488: Rubbish | Tim Henderson

Introduction

Good morning everybody. Lovely to be with you all again. All right, so I'll just give you a little fair warning—this talk's gonna be a little bit uncomfortable. Okay. It's going to be uncomfortable for two reasons: first, because of the level of self-disclosure that I'm gonna offer you, and second, I hope, because of the level of self-honesty that I'm going to try to provoke in you. All right, so get comfy. All right. It's going to be a good time.

I grew up in Southern California; many of you have heard me tell you that I lived specifically in the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains, and it was idyllic. I had a fantastic childhood up in the most beautiful place. In fact, I got to visit my childhood home a couple of weeks ago when I was on vacation there with friends, and I had forgotten how unbelievable our house was. We lived right up against the mountains. We could see—I don't know, man—50 or 60 miles. Like forever, basically, of all the lights, all the way out pretty much to the coast. And it was perfect.

If you've ever seen Stranger Things, I was exactly that age at that exact time in the world. And life was lived outside. My best friend was a kid named Ricky Gray. And I loved Ricky, and Ricky loved me, and we spent so much time together. Among other things, Ricky had ATCs, which were the three-wheeled predecessors to the four-wheeled ATVs. They were death traps, but they had big, huge knobby tires. So we would tool around in the foothills of the mountains or go out to his land in the desert and cruise around on these things. Life was so fun. It was just a happy time to be, you know, the say ten years old in 1980 in Southern California.

I was always the smartest kid in the class. I remember, and I don't know why this would be, but I grew up in California. We would take the Iowa tests of basic skills—I don’t know why Iowa ruled the world at the time, but every subject, every comp, every year—I was in the top percentile of every class. It was always easy to know things; known stuff just comes really easily to me.

Recess was more of a split decision. We would do one of two things: we were really going to play butts up or kickball. Butts up was awesome. That's a game where you compete with your friends for the right to whip tennis balls at each other. And who doesn't love that, right? Kickball—less good—because two things: number one, I was no good at it, and number two, it involved the ancient humiliation ritual of picking teams. I know exactly what it is like to stand on a line of kids as two captains are choosing the people they think are gonna help them win the game. I know exactly what it feels like for that line to get smaller and smaller, and then to go to the team that had the last pick. Okay, and I can tell you, it's not any fun at all. It wasn't personal; it wasn't bullying. They wanted to win, and I wasn't an asset likely to help them do that, so I get it. But it still wasn't any fun, right?

Go in the classroom. Everybody wants to sit at my table. I had plenty of friends. It wasn't a sad life, but that was— that was difficult, right? And by the time I was 12 years old, I knew who I was. I knew who I wasn't.

My dad was an Eagle Scout, and I got involved in Boy Scouts, and I made Eagle—I think I was 15 when I made the rank of Eagle. But prior to that, I became what's called the senior patrol leader—that's the kid who's in charge of the troop. Honestly, I don't remember if I was selected by the adults or elected by my peers. But I became the kid in charge of everything. And I decided I was becoming the senior patrol leader. I got sent off to this leadership camp called Buckskin, and every kid at Buckskin camp is the leader from their own troop. Then we all get to lead temporarily, and then the best leader of the temporary leaders was made what was called the permanent patrol leader. And I became the permanent patrol leader, and the whole camp was a competition. My patrol won the whole thing, which made me the best leader of the best leaders of the best leaders.

Right now, a little bit after that, for whatever reason, I'm in high school. I took a chorus class—I cannot comprehend what would have induced me to do that. It simply must be the case that we were required to do something in the arts because I can't sing. Okay? We’re in the class, and we were all required to try out for the all-county chorus. And everybody's like, "Dude, it's fine, like no guys are ever in that thing." Like, all the guys get in—well, that's not true. So on a particular Saturday, I had to go—and you guys, I had to sing an acapella solo in front of a panel of judges. That was on a Saturday, and then on Monday, I got the paper. I remember my teacher handing me my score. I mean, I can see it right now. It was folded vertically—like you never fold an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven like this. But she did. And I got my paper, and I scored 37 out of 100 possible points because I can't sing.

