, saying that the peace of God will be like a squadron, like a battalion, stationed around your heart and around your mind, like an appointed guard on watch, standing on duty to protect your mind from fearful thoughts and protect your heart from anxious upset. The Apostle Paul had himself come to experience that: God's incomprehensible peace formed a sturdy perimeter around his heart and mind. Francis also had the squadron of God's peace set up its barricades around his mind and around his heart.
And don't we crave what they had, and what they tell us we can have, if only we choose to rejoice in the Lord, if only we choose to be gentle and reasonable and forbearing toward all neighbors and enemies, if only we choose to pray with thanksgiving, making all our requests about everything known to God? If we're the kind of people Paul is encouraging, the kind of people Francis and his friends illustrated, then we have reinforcements that will do their mighty fine job and keep us safe where it counts the most. So let us be that people. Let us live that joy, let us offer those prayers, let us become known in all our neighborhoods as a people of gentle reason, for the praise and glory of our Lord Jesus Christ, in whom we rejoice, through whom we approach the Father, who stands near to help, and whose gentleness can be stamped upon us as we lean into him. Amen.
(All quotations from St. Francis and his contemporaries are drawn from Francis of Assisi: Early Documents, vol. 1: The Saint [New City Press, 1999].)
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