After about 10 minutes, suddenly there was great rejoicing in the Land of Birds, and dozens of sparrows, finches, chickadees, and wrens began to wing their way over to wash themselves in the birdbath and in the puddles of water on the ground. One of them, a particularly raucous bluejay, even had the temerity to land on an empty birdfeeder, give me the stink eye, rap the base of the empty feeder sharply with its beak a couple times, and then flutter off in a huff, and then cuss at me in blue jay-ese.
Never mind that I had generously turned on the hose, which is what had drawn these birds here in the first place.
Are these birds never satisfied? And the answer is: yes, and no. Once I started providing them with birdseed and water, they expect me to keep doing it.
Forgotten is the groaning that they raised up to God—groaning so loud that God could not ignore it—and that God has promised that God will always be in their midst—exactly what they question when the water bags start to empty.
And we should be able to have some sympathy for the Israelites, since, after all, we currently stand on similarly vulnerable ground. We are more than six months in to this pandemic, and we are just as much lost and disoriented in a wilderness at were the Israelites in this story. It’s so bad that we are looking back longingly at the time before this pandemic—even those of us for whom the situation wasn’t all that great. At least it was familiar.
We too, stand in the midst of a trackless wilderness, and that can lead us to wonder where God is for our own situation. We are also months and years into a struggle for equality and liberty for all in this country, as more and more people see the prejudice and division that shreds the fabric of our country in very deadly ways.
The uncertainty we have been thrust into is very real. The anxiety that hangs over us is very real. The shifting sand beneath our feet, the changing situation from day to day with no obvious end in sight. And the more the clamor in our heart and head increases in volume, the harder it can be to hear the still small voice of God murmuring in our ears.
It’s at this point that our reading from Philippians reminds us that we truly have God-among-us, as the Israelites did, and we can trust that, if only we can still the frantic beating of our hearts. Jesus shows us a different way, a better way, of calming our fears and anxieties.
And it’s by looking beyond our own concerns to see how we stand in solidarity with others—and to realize that the gifts of unity and community can help us all not only survive this time of testing but emerge on the other side of the wilderness stronger as both individuals and as a people of faith, and hope, resilient against the forces of fear and scarcity.
We’ve been hearing for weeks now that the least will be the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. Paul starkly reminds us that Jesus himself is our model in how to do this.
Paul speaks of Jesus “emptying himself” of all his rightful honor and glory due to him as the Son of God, and choosing to be born as one of us. The Greek term for emptying is “kenosis.”
In Jesus, as Paul explains, one who was the greatest became a humble human, and not just a human but a peasant in the farthest, out-of-the-way occupied corner of a vast and relentless empire. Jesus faced rejection again and again, even to the point of being accused of being a rebel and blasphemer and dying for it.
Jesus lived out of a love that sustains the world, a love that challenges the calculus of exploitation and injustice, and that made him an enemy of the state and a threat to those who thought themselves righteous. Jesus did this so that we would know that God has experienced all our suffering, and stands in solidarity beside us. As his disciples, Jesus calls us to be brave enough to likewise empty ourselves—but in our case, what we are called to let go of is what SEPARATES us from each other, and from God.
Now that can still be scary—in a time of crisis, the human things is to hold tighter to what we have, even if it’s really not good, like those Israelites, rather than let go of the familiar. But what exactly is Jesus calling us to let go of and empty ourselves of? What does kenosis mean for us?
Kenosis is emptying ourselves of our willfulness, all of our prerogatives for self- aggrandizement, in order to make room for the beauty of living from in truth, rather than self-delusion, to living for each other in unity rather than fear. That’s the foundation of discipleship—loving and embracing each other, creating the beloved community in which no one is an outcast. It’s opening ourselves to the possibility of love.
Our hearts are about the size of a fist, but a fist cannot take hold of the good. It’s only when our hearts are open that we feel the presence of God alongside us.
This is not the terrifying emptiness of the wilderness, the emptiness of fear and scarcity that besets them and us as we long for proof that God is with us. This emptiness we are called to embrace is to make room for God within us—so that we can never again wonder where God is, because God will dwell within us and guide us to a deeper faith and unity.