Okay? You might think I sit in the front row because I have “preasty” stuff to do—I sit in the front row—so I’m not singing in anybody’s ear. Okay? High school was basically the same thing—still the smartest kid in the class, except for Spanish. I hate Spanish. I hate all foreign languages. I'm terrible at them. I had a teacher, and I cannot tell you any of my school teachers’ names—I have no idea—except Mrs. Pukal, who was my Spanish teacher. She had the peculiar habit of grading the tests and then sorting them by grade and handing them back in reverse order. So, if you're—I'm swear to you—that's not like technically abuse? So, if you—and I would’ve loved that in any other class—you know, but you get a hundred, you get your test back, and I would just sit in my chair and wait because it's gonna be a minute.

Why do I tell you that? I tell you all of that, guys, because I was 12 years old and I knew where life was to be found. I knew what I was good at and what I wasn't good at. I knew the things that I could seek, soulless and comfort in. And I knew the arenas that I just would be better off avoiding. I knew how to quiet the inner voice of self-approach—and my guess is that you learned it too. Did you not? Figure out, even when you were a kid, who you were and who you weren't. Those things, those trends, have continued into my adulthood. My career has been marked by doing things where my job is to know stuff and to lead groups of people, because that's what I do, with very little effort. And there are other arenas I would just rather avoid.

The Series and the Main Passage

I want you to think about your version of my story. What are the things that you treasure? Where do you go to find solace, comfort, consolation? Grab them together, right? Hold them in your hand, just get a grip. Maybe you are the athlete, or maybe you're the singer, maybe you're the pretty one or the funny one, the compassionate one. Right? Maybe you think of yourself—and others do too—as a really good listener. Or maybe you get your points from your sheer determination. You just man, you never stop and you get it done. Maybe it's your wealth, your reputation, your career. Or maybe you're 14 years old and you're still figuring it out, but you've got a pretty good thesis.

Whatever it is, draw it to mind and then hold on to it for a minute. We're gonna come back to that. Okay? This week—or yeah—this Sunday, we're in the midst of a series on Paul's great letter to the church at Philippi. It's called Philippians, and we have been looking at passage after passage. It all comes back to kind of the same thing—something that we've coined to the 'J curve.' We're actually stealing that from a guy named Paul Miller. The principle that permeates Philippians is that in Christianity, the way up is down.

We've seen it in the life of Christ, right? He went to the lowest place and therefore was exalted to the highest place. We've seen it in some corollaries: it's not just that we go down and then we go up, but that we go down so others can go up. Then we go up, right? Last week, Sloop walked us through some more examples of this. We saw examples of this in the life of Paul, then Timothy, and then Phaprophaditis. I was surprised—they dropped this little factoid: that Phaprophaditis means devoted to Aphrodite. That just struck me—I had no idea.

Right? Aphrodite is, if you don't know, basically the goddess of lust. And this guy was named devoted to Aphrodite. And yet, he became a follower of Christ, which I think carries within it this lesson: that who we are, the family we were born into, the traditions that we are raised in, do not constrain us. But that we are all called—even lovers of sensual pleasure are called—to step out of that world, enter the J curve—die to self—and follow Christ.

The Call to Relinquish Self-Reliance

What we're going to look at today, Philippians 3—the passage you just heard read—is a particularly sharp, painful version of the J curve. Namely, the relinquishing of the merit and self-conceit with which we console ourselves— the very thing upon which you pride yourself—that you used to stop up your embarrassment and your failure. That very thing, your consolation, your righteousness—if you will—you are exhorted to surrender to Christ, to release it, to let it go.

So, whatever it is that you are holding in your fist that you rejoice in, that you return to, to assuage the pain of getting picked last, of getting a 37 on your singing solo, or getting your Spanish test back last— your consolation, your righteousness—consider it rubbish. Listen to this, Philippians 3:1:

Finally, my brothers, rejoice in the Lord. To write the same things to you is no trouble to me, and is safe for you.
Watch out for the dogs, watch out for the evil doers, watch out for those who mutilate the flesh.
For we are the circumcision, who worship by the Spirit of God and glory in Christ Jesus, and put no confidence in the flesh.

Though I myself have reason for confidence in the flesh also. Okay?

This may feel like a strange thing that Paul is dropping here—like, what in the world is all this circumcision? Who are the dogs? Here's the situation in Paul's day: there were a large number of Jewish Christians. They were followers of Christ; they were ethnically Jews. They were circumcised, and they took a huge amount of pride and pleasure in the authenticity of their Jewishness. That seems strange to us because it's not something that we would remotely value. We wouldn’t really—I wouldn't cross our mind, most of you, at least. I mean, maybe you'd value the fact that you're circumcised, and you'd find some merit in that. For the women, much less likely to put it mildly.

