Living as a Resident Alien

Philippians 1:21-30 (September 20, 2026)

If you have ever traveled far from the place where you grew up, you know what it feels like when people realize you are not a local. Maybe it is the way you talk and instantly gives you away. You might walk the same streets, eat the local food, even love the local culture. But there is an inescapable truth: you are a visitor. You do not quite fit in, because your real home, passport, and deepest loyalty belong somewhere else. You are, in every sense of the phrase, a "resident alien", a citizen of one country who lives in another.

This is the exact tension that the Apostle Paul addresses in his letter to the Philippians, the church in the Roman city of Philippi. Writing from a dark, cramped Roman prison cell, Paul wrote no letter of despair. Instead, he wrote one overflowing with radiant, inexplicable joy. He mentions joy or rejoicing more than a dozen times through the bars of his cell. How is that possible? How does a man sitting in a Roman dungeon, facing execution, write a letter that sings with such gratitude?

The answer is Paul held an unwavering, eternal outlook that completely changed how he saw his chains. He knew he had dual citizenship. He physically lived under the shadow of the Roman Empire, but his primary identity was anchored elsewhere. He was a citizen of a different Kingdom, and that changed how he lived, how he suffered, and how he loved.

Live Like a Citizen of Heaven

Paul wrote to a church in Philippi, a proud Roman colony obsessed with the privileges of earthly citizenship. To that church he issues a challenge with political bite. In Philippians 1:27, he writes: "Only let your manner of life be worthy of the gospel of Christ."

In the original Greek, the phrase "manner of life" is politeuesthai, which shares its root with polis, meaning "city." Literally, Paul is telling them: "Live your life as a citizen." He is saying, "Conduct yourselves as citizens of a heavenly commonwealth (a nation governed by God's laws)." Your passport is stamped by the Kingdom of God, so your daily behavior must reflect that heavenly home's laws and character.

To help us understand this, Stanley Hauerwas and William Willimon described the church as a "colony of heaven" planted in a foreign country. We are "resident aliens." We might spend a summer in Scotland, eating the food and loving the people. But we cannot vote in their elections or join their national systems. Our primary loyalty is not to the local flag. We march to the beat of a distant drum, called to love our neighbors while staying creatively "out of step" with this world's broken values.

Steven Spielberg's film The Terminal captures this well. A traveler, Viktor Navorski, arrives at JFK airport, only to discover that his home country has suffered a political coup. With his government collapsed, his passport is invalid. He cannot enter the United States, and he cannot go home either. He is trapped in the airport terminal. Instead of despairing in this "in-between" space, Viktor gets to work. He learns the language, serves the workers, protects the vulnerable, and builds a beautiful community in the transit lounge. He transforms his surroundings, yet he never forgets that the terminal is not his home. He waits for the doors to open to his final destination.

Viktor's story shows what it means to live as resident aliens in the transit lounge of a passing, broken world. As citizens of heaven, we are called to beautifully and creatively transform our surroundings, love our neighbors, and serve our communities. We invest in the "terminal" around us but never lose sight that our passport belongs to another Kingdom.

Stop Pumping a Dry Well

But how do we live out this heavenly citizenship without wearing ourselves out? In our modern, high-stress culture, we are constantly told that our worth is measured by our productivity, achievements, and performance. We wear ourselves out trying to produce spiritual maturity, patience, and love through sheer willpower.

But the core of the gospel is that our relationship with God is not about what we can accomplish for Him. It is about what He has already done, and is still doing, in us.

When Paul makes his famous declaration in verse 21, "For to me, to live is Christ, and to die is gain," he leaves out the verb in the original Greek. It literally reads: "For to me, to live, Christ." Christ is not just a helper we call on when things get difficult. He is the substance, the active power, and the defining force of our everyday lives.

The missionary C.T. Studd illustrated the "Christ-life" by describing a scene at a fair. He saw a wooden figure standing by a well, pumping the handle with tireless energy. But when he walked closer, he noticed the figure's elbows were metal hinges and its body was wood. It was an artesian well (water that rises on its own under pressure)! The water table was so high, and the pressurized water flowed with such endless force, that the well was pumping the wooden figure!

Too many of us are desperately pumping a dry well in our own strength, treating faith like a set of rules that keeps us miserable. But when we surrender to the indwelling Holy Spirit, we realize that Christ's Spirit is the eternally available artesian well pumping us!

Think of a hand-puppet fish. Placed on a table, it sits dead and motionless because it has no internal life. This is what happens when we try to love our enemies or hold on to joy by human effort. But when you put your hand inside, it comes alive, moving with a power not its own. When we live in Christ, we are empowered by His life inside us to love and serve supernaturally.

