Chapter 13
As Paul finishes off his letter, he stops dictating and writes for himself:
See what large letters I am using to write to you with my own hand! (Galatians 6:11)
Could this be a playful, self-deprecating sign-off, to lighten things up? An in-joke? Perhaps a way of showing that his own handwriting, in its large letters, is nowhere near as neat as a scribe's. Perhaps a way of giving his own hand to the letter — like a signature. Either way, it is a sign of closing up. And so he returns to the purpose of the letter: the issue of circumcision.
It is interesting that those pushing circumcision have a desire to impress.
Those who want to make a good impression outwardly are trying to compel you to be circumcised. They only do this to avoid persecution for the cross of Christ. (Galatians 6:12)
The Galatians are being compelled to be circumcised by those who want to impress. But why impress?
It is because when someone gets out their "yardstick of humanity" — salvation by doing stuff — they want to show that they measure up. That they have salvation. And it makes them feel better when people accept their rulebook on how to live. They want to impress people with all the stuff they do.
It would seem that Paul himself was not particularly impressive. "When I came to you," he wrote to the people in Corinth, he came not with eloquence or human wisdom (1 Corinthians 2:1):
I came to you in weakness and fear, and with much trembling. (1 Corinthians 2:3)
Paul never set out to impress. One wonders whether, in this modern world, he would ever have landed a spot on the preaching circuit. Would he have been invited to speak at conferences? Maybe — but then again, maybe not. Some people in the ancient world complained about his lack of — well — impressiveness. In some ways there was not a lot going for the (probably) diminutive Jew.
So he wasn't that impressive — but, further to this, he never tried to be. He sometimes hung out with slaves and the destitute. Contrary to popular opinion, he had no issues working with women. He worked for his living as a tentmaker, and he wasn't afraid of helping out in a physical way. When he was shipwrecked on the island of Malta there is a wonderful verse — more of an aside — of Paul helping to collect firewood, even though there were plenty of other able bodies he could have delegated the job to. Paul was not one to strut. He viewed himself as a jar of clay. He did not go out to impress.
But it would seem the circumcision group wanted to be well thought of. They may have been like the teachers of the law that Jesus warns against — the ones who like to walk around in flowing robes, who love to be greeted with respect in the marketplaces and to have the most important seats in the synagogues and the places of honour at banquets.
Who doesn't feel a liking for respect?
So why was the circumcision group so active? What was their motivation? Paul tells us. In one sense it has little to do with the theology the Apostle has worked through. Behind all this discussion, hidden beneath the desire to impress, there is a deeper reason — a more visceral one.
They don't want to be persecuted.
They only do this to avoid persecution for the cross of Christ. (Galatians 6:12)
How were Christians being persecuted? As mentioned earlier, if you weren't Jewish — and so didn't have the special dispensation — you were expected to practise Emperor worship as a sign of being a true and faithful member of the Empire. This decree was not exclusive (you could worship other gods too), nor was it especially demanding. It could be perfunctory.
This is where the pressure to conform was so great. How did one show one was a Jew — part of a recognised and distinct group, part of the one Roman exemption from sacrificing to the Emperor? How did one avoid persecution? Circumcision was a reasonable sign to go by. You could show you were circumcised and "be a Jew" who happened to follow Christ. You could avoid persecution. You could keep the Romans and the Jews happy. A win-win. It made so much sense. Everything pointed towards it.
But — was it in line with Paul's message?
Those who wanted to impress said, "Yes. Yes, it is. It's part of God's law."
But Paul reiterates:
For the circumcised do not even keep the law themselves, yet they want you to be circumcised that they may boast in your flesh. (Galatians 6:13)
It's an illogical position. Why use the idea of keeping the law to demand circumcision, when the rest of the law isn't kept anyway? It doesn't make sense — and that illogicality supports the idea that a fear of persecution is what really undergirds their desire. And so it is with those who would change Paul's message. In our own day, in the Western world, the fear of being seen as a bigot, or ultra-conservative, or backwards, or unscholarly, or "unsound," or on the wrong side of history is the secret engine for all sorts of illogical heresies. And, like all who change Paul's message, they crave recruits to support their view. They work hard for it, targeting those who already follow Paul's message.
Paul will have none of it.
But as for me, may I never boast, except in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ, through which the world has been crucified to me, and I to the world. (Galatians 6:14)
Christ crucified is central to Paul's thinking. It is the centrepiece of his message. It is the antidote to bewitchment and the clarity that lifts the fog of ideas around us. When Jesus referred to himself as the cornerstone the builders rejected, the supreme irony was that the ultimate rejection of him — crucifixion — made him the cornerstone. It is the foundation, the capstone of God's kingdom.
And as a result, the world has been crucified to Paul. This is plain from his writings and his life. Threats, suffering, physical harm, exposure to the elements, riots, stonings, whippings, shipwreck, and all manner of physical and emotional harm did not deter him. All those concerns were placed, so to speak, on the back burner. Essentially, Paul was a one-idea man. Christ crucified. Everything else flowed from that.
