The Foolishness That Saves Us: An Advent Sermon on 1 Corinthians 1:18-22
Grace to you and peace from God our Father and the Lord
Jesus Christ. Amen.
On this Fourth Sunday of Advent, as we stand on the very
threshold of Christmas, our waiting is almost over. We’ve spent weeks preparing
our hearts, singing songs of a coming King. And if we’re honest, our
minds—shaped by stories and history—might picture what that means: a king
arriving with banners flying, an army at his back, a wisdom that commands
respect, a power that overthrows enemies. That is the kind of deliverance the
world understands. That is a king we know how to welcome.
But today, the Apostle Paul, writing to a church tangled in
pride and division, pulls back the curtain on God’s plan and shows us something
astonishing. He reveals that the wisdom of God looks, to the eyes of the world,
an awful lot like foolishness. And the power of God shows up in what the world
calls weakness.
Let’s listen to God’s Word from 1 Corinthians, chapter 1,
verses 18 through 22:
“For the message of the cross is foolishness to those who
are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God. For it is
written: ‘I will destroy the wisdom of the wise; the intelligence of the
intelligent I will frustrate.’ Where is the wise person? Where is the teacher
of the law? Where is the philosopher of this age? Has not God made foolish the
wisdom of the world? For since in the wisdom of God the world through its
wisdom did not know him, God was pleased through the foolishness of what was
preached to save those who believe. Jews demand signs and Greeks look for
wisdom.”
This is the Word of the Lord. Thanks be to God.
The Great Divide
Paul starts with a stark and simple truth: there are two
reactions to the message of the cross, and they could not be more different.
To those who are perishing, he says, it is foolishness.
The Greek word is mōria—the root of our word “moron.” It’s not just
a little silly; it’s scandalous, offensive nonsense. A crucified Savior? A
Messiah who dies a criminal’s death? It’s the ultimate paradox. In a world that
worships strength, self-reliance, and victorious power, the cross looks like
utter defeat. It seems weak. Illogical. A failed rescue mission.
But, Paul says, to us who are being saved—and notice that
present tense, it’s an ongoing reality—to us, this same message is the
power of God. Not just a nice idea. Not just a comforting story. The Greek
word is dunamis. It’s explosive, transformative, life-creating
power. It is the very engine of salvation.
So, here is the great divide: one person looks at the cross
and sees foolishness. Another looks at the very same cross and finds the power
that is rebuilding their life from the inside out. What makes the difference?
It is not intellectual superiority. It is the gracious work of the Holy Spirit,
opening blind eyes to see the truth that shatters all worldly logic: that God’s
perfect strength was made perfect in the weakness of Jesus.
God’s Upside-Down Wisdom
Now, Paul anticipates our objection. “But surely,” we think,
“human wisdom must count for something? Our philosophy, our science, our
reason—these are the tools we use to understand everything else. Why not God?”
Paul’s answer is jarring. He says that in His magnificent,
sovereign wisdom, God has designed a universe where our very best human wisdom,
when set against Him, comes up utterly empty. He quotes Isaiah: “I will
destroy the wisdom of the wise.” God actively frustrates the
intelligence of the intelligent.
Why? Verse 21 gives us the heartbreaking reason: “For
since in the wisdom of God the world through its wisdom did not know him…” Our
human wisdom, for all its brilliance in building bridges and curing diseases,
is completely incapable of finding its way back to God. Left to our own
devices, we use our wisdom to build towers of Babel—monuments to our own
achievement. We use it to create categories that divide “us” from “them.” The
Corinthian church was doing it: “I follow Paul,” “I follow Apollos.” We still do
it. Our wisdom, untethered from God, leads not to Him, but to pride, and from
pride to division.
And so, in His great mercy, God chose a path that human
wisdom would never, could never, invent. Paul says God was pleased—it
brought Him joy—to save those who believe through the foolishness of
what was preached.
What is this “foolishness”? It is the story we are about to
celebrate. It is the infinite, all-powerful Creator God, entering His creation
not in a whirlwind, but as a single cell in a young woman’s womb. It is the
King of Kings arriving not in a palace, but in a stable, laid in a feeding
trough. It is the Author of Life growing up in obscurity and submitting to a
shameful, criminal’s death on a Roman cross. This is God’s master plan. To the
world, it is the height of folly. To God, it is the masterpiece of His wise,
redeeming love. He didn’t come to impress the wise. He came to save the lost.
Our Advent Choice: Demanding or Receiving?
This leaves us with a choice, especially here at Advent.
Paul names the two ways we naturally try to avoid this “foolish” gospel.
“Jews demand signs,” he says. They wanted a
Messiah who would prove himself with spectacular, miraculous credentials. “Show
us a sign, then we’ll believe!” “Greeks look for wisdom.” They
wanted a Messiah who would fit into an elegant philosophical system, who would
debate and win with brilliant rhetoric.
My friends, we haven’t changed. We are still demanding
signs. “God, if you are real, fix this problem in my life. Give me this job,
heal this sickness, prove yourself useful to me, then I’ll
trust you.” And we are still looking for wisdom. “God, make faith
intellectually satisfying. Make it fit neatly with my politics, my science, my
sense of justice. Make it respectable among my friends.”
But the cradle and the cross defy both demands. The baby in
Bethlehem is not a spectacular sign of military might. The man on the cross is
not a model of philosophical wisdom. He is something else entirely. He is
the power and the wisdom of God, hidden in the foolishness of love.
So this Fourth Sunday of Advent calls us to lay down our
demands. It calls us to become, in the world’s eyes, fools. It calls us to
embrace the beautiful, shocking, scandalous truth: that God saved the world not
with a sword, but with a sacrifice. Not with a decree from a throne, but with a
cry from a cross. Not by demanding our service, but by offering His Son.
This is the “foolishness” that unites us. At the foot of the
cross, our arguments stop. Our resumes don’t matter. Our intellectual
pretensions fade. We all stand on level ground, beneficiaries of a grace we
could never earn, witnesses to a love we could never invent.
Beloved,
As we light this final candle, the Candle of Love, we are
not just lighting a symbol of warm feelings. We are bearing witness to the
foolish, overwhelming, world-saving love of God that came down at Christmas.
This week, when you hear the Christmas story again, listen
with new ears. When the world says it’s just a quaint fable for children,
remember: it is the dynamite power of God for salvation. When you are tempted
to believe that real power is found in dominance, or real wisdom in slick
answers, look to the manger. Look to the cross.
For the foolishness of God is wiser than human wisdom, and
the weakness of God is stronger than human strength.
Let us pray.
Gracious and holy God, on this last Sunday of our Advent
waiting, we confess that we often seek you on our own terms. We demand signs
that suit us and wisdom that flatters us. Forgive us. By your Spirit, open our
eyes anew to the stunning, saving “foolishness” of the manger and the cross.
Give us the courage to be fools for Christ, to trust not in our own
understanding, but in your unfathomable love. As we go from here to celebrate
the birth of your Son, may we worship not the king we expected, but the Savior
you sent—Jesus Christ, our Lord, in whose name we pray. Amen.
And now may the peace of God, which surpasses all human
understanding—which seems like foolishness to the world—guard your hearts and
your minds in Christ Jesus. Amen.
