Holden Evening Prayer – The Big Why: The Reign of Christ

Philippians 2:5-11

Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, being born in human likeness. And being found in human form, he humbled himself and became obedient to the point of death — even death on a cross.

Therefore God also highly exalted him and gave him the name that is above every name, so that at the name of Jesus every knee should bend, in heaven and on earth and under the earth, and every tongue should confess that Jesus Christ is Lord, to the glory of God the Father.

When my kids were young, one of the books on our shelves was “The Quiltmaker’s Gift.” ^[1] It’s the tale of an old woman who lives high in the blue misty mountains and spends her days making quilts. Not just ordinary bed covers, but marvelous, intricate quilts with colors beyond compare. Many a wealthy person would climb her mountain with bags full of gold attempting to buy a quilt, but she’d tell them all, “My quilts are not for sale.” Then, on the coldest and darkest of nights, she would slip down the mountain and wrap her quilts around people who lay shivering in the cold. 

Beyond the mountain, there lived a king who was powerful and greedy and who loved nothing more than to receive gifts. When he learned of the quiltmaker’s marvelous quilts, he declared that he must have one.  The problem, of course, was that her quilts were not for people like him. Even the most powerful of kings. 

You know how stories work. There’s a conflict. They’ve come to an impasse. Something’s got to change. Either the king will convince her to change her mind, 

or he’ll force her to acquiesce, or he will change. Indeed, he tries to change her mind – with a thousand soldiers behind him. Then he tries to force her hand – first chaining her to a rock inside a cave with a sleeping bear, and then banning her to an island barely big enough to stand on. But she escapes both perils. It’s ultimately the king who changes.

A little bit here and a little bit there, he gives away his treasures, and in the process, he finds joy. As he empties his closets and all the nooks and crannies of his castle, he finds delight in giving his treasures to favor someone else. At last, when he has given away all of his things and is himself poor, the quiltmaker gifts him with a quilt that she has sewn just for him, and he is surprised. “I’m not poor,” he laughs. “My life is rich, and I have so many memories of the smiles I traded for the things I had.” The self-emptying that he had done made room for something else. And then he reveals just one more thing in his possession – his throne, the symbol of his power – and he gives it to the quiltmaker. 

It’s a sweet story that helps families imagine love and generosity, of letting go, and even glimpsing the character of God. 

Well, there are plenty of things in my closets and in the nooks and crannies of my house that I could give away. But there’s another kind of emptying that’s been going on in my life and in yours, too. In the metaphorical vessel that holds plans and dreams, a number of items have been discarded or delayed this year:

• Dinner parties I would have hosted; 
• Trips I’d planned; 
• Weddings and funerals I would have attended; 
• Milestone birthdays that passed; 
• Holidays I would have shared with loved ones; 
• Pastoral visits I would like to have made.

For some of you, the list includes:

• Graduations and new beginnings; 
• A chance to play sports or be on a team; 
• Opportunities to explore new work or meet new people.

In one way or another, we’ve all had to divest of something. We feel that anew this week. Perhaps it allows us to hear the reading from Philippians with new ears today. 

This lovely reading is an old hymn from the earliest church. Most scholars believe it precedes Paul and that he incorporated it into his letter to the Philippians. It’s a confession of faith, of sorts, a poem that tells the story of God’s incarnation in Jesus. It’s a haunting reminder that we are called to serve, that love in action calls us to look to the interests of others. It’s a centering text that calls us to an ideal. But like the king in “The Quiltmaker’s Gift,” we might not be moved to pursue it until something outside us requires it. 

Paul’s letter was to the believers in Philippi, a city in Macedonia, that was part of the Roman Empire. It was a place of privilege. Its citizens enjoyed the benefits of Roman citizenship, including political and economic advantages. Social status mattered. It was a culture that valued determination and self-reliance. Those in power went to great lengths to stay in power. Greed and avarice led to corruption. Humility was seen as weakness. We recognize those values. We live among them, too.

