Break the Abacus

A sermon for the Fifth Sunday in Lent
April 3, 2022

We learn early on to count our losses and gains. Growing up I had a toy abacus, one of those ancient instruments for counting and commerce. It had five or so rows of different colored beads. I would move the different colored beads from one side to the other to count and compare sides of a ledger, keeping track of what was pulling ahead, what was falling behind. I think the point of the toy was to help with math. But at a deeper level, perhaps, toys like this make us learn to attach value to things, to quantify everything. The one who has more is the winner, and that’s good. That means you’re worth something. The one who has nothing–or worse, the one who has less than nothing, who owes something–is the loser, less than. We can calculate worth on the beads of an abacus. 

This impacts our friendships. Researchers have shown that when we buy gifts for other people, we equate the value of a friendship with money and the monetary value of previous gift exchanges. We think, “They got me a gift last time; it was probably $30. So I should spend $35. Yeah, my friendship with them is worth $35.”

We can count worth on the beads of an abacus. But it also impacts our own life. This old pattern we learned from the time we were toddlers dies hard. As we grow, we can figure out a percentage of how worthy we are based on papers or tests we turn in, or by an ACT score or scholarship amount, or by our number of volunteer hours. As we grow older yet, we can calculate our worth with a calculator; our value is tied to our 401(k), our investment portfolio, the number of degrees we have, the number of streams of income we have, the number of toys we have (boats, cars, ATVs). We race to a finish line in life, worried whether at the end we will be a winner, or if the market will beat us down into losers. 

Yes, we can calculate worth on the beads of an abacus. It is a dangerous game. It is consuming. If we aren’t careful, it eats at us until it devours us, until our soul is replaced by a pocketbook, by prestige, by power. This game is nothing new. The things we count changes over time, but the danger is the same: We only see our value in countable things outside us. We fail to see our belovedness as children of God–a belovedness that has nothing to do with what we have done, but only with what God has done in Christ.  

In our reading from Philippians, Paul is writing along the same lines. Paul is writing to a group of people he knows and loves dearly, people who have been there for him. At times his writing in this book is poetic, breaking out into song about the mystery of the Incarnation and the love of God. Today’s passage is sandwiched between these better known, uplifting passages. But it sounds a little different. 

Paul is taking up an old discourse, a conversation already in progress, a conversation that has defined his ministry to the Gentiles. There are those who are preaching that the Gentiles must do more to be accepted into the covenant. Paul rejects this. While Paul himself is a Torah observant Jew, like Jesus himself was, Paul believes Gentile converts do not need to keep the Law in all the same ways that Jews do. 

Paul begins by reviewing his resume–and it is some resume at that. He writes, “If anyone else has reason to be confident in the flesh, I have more.” He calls himself a Hebrew of Hebrews, someone who has followed the Law faithfully from his birth. He calls himself “blameless.” That is some claim. He is calling out his rival preachers and beating them at their own game, on their own terms. He is moving the beads of the abacus, one by one, to his side of the ledger. 

But then he breaks the abacus. “Whatever gains I had,” Paul writes, “These I have come to regard as loss because of Christ.” His confidence. Loss. His religious credentials. Loss. His righteousness. Loss. 

We all have things we are proud of. Like Paul, we have worked hard–tirelessly–for some things. Degrees. Jobs and promotions. Toys. Friendships. And like Paul, even our religious devotion. All beads on our abacus. We can reimagine what Paul is saying: I am a Christian of Christians. A member of the Episcopal branch of the Jesus Movement. I am faithful in worship and giving. I give to the poor. I fight for justice and peace. I keep my Lenten fast. 

But the problem arises when these things become idols. When these things are lifted up above what is truly important, when instead of pointing to God, they point to ourselves. For while these things are important and praise-worthy–while these things are even necessary, they cannot begin to scratch the surface of God’s love for us and the grace we have received. Nor can these things earn us anything, for we have been given everything already. All of it is loss in comparison to what God has done in Christ.

When our striving sidelines grace, when our own righteousness replaces faith, we’ve missed the mark. Paul is calling us to break the abacus. Paul is calling the Philippians and us back to Christ. “I want to know Christ,” Paul says. “I want to know Christ.” This is not about deeds of righteousness or checklists. It’s not about resumes or accomplishments. It’s not about quantifying impact or importance. It’s not about our ledger of value and worth. It is about falling into the heart of God. It’s about sharing the life of God. It’s a journey into Christ. 

Break the abacus. Let’s put on Christ. Let’s see ourselves through the eyes of God. Let’s understand ourselves, at our core, to be beloved of God. Break the abacus. 

Someone once told me that Paul’s letter to the Philippians is a love letter–a love letter between Paul and this faithful congregation, a love letter about the love of God for us. Philippians is a love letter, they said–except chapter three. A love letter–except the part we read today. Today’s passage just did not seem to go along with the rest. It seems competitive, boastful, out of place. 

I do not think that’s correct. I think this passage is just as much part of the love letter as the rest of it. Paul is pouring out his heart here, just as much as he is elsewhere. It is a word of warning to people he loves, a word of warning about where we put our trust, about how we value ourselves. And it’s a word of encouragement about seeing ourselves as Christ does, seeing ourselves beloved of God, seeing ourselves floating in a sea of grace, surrounded by God’s endless love.  

It’s a love letter to us. It’s an invitation into love, into belovedness, into a truer way of seeing our lives.  Break the abacus. You can’t count your worth there. There aren’t enough beads to even begin to scratch the surface of how loved and valuable you are to God.