A Reflection for Thursday of the Twenty-fourth Week in Abnormal Time
“He appeared to Cephas, then to the Twelve. After that, he appeared to greater than five hundred brothers without delay, most of whom are still living, though some have fallen asleep. After that he appeared to James, then to all of the Apostles. Last of all, as to 1 born abnormally, he appeared to me. For I’m the least of the Apostles, not fit to be called an Apostle, because I persecuted the Church of God.” (1 Cor 15:6-9)
We learn within the Acts of the Apostles that St. Paul was a tentmaker before he became an evangelist; today’s first reading makes me wonder if he hadn’t tried his hand at law as well—because he would make an excellent trial lawyer.
In attempting to remind or persuade the Corinthians that Jesus really was raised from the dead, Paul marshals loads of evidence. You’ll be able to imagine him before the jury: “If Jesus was never raised, if it’s all just pious stories, why did Cephas see him? Why the 12? And if 13 witnesses aren’t enough, how about one other 500? Most of them are still alive, ask them. How about all of the apostles? In truth, I’m here to let you know something else: He appeared to me.”
But Paul uses a curious word to explain himself on this litany of witnesses, one translated here as “born abnormally.” That’s a little bit of a euphemism, as are other translations like “an premature birth,” or “born on the incorrect moment.” Probably the most literal translation of the Greek word εκτρωματι could be “an abortion” or “a miscarriage.” Yikes! It’s a harsh and shocking technique to describe oneself. What does Paul mean?
Each one among us, even in our moments after we feel small or weak or unworthy, participates in the final word irony: that God chooses us anyway, that we too are witnesses to the Resurrected Lord.
Note what comes next: “For I’m the least of the apostles.” You’ve heard from all the perfect witnesses, he seems to say, those that knew Jesus intimately and personally; you’ve heard from everyone with authority in our little community. But now I’m telling you this: Jesus even appeared to someone born under a foul sign, someone who was literally killing his disciples. Isn’t it ironic?
Nevertheless, had Jesus been born a Roman citizen of noble birth, and chosen the Capitoline Hill in Rome to look after his resurrection, that too would appear relatively simpler, more efficient. As a substitute, he’s born in a stable, becomes an itinerant preacher perpetually within the wind, then is executed as a criminal. Then he appears first after Easter to not Herod, to not Pilate, to not Caesar Augustus, but to his poor and lowly friends. Isn’t that, too, ironic?
The theologian William Lynch, S.J., noted the importance of this sort of irony in his book Images of Faith: Christ is born “against the background of enormous space time, at a totally specific and free moment within the thousands and thousands of sunshine years, inside a body that occupies just a few feet of the space of all our universes.” That is probably the most ironic thing of all, Lynch writes, that the Incarnation “should occur at an infinitely small point in infinitely large space time. It’s, in a totally literal way, the fundamental image of religion.”
And isn’t faith in Jesus exactly that—faith within the insignificant made vital, the lost cause made the straight path, the broken made whole? Each one among us, even in our moments after we feel small or weak or unworthy, participates in the final word irony: that God chooses us anyway, that we too are witnesses to the Resurrected Lord. It’s Paul’s best tactic after his argument from authority: Look who else Jesus selected. Little ol’ me.