To suggest that anything else needed to be added was bewildering to him — particularly a surgical procedure that, to non-Jews, meant nothing.
For neither circumcision nor uncircumcision means anything. What counts is a new creation. (Galatians 6:15)
Of course it doesn't. Given Christ crucified, how could it? And the same can be said of every other thing people try to add — the long list back in Chapter 9.
What counts is a new creation. (Galatians 6:15)
Yes! This is classic language of the New Testament writers. A Christian is a new creation. They are made alive. They are born again. They are transformed. They have bowed the knee before the law and died to the law. They have gone from darkness to light, from chains to freedom, from death to life. They want to know how to live in the light. They don't look back at the darkness and wish they were there. They don't gaze lovingly back at their prison cell and think of the happy times they had. They are eager to do what their master wants, not what they want. This is the "rule" Paul alludes to next — following the Lord Jesus as a new creation.
Peace and mercy to all who walk by this rule, even to the Israel of God. (Galatians 6:16)
And another name for those who follow this rule? The Israel of God. Those who walk by this rule are adopted as God's sons and daughters — the true Israel of God, God's people.
We're coming to a close, but there are a few more comments the Apostle wants to add.
From now on let no one cause me trouble, for I bear on my body the marks of Jesus. (Galatians 6:17)
Unfortunately, this request has largely been ignored. Down through the ages, Paul and his writings have been given trouble, right up to this modern day. When I was at university, Paul's name came up a number of times in tutorials and lectures. He was accused of being a zealot, an idiot, a homosexual who couldn't cope with his orientation and probably beat his wife, a man of law, a man who lacked compassion, a man who had no kindness, a man full of judgement — a man who was deeply troubled.
But it didn't stop there. I heard believing Christians claim that Paul was a man completely unlike Jesus. Jesus said we should just love one another; Paul was all about judgement. He was a Pharisee, a lawyer, a man of nit-picking legal niceties. A man who placed unreasonable demands on people, whose writing is too dense, too hard to understand, too esoteric — clearly a poor communicator, a man confused and troubled.
Millions have given Paul trouble, or at least tried to. But he has a reason why people should not.
...for I bear on my body the marks of Jesus. (Galatians 6:17)
Paul put his body on the line. He was whipped three times. Three! If you've ever seen the film The Passion of the Christ, you'll know what that whipping entailed. It was ghastly. It would leave terrible scars on the body. This is what I take to be the "marks of Jesus" — for without Jesus, there would be no scars.
Sometimes God protects his servants from physical harm, and sometimes he does not. Paul knew both protection and harm. God did not spare his Apostle to the Gentiles from such suffering — and yet Paul's overwhelming faith and joy, yes, joy, remained. These scars serve as tattoos. They are lifelong relics on the body. They cannot be washed away. They are permanent physical reminders.
And God knows what this is like. Indeed, no servant is greater than his master. God has his own scars.
Not that we should go looking for these marks. Paul himself did not encourage anyone to seek them out — rather the reverse. Where he was able to avoid the scars, he did. Not many of us in Australia and the Western world get to put our bodies on the line for our faith, but even as I write there are believers around the world doing exactly what Paul did. When they do, like Paul, they engender deep respect. May no one give them trouble.
And so Paul closes.
The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit, brothers. Amen. (Galatians 6:18)
Thus ends one of the first letters — maybe the first letter — known to us that Paul sent. Perhaps he nodded to his scribe, gave it a quick proofread, sealed it up and sent it off. It has sent shockwaves through Galatia, and through the world, ever since.
We human beings constantly gravitate to a law-based spirituality. There is our own desire to be in control. There is a whole tide of culture that pulls the same way. And there are teachers actively cutting in on people, directing them down the wrong track. In this way Paul's letter is sometimes like a beacon, all alone, in a hoary, roaring sea.
But the beacon is built on the rock of facts, and on conviction by the Spirit. It can easily stand up to the pounding of the ages. The Apostle is adamant that the revelation he received was not merely a psychological phenomenon. It was from God, God Almighty — and it matched all the other Apostles and leaders of the church. This revelation was a gift not just to Paul, not just to the Galatians, but to us.
So many people — and I include myself, guilty as charged — have wished for a bit more. Many of us would like a sign from heaven. Many of us want God to speak to us directly. Why do we have something so apparently flimsy as a piece of ancient correspondence? Surely God could show himself a bit more obviously?
But the mechanism God has chosen is not to give proof, as if he needed to dance to each of our prerequisites for belief. Nor is it to come to him by mighty deeds — otherwise only the strong and courageous would enter the kingdom of heaven. Nor by learning and wisdom — otherwise only the clever would enter. Nor by purity — for then it would be open only to those with the right mix of protection, privilege and discipline. And not by doing good stuff — because where would the line be drawn, and who would draw it?
It is by none of these things.