Discipleship has to be oriented to doing God’s will, not our own. It’s too easy to fall into the belief that Jesus, God incarnate, is just like us, rather than embracing the more uncomfortable call of trying to be more like Him.
The writer Anne Lamott has a wonderful observation: “You can safely assume that you have created God in your image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.”
That’s always been one of the main challenges in Christianity. We anthropomorphize God, turning that whole “made in God’s image” thing from Genesis on its head. We don’t need a God who is more like us. We need to be a people who are more like God. And the good news is, we already have a template: God has lived among us as one of us, and God continues to live among us. And as self-proclaimed members of the Body of Christ, there is our charge. Even though it is clear, it certainly is not easy. Transformation never is. Transformation, both of ourselves and of our world, requires work, and that starts with the will to do it.
That’s our main role as the Church, as Christ’s body in the world. Jesus calls us to empty ourselves, yes—but empty ourselves of all that weighs us down in misery and fear. And in the dual crises we have going right now—the pandemic, and the fight against racial injustice that infects our country, and harms all of us. These twin pandemics reinforce the same truth spoken by Martin Luther King, preaching from the gospel of Jesus—that we are all interconnected. That injustice anywhere leads to injustice everywhere unless we demand something better and are willing to stand up for it.
In Jesus, as Paul explains, one who was the greatest became a humble human, and not just a human but a peasant in the farthest, out-of-the-way occupied corner of a vast and relentless empire. Jesus faced rejection again and again, even to the point of being accused of being a rebel and blasphemer and dying for it.
Jesus lived out of a love that sustains the world, a love that challenges the calculus of exploitation and injustice, and that made him an enemy of the state and a threat to those who thought themselves righteous. Jesus did this so that we would know that God has experienced all our suffering, and stands in solidarity beside us. As his disciples, Jesus calls us to be brave enough to likewise empty ourselves—but in our case, what we are called to let go of is what SEPARATES us from each other, and from God.
Now that can still be scary—in a time of crisis, the human things is to hold tighter to what we have, even if it’s really not good, like those Israelites, rather than let go of the familiar. But what exactly is Jesus calling us to let go of and empty ourselves of? What does kenosis mean for us?
Kenosis is emptying ourselves of our willfulness, all of our prerogatives for self- aggrandizement, in order to make room for the beauty of living from in truth, rather than self-delusion, to living for each other in unity rather than fear. That’s the foundation of discipleship—loving and embracing each other, creating the beloved community in which no one is an outcast. It’s opening ourselves to the possibility of love.
Our hearts are about the size of a fist, but a fist cannot take hold of the good. It’s only when our hearts are open that we feel the presence of God alongside us.
This is not the terrifying emptiness of the wilderness, the emptiness of fear and scarcity that besets them and us as we long for proof that God is with us. This emptiness we are called to embrace is to make room for God within us—so that we can never again wonder where God is, because God will dwell within us and guide us to a deeper faith and unity.
Discipleship has to be oriented to doing God’s will, not our own. It’s too easy to fall into the belief that Jesus, God incarnate, is just like us, rather than embracing the more uncomfortable call of trying to be more like Him.
The writer Anne Lamott has a wonderful observation: “You can safely assume that you have created God in your image when it turns out that God hates all the same people you do.”
That’s always been one of the main challenges in Christianity. We anthropomorphize God, turning that whole “made in God’s image” thing from Genesis on its head. We don’t need a God who is more like us. We need to be a people who are more like God. And the good news is, we already have a template: God has lived among us as one of us, and God continues to live among us. And as self-proclaimed members of the Body of Christ, there is our charge. Even though it is clear, it certainly is not easy. Transformation never is. Transformation, both of ourselves and of our world, requires work, and that starts with the will to do it.
That’s our main role as the Church, as Christ’s body in the world. Jesus calls us to empty ourselves, yes—but empty ourselves of all that weighs us down in misery and fear. And in the dual crises we have going right now—the pandemic, and the fight against racial injustice that infects our country, and harms all of us. These twin pandemics reinforce the same truth spoken by Martin Luther King, preaching from the gospel of Jesus—that we are all interconnected. That injustice anywhere leads to injustice everywhere unless we demand something better and are willing to stand up for it.
