Homily 10 — Philippians 3, verses 1 to 6

“Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice in the Lord. To write the same things to you is no trouble to me, and for you it is a safeguard. Beware of the dogs, beware of the evil workers, beware of the mutilation. For we are the circumcision, who worship God in the spirit, and glory in Christ Jesus, and have no confidence in the flesh.” [a]

Dejection and worry, whenever they strain the soul beyond due measure, rob it of its natural strength. That is why Paul gives relief to the Philippians. They were in deep dejection, and they were dejected because they did not know how things stood with Paul; they were dejected because they thought it was already all over with him; they were dejected because of the preaching, and because of Epaphroditus. It is to reassure them on all these points that he brings in the words, “Finally, my brothers and sisters, rejoice.”

“You no longer have any cause for dejection,” he says. “You have Epaphroditus, over whom you grieved; you have Timothy; I am coming to you myself; the good news is gaining ground. What more do you lack from now on? Rejoice!”

He calls the Galatians “children” (Galatians 4, verse 19), but these people “brothers and sisters.” When he means either to correct something or to show his affection, he calls them “children”; but when he addresses them with greater honor, “brothers and sisters” is the title. “Finally, my brothers and sisters,” he says, “rejoice in the Lord.” He was right to say “in the Lord,” not “in the way of the world,” for that is no rejoicing at all. The distresses that come for Christ’s sake, he means, are what bring joy. [b]

“To write the same things to you is no trouble to me, and for you it is a safeguard. Beware of the dogs.” Do you notice how he held back from bringing in the exhortation at the start? Only after he had praised them at length, only after he had shown how much he admired them, does he do it — and then he repeats his praise again. For this way of speaking seems to press a little hard on them, and so he shades it on every side.

But whom does he call “dogs”? There were some people in that place of the kind he hints at in all his letters: base and contemptible Jews, greedy for shameful gain and fond of power, who wanted to draw many of the faithful aside. They preached Christianity and Judaism at the same time, and so corrupted the good news. Since they were not easy to recognize, he says, “Beware of the dogs.” The Jews are no longer children. Once the Gentiles were called dogs; now the Jews are. Why? Because just as the Gentiles were strangers both to God and to Christ, so these have now become the same.

So he shows up their shamelessness and violence, and how infinitely far they are from being children. That the Gentiles were once called “dogs,” listen to what the Canaanite woman says: “Yes, Lord; for even the dogs eat the crumbs that fall from their masters’ table” (Matthew 15, verse 27). But so that they would not have even this advantage — for even dogs are at the table — he adds something that makes them outsiders as well: “Beware of the evil workers.” He put it admirably: “Beware of the evil workers.” They do work, he means, but to a bad end; and their work is far worse than idleness, for they pull up what has been well laid down.

“Beware,” he says, “of the mutilation.” The rite of circumcision was held in reverence by the Jews, since the law itself gave way to it, and the Sabbath was valued less than circumcision. To perform circumcision, the Sabbath was broken; but to keep the Sabbath, circumcision was never broken. And notice, please, God’s arrangement here. Circumcision turns out to be even more solemn than the Sabbath, since it is not left off at certain times. So when circumcision is done away with, the Sabbath is done away with all the more. [c]

That is why Paul turns the name into “mutilation” and says, “Beware of the mutilation.” He did not say, “Circumcision is evil,” or “It is useless,” so as not to alarm the people. He handles it more wisely: he draws them away from the thing itself, but indulges them with the word — or rather, with the thing too, in a deeper sense. It was not so with the Galatians. There the disease was serious, so he went straight to the remedy of amputation, openly and with complete boldness. But here, since they had done nothing of the kind, he grants them the pleasure of the name, throws the others out, and says, “Beware of the mutilation; for we are the circumcision.” How? “Who worship God in spirit, and have no confidence in the flesh.”

