But we have this treasure in jars of clay to show that this all-surpassing power is from God and not from us. We are hard pressed on every side, but not crushed; perplexed, but not in despair; persecuted, but not abandoned; struck down, but not destroyed. We always carry around in our body the death of Jesus, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who are alive are always being given over to death for Jesus’ sake, so that his life may also be revealed in our mortal body. (II Corinthians 4:7-11)
Sometimes, it seems that when people
discuss themselves as “jars of clay,” they are referring only to their physical
bodies. This is an old dualism, the idea that the body was a negative thing,
while what was inside and intangible: the soul, the spirit, the mind, the
heart… all were pristine, beautiful things – the treasure that Paul
mentioned.
When we are finally free of these miserable bodies,
what glory! But in the meanwhile, our bodies must either be allowed to indulge
or must be brutally kept in check. After all, our bodies are not ourselves.
The problem is that this is not what the passage says.
We are not “in” our bodies like you are in whatever room. Our minds,
souls, spirits, hearts, etc., are as much a part of the jars of clay as our
bodies are. And our “not-good-enoughness” (AKA insufficiency, weakness, and
failure) shows that what is at work in us is not our own sufficiency.
Here's the thing. I have set it as a goal to become
much more sufficient. I’m trying to learn to raise my own food and care
supplies, do carpentry, sew/quilt, can, organize, macrame… and whatever the
next thing is. And when I write the things I’ve written this morning in response
to the passage, part of me chimes in with the “Oh, you’re trying to be sufficient – wicked,
wicked girl.” But somehow, I don’t think that Paul was thinking that his skills
as a tentmaker were what he was thinking about.
So what was he
thinking about? One possibility comes to mind.
Gideon and the hundred men
with him reached the edge of the camp at the beginning of the middle watch,
just after they had changed the guard. They blew their trumpets and broke the
jars that were in their hands. The three companies blew the trumpets
and smashed the jars. Grasping the torches in their left hands and holding
in their right hands the trumpets they were to blow, they shouted, “A
sword for the Lord and for Gideon!” While
each man held his position around the camp, all the Midianites ran, crying out
as they fled. (Judges 7:19-21)
Imagine the scene. Three hundred men sneaked into
camp with torches in jars. The plan wouldn’t haven’t worked well if they’d
broken the jars, then taken the time to light them. They were already lit in the
jars (which suggests they were pretty big jars.) A little light would have
escaped, but when they were broken, the effect would have been mini-novae,
sudden, comparatively bright light. It would have been like in the movies
where the lightning strikes and reveals someone or something peering in through
the window or standing at the foot of the bed.
Then, there’s another story.
While he was in Bethany, reclining at the table in the home of Simon the Leper, a woman came with an alabaster jar of very expensive perfume, made of pure nard. She broke the jar and poured the perfume on his head. (Mark 14:3)
Now, I don’t really understand the notion of putting something in a jar that somehow must be broken to get the stuff out – that’s why I never got a piggy bank without a plug in its belly. Maybe it was just that culture’s way of saying that she opened it – but that’s not what it says. To do good to Jesus, the jar had to be broken.
When people complain about bad things happening and people
being broken, we tend to sympathize. We should sympathize and weep with those
who weep, but what if our being broken is how God is revealed? What if our
being broken ultimately gives us and everyone else light? What if our being broken is what will give us victory?
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