Running on Empty
Philippians 2:1-13
I’m going to throw a fancy theological word at you. Are you ready? Kenosis. I know, it sounds like an infectious disease, doesn’t it? I’m going overseas, but I’m not going to drink the water because I don’t want to come down with kenosis. The word is foreign, Greek to be exact. In seminary, you hear it in classes on systematic theology and New Testament, where you’re exposed to a lot of Greek terms.
Kenosis is a noun that refers to an emptying of something. In Christian theology it refers to Jesus’ self-emptying, i.e., to the Son, the second person of the Trinity, emptying himself of divine glory by becoming flesh and taking on all the limitations that come with the human condition.
The notion of Jesus’ self-emptying is based largely on this passage of Philippians chapter 2. In verse 7 Paul uses a form of the word kenosis when he writes that Christ Jesus, even though he was co-equal with God, nevertheless “emptied himself” of his divinity. What that means is that in the Incarnation, when the Son of God entered the world as the son of Mary and Joseph, he exchanged his royal throne for a manger—a feeding trough. Which is to say that he emptied himself of divine power and privilege and assumed human frailty, becoming subject not only to limitations of time and space but, to quote Shakespeare’s Hamlet, “the heartache and the thousand natural shocks that flesh is heir to.”
How that plays out can be seen throughout Jesus’ life. Jesus of Bethlehem, an infant born to peasant parents, cried when he was hungry or soiled. Jesus of the wilderness experienced temptation in its fiercest forms. Jesus of Nazareth wept at the death of his friend Lazarus. Jesus of the Garden of Gethsemane was abandoned by his closest friends and betrayed by another. Jesus of Golgotha, the hill upon which he was crucified, felt utterly forsaken. In life and in death Jesus emptied himself of all divine power and privilege, that he might take into himself the full reckoning of all human sin.
In that sense, kenosis, or self-emptying, is characteristic of who Jesus is. It’s what shows to the world that he is the Son. Jesus testifies that he has come from God not with a show of power as the world understands power but by becoming powerless, willingly subjecting himself to the powers that be in his death on the cross.
Of course, the world could not recognize this revelation because the world wasn’t prepared—then or now—for the irony of a crucified God.
Of course, the world could not recognize this revelation because the world wasn’t prepared—then or now—for the irony of a crucified God. As Paul writes in another of his letters, the very idea of a crucified savior is a stumbling block to Jews and foolishness to Gentiles (1 Cor. 1:23). Both alike expected to see God in a grand display of power, not in the abject powerlessness of one crucified as a criminal.
“Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus,” Paul writes in verse 5. This suggests that if self-emptying is characteristic of who Jesus is, it’s also characteristic of what we, as disciples of Jesus, are called to be. We are called to lives of emptiness, i.e., of emptying ourselves to selfish ambition and vain conceit. For disciples of Jesus, walking in Jesus’s footsteps means running on empty.
I mentioned last week, when I preached on the first chapter of Philippians, that we see in this letter a kinder, gentler side of Paul. The tone of this letter is remarkably tender. Paul clearly has a great deal of affection for the Philippians. He’s not correcting scandalous behavior, as he does in his first letter to the Corinthians. He’s not arguing in defense of doctrine, as he does with the Galatians. He’s making a pastoral appeal rooted in his relationship with the Philippians. He writes, “If, then, there is any comfort in Christ, any consolation from love, any partnership in the Spirit, any tender affection and sympathy, make my joy complete.”
Paul grounds his appeal in what the Philippians already possess in relation to him. He’s not urging them to find it in themselves to have a consolation born of love, or a sense of partnership in the Spirit, or tender affection and sympathy. The relationship between the Philippians and Paul is already characterized by such things. Paul celebrates and rejoices in their mutual affection. He asks just one thing more: “[M]ake my joy complete,” he tells them.
And what will make Paul’s joy complete? A monetary gift to support his mission work, perhaps? No, just this. Paul urges the Philippians to “be of the same mind, having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind.” All Paul asks is that they be united in love. But lest we misunderstand, by being of the same mind and being in full accord, Paul doesn’t mean that the church in Philippi must agree on everything, from the color of the carpet to how early is too early to sing Christmas carols (the correct answer is not until Christmas Eve). Lord knows, Christians, and Presbyterians in particular, can find no shortage of things over which to disagree.
But Paul isn’t calling the church to uniformity; he’s calling the church to unity.
But Paul isn’t calling the church to uniformity; he’s calling the church to unity. There is a world of difference. Uniformity is about the sameness of content (everyone in the church agreeing on everything, from worship style to budget priorities to politics). That’s not a church, it’s a cult. By contrast, rather than sameness of content, unity is about the sameness of commitment (everyone in the church sharing the same fundamental commitment to a love of neighbor that is grounded in the humility of Jesus Christ).
