No, I am not one of the greatest spreaders of the Gospel.
No, I have not written the Word of God.
But I am the chief of sinners.
It's true, though many would scoff at such a self-diagnosis.
For I am the chief of sinners, at least now, in this place. For that which I have done with my hands and that which I have committed in my heart places me at the head of the list. It is with this knowledge that I unabashedly take spiritual residence with Paul.
This is not some strange need to self-deprecate for pity or the sake of understanding from the public. This is not some attempt to illustrate that I have so succumb to the perfumes of this world that I have no other course of action. Nor is this some weak and ill-fitting attempt to make confession for various immoral, illegitimate or even illegal acts that burden my soul. No, this is a statement of truth, and a statement of faith.
Paul claims in 1 Timothy 1:15 that this is a faithful saying and worthy of all acceptance: that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners, of whom I am chief (KJV). Other translations replace chief with equally weighted monikers: foremost, first, worst.
More to the point, who is to argue with Paul? That question can be asked of anything he wrote, but especially in this arena. No doubt in his mind he felt the pressure of his sins being brought to bear as he reminisced about the persecution, hatred and destruction that he reigned down upon the deeply dedicated followers of Christ of his generation.
In his previous life, Paul had wrought terror and horror aimed at the Gospel of Jesus Christ and those that dare cloak themselves in its message. He cursed the very name of Jesus, hunted and imprisoned His followers, and ensured that they were treated like animals. He started his career of carnage by standing witness and holding the cloaks of those that hurled stones at the martyr Stephen, until the deluge claimed that man's life. Paul had seen and done enough to purchase him a top spot on God's enemies list.
As a memorial to that life, Paul declared that he had been, and was still, the chief of sinners. His understanding, belief and doctrine was that he had not shed that former skin completely, though it rested upon him impotent, no longer to condemn him for eternity. So now do I take up that title.
The question to be asked, then, is what are my qualifications? What references do I have that would vouch for me to wear the crown that Paul insisted he deserved? On the surface that list is seemingly thin. I have never murdered, nor watched gleefully as a murder takes place. I have never hunted another man, nor forced my will upon him in such a way that makes his life physically, emotionally or spiritually unbearable. I have stolen that which most would claim insignificant, and my lies and deceits are characterized by men as insignificant and petty.
The world has found no fault in my values. It took inventory of my moral portfolio, and made no case against me. I am considered righteous, at least by their standards. But take a peek underneath my guise. Take a look at the times I cursed God with my own tongue, and more importantly with my own heart. I felt no need for His intrusive gaze, the desire He had to beckon me from my poisonous slumber. I held Truth at bay, wanting to follow only the path I decreed. There was no welcome place for the Son of God to lay his head in my life. I locked all doors and kept my heart for myself.
Oh to be burdened with the vile truth that within the heart lies such amazing evil. It is stretched so far in the soul that man himself can hardly comprehend. We all will try to clean out the infection of sin from that vital area, only to find that our instruments are dirty and ineffective. The sin we claim to rid ourselves of is at best in remission, lying in wait to join it's newborn brethren at a time of our weakness. When left to ourselves, that time rarely lasts longer than the flap fly's wings.
Left alone I found that within my own heart lay adulterous intentions. I had affairs on everything I deemed important. With each sultry gaze towards the enticing, I widened the gap between me and the shore. The earthly moorings I attached my life too seemed sturdy from above the surface, but were rotted and teetering below. I was not going to be told that my ways were wrong, for I knew better, and could see that all else was folly. The only ways that were not putrid to me were my ways, and all else was ignored. Did I need to commit physically crimes? Hardly, nor would I. My heart had done enough on its own.
I even found fault in the righteous. That which was true, pure, lovely, admirable, and even praiseworthy I found worthless. I can't say I was wholly intentional. I hardly think I even knew what I was doing. But the steel rod of sin embedded in me that bent my will away from those things made it impossible for me to comprehend my condition. Truth was a din in my ears, purity a faint shadow. To that of the world which I found praiseworthy I gave my soul. It had no intention of giving anything back.
But if I say I was all of these things, does that still raise my stock to chief of sinners? Some would suggest that Paul was calling himself this from an unrepentant mindset, and for me to label myself as such now doesn't grasp Paul's reflective nature. I would disagree. For Paul knew what I know, what any man or woman who has studied their own heart and found it to be wanting knows. While within this current state of corruptible physicality, there is no way to completely shake the sewn in label of 'sinner'.
So here I stand, chief of sinners, alongside Paul in the Pantheon of Disgrace. I have no way to shake that label I now detest. But be fairly warned that this does not condemn me to a life of derision with a bitter end from which there is no escape. A glimmer of hope shines through as I squint, a hope that is crystal clear and unforgettable. For though the sinners label cannot be shaken, it can be dealt with severely and with extreme prejudice. For that which Paul found to be his hope I too can take hold. That is Grace, the one element in all of existence that allows the chief of sinners to be accepted.
Paul knew this Grace, and that is what made a heinous individual become one of God's greatest servants. Paul was a man like myself, detestable to the core, spitting on and destroying all that is worthy, who turned around and found Truth standing there to embrace and comfort him. God took hold of that chief of sinners, and did such a miraculous work in him as to make all else fade away. So He did the same with me. Knowing all that existed within my fallen form, there was still room for Grace to settle, take root, and blossom. It happened within my ravaged heart, and so it did with Paul. Paul was renewed, and though for a time afterwards he still felt the stain of sin, that feeling was not forever.. Paul slipped past the bonds of earth in an eternal blink, and on the other side finally found the fullness and glory in all that he once despised.
The chief of sinners is here before you, relating his story as Paul once did. I am certain I am worthy of that title, and hardly doubt I am the only one. For who among us finds that we are not brothers and sisters in this unwanted rank. All of us have tasted the rot of sin in our mouths, fixed on it with our eyes and gripped it with our hearts. Who hasn't known the futility that lies therein, and questioned if there was something worthy to reach down and save us from ourselves. Indeed, are we not all the chief of sinners?
I insist that we all are. Proof of this demands that we look no further than the work of our Savior. For we know that He would have still come to live, die and rise again if for only an individual. That individual would have been you. It would have been me. It would have been Paul. Absolutely, it would have been for the chief of sinners.
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