And to that culture, Paul said, “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus.” Humble yourselves. Don’t act from selfish ambition or conceit. Instead look to the interests of others, rather than your own. 

Such a message was counter cultural to the band of believers in Philippi. In the milieu that surrounded them, Caesar was honored as lord. But Paul proclaims another God as sovereign, a God who serves. 

This Christ hymn names the mystery that Jesus is both God and human. We might assume that Jesus stepped away from being God and lowered himself for a time to be one of us. But the hymn proclaims that in Jesus, God is who God has always been – a God who stoops down in love, who walks alongside and helps, who draws all people to Godself. In Jesus, we see a God who risks humility and runs to welcome the prodigal and begs the proud to come home.

Jesus willingly emptied himself for the sake of divine love and redemption – to draw all people to himself. Paul’s message is to us, too: “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus, who emptied himself and became vulnerable.” We might not choose to do that on our own. But in these pandemic days, external circumstances call us to reflect and make choices, to set aside expectations of self sufficiency and independence. 

We know how stories work. Just like in “The Quiltmaker’s Gift,” there’s conflict, and something needs to change. Will it be us? What if, for a time, we set aside our ego, our plans, our self importance, and even our fears to glimpse the interconnected beauty and power and vulnerable truth that all has value to God? ^[2] The stakes are high, but there is grace to be found in the emptying.

Today is Christ the King Sunday. It’s the last Sunday of the church year, and we look back on the expansive story of Jesus’ life, death and resurrection, just as we are about to cross the bridge into Advent, to begin the cycle again as we tell the story of God’s incarnation in Jesus. Maybe this year, we will experience Advent in a new way. Maybe we’ll be less hurried and less scattered. Maybe we’ll find a place inside that has been hollowed out by grief and made ready for something to be born anew. 

Jan Richardson is an artist and a writer who’s written extensively about loss. When her husband died a few years ago, she experienced a physical sense of emptiness – a hollowing out – of her heart and of the life she had known. And then, surprisingly, she discovered that one of the mysteries of grief is that it leaves us open to receiving joy. “Life will empty us out,” she says, “whether we will it or not.” Paul reminds us in today’s reading “that we belong to the Christ who freely chose to empty himself, who gave himself completely in a way that, paradoxically, did not diminish him but helped reveal the fullness of who he was and who he is.” ^[3]

She’s written a blessing for a time such as this. I’ll leave you with it now: 

“Blessing That Becomes Empty As It Goes”

This blessing
keeps nothing
for itself.
You can find it
by following the path
of what it has let go,
of what it has learned
it can live without.
Say this blessing out loud
a few times
and you will hear
the hollow places
within it,
how it echoes
in a way
that gives your voice
back to you
as if you had never
heard it before.
Yet this blessing
would not be mistaken
for any other,
as if,
in its emptying,
it had lost
what makes it
most itself.
It simply desires
to have room enough
to welcome
what comes.
Today,
it’s you.
So come and sit
in this place
made holy
by its hollows.
You think you have
too much to do,
too little time,
too great a weight
of responsibility
that none but you
can carry.
I tell you,
lay it down.
Just for a moment,
if that’s what you
can manage at first.
Five minutes.
Lift up your voice —
in laughter,
in weeping,
it does not matter —
and let it ring against
these spacious walls.
Do this
until you can hear
the spaces within
your own breathing.
Do this
until you can feel
the hollow in your heart
where something
is letting go,
where something
is making way.

Know this, dear friends, the God who comes near in Jesus and freely empties himself for the other is with you now. May you know that love in the days ahead. Amen.

Sources:

1. Brumbeau, Jeff. “The Quiltmaker’s Gift” (Scholastic Press, 2001).
2. https://www.companionsontheway.com/post/the-servant-king-shall-be-our-judge
3. http://paintedprayerbook.com/2014/09/22/blessing-that-becomes-empty/#.VCL-vVzvbnc