He did not say, “We are testing the one circumcision against the other, to see which of the two is better.” He would not even allow it a share in the name. What does he say instead? That that circumcision is “mutilation.” Why? Because all they do is cut the flesh up. When the thing is done without the law behind it, it is nothing but a mutilation and a cutting up of the flesh. It was either for this reason that he called it so, or because they were trying to cut the church in two. We too speak of “cutting up” when people do this sort of thing at random, without aim and without skill.

Now if you must look for circumcision, he says, you will find it among us, “who worship God in spirit” — that is, who worship in a spiritual way. For answer me: which is superior, the soul or the body? The soul, obviously. Then that circumcision is also superior — or rather, no longer superior, but the only circumcision there is. While the type still stood, God rightly set this one alongside it, writing, “For you shall circumcise the foreskins of your hearts” (Jeremiah 4, verse 4). In the same way, in the Letter to the Romans, Paul does away with it, saying, “For he is not a Jew who is one outwardly, nor is that circumcision which is outward in the flesh; but he is a Jew who is one inwardly, and circumcision is that of the heart, in the spirit, not in the letter” (Romans 2, verses 28 and 29). And finally he takes the very name from it: “Nor is it circumcision,” he insists. For the type is called by this name while the reality is still to come; but when the reality has come, it no longer keeps the title.

It is like a painting. Someone has sketched a king in outline. As long as the colors are not yet on, we say, “Look, there is the king.” But when they are added, the type is lost in the reality and no longer shows.

And he did not say, “For the circumcision is among us,” but “We are the circumcision” — and rightly. For this is the true man, the circumcision that consists in virtue; this is really the man. Nor did he say, “For among them is the mutilation,” since they themselves are from now on in a state of ruin and wickedness. No longer, he says, is circumcision performed in the body, but in the heart.

“And have no confidence,” he says, “in the flesh; though I myself might have confidence even in the flesh” (verse 4). What does he mean here by “confidence,” and by “in the flesh”? Boasting, bold assurance, lofty airs. And he did well to add this. If he had been one of the Gentiles, and had condemned circumcision — and not only circumcision, but all who took it up out of season — it would have looked as though he were running it down because he lacked the high ancestry of Judaism, being a stranger to its solemn rites and having no part in them. But as it is, he shares in them and yet blames them. So he will not be blaming them as one who has no share in them, but as one who disowns them — not out of ignorance, but precisely because he knows them so well.

Notice what he says in his Letter to the Galatians too. There necessity drove him to say great things about himself — and see how, even then, he shows nothing but humility! “For you have heard of my way of life in the past in the Jews’ religion” (Galatians 1, verse 13). And again here: “If any other man thinks he has grounds for confidence in the flesh, I have more” (verse 4). And he immediately added, “a Hebrew of Hebrews.” But notice “if any other man”: he is showing the necessity, showing that it was because of them that he spoke.

“If you are confident,” he says, “I say so too, since otherwise I keep silent.”

And notice how free of harshness his rebukes are. By holding back from naming them, he gave even them the chance to retrace their steps. “If anyone thinks he has grounds for confidence” — and it was well to say “thinks,” either because they really had no such confidence, or because that confidence was no real confidence, since everything there came by necessity and not by choice.

“Circumcised on the eighth day.” He puts first the thing they boasted of most, namely the rite of circumcision. “Of the race of Israel.” He pointed out both facts: that he was neither a convert nor born of converts. From his being circumcised on the eighth day it follows that he was not a convert; and from his being of the race of Israel, that he was not born of converts. But so that you would not imagine he was of the race of Israel by coming from the ten tribes, he says, “of the tribe of Benjamin.” So he belonged to the more honored part, for the priests’ place lay in the land allotted to this tribe.

“A Hebrew of Hebrews.” That is, he was not a convert, but came from of old, from distinguished Jews. For a man might be of Israel and yet not “a Hebrew of Hebrews,” since many were already corrupting it and had become strangers to the language, surrounded as they were by other nations. So it is either this that he is showing, or the great distinction of his birth.