Last week we heard Paul exhort the Philippians to “live [their] life in a manner worthy of the gospel of Christ” (Phil. 1:27). As we turn the page to chapter 2, we see Paul spell out what that looks like. “Do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit,” he tells them, “but in humility regard others as better than yourselves. Let each of you look not to your own interests but to the interests of others.”
Let’s pause here for a moment and note that Paul feels the need to tell the Philippians—a church with whom he has a warm, loving relationship—not to be motivated by selfish ambition. The subtle implication—never explicitly mentioned—is that selfish ambition and vain conceit and all other manner of self-righteous, self-serving, and self-aggrandizing behavior are temptations even within the church. The church is not free of the egotism that exists out in the world. We simply deceive ourselves by pretending that our egotism and status-seeking is in service to a higher power and a righteous purpose.
But because we are a community gathered around Christ, we know that we are called to live in a different way, a way not centered on self but on service, not seeking honor but acting in humility. Fortunately for us, far from some abstract ideal, the Christian way is the way of Christ, which is to say it’s grounded in the concrete, historical reality of Jesus of Nazareth. This is why Paul can write, “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.”
What follows should sound familiar to your ears because we recite it in the liturgy most weeks as our affirmation of faith. “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus…
6 who, though he was in the form of God,
did not regard equality with God
as something to be exploited,
7 but emptied himself,
taking the form of a slave,
being born in human likeness.
And being found in human form,
8 he humbled himself
and became obedient to the point of death—
even death on a cross.
9 Therefore God also highly exalted him
and gave him the name
that is above every other name,
10 so that at the name of Jesus
every knee should bend,
in heaven and on earth and under the earth,
11 and every tongue should confess
that Jesus Christ is Lord,
to the glory of God the Father.
These are not Paul’s words. Paul is quoting what biblical scholars believe was a hymn of the early church. Unfortunately, we don’t have the music that accompanied the words. But one reason I like using this hymn as our affirmation is that it connects us to the early church not only liturgically but also theologically.
I think I mentioned last week that Paul wrote Philippians around the year 61 or 62. That’s about 10 years before the first Gospel was likely written. Yes, this letter predates Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John. But already we see that Jesus, the rabbi from Nazareth who was crucified by the Romans, was regarded by his followers as God in the flesh. Thus, Paul can urge them to be of the same mind as Christ, “who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited.”
Divine power and authority was not something that Jesus used in service to himself. He didn’t gather an army, he called disciples. He didn’t live in a royal palace but wandered from place to place. He journeyed to Jerusalem not to be crowned but to be crucified. Which is to say that he “he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death—even death on a cross.”
This is worth considering. In emptying himself of all divine power and privilege, and thereby subjecting himself to all manner of human frailty, including death, Jesus didn’t simply die. He didn’t live to an old age and succumb to heart disease. He was crucified! Understand, for the Romans crucifixion was a punishment reserved for enemies of the state—for anyone who challenged Rome’s authority: rebellious slaves, insurrectionists, conquered enemy soldiers, and those accused of treason or sedition.
Crucifixion was state-sanctioned torture. It was a punishment designed to deny the humanity of the condemned. They were stripped naked, then whipped. While prostrate, their hands and feet were nailed to wooden beams, and then they were raised upright and hung in public. Death came slowly, usually after many hours, if not days, and not from the wounds but from asphyxiation, when the crucified, weakened by all the trauma inflicted on his body, could no longer arch his back to draw in air.
To all eyes, the one crucified died utterly forsaken, not only by humans but by God. Thus, in Matthew, Jesus says from the cross, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” To both Roman and Jew, there was nothing on earth further removed from the glory of God than to die nailed to a cross. Crucifixion was the most irreligious thing imaginable.
And yet, for this very reason, because Jesus emptied himself of all power and took into himself all the sins of the world, God highly exalted him.
And yet, for this very reason, because Jesus emptied himself of all power and took into himself all the sins of the world, God highly exalted him. The one who made himself lowest, God raised to the highest. The one who made himself last, God made first. The one who made himself least, God made Lord, giving him the name that is above all names.
One day, one day this truth will be confessed by all, the living and the dead. Until that day, our mission as a church is to proclaim that truth to a world unwilling or unable to see it. But to share the good news that “Jesus is Lord” means that the church’s witness must match that of Jesus himself, “who though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself.” And so the church must strive not only to live as Jesus lived, but to die as he died, emptying ourselves of power and even the instinct of self-preservation.
I know that sounds crazy, and even scary. It’s not for nothing that Paul tells the Philippians to work out their salvation with fear and trembling. But when we seek to empty ourselves of all power, of ego, of self-seeking, even of self-preservation, we declare our trust in the God who is at work in us, raising us from the dead, filling us with with hope, and enabling us to will and work for God’s good pleasure.