This
morning I want to focus on our reading from Paul’s letter to the Ephesians. It
is a letter written from prison. He describes himself as ‘a prisoner for Christ
for the sake of you Gentiles’ (Ephesians
3:1) and ‘the prisoner in the Lord’ (Eph.
4:1) and, in the passage we heard read today, as ‘an ambassador in chains’ (Eph. 6:20).
Paul
found himself a prisoner on several occasions over the course of his missionary
journeys, sometimes for his own protection and sometimes as part of the process
of bringing his own appeal to the authorities. We know he spent time in the
city prison at Philippi, in army garrison prisons in Jerusalem and Caesarea,
and under house arrest in Rome — and it was probably from Rome that he wrote to
the saints in Ephesus. Prisons were not used as a form of punishment after
trial, but as custody awaiting your day in court. We know, from the end of the
Luke’s record of the early church, Acts,
that Paul was able to receive and entertain many visitors while under house
arrest, though under guard. We know, from another letter Paul wrote at the same
time, to the church in Philippi, that his captivity had served to spread the
gospel in that the whole of the imperial guard had heard the gospel being
proclaimed (Philippians 1:12, 13),
and that some of the emperor’s household — that is, including his guard and
slaves — had even become saints, brothers and sisters in Christ (Phil. 4:21). Indeed, Paul turns the
whole idea of captivity on its head. In his letter to the Ephesians he refers
to Psalm 68 to describe Christ making
captivity itself a captive (Eph. 4:8),
setting those who had formerly been in spiritual captivity free. Paul, chained
to a guard, was free; while the guards, on a rota to be chained to Paul, were
the captive audience, hearing the gospel, being taken captive by it, talking
about this strange prisoner among themselves.
We
also know that Paul didn’t write letters. He dictated them. This was the normal
practice of the day, where many people could not read and a good proportion of
those who could read couldn’t write. If you wanted to send a letter, you paid a
professional scribe (amanuensis) to
write down your words, and then someone who could read to deliver them — that
is, to carry them to their intended destination, and then to read the letter to
the intended recipient. This was Paul’s practice, with scribes and postmen even
becoming part of his apostolic team. So, Paul’s letter to the church at Rome
was written down by Tertius (possibly the amanuensis
of Paul’s host, Gaius), who penned his own greeting at the end (Romans 16:22). And at the end of his
letter to the Galatians, Paul takes up the pen himself for the concluding
remarks, even commenting, ‘See what large letters I make when I am writing in
my own hand!’ (Galatians 6:11),
possibly on account of failing eyesight.
Here
is the thing: when Paul starts speaking about the whole armour of God, the very
first hearers of these words are not the saints in Ephesus but include the
soldier Paul is chained to. His captor, and his captive audience. Just sit with
that a moment. Paul looks at his captor and sees something of God’s provision,
and something of our Christian response. That is amazing.
How
would the guard in question have responded? It is quite possible that they
themselves are by now Paul’s brother in the Lord, in which case they would
surely have felt incredibly affirmed by the idea that what they do reflects and
partners with God in the world: that they are divine image-bearers. It is, of
course, as likely that they don’t share Paul’s faith, that they find themselves
co-opted into Paul’s teaching despite their cynicism. What then? Is this a
violation? An awakening? An amusement? Nothing to them? Still, the word will
get out.
I
wonder what would happen if our eyes were opened to see the people we come
across in our daily lives as image-bearers? The care worker who attends to us
at home; the teacher in whose class our child finds herself; the security guard
in the shopping centre; the street sweeper; the barmaid; the person on the till
at the supermarket; the asylum seeker; the homeless couple sleeping in the
church doorway. I wonder what would happen if we not only saw them as
image-bearers, but we let them know? Might it be ‘abundantly more than we can
ask or imagine’? (Eph. 3:20)
I’d
like to paraphrase Paul in the light of A-, a street sweeper in the city
centre. Due to cuts in the number of street sweepers, to keep his job and a
roof over his family he has to work thirteen days in fourteen, every Saturday and
every other Sunday. Without him, we would soon be wading ankle-deep through
waste. Even so, in carrying more than one person’s load, he is not able to do
the job as well as he would like. Despite this, as he goes about his business
he looks out for those sleeping rough on his patch, making sure they are
alright.
Therefore take up the whole work-clothes
of God, so that you may be able to withstand a god-denying age, and having done
everything, to stand firm. Stand therefore, and fasten the belt of truth around
your waist, and put on the high-vis jacket of your vindication being in God. As
reinforced boots on your feet put on whatever will make you ready to proclaim
the good news of peace. With all of these, take up the bin-cart of faith, with
which you will be able to counter the persistent littering of wilful carelessness
towards the world. Wear the logo that identifies you as both God’s workmanship
and co-worker, and take up the grabber claw of the Spirit, which is the word of
God.