Jesus calls us to transform the dry rocks of our hearts into springs of life and hope for the good of the world. Out of love for us, Jesus encourages us to empty ourselves of all that prevents us from seeing the inherent unity God has woven between you and me and all of creation. To empty and open ourselves, so that we may be filled with something better. We let go of the death-dealing fears and hatreds of this world so that we can make more room for God, more room for love within us. To make room for transformation not just of ourselves, but of the world around us. And as it begins to transform each of us individually, that love set free within us will transform our parish, and the world. God’s presence becomes clear to us when we open our hearts to see God’s presence in each other.
We can choose to empty ourselves of fear, to interrupt the downward spiral that seeks to grip us; to still the cacophony in our heads and hearts. To remember that we are beloved, and so is our neighbor. And if that neighbor is oppressed by injustice, to stand in solidarity with them as part of our witnessing to the power, right now, of the transformative life of Christ. Episcopal priest and theologian Stephanie Spellers puts it this way:
Jesus calls us to be of one mind with him, as Paul reminds us. This means to look beyond the narrative of hopelessness and look back to see a record of endurance and resilience. To see how far we have come at this point, and look for lilting notes of grace that run as a counterpoint to the basso profundo of despair. To see the flickering light of those small gifts that we have overlooked along the way, even something as simple as signs of community when people of good will take care of each other, when we’ve seen people recognize strangers as neighbors and companions along the way. Sharing each others’ burdens.
May we have the will to embrace the blessed emptying of all that holds us back. May we embrace the gift of being one with the mind of Christ in his embrace of all creation. May we allow God to be at work in us, so that we may do God’s work in the world.
Kenosis, cracking open, embracing disruption, releasing control, giving your life away -- these are only one part of the equation. We let go of one life in order to take up new life, the life of the beloved. We release what we hoarded in order to receive gift upon gift from God. Our cracked open hearts are at last roomy enough to hold the lives and hearts of others. We practice kenosis in preparation for solidarity.
Solidarity is love crossing the borders drawn by fear and selfishness, in order to enter into the situation of the other, for the purpose of mutual relationship and struggle that heals us all in enacts God's dream of beloved community.
Solidarity is the voice that finally comprehends: “You are not the same as me, but part of you lives in me. Your freedom and mine are were always inextricably entwined. Now I see it, and because of what I see, I choose to live differently. I will go there, with you for your sake and for my own.”
The dream of God is that we all experience the conditions to thrive, and that we sacrifice in order to create those conditions for one another. If you've got privilege, as Jesus did, don't use it for your own happiness or to elevate your circle; leverage it as part of Jesus movement to ensure everyone flourishes.(1)
Jesus calls us to be of one mind with him, as Paul reminds us. This means to look beyond the narrative of hopelessness and look back to see a record of endurance and resilience. To see how far we have come at this point, and look for lilting notes of grace that run as a counterpoint to the basso profundo of despair. To see the flickering light of those small gifts that we have overlooked along the way, even something as simple as signs of community when people of good will take care of each other, when we’ve seen people recognize strangers as neighbors and companions along the way. Sharing each others’ burdens.
May we have the will to embrace the blessed emptying of all that holds us back. May we embrace the gift of being one with the mind of Christ in his embrace of all creation. May we allow God to be at work in us, so that we may do God’s work in the world.
Amen.
Preached at the 10:30 am worship service livestreamed from St. Martin's Episcopal Church, Ellisville, MO on September 27, 2020.
Readings:
References/sources:
(1) The Rev. Canon Stephanie Spellers, The Church Cracked Open: Disruption, Decline, and New Hope for the Beloved Community, to be published in March 2021, made available on September 26, 2020 at Medium.com, https://medium.com/@revsteph/on-kenosis-solidarity-and-stewardship-of-privilege-by-stephanie-spellers-30d5fce95152
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