Philippians 3 — Knowing Christ Above All

Today’s Passage: Philippians 3

Paul has been urging joy, and now he says it plainly: “Rejoice in the Lord.” But joy has enemies, and he names them at once. He calls them “dogs” and “mutilators of the flesh,” teachers who were pressing circumcision on Gentile believers as though law-keeping could add anything to Christ. Against them Paul sets the true mark of God’s people, those “who put no confidence in the flesh.”

Then he turns the argument on himself. If confidence in religious pedigree could save anyone, it would save Paul, and he lays out a résumé no rival could match. Yet in the next breath he tears the page up: “Whatever was gain to me I count as loss for the sake of Christ.” Everything he once tallied as profit he now files under loss, counting it all as rubbish for the sake of one surpassing gain, to know Christ and to be found in Him, clothed not in his own righteousness but in the righteousness that comes through faith.

From there the chapter becomes a runner’s confession. Paul has not arrived, but he presses on, forgetting what lies behind and straining toward the prize of God’s heavenly calling. He closes with tears over those “whose god is their belly,” and with hope for those whose true home is elsewhere, for “our citizenship is in heaven,” and from there a Savior will come to transform our lowly bodies into the likeness of His own.

As you read, hold this: Whatever was gain, count it loss to know Christ.

Philippians 3:1–3 (BSB)

¹ Finally, my brothers, rejoice in the Lord. It is no trouble for me to write the same things to you again, and it is a safeguard for you. ² Watch out for those dogs, those workers of evil, those mutilators of the flesh! ³ For it is we who are the circumcision, we who worship by the Spirit of God, who glory in Christ Jesus, and who put no confidence in the flesh—

Paul begins on the note that gives this letter its name, “Rejoice in the Lord,” and then shows that joy is not naïve, for it must be guarded. Three times, with rising force, he warns: “Those dogs, those workers of evil, those mutilators of the flesh.” The words are deliberately jarring. In the ancient world dog was a term of contempt Jews sometimes used for Gentiles, and Paul turns it on those who would burden Gentile believers with the law. Mutilators of the flesh is a bitter play on words, for the Greek for circumcision (peritomē) is twisted into mutilation (katatomē, a mere cutting). Where the ritual is trusted to make a person right with God, Paul says, it is no longer a covenant sign but self-harm.

Then comes the reversal: “It is we who are the circumcision,” not those who bear a mark in the body but those marked by three things. We “worship by the Spirit of God,” for true worship is Spirit-born, not ritual-driven. We “glory in Christ Jesus,” for our boast is a Person, not a performance. And we “put no confidence in the flesh,” resting nothing of our standing before God on our own credentials. That last phrase becomes the hinge of the chapter, and Paul is about to prove he has earned the right to say it.

Philippians 3:4–6 (BSB)

⁴ though I myself could have such confidence. If anyone else thinks he has grounds for confidence in the flesh, I have more: ⁵ circumcised on the eighth day, of the people of Israel, of the tribe of Benjamin; a Hebrew of Hebrews; as to the law, a Pharisee; ⁶ as to zeal, persecuting the church; as to righteousness in the law, faultless.

Before Paul asks anyone to lay down their religious confidence, he shows he is not asking from weakness. He was not a man who found the law too hard and gave up. He was a man who kept it magnificently and walked away anyway. So he opens his ledger.

Four credentials were his by birth. He was “circumcised on the eighth day,” exactly as the law prescribed, no late convert but a covenant child from the start. He was “of the people of Israel,” a true son of the covenant nation, and “of the tribe of Benjamin,” the tribe that gave Israel its first king and stayed loyal to David’s line. He was “a Hebrew of Hebrews,” Hebrew-speaking and Hebrew-raised, with no compromise with the surrounding culture.

Three more he achieved by effort and zeal. “As to the law, a Pharisee,” a member of the strictest party, devoted to obedience down to the smallest detail. “As to zeal, persecuting the church,” so fervent for his ancestral faith that he hunted down the followers of Jesus. And, most staggering of all, “as to righteousness in the law, faultless,” for measured by external law-keeping, no one could lay a charge against him.

This is the strongest possible case for confidence in the flesh, built by the best possible candidate, which makes what he says next all the more shattering.

Philippians 3:7–9 (BSB)

⁷ But whatever was gain to me I count as loss for the sake of Christ. ⁸ More than that, I count all things as loss compared to the surpassing excellence of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord, for whom I have lost all things. I consider them rubbish, that I may gain Christ ⁹ and be found in Him, not having my own righteousness from the law, but that which is through faith in Christ, the righteousness from God on the basis of faith.

Here the ledger is torn in two. “Whatever was gain to me” (every entry in that impressive column) “I count as loss for the sake of Christ.” The language is commercial, for Paul takes items from the profit side and moves them, one by one, to the loss side. Then he presses further, counting not merely his religious assets but “all things” as loss, “compared to the surpassing excellence of knowing Christ Jesus my Lord.” And to make sure no one mistakes this for polite exaggeration, he reaches for skybalon, refuse, waste to be thrown out.

