Small g

Text: 2 Corinthians 4:3-6
Theme: “Small g”
The Transfiguration of The Lord
February 19, 2012
First Presbyterian Church
Denton, Texas
Rev. Paul R. Dunklau

IN THE NAME OF JESUS

3 And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing. 4 The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel that displays the glory of Christ, who is the image of God. 5 For what we preach is not ourselves, but Jesus Christ as Lord, and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake. 6 For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,”[a] made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.

“The god of this age has blinded the minds of unbelievers, so that they cannot see the light of the gospel,” says the apostle Paul in the reading I just shared. My eyes did the double-take. The word “god” does not begin with a capital G. In reading or writing about God, the G in God is always capitalized and refers to our Creator, Redeemer, and Sanctifier; the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

But here we note the lower-case, the small g. Again, the apostle writes of the “god (small g) of this age. …” Most scholars conclude that Paul is referring to Satan, the devil, or, if you will, the power of evil in the world.

Many modern intellectuals think that this is all a bunch of nonsense. To speak of a Satan, a devil, a force of evil, or a god of this age is the stuff of a bygone era. It’s the product of an ancient age that was unenlightened. It’s all myth and superstition; it has long since been disproved.

But just who exactly is unenlightened? “The god of this aged has blinded the minds of unbelievers,” writes the apostle, “so that they cannot see the light of the gospel that displays the glory of Christ, who is the image of God.” Earlier, he remarked: “And even if our gospel is veiled, it is veiled to those who are perishing.”

“People are perishing?” asks the modern mind. “That sounds nasty; that sounds judgmental. God is love, and so there’s no room for any hint of isolating another human being and even hinting or suggesting that they are perishing.” Why not, along with John Lennon, imagine that there’s no heaven; imagine that there’s no hell; imagine that people can live life in peace. That’s about the best we can hope for.

That’s all very nice, but people are perishing. I’m a person in recovery; I have friends who are in recovery; I could tell stories all day long about people who were in the process of perishing due to their alcoholism or their addiction. In my experience in ministry, I’ve stood at many gravesides. Some of those experiences still haunt me to the core. There was a mother. Her son, with a record of alcohol and drug abuse, hung himself. I stood at the cemetery as the deceased’s friends, part of a motorcycle club, brought a wreath made of Budweiser cans. There was another mother. Her son had taken his own life after taking the life of his girlfriend. All across this country and even right now, hotel and motel rooms throughout the USA are inhabited by people who have only the clothes on their back, the booze or the pills in their bottle, or the drugs in their syringe. Ask them if they’re perishing, and they’d say “You bet we are; we can’t stand the pain anymore.”

This morning, after ten years in recovery, I’m grateful that I didn’t come this point of perishing. All I have is a daily reprieve that is based on maintaining my spiritual fitness. But I can tell you that, for more years than I care to admit, my mind was blinded. Using the language of our text, the “gospel was veiled” to me. Oh, I had heard it; I’d studied it all my life – at home, at Sunday school, at seminary; I had carefully formulated thoughts about it; further yet, I had strong beliefs about God; I had memorized the hymns; I played them on the piano. I was a fine young Lutheran man, a man of God in the prime of life, and I honored my father, my mother, my family, and my church. I could recite sections of Luther’s Small Catechism by heart, hold forth on the propriety or impropriety of the Eucharistic prayer, translate Latin phrases into English. I thought I could fool everyone into thinking that I was just fine, that all my ducks were lined up in a row, that my life was just grand. But I knew something in my blinded brain that I would never tell you or anyone else. Slowly, gradually, I was leading a life of time-released suicide; I was heading to that that thirty dollar a night hotel room (like across the street) where I would be alone, penniless, armed with my bottle or my drugs, and faced with a choice. So when all these wizards of smart out there tell me that to even talk about a “god of this age” or a “force of evil” that is intent on alienating people from God and others, and trying to kill people, I’m sorry but I beg to differ. I’ll take a pass on thinking like that.

Today is the Feast of the Transfiguration of Our Lord. That’s a mouthful; I know. Transfiguration is basically the halfway point between Christmas, the Feast of the Nativity of our Lord, and Easter, the Feast of the Resurrection of our Lord. At Christmas, the glory came shining down on those lowly shepherds on the rolling hills outside Bethlehem. The herald angel makes the announcement: “Unto you this day is born, in the city of David, a Savior who is Christ the Lord.” At Easter, the angel stood in glorious light at an empty grave only to announce that Jesus was not there, for He had risen from the dead as He said. And at the Transfiguration, between His birth and resurrection, there stands Jesus on a mountain, talking with Moses and Elijah, the representatives of the Law and the Prophets, amid a breathtaking, supernatural blast of glory.

Peter, the disciple of Jesus, like so many of us, likes his glory when he can get it. He wants it go on and on and on. “Let us set up three tents,” he says. But then, the glorious site was veiled to him by a cloud; the moment was over. Then came a still, small voice: “This is my Son; listen to Him.”

In my preparation for today, I came across a pretty cool definition of a Christian in one of my commentaries. This person said: “Being a Christian is to think it through and then take the leap anyway.”

During recovery, the veil over my heart was lifted. I got to think it through – not in theory, but in terms of my own life. By the grace of God alone, I was able to take the leap. And I discovered something else. It’s not about me – at all. Christians have wonderful testimonies. Christians in recovery from alcoholism and addiction have them too. Even the great saints of the Bible could share – and did share – their personal testimonies of God in their lives. They, in so many words, talk about when the light, the glory finally shone in their heart, and this is great!

But you and I are not called on to be examples. We’re called on to be servants. We live outside of ourselves. We live in God by faith; we live in our neighbor by love. I hope I didn’t mess up the meaning of today’s text by telling a bit of my personal story. My intent was only to use it to illustrate that there is a god of this age, that there is a veil, that minds can be blinded. People are perishing.

But there also is a message, a gospel, a good and great news. Minds can open; the veil can be lifted; the light of glory can shine. When that happens, the heart, too, opens, and the light shines there.

Our text is so very far removed from my poor power to add or detract from it with my testimony. The last word belongs to our Lord’s apostle:


For what we preach is not ourselves, but Jesus Christ as Lord, and ourselves as your servants for Jesus’ sake. 6 For God, who said, “Let light shine out of darkness,”[a] made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God’s glory displayed in the face of Christ.

Amen.