This was last weekend's sermon. Lectionary preachers will notice this was not the text for Sunday. I normally preach monthly, but this month I was scheduled twice--and in order to be a good steward of my time and energy while Rev. B is in Kenya and "I'm it," I slightly reworked a sermon I preached my last year of seminary. This may have been against my better judgment, since my class gave this one a rather heavy critique. Too much "isn't-this-cool" exegesis, not enough focus, and (gasp!) a canned story. This is probably the only canned story I've never used, and durnit, that was kinda my point--we've all heard versions of the story because the issue it raises touches us all.

Anyway. Here it is. I think it went off better with this congregation, although I don't doubt that there were people who walked away scratching their heads. Many people said it was exactly what they needed to hear. One of the more problematic images for my seminary class proved to be deeply significant for at least one particular person--so who's to say? Certainly not me.

Maybe it was a sermon whose time had not come yet? Or, the congregation is easier to please! At any rate, enjoy, either as a Sermon that Makes You Go Hmm, or perhaps as a "whew... at least I don't do *that* when I preach."

Rejoice… and Get Along!

Philippians 4
Therefore, my brothers and sisters, whom I love and long for, my joy and crown, stand firm in the Lord in this way, my beloved. 2I urge Euodia and I urge Syntyche to be of the same mind in the Lord. 3Yes, and I ask you also, my loyal companion, (Syzygus), help these women, for they have struggled beside me in the work of the gospel, together with Clement and the rest of my co-workers, whose names are in the book of life. 4Rejoice in the Lord always; again I will say, Rejoice. 5Let your gentleness be known to everyone. The Lord is near. 6Do not worry about anything, but in everything by prayer and supplication with thanksgiving let your requests be made known to God. 7And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.


Maybe you know the story too—it’s an oldie—the story of the two farmers. They were neighbors—but only geographically. I don’t know how long it had been since they’d even talked to each other. One of them had dug a little trench between the two farms, to try to get the creek to run there, and the other couldn’t stand it, stuff like that, but the final straw was the dumbest thing. It was this little stray cat, a calico, I think. First the cat adopted one farmer, then the cat wandered as stray cats are prone to do, over to the other porch, and the other farmer started feeding and caring for it. The two neighbors would argue and argue over whose it was, and finally they just stopped talking about it. But they couldn’t really talk about anything else, either, so they were neighbors, but only geographically.

In fact, when the traveler came around looking for work one of the neighbors said, “Hey, I’ve got something for you to do. I want a fence right in front of that trench. There’s some lumber out by the shed to get you started, I’ll run into town for more, thanks so much for doing this, I don’t even want to look at him anymore.” (Adapted from “Carpenter Story,” told by folk singer David Wilcox on the album East Asheville Hardware.)

Do you know this story? In the version you know, are they farmers... or siblings... or members of a denomination... or even rival political parties perhaps?

Because we all know the story…
Paul knew the story, and it grieved him enough to announce to the whole church at Philippi that it was time for the two neighbors to just get along already. Their names were Euodia and Syntyche, and like those two farmers, they had labored side by side until something came between them. We don’t know what it is—probably something big—
something big like how to relate to their interfaith neighbors,
or something big like how they should live as Christians in the midst of an empire; how public should they be in their faith.

…Something more important, anyway, than a stray cat… or what kind of music to have in worship, or the color of the drapes in the church parlor, but who knows? Because even when it’s about the color of drapes in the church parlor, it’s not really about the color of the drapes in the church parlor, is it?

And so no matter what the issue is, Paul is tired of this story. Depending on which version you read, he urges the two women to agree with one another, be of the same mind, to live in harmony, or at least come to a mutual understanding. But that’s not all. Paul urges a loyal companion (Syzygus in the Greek) to help them: help them sift through all these bad feelings and jaw-clenching conflict and find some resolution, some place they can stand together and get back to work, for goodness’ sake.

Now, any of us who have seen how these stories go knows that there are a number of problems with this plan of Paul’s, not the least being that if this loyal companion is anything like us, he or she is probably pretty clueless about how exactly to get these two neighbors talking again. This is someone who knows these women, who loves these women as sisters in Christ, but doesn’t necessarily have any skills in mediation. The conflict is so deep, how can a lasting peace be achieved?

Or maybe the situation is complicated by the fact that this loyal companion agrees 100% with Euodia and is thinking, “Well, she’s clearly right, it’s so obvious it’s her cat, we just need to get Syntyche on our page.” This is not some impartial observer. This is someone who’s living in the same little church family where this conflict breeds, and so what Paul is asking is quite difficult indeed.

How do we encourage two parties to be of the same mind in the Lord?
How do we do that, when too much has been said by both sides, things that can’t be taken back? When the conflict between the two camps has left this gaping trench in the earth that’s just too deep and jagged to cross?
How do we do that when we’re sitting on one edge of that trench and we don’t want to cross it, when we’ll take harmony and mutual understanding as long as it’s on our side of the trench?

Unfortunately, Paul seems to change the subject in the next verse: Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I will say rejoice. Hmm, okay… Two sentences about the conflict and, then Rejoice? And again, rejoice? Interestingly, the Greek word for rejoice can also mean good-bye or farewell. (In fact, when I gave our office manager the sermon title for the bulletin this week, she wanted to know, “Is that ‘get along’ as in agree with one another, or like ‘get along little doggies’?” Turns out it’s both!) And “goodbye” here seems even worse! “I urge the women to get along, and I urge you to help them, and whoops! Look at the time. Gotta go, ba-bye.” This seems like the world’s biggest non-sequitur.