But in Paul's day, their pedigree— their authenticity—was because they had followed the rituals, their parents had followed the rituals. This was a much bigger deal than you might have guessed because they were authentically what they meant to be: Jewish.

Again, not likely to be your particular hope, but there's something else that is. Okay, I want you to hear this: here's Paul's more expanded list of where he placed his hope. Verse 4:

If anyone thinks he has reason for confidence in the flesh, I have more.
Circumcised on the eighth day, check.
Of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin, a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; as to zeal, a persecutor of the church; as to righteousness under the law, blameless.

That is Paul's version of being the smartest kid in the class, the best leader in the troop. This is his stuff. This is why we give him credit. This is how he quiets that voice in his head. He was religious, nationally ethnically a Jew. He was one of the two tribes that were not eradicated when the Assyrians rolled in. He was from the tribe from which the first king of Israel had come. He was not just a Jew by blood; he was a Jew by practice. So what he says elsewhere is that he was a Pharisee—a member of the strictest sect of the Jews. It was the toughest of the tough. He was elite Jew, trained by Gamaliel. Basically, what that means is he was a Harvard graduate. He kept all the rules— all of them. If there was something within Judaism that you could be the best at, he was it. And that list of things—those were his go-tos when he needed to quiet that inner voice of self-approach.

Now, you don't need to tell me, but I do want you to tell yourself: what’s your list? What is your version of my list? What is your version of Paul’s list? Where do you go to find your merit, your self-conceit, your consolation, your comfort? Got it? Grab it, and then listen to this: verse 7:

But whatever gain I had I counted as loss for the sake of Christ.
Indeed, I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.

What does he remember? This—this is to answer this: what I’d love to do is invite Thomas Chalmers to come on stage. But I can't because he's dead. But he wrote and preached one of the most impactful things I’ve ever read. It was a sermon called The Expulsive Power of a New Affection—and it is brilliant. If you read it, what you will find is he describes that everybody loves two things: you love that thing that you possess, and you will not let it go. And you love that thing you are pursuing but have not yet obtained. And your whole life, you will always have something in your hand and something you are chasing. So much so that as soon as you get what you're chasing, you put it into this hand and start chasing something else. It's just how we’re wired. We will never let go of this thing or that thing unless we find something better.

Here's how he says it:

Would you go, Thomas? Here we go. A man will consent more to the misery of being without an object—because that object is a trifle—or being without a pursuit, because that pursuit terminates in some frivolous requirement—then he will voluntarily submit himself to torture, because that torture is to be of short duration. To be without desire and without exertion altogether is a state of violence and discomfort. Then the present desire with its correspondent train of exertion is not to be got rid of, simply by destroying it. What he means: you can't just stop it. You won’t stop it. He says this: it must be by—here's the language—tuning—another desire. And the most effective way of withdrawing the mind from one object is not by turning it away upon desolate and empty vacancy but by presenting to it another object more alluring.

Do you know this about yourself? You are fundamentally a grasping creature. And you can't beat this game. If I were to say to you, "Hey, I think it's kind of stupid that you get all your comfort from being pretty," that would not help you in the slightest to not treasure your looks any less—unless you found something better.

If I say to you, "Hey, why are you killing yourself at work? Who cares about your reputation? Who cares about the paycheck?"—just calm down— that wouldn't help you value it differently—unless, and until, you find a better option. We never let go of the things we treasure. Right? If I want to tell you, "Hey, I think it's silly that you console yourself because you're just so smart," it wouldn't change a thing. Right?

You guys, we never let go of the things that we treasure unless— until. Or, here's an example I already told you twelve times, but let me show you. I need somebody—I did not stage this, so I want you to think quickly—somebody, have twenty dollars in their pocket? I need somebody who likes money. Tommy, you got some cash? Okay, come here.

Now, don’t screw this up. There's a risk you're gonna screw it up because of who you are, but come up here anyway. All right. So, you got a twenty-dollar bill. Okay? Now, here's my proposal: you give me your money, and then I keep it forever; then you sit down. Okay? Do you like my proposal? See, this is the problem with Tommy. I'm like, as soon as I’m like— I'm thinking he's gonna ruin it. Okay, pretend you're a normal person. Can I have your money? No chance. Thank you, Tommy.

Now, what if I knew you were gonna ruin this? Look at that— now I have a twenty. I have a hundred-dollar bill. Okay. Now, still being a normal person, what if I were to say to you, "If you give me that, I'll give you this"? What do you think? That's straight. That's straight. Okay, that's yours, that's yours forever. Go away.