God has ordained that it is by faith. By trust. And that means it is open to all. A child might enter the kingdom of heaven — but so might a coal miner, or an academic, or a sex worker, or a money-grabbing, traitorous tax collector.
We come to this faith through humility. We come to it through the law, which tells us we are guilty. We come to it by dying to ourselves and trusting that God the Son has performed the ultimate transaction. Christians are crucified with Christ.
And how do we die to ourselves? By crucifying our sinful nature, by walking in step with the Spirit, and — in the smallest possible way — by imitating God. When someone becomes a Christian they are not left unchanged. They do not carry on as they once did. They do not simply do whatever they please. It is a complete transformation. They want to please their master, and in so doing they live in love and joy — absolute joy — never wanting to mock God, because they would never wish to.
And yet, even after all of this, it is still possible to slip back into law-based thinking. It is possible to start believing that because God is perfect we need to curry his favour by being perfect too, or at least better than those around us. That we don't really need to trust in Christ crucified. That Christ crucified is "old hat." That we don't need faith at all. "I mean," someone might say, "what is faith, anyway? We just need to do stuff. Doing stuff is what ultimately pleases God."
This is what was happening in Galatia. This is what made the Apostle Paul astonished. And it is what is still happening in our modern world. It is the constant temptation for every believer in Christ — a never-ending current, pulling away from Paul's message: from our culture, from those who live by the law, from teachers steering people down the wrong track.
So how do we not stray from the path?
Let me finish where the Galatians' troubles began — with faith. Because for all the weight of this letter, faith is a surprisingly simple thing. As I said early on, faith is acting on what you believe. That's all it is. And the Gospels are full of people who did exactly that.
Think of the crowd after the feeding of the five thousand. They had seen something extraordinary, and they were thrilled by it. Here was someone with access to mind-bending divine power, a little like Moses — he had fed them in the wilderness. It was huge. It was epic. And so they decided to act.
Then Jesus, realizing that they were about to come and make Him king by force, withdrew again to a mountain by Himself. (John 6:15)
They wanted to make Jesus king — but on their own terms. That is the great temptation in a single picture: faith on our terms, doing stuff, taking control. Jesus slipped away from it.
Or think of Peter, out on the lake in the dark, the wind against the boat, when a figure came towards them across the water. Terrifying. And yet Peter, of all people, called out into the storm:
"Lord, if it is You," Peter replied, "command me to come to You on the water." "Come," said Jesus. Then Peter got down out of the boat, walked on the water, and came toward Jesus. But when he saw the strength of the wind, he was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, "Lord, save me!" Immediately Jesus reached out His hand and took hold of Peter. (Matthew 14:28–31)
That is faith — stepping out of the boat. And notice: Peter's faith was far from perfect. He looked at the wind, he doubted, he sank. But the moment he cried out, Jesus caught him. Faith is not a flawless performance. It is trusting the one who will catch you.
And then there is my favourite picture of all. In Mark's gospel, some men brought a paralysed friend to Jesus, carrying him on a mat. They couldn't get near — the house was packed, the whole town crammed around the door. They should have arrived earlier for better seats. So often in the gospels there are desperate people doing desperate things to get to Jesus: Jairus the synagogue ruler, falling at his feet in public; the woman who had bled for twelve years, shoving through the crowd just to touch his cloak. People who had thrown away their dignity, their respectability and their pride, because their situation left no room for any of it. They simply had to do what they had to do.
So it was with these four. They could have waited for the crowd to thin. But they didn't. They climbed up to the roof, tore it open — imagine the owner's face as plaster rained down and a shaft of light broke through — and lowered their friend down into the room, the poor man clinging on for dear life.
Since they were unable to get to Jesus through the crowd, they uncovered the roof above Him, made an opening, and lowered the paralytic on his mat. When Jesus saw their faith, He said to the paralytic, "Take courage, son; your sins are forgiven."… "I tell you, get up, pick up your mat, and go home." And immediately the man got up, picked up his mat, and walked out in front of them all. (Mark 2:4–5; Matthew 9:2; Mark 2:11–12)
"When Jesus saw their faith." Not their theology. Not their pedigree. Not their good behaviour, their learning, or their purity. Their faith — their willingness to tear off a roof and act on what they believed. And to that desperate, undignified, roof-wrecking faith, Jesus says the kindest words in the world: Take courage, son. Your sins are forgiven.
That is the picture of the Christian life. Not striving up some mountain to reach a distant God. Not doing stuff to earn a place. Just coming to Jesus, however we can, by faith — and being told to take heart.
The Old Testament prophet Isaiah saw it coming, centuries before:
By repentance and rest you would be saved; your strength would lie in quiet confidence. (Isaiah 30:15)
Not in striving. Not in stuff. In repentance and rest. In quiet confidence in what God has done in Christ crucified.
That is the path. Don't stray from it.
The grace of our Lord Jesus Christ be with your spirit, brothers. Amen. (Galatians 6:18)