Or is this a key to resolving the conflict?

Rejoice in the Lord.
Goodbye in the Lord.
What do rejoice and goodbye have in common?

They both seem to require us to let go. When we’re truly rejoicing, we’ve let go of propriety and inhibition. When we say goodbye, we let go of something or someone that’s dear to us. And so I wonder… if there’s a conflict that has driven us to despair, if we are paralyzed to move forward, then maybe we are holding on too tightly to this life… too tightly to our own self-importance,
too tightly to the everyday stuff that seems so overwhelming. “Do not worry about anything, but in everything in prayer let your requests be made known to God.”

Yes, these conflicts are real, and Paul urges us to deal with them, but they are not ultimate. We are not ultimate. This space we occupy on either side of the trench is not our home—Paul says it elsewhere, our citizenship is in heaven. And here in today’s text, in case there’s any doubt, Paul uses the phrase “in the Lord” again and again to re-locate us.

Stand firm, not on your side of the trench, but in the Lord.
Be of the same mind, not in your convictions, but in the Lord.

Rejoice, not always in lockstep agreement, but in the Lord.
And the peace of God will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus our Lord.

But what does it really mean to be in the Lord and in the midst of conflict?
What does it look like to be in the Lord?
It’s too easy to say, “Of course I’m in the Lord. The Lord’s over here with me.”

One clue is this business about the loyal companion, this Syzygus, who is called upon to help the women achieve harmony. The word companion literally means one who is yoked, one who is harnessed to another to get the job done. Paul says, I ask you as one who is yoked to help them… They have worked together, they have struggled together. Remind them that they are yoked to one another, like it or not.

The problem is, if we’re honest we’ll admit that we really don’t like it. Maybe we don’t mind being yoked to Christ, but if being "in the Lord" means being yoked to someone with whom we vehemently disagree—well, we’re going to grit our teeth over that. We’re going to want to throw the yoke off at that point and find people of like mind to work with.

But the text doesn't seem to give us that option.
Over time the Greek word for companion, or yoked one, has given us the delightful English word, syzygy. A syzygy involves three celestial bodies, planets, moons, whatever, all within a common gravitational system. They’re yoked together, but by something unseen, something powerful, something that can’t be shrugged off. It’s part of who you are and where you are. That’s how we’re connected to one another in the Lord—not by choice but by being part of this complex dance of movement and attraction, with Christ at the center. We can’t choose it, we can’t control it. We can’t pull ourselves out of it. “Can the earth say to the sun, I have no need of you?”

But a syzygy is more than just three bodies doing their dance up in space. A syzygy specifically happens when these three planets or moons or stars are all lined up straight. Lined up, in harmony. Lined up, for example, like a solar eclipse, when the moon passes in front of the sun.

I don’t think I’ve ever seen a total solar eclipse in person, but I’ve seen pictures. What always strikes me is that, normally, the sun is a simple yellow disc in the sky. But when the moon passes in front, when the moon moves into alignment with the sun, we see the sun in a completely new way. The sun’s rays literally leap off the surface—colors, streaks of flame, fingers of light seem to extend way out into space. It’s like the sun has grown somehow, larger and more intricate. And the moon, the moon becomes just a shadow standing inside the sun. Standing in the sun.

Standing… Standing, in the Lord.
Rejoice in the Lord.

Could this be an image for how to be in the Lord? To become as a shadow? Wasn’t it John the Baptist who said, “I must decrease, but Christ must increase”?

In other letters Paul writes about how we reflect the light of Christ. And that image has some resonance for us; but the danger of that image is that the world looks to us for illumination, and not at Christ. And when we’re entrenched in the midst of a deep conflict, it’s too easy to deceive ourselves by saying, “Well, I don’t need to move anywhere, I can reflect Christ just fine from right where I am.” Here in Philippians Paul seems to be saying,

“First, you’re going to need to say goodbye to any authority and control over this.
And rejoice in that!
And then, you’re going to need to move in order to be in the Lord.
You’re going to need to align yourselves with the living Christ,
so that the world will see not your glory,
not your light,
not your power to heal the conflict, (because you don't have it!)
but God’s glory,
God’s light,
and God’s power to heal the conflict.
That’s what being in the Lord means.”

It’s a hard lesson to learn. Maybe Euodia and Syntyche and the rest of the Philippians learn it in the end. Maybe the story doesn’t end with conflict and hurt feelings. Maybe it will end well for us in the conflicts we find ourselves embroiled in as well. But I can tell you this. The story gets better for those poor farmers, but they get some help. Because as the first farmer comes back from the lumber store, excited to see the progress the traveler has made on his fence, he is shocked, shocked to see that the traveler has built--you know. A bridge. Over that trench, onto his land, with his lumber. And, oh man, here comes his neighbor across that bridge with his arm out and a big stupid grin on his face. And before he can stop himself, the first one finds himself walking towards him across that bridge! And the second one says, “Thank you. I’ve been a fool. Can you ever forgive me?” And the first one finds himself saying, “Aww, I knew that was your cat.”

The story doesn’t end there. It’s never that simple. But something important has begun.

And as the two farmers talk for the first time in years, as they stand there in a new place, they can’t help notice the traveler walking away, silhouetted by a brilliant evening sun, a couple of stray pieces of wood slung over his shoulder, a long piece, and a short piece, nailed together…

But that, I think, is another story.