“As to the law, a Pharisee.” Now he comes to the things that depended on his own will. All the things before were apart from his will: his being circumcised was not his own doing, nor his being of the race of Israel, nor his being of the tribe of Benjamin. So even among these he has a larger share, although in fact there were many who shared them with him. Where, then, are we to place the “more”? Chiefly in this, that he was not a convert; for to be of the most distinguished tribe and sect, and that from ancestors of long ago, was something that belonged to few. But he comes to the things that are matters of choice, and there we find the “more.”

“As to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, persecuting the church.” But this is not enough, for it is possible to be a Pharisee and yet not very zealous. So he adds this too — there is the “more.” “As to righteousness.” Yet it is possible to be reckless, or to act this way out of love of show and not out of zeal for the law, as the chief priests did. But neither was this the case with him; no, he was, “as to the righteousness that is in the law, found blameless.”

“If, then, in purity of descent, in earnestness, in habits and in way of life I surpassed everyone,” he asks, “why have I given up all those honors, except that I found the things of Christ to be better — far better?”

That is why he added, “But whatever things were gain to me, these I have counted loss for Christ” (verse 7).

Such a way of life, so strictly ordered and taken up from earliest childhood; such spotless descent; such dangers, plots, labors, such zeal — all these Paul gave up, “counting them loss” that before were “gain,” so that he might “gain Christ.” But we do not even despise money in order to “gain Christ.” We would rather miss the life to come than miss the good things of this present life. And yet money is nothing but loss. Tell me now — let us examine the conditions of wealth one by one, and see whether it is not loss that comes with trouble and brings no gain at all. Tell me, what is the advantage of those stores of costly clothes? What good do we get when we are dressed in them? [k]

None. No, we are only the losers. How so? Because the poor man in his cheap, threadbare clothing bears the scorching heat of summer no worse than you do. He bears it better, in fact, for threadbare clothes worn in a single layer give the body more ease, while new-made clothes do not, even if they are finer than a spider’s web. Besides, out of your excessive self-importance you wear two and often three tunics, and a cloak and a belt, and trousers too; but no one blames him if he wears a single tunic. So he is the one who gets through most easily. That is why we see rich men sweating, while the poor suffer nothing of the kind.

So since his cheap clothing, sold for next to nothing, serves him just as well or even better, and those clothes that make a man pay out a great deal of gold do only the same thing, is not all this great excess just so much loss? It has added nothing to the use and service of the thing, but your purse is emptied of so much more gold — for the same use and service. You who are rich have paid a hundred gold pieces, or even more, while the poor man paid a trifling sum of silver. Do you see the loss? No — your pride will not let you see it.

Shall we make up this account for the gold ornaments too, which men put alike on their horses and on their wives? For besides its other evils, the possession of money makes fools of people. They count their wives and their horses worthy of the same honor, and the ornaments of both are the same. They would make themselves finer by the same means as the very animals that carry them, or as the very leather of the canopies under which they are carried. Now what is the use of decking out a mule or a horse with gold? Or the lady who carries such a weight of gold and jewels on her person — what does she gain?

“But gold ornaments never wear out,” he answers. Well, it is also said that in the baths and in many other places both precious stones and gold ornaments lose much of their value. But suppose it is so, and grant that they suffer no damage. Tell me, what is the gain? And what about when they fall out and are lost — is there no loss then? And what about when they draw envy and plots down on you — is there no loss then? When they do the wearer no good, but rather inflame the eyes of the envious and act as an invitation to the robber, do they not become loss?

Again, suppose a man could use them for some useful purpose but cannot, because of his wife’s extravagance, and is forced to go hungry and stint himself so that he may see her dressed in gold — is that not a matter of loss? It was for this reason that goods took their name from use: not so that we should keep them like a goldsmith’s display pieces, but so that we should do some good with them. So when the love of gold does not allow this, is not the whole thing loss? For the man who does not dare to use them holds back from using them as if they were someone else’s property, and there is no use of them in any way.