He does not despise these things because they were bad in themselves, for his heritage was a genuine gift of God. He despises them only as rivals, for the moment they competed with Christ for the trust of his heart, they became garbage (σκύβαλον) skybalon, pronounced SKOO-bal-on. Strong's G4657, refuse, rubbish, dung. This is one of the bluntest words in Paul’s vocabulary. Skybalon meant the refuse a person throws away, the table scraps and kitchen leavings, the filth swept out of a house. It was also a common word for dung. Older English versions softened it to “dung,” and the BSB reads “rubbish,” but either way the force is deliberately crude. Paul takes the things he had just listed as his proudest assets, his pedigree, his zeal, his spotless law-keeping, and says that beside Christ they belong on the refuse heap. .

He does not merely call them worthless, as though they were neutral. Once they became rivals to Christ, once they were trusted to secure his standing before God, they became actively repellent, something to be discarded with disgust. The shock is intentional. Religion done well is the hardest thing in the world to let go of, because it feels like gain, and Paul says it is not gain but garbage if it stands between the heart and knowing Christ. And observe why he throws it out: “That I may gain Christ.”

Why such violence toward his own goodness? “That I may gain Christ and be found in Him.” Here is the exchange at the center of the gospel: Paul lets go of a righteousness (δικαιοσύνη) dikaiosynē, pronounced dee-kai-oh-SOO-nay. Strong's G1343, righteousness, being right with God and living rightly. Dikaiosynē is the great word for being right, right with God, in a right standing, acquitted and accepted. Verse 9 sets two ways of possessing it against each other. There is “my own righteousness from the law,” a rightness generated by obedience, the kind Paul had built over a lifetime and just called rubbish. And there is “the righteousness from God on the basis of faith,” a rightness that originates in God, is credited as a gift, and is received not by achieving but by trusting. he built, dikaiosynē from the law, in order to receive a righteousness he could never build, “the righteousness from God on the basis of faith.” To be found in Him is to stand before God clothed not in one’s own record but in Christ’s. This is not Paul lowering the bar because the law was too hard; it is Paul, the man who kept the law faultlessly, testifying that even a flawless record is the wrong currency.

The two prepositions carry the gospel. Righteousness from the law is earned, while righteousness from God is given. Paul’s dearest wish is not to stand at the judgment clothed in a record he manufactured, but to be “found in Him,” hidden inside Christ, wearing a righteousness that is not his own. We are accepted before God not by what we do for Him but by what He has done for us, laid hold of through faith. Every claim of our own performance is set down, for the righteousness that saves is a robe we are given, never a wage we are paid.

Philippians 3:10–11 (BSB)

¹⁰ I want to know Christ and the power of His resurrection and the fellowship of His sufferings, being conformed to Him in His death, ¹¹ and so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.

Now Paul tells us what he was reaching for when he threw everything else away. His aim is “to know Christ.” The verb is ginōskō, a knowing by relationship and experience, not by facts alone. He is not saying he wants to know about Christ, for he already knew the Scriptures inside out. He wants to know Christ Himself.

He unfolds that knowing in three movements that belong together. First, “the power of His resurrection,” the same life that raised Jesus from the tomb now at work in the believer. Second, “the fellowship of His sufferings,” a startling desire, for to truly know Christ is also to share what He shared, to be drawn into His path of costly love rather than around it. Third, “being conformed to Him in His death,” the daily dying to self that lets the life of Christ come through. Paul refuses to split these apart, as though we could have Easter power without Good Friday fellowship, for the road to knowing the risen Christ runs through the cross-shaped life.

And it all leans forward: “And so, somehow, to attain to the resurrection from the dead.” That word somehow is not doubt about whether he will be raised, for Paul is certain of the resurrection. It is humility about the road, a refusal to presume he has already arrived, which is exactly where the next verses go.

Philippians 3:12–16 (BSB)

¹² Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect, but I press on to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me. ¹³ Brothers, I do not consider myself yet to have taken hold of it. But one thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead, ¹⁴ I press on toward the goal to win the prize of God’s heavenly calling in Christ Jesus. ¹⁵ All of us who are mature should embrace this point of view. And if you think differently about some issue, God will reveal this to you as well. ¹⁶ Nevertheless, we must live up to what we have already attained.

Lest anyone imagine that a man who speaks of resurrection power has already crossed the finish line, Paul plants his feet in the not yet: “Not that I have already obtained all this, or have already been made perfect.” The apostle who wrote half the New Testament refuses the language of arrival. Instead he presses on (διώκω) diōkō, pronounced dee-OH-koh. Strong's G1377, to pursue, chase, hunt down, persecute. Diōkō is a word of hot pursuit, to chase after something with everything in you, and here it hides a quiet testimony. It is the same verb Paul used a few lines earlier, in verse 6, “as to zeal, persecuting the church.” The Greek for persecuting there is diōkō, the identical word now translated “press on.” Once his fierce energy was aimed at hunting down Christians, and that energy has not been extinguished by grace but re-aimed. The same man who once pursued the church now pursues Christ, chasing the One who first chased him down on the Damascus road, “that for which Christ Jesus took hold of me.” , to take hold of that for which Christ Jesus took hold of him. Everything in the Christian life hangs on that order: Christ laid hold of Paul first, on the Damascus road, and now Paul runs to lay hold of all that Christ has secured for him.