So, all right, Tommy's inclination—to which, generosity notwithstanding—what changed? What changed? He got something better, right? Most people aren’t giving up twenty bucks for no good reason. But as soon as you offer him a hundred-dollar bill, he’s like, "Yeah, you are exactly like that." And you're like that about a whole lot more than money. We will always trade up. Always.

You can have what I love when you pry it from my dead cold fingers, or when you give me something better. Right? Paul. You guys, Paul loved that list about himself. They were his favorite things about himself, and he would not forsake them— not until he found something better.

Look at the next line: Paul says, "I count everything as loss because of the surpassing worth of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord." Guys, all of his favorite things about himself became worthless because he found something better. Now, this is crucial. Okay? So, if you're still thinking about the money, come back to me.

It's obvious why a hundred-dollar bill is better than a twenty, is it not? It's perhaps less obvious why Paul considered Jesus to be an upgrade. Billions of people do not. Would you rather have Jesus or a hot girlfriend? Hot girlfriend. Would you rather have Jesus or a big bag of money? Money. Would you rather have Jesus's good opinion or thousands of admiring fans on social media? Thousands of admiring fans. Would you rather have Jesus or any particular conceit about yourself? Yourself.

But for Paul, he's like, "Those are all idiotic trades." What did he discover? What did he figure out about Jesus that made him more valuable than absolutely everything? And in particular, more valuable than his favorite list of the very things upon which he had built his life?

He tells us: listen to this, Paul says, "for his sake Jesus, I have suffered the loss of all things and count them as rubbish, in order that I may gain Christ and be found in him, not having a righteousness of my own that comes from the law, but that which comes through faith in Christ—the righteousness from God that depends on faith— that I may know him and the power of his resurrection and may share his sufferings, becoming like him in his death, that by any means possible I may attain the resurrection from the dead."

There's a lot of words in there. They're not just religious words; I’m going to pull out a few. And this—that’s why we’re here this morning; this is the point. I want you to think about this: how long are you going to live? 20 years? 90 years? 50 years? I don’t know. But not very long. Life is a blink. It is a vapor. You are a mist, and these days are quickly passing.

Do you know what the most—there's no second place—there's not even close—the most important thing you can possibly obtain during these fleeting days in this passing world? It is this: access to the world to come. That’s it. It’s everything. There's literally everything. There is no second place after you die. Maybe before you die, Jesus will come back; he will raise the dead, he will restore all things, and everyone alive and everyone who has ever lived will be gathered before him. He will separate us as sheep from goats. And some—some, but not all—will be granted eternal life. Some, but not all, will be allowed to live forever in a perfect world of endless, increasing joy. And the rest will be destroyed forever.

Being among those who are invited to live forever is not only more important, it's infinitely more important than anything you've ever attempted or valued or hoped for or sought. Jesus matters today— he matters in this life. But please, tell me you see that the things he can do for you in the couple of decades that you have left are infinitesimally small compared to what he will do for you for the hundred gazillion years following his return to restore all things. It’s ludicrous—the comparison. It’s bonkers that we would even compare.

What’s happening in these seconds, these moments? When Paul discovered that Jesus and Jesus alone could grant him resurrection under eternal life, everything else upon which he built his life became rubbish. Rubbish. I feel British every time I say that word: rubbish.

Guys, do you think that getting a hundred dollars in exchange for a twenty is a good deal? It’s five times— you made eighty bucks. Big friggin’ deal. What Jesus offers is like a trillion times bigger— it's like a hundred gazillion times. It’s a trillion bazillion times. If you could trade in a penny and get a trillion dollars, would you make that trade? If you could trade in the fickle approval of foolish men for adoration from omniscient, omnipotent power— would you pass that up? If you could trade in your fleeting beauty, which is decaying as we speak— your collagen breaking down—we can tell— to be remade in his image— would you not take it?

You guys, what we are offered in Christ is that we would trade in our self-righteousness and our unrighteousness and gain a hundred billion trillion years of joy and adventure and meaning and delight and satisfaction and wonder and love—and then all of that and more, forever and ever.

Our righteousness, in whatever form it takes, our silly consolations are a joke. They are absurd. The only thing—the only thing—that will grant you access to the world to come is if the perfect man lives a perfect life and then offers to give you credit for his perfections and takes upon himself the blame for your spotted life. That's it. That is it. There is no other bridge across the chasm. His righteousness alone, given as a gift and received by faith, will get you in.