Again, what about when we put up splendid, spacious mansions, decorated with columns, marble, colonnades, arcades, and in every possible way, setting up images and statues everywhere? Many people even call up demons from these — from the images, I mean — but let us leave that question aside. And what is the point of the gilded ceiling? Does it not meet the same need as the house of a man who lives on a modest scale?

“But there is great delight in it,” he says. Yes, for the first day or two; after that, none at all, and it just stands there for nothing. For if the sun does not strike us with wonder, because it is familiar, much less do works of art; we look at them as if they were things of clay. Tell me, what does a row of pillars do to make your house better than others, or the finest statues, or the gilding spread over the wall? Nothing. These things come from luxury and arrogance, from overbearing pride and folly. In a house everything ought to be necessary and useful, not superfluous. Do you see that the thing is loss? Do you see that it is superfluous and unprofitable? If it supplies no further use or delight — and in the course of time it even brings boredom — it is nothing but loss. And empty glory is the obstacle that will not let us see this.

Did Paul give up the things he “counted gain,” and will we not even let go of our loss for Christ’s sake? How long will we be nailed to the earth? How long until we look up to heaven? Do you not see the old, how little sense they have of what is past? Do you not see those who are finishing their course, men in old age and men in youth? Do you not see people in the middle of life stripped of them? Why are we so wedded to things that do not stay put? Why are we tied to things that shift? How long before we take hold of the things that last? What would the old not give, if they were allowed to put off their old age?

How unreasonable it is, then! We wish we could go back to our former youth, and would gladly give everything to become younger. Yet when it is in our power to receive a youth that knows no old age — a youth, too, that comes with great riches and has far more vigor — we are unwilling to give up a little trifle, and cling instead to things that contribute not the slightest thing to this present life. They can never rescue you from death. They have no power to drive away disease, or to stop old age, or any of those things that happen by necessity and by the law of nature. And do you still cling to them? Tell me, what do you gain? Drunkenness, gluttony, pleasures against nature and of every kind — tormentors far worse than the harshest masters.

These are the advantages we gain from riches, and there is not one besides, because we are not so minded. If we had had the mind to, we might have won heaven itself as our inheritance by means of our riches.

“So riches are good, then,” he says. It is not riches that bring this about, but the will of the one who has them. And because it is the will that does it, even a poor man has it in his power to win heaven. For, as I have often said, God does not look at the size of the gifts, but at the will of the givers. Even someone in poverty who has given only a little can carry off everything, for God asks for a measure in proportion to our ability. Riches will not secure heaven for us, nor will poverty bring us to hell; a good will or a bad will does the one or the other. So let us correct this, let us take possession of it again, let us set it in order, and everything will be easy for us.

A craftsman works the wood the same way whether his axe is of iron or of gold — or rather, he does it better with an iron tool. So here too, the straight path of virtue is more easily kept in poverty. For of riches we read, “It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich man to enter the kingdom of heaven” (Matthew 19, verse 24). But he has made no such declarations about poverty — quite the reverse: “Sell your goods, and give to the poor, and come, follow me” (verse 21), as if the following were to spring from the selling.

So let us never run from poverty as an evil, for it is what wins us heaven. And again, let us never chase riches as a good, for they are the ruin of those who walk carelessly. In everything let us keep our eyes on God, and use, as occasion requires, the gifts he has granted us — strength of body, plenty of money, and every other gift. For it is against nature that we, who exist for him, should make these things serve others and not serve him who made us. [l]

He formed your eye: make it serve him, not the devil. But how does it serve him? By looking at his creatures and praising and glorifying him, and by keeping it from every gaze at women. Did he make your hands? Keep them for his use, not for the devil’s — not stretching them out for robbery and plunder, but for his commandments and for good deeds, for earnest prayers, for holding out help to those who have fallen. Has he made your ears? Give them to him, not to effeminate songs or shameful stories; but “let all your conversation be in the law of the Most High” (Sirach 9, verse 15). For “stand,” it says, “in the company of the elders, and whoever is wise, cling to him” (Sirach 6, verse 34).

