AND DIDN’T HE RISE…:SELF

A Sermon by Bill McDonald from Philippians 2:5-11

March 16, 2008

Philippians 2

⁵Let 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 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.

I didn’t shave for three days so the gray stubble highlighted my face. The day of the big adventure I didn’t shower or comb my hair or brush my teeth. I selected my grungiest clothes, items usually reserved for working in the garden—or rehearsing with my band. I chose the old faded blue jeans with the knee torn out, cinched up by a belt of roughed up leather. My feet were covered by work boots that had seen more than their share of mud and scrapes. The collar of my denim work shirt was frayed and dirty. The down vest was covered with paint splatters. Topping off the look was a ratty ball cap with sweat stains around the headband and dried salt flowing along the brim. I locked all my valuables in my car trunk except an ID and $1.50 in cash, the allowed limit. At the Catholic Action Center we were given what other street people would receive if they stopped by: a black garbage bag with a rough wool blanket, a bottle of water and a bologna sandwich.

The idea was to empty ourselves of not only our identities, but of all the privileges and powers those identities brought to us. No “power dressing” to gain us favor with store clerks or passers-by. No designer labels to advertise to the world our social standing. No scent of cologne to make us attractive, no credit cards to demonstrate how we were valued and trusted, no telltale signs of success such as fine watches or jeweled rings or gold chains, no civic club pins to show belonging, no fur collars or soft scarves to show that we were unused to the cold and had houses with thermostats waiting for us. And we had to promise not to call upon the plethora of available resources which all of us had at our beck and call. We were to empty ourselves, to willingly pour out the lives we had so carefully constructed and to which we so tightly cling, to spill out our entitlement, so that we might for just one night be equals with the homeless poor of our city. The night felt like a month of nights. To some it was an entertaining survival game—“Am I tough enough to do this?” To me it took on the element of theology. For this is what Christ did; this is what Christ is. “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.”

At any moment during that long night, if I had felt that the experience was too harsh, I could have gone to any open store and, using my college-procured English, could have convinced the proprietor to phone any of a dozen people who would have gotten out of bed to come and rescue me. Had I been beaten or had I broken a bone, I could have told the emergency room attendant the name of my health insurance carrier and group name and I would have received top treatment. Numbers of friends would have rushed to me with food or money if I had wanted it. I had resources; all the participants did. But we vowed not to use them; we chose not to use them. Oh, Jesus had resources. Didn’t he say to the sword-wielding disciple in the Garden of Gethsemane as he was being arrested: “Do you think that I cannot appeal to my Father, and he will at once send me more than twelve legions of angels?” Or as Ray Overholt wrote in his great old gospel song:

“He could have called ten thousand angels

To destroy the world and set Him free.

He could have called ten thousand angels,

But He died alone for you and me.”

And there’s the truth in this other old Christian hymn which Paul quotes in his letter to the Philippians: Jesus chose to empty himself. As one commentator put it, “this hymn celebrates the movement of Christ from sovereignty over the cosmos to slavery within it…he who was equal with God now became equal with humanity.” That’s a long fall. But he took it for many reasons, one of which was to set an example of selflessness for us. Though it is deeply bred into our societal mores, though one could argue that it is inborn human nature, still we can rise above culture and genetics and be more than self.

Don had purchased a new pair of shoes, shiny and stylish, perfect with his suit. At the little mountain church he served someone admired his shoes and wished for a pair just like them. Without a second thought Don took them off and gave them to the man. Radical selflessness. Seeing the house ablaze, the neighbor plunged through the front door in search of the family inside—and never came back out. Radical selflessness. The little girl at school saw the child without a lunch, sitting alone and hungry. She didn’t offer to share; she just gave her whole lunch to the needy child. Radical selflessness. The beautiful church came upon hard times but stood firm in giving to outreach causes. Radical selflessness. The powerful nation could easily conquer the weaker nation and take its vast resources for its own luxury and wealth, but chose instead a path of respect and peace. Radical selflessness. Jesus, the beloved Son of God, stepped through humanity’s curtain, leaving behind everything and being promised nothing in return. Radical selflessness.

Of this passage Fred Craddock says, “Paul regarded as inappropriate to the body of Christ the selfish eye, the pompous mind, the ear hungry for compliments and the mouth that spoke none, the heart that had little room for others, and the hand that served only the self. Paul was not opposed to individualism in the sense that one is to be responsible for oneself and bear one’s own burden. [But] if minding one’s own business meant an unwillingness to bear another’s burden, a distancing of oneself from partnership in the gospel, an aloofness from the common joy and suffering, a coldness to all the ways we are members of one another, then such individualism is destructive of the community and a contradiction of the gospel which speaks and sings of a Christ who was first and always the servant of others.” Self can just kill a church—or a soul.

It was just one night, but it was a miserable night. Knowing how bad it was, I am not sure that I could do it again. I could certainly find lots of excuses not to participate. But I wonder sometimes how—or if—that night changed me. I am still a long way from the goal of radical selflessness. This time of year, Holy Week, makes me imagine Jesus alone out in the cold night. Then I remember that this one who bears the name that is above every name, this one before whom every knee on earth and in heaven should bow, this one whom every tongue should confess as Lord, chose to wear a different name: Servant. If he could do it, surely we can.