And everything else is useless toward that singular end. As Jim Elliott said, "He is no fool who gives what he cannot keep to gain what he can never lose."

Reaping the Rewards

All right, one more illustration, and then we're done. Do you guys remember who Reepicheep is? Reepicheep is the little mouse—well, not that little; he's pretty big as mice go. He is valiant; he's like the Three Musketeers. He's one of my favorite characters in the whole Narnia series.

What's so great about Reepicheep is that he's never afraid of a fight. In fact, he kind of loves to fight. He's always noble. He always does what is right. The dude loves his sword. His whole nature: he's just ready to fight anybody that insults a lady, anyone that would dishonor Aslan. He always wants to be at the front where the fighting is fiercest. He always wants to be in the sword fighting that is most desperate.

One time, Reepicheep was on an island with invisible monsters, and everyone was all freaked out and terrified because, I could not feel them and they did not feel safe. Reepicheep was not afraid; he was merely curious. And so he asked the question: "I wonder, did they become visible when you drive a sword into them?" Reepicheep loves to fight, and he loves his sword. But he also loves Aslan—his whole life: Aslan is the lion. He is the great lion. He is the son of the emperor from across the sea, who, by his death, saved Narnia. And Reepicheep is determined to visit, to make it to Aslan's country.

Now, you need to know that the land of Narnia is not a globe—like our world—it's a plane. It's a flat disk with water on the edges. And Reepicheep has heard a prophecy about himself when he was very young—that he might someday see Aslan’s country. And he longs for that more than anything in the world.

So, he goes on a journey to the world's end, aboard the ship called the Dawn Treader. They faced such great dangers on that trip that the men of the ship grew fearful, and they wanted to turn back. And so, as the fears of mutiny grew, Reepicheep said this:

"My own plans are made. While I can, I sail east in the Dawn Treader. When she fails me, I paddle east in my cortical. When she sinks, I shall swim east with my forepaws. And when I can swim no longer, if I have not reached Aslan's country or shot over the edge of the world in some vast cataract, I shall sink with my nose to the sunrise."

It did not come to that. And he made it to the edge of the world, to the cusp of Aslan's own country. And I want to read to you the moment when it happens, and ask you to notice a small, understated detail that is a complete abdication of Reepicheep’s normal behavior.

Here's what happens: at that moment, with a crunch, the Dawn Treader ran aground. The water was too shallow now for it. And Reepicheep said, "This is where I go on alone." They did not even try to stop him. For everything now felt as if it had been faded, or it happened before. They helped him to lower his little coracle. Then he took off his sword. "I shall need to know more," he said, and flung it far away across the Lily Sea, where it fell and stood upright with the hilt above the surface.

Then he bade them goodbye, trying to be sad for their sakes, but he was quivering with happiness. Then, hastily, he got into his coracle, took his paddle, and the current caught it, and away he went, very black against the lilies. But no lilies grew on the wave. It was a smooth green slope, and the coracle went more and more quickly, rushing up the wave’s side.

For one split second, they saw its shape—Reepicheep on the very top—and then it vanished. And since that moment, no one can truly say they have seen Reepicheep the mouse. But my belief is that he came safe to Aslan’s country, and is alive there to this day.

What was out of character? Sort of, guys. You see, Reepicheep loves his sword. It’s his treasure. He treasures it just as much as you treasure—whatever it is that you can soul yourself with. It’s the thing that he loves and treasures most of all. Yet, it fell from his hand as an irrelevant artifact. He counted it as rubbish that he may gain Christ, who, in that country, goes by the name of Aslan.

And when you see Jesus—as he is—when you calculate the value of his righteousness, his absolute, unique ability to grant you access to the world to come— all the rest is so much spare change. It is rubbish.

I invite you today to recalculate what you treasure and to release to him all the petty things of passing value—including yourself, conceit—that Christ and Christ alone would be your treasure.

Conclusion

Amen. Lord Jesus, you are worth more than everything in the world. And that you would treasure us—that you would come and suffer agony that you might win us and make us your own. Lord, it is incomprehensible that you would so richly prize us.

Lord, would you give us the grace to see all that we have in you? And that everything else—our talents, our money, our skills, our whatever it is that we use to console ourselves—Lord, would you let us see them rightly in light of your splendor? They would be to us rubbish, and you would be our treasure.

We love you. Thanks for loving us. Amen.