When we try to endure the crushing pressures, anxieties, and sufferings of this world using only our own willpower—desperately pumping a dry well—we will eventually collapse. But when we surrender to the Holy Spirit, we realize Christ is our internal artesian well. His presence within us provides an equal and glorious internal pressure that pushes back against the world, empowering us to survive and even rejoice in the deepest valleys of adversity.

When Christ is our ultimate treasure, we develop a supernatural perspective on time and desires. In John Bunyan's classic allegory. The Pilgrim's Progress, Christian is shown two small children, Passion and Patience. Passion was screaming, squirming, and demanding all his toys and treasures at once. He represents the natural man, desperately seeking quick, passing pleasures from this world. But Patience sat quietly, neatly squared up in his chair, willing to wait for the "best things" promised to him in the future.

When Christ is our ultimate treasure, we find the quiet confidence of Patience. We refuse to settle for the cheap, passing pleasures of this age, because we know our lives are safely hidden with Christ in God, and the best is yet to come.

Suffering Is a Gift

None of us naturally want to suffer. Our instinct is to avoid pain. When trials come, we are tempted to grumble, just like the Israelites in the wilderness. Only two months after their miraculous rescue from Pharaoh's army, they looked at their dusty surroundings and complained. They pined for the "fleshpots" of Egypt and muttered that they would rather have died in slavery than face uncertainty.

But Paul reframes hardship in a surprising way. In verse 29, he writes: "For to you it has been granted for Christ's sake, not only to believe in Him, but also to suffer for His sake." In Greek, "granted" is echaristhe, which shares its root with charis, meaning "grace" or "gift." Suffering for Christ is actually a gracious gift.

Dr. J.H. Jowett observed that "suffering is the friction which polishes our graces." Just as a gemstone must undergo friction to reveal its brilliance, our souls require the sacred friction of hardship to be polished into the likeness of Christ. The heavy weights of life wear out our self-reliance so we may depend on His resurrection power.

An old spiritual writer shared another image: "the mystical bees make their most excellent honey in the wounds of the lion of the tribe of Judah." In the broken wounds of Calvary, the sweetest comfort of God's love was produced. And in our own brokenness, walking through the valley of the shadow of death, we discover the sweetest honey of His presence.

Our suffering is never a solitary experience. Paul's chains gave deep credibility to his preaching, reminding the church that our struggles are a shared fellowship.

As I have mentioned a few weeks ago, when John Bunyan was imprisoned for twelve years in a damp cell, he famously refused to make a "slaughter-shop" of his conscience. From that cell he produced The Pilgrim's Progress, which still feeds our faith today. Our trials bind us together and send a sign to a watching world that Jesus is worth it all.

Thermostat, Not Thermometer

As citizens of heaven living in a fractured world, how do we show our King? We live in an age of shouting and division. In times like these, Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. used the powerful picture of a thermometer versus a thermostat. A thermometer only records the temperature, reflecting the room's coldness. But a thermostat is a regulator that actively transforms the climate by releasing heat.

Too many believers act like thermometers, reflecting the hostility and anger around them. But as citizens of heaven, we must be thermostats of grace, warming our communities with Christ's unconditional, supernatural love. Then are you a thermometer or a thermostat?

So what does this practically mean for your daily life tomorrow?

Imagine walking into your workplace Monday morning, or sitting at your family dinner table, and facing a tense, hostile, or anxious environment. The "thermometer" response is to soak up the tension and reflect it back—meeting gossip with gossip, anger with anger, and worry with worry. But the "thermostat" response, empowered by the indwelling life of Christ, is to release the warmth of grace. When a coworker snaps at you, instead of defending your rights, you offer a soft answer. When division arises, you act as a peacemaker. You let the internal pressure of Christ's Spirit push back against the external pressures of the world. You actively change the temperature of the room, because you are marching to the beat of a heavenly drum.

In this beautiful contentment, we say with Paul: "To live is Christ, and to die is gain." As long as you have breath, you are immortal until your work on earth is done. Let us walk worthy of our high call. Refusing to conform to earthly fears, let us march to the music of eternity. Dear Lord, constantly make us thermostats of Your grace. Amen.

Concluding Prayer

Heavenly Father, anchor our hearts in your eternal commonwealth. May your indwelling Spirit empower us to stand strong against crushing pressures. Transform us from mere thermometers into thermostats of your grace, revealing the love of Jesus to this world. In the name of Jesus, we pray. Amen.