Did he make your mouth? Let it do nothing that displeases him, but sing psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs. “Let no corrupt talk come out of your mouth,” says the apostle, “but only such as is good for building up, as the need may be, so that it may give grace to those who hear” (Ephesians 4, verse 29) — for building up and not for tearing down, for good words and not for slander and plotting against one another, but the very opposite. He made your feet, not so that you would run to do evil, but to do good. He made your belly, not so that you would cram it to bursting, but so that you would practice the lessons of wisdom. For the begetting of children he planted desire in your mind — not for sexual immorality, not for adultery. He gave you understanding, not to make you a blasphemer or a slanderer, but so that you might be free of falsehood.

He gave us money to be used when the occasion is fitting, and strength likewise to be used when the occasion is fitting. He established the crafts so that our present life might be held together by them — not so that we should cut ourselves off from spiritual things, not so that we should give ourselves to the shameful trades, but to the necessary ones, so that we might serve one another’s good and not plot against one another. He gave us a roof to shelter us from the rain, and nothing more — not so that it should be decked out with gold while the poor man dies of hunger. He gave clothing to cover us, not to make a display with it, not so that such things should have much gold lavished on them while Christ perishes naked. He gave you a place of shelter, not so that you should keep it to yourself, but so that you should offer it to others too.

He gave you land, not so that you should cut off the best part of it and spend God’s good gifts on prostitutes and dancers and actors, on flute players and harp players, but on those who are hungry and in need. He gave you the sea to sail on, so that you would not be worn out by traveling — not so that you should pry into its depths and bring up precious stones from there, and all the other things of the same kind, nor so that you should make this your business.

“Why are there precious stones, then?” he says. No — you tell me why these stones are the way they are, and why one kind is valued so highly while the other kinds are more useful. The others serve for building, but these for no purpose at all; and the others are stronger than these. [n]

“But these,” he says, “make a beautiful effect.” How so? It is a matter of fancy. Are they whiter? No, they are not whiter than pure white marble, nor anywhere near it. Are they stronger, then? Not even this can be said for them. Well then, are they more useful? Are they larger? Not this either. So where does all the admiration come from, if not from fancy? If they are neither more beautiful — for we will find others more shining and whiter — nor useful, nor stronger, how did they come to be so admired? Was it not from mere fancy? Why, then, did God give them? They were not his gift; it is your own imagination that makes them anything great.

“How is it, then,” he answers, “that even Scripture shows admiration for them?” To that extent it speaks to your fancy — just as a teacher talking with a child often admires the same thing the child does, when he wants to attract its attention and hold it.

Why do you aim at finery in your clothing? God clothed you with a garment and with sandals. But what reason is there for these other things? [o]

“The judgments of God,” he says, “are more to be desired than gold, yes, than much fine gold” (Psalm 19, verse 10). These things, beloved, are of no use. If they had been of use, he would not have told us to despise them. As for Holy Scripture, it speaks with our way of thinking in view, and this too shows God’s love for humankind.

“Why, then,” he asks, “did he give purple and the like?” These things are the products of God’s gift, for he willed to show his own riches through other things as well. He gave you plain grain too; but out of it you make many things — cakes and sweets of every sort and variety — and take much enjoyment in them. Pleasure and empty glory give rise to all these inventions. It pleased you to set these things above everything.

Suppose a foreigner, or a country person who did not know the place, were to put the question. Seeing your admiration, suppose he said, “Why do you admire these things?” What would you have to say? That they are beautiful to look at? But they are not. So let us give up such notions, and take hold of the things that are truly real. These things are not real; they simply pass away, flowing past like a river. That is why I urge you: let us take our stand on the rock, so that we will not be easily turned about, and so that we may obtain the good things to come, by the grace and love for humankind of our Lord Jesus Christ, with whom, to the Father, together with the Holy Spirit, be glory, power, and honor, now and always, and forever and ever. Amen.