The picture is a runner in the stadium, his body stretched forward over the finish line. Grace does not make a person passive; it redirects the whole force of a life toward a new prize. And notice the order that keeps the running from becoming anxious striving: Christ took hold of Paul first, so the pursuit is a response, not a bid to earn what is already secured.

He captures it in one image: “One thing I do: Forgetting what is behind and straining toward what is ahead.” Forgetting what is behind does not mean amnesia. It means refusing to let the past (old failures that accuse, or old achievements that flatter) set the terms of the present. The runner does not glance over his shoulder. He strains forward, eyes on “the goal to win the prize of God’s heavenly calling in Christ Jesus.”

Then he widens the invitation: “All of us who are mature should embrace this point of view.” Maturity, it turns out, is not the sense that you have made it, but the honest, forward-leaning humility of the runner still in the race. And he adds a gracious patience, for where believers still see some things differently, “God will reveal this to you as well,” provided we “live up to what we have already attained” and keep running in the light we have.

Philippians 3:17–19 (BSB)

¹⁷ Join one another in following my example, brothers, and carefully observe those who walk according to the pattern we set for you. ¹⁸ For as I have often told you before, and now say again even with tears: Many live as enemies of the cross of Christ. ¹⁹ Their end is destruction, their god is their belly, and their glory is in their shame. Their minds are set on earthly things.

Paul’s confidence is never proud isolation. He points to a shared way of life: “Join one another in following my example.” He says this not because he is flawless, for he has just insisted he has not arrived, but because his life is visibly pointed in the right direction, pressing on toward Christ. Such patterns are meant to be watched and imitated, for the Christian life is learned, in part, by carefully observing those who walk it well.

But there is a rival pattern, and Paul cannot speak of it dry-eyed: “As I have often told you before, and now say again even with tears: Many live as enemies of the cross of Christ.” He does not sneer; he weeps. Then he diagnoses them in four strokes. “Their end is destruction,” for the road they are on has a real destination. “Their god is their belly,” for their appetites rule them. “Their glory is in their shame,” for they boast in the very things that ought to humble them. And the root of it all: “Their minds are set on earthly things.”

Here is the great divide of the chapter, for it is finally a question of what the mind is fixed on, the perishing things of earth or the risen Christ. Everything Paul has said about counting his credentials as loss comes down to this reorientation, and it sets up the contrast of the final two verses.

Philippians 3:20–21 (BSB)

²⁰ But our citizenship is in heaven, and we eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ, ²¹ who, by the power that enables Him to subject all things to Himself, will transform our lowly bodies to be like His glorious body.

Against minds “set on earthly things,” Paul lifts their eyes to their true address: “Our citizenship (πολίτευμα) politeuma, pronounced pol-EE-tyoo-mah. Strong's G4175, commonwealth, citizenship, state. Paul could not have chosen a word more perfectly aimed at his readers. Philippi was a Roman colony. A settlement of Roman citizens planted far from Rome, granted the legal status of the mother-city. The Philippians ordered their civic life by Rome though most had never set foot there. Their laws, their dress, their loyalties, their identity all came from a capital hundreds of miles away. Politeuma is the word for exactly that. A commonwealth. The community whose citizen you are and whose life governs yours. is in heaven.” To a Roman colony like Philippi it landed with force, for they already knew what it was to belong to a capital they had never seen, to live by its laws in a far country. That, Paul says, is the Christian’s real status, a colonist of heaven, resident on earth.

Paul takes this civic pride and lifts it heavenward: “Our citizenship is in heaven.” The believer is a colonist of another country, living faithfully in this world while belonging fundamentally to another, the opposite of those whose “minds are set on earthly things” (v. 19). And citizenship carries expectation, for a Roman colony awaited the visits and protection of its emperor. So Paul writes that we “eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ.” Savior was a title the Roman world lavished on Caesar, and Paul quietly gives it to Jesus alone.

And such citizens live in expectation: “We eagerly await a Savior from there, the Lord Jesus Christ.” The verb strains forward like the runner of verse 13, not idle waiting but a leaning, longing hope. And the hope is physical, for Christ will “transform our lowly bodies to be like His glorious body.” The word lowly is honest, for our present bodies grow tired, sicken, and die, and there is nothing to romanticize. But they are not the end of the story. By the same power “that enables Him to subject all things to Himself,” the risen Christ will remake these frail frames into the likeness of His own resurrection body, imperishable, radiant, and deathless.

This is where the whole chapter has been running. Paul threw his credentials on the refuse heap to know Christ and the power of His resurrection (v. 10), and here that power reaches its final object, our very bodies, raised and glorified. The prize at the end of the race is not an idea; it is Christ Himself, and life with Him in a body that can never die.