That
was a clip from Paul Simon’s “Diamonds on the Soles of Her Shoes,” recorded
with the South African Township group Ladysmith Black Mambazo. And every time I
hear it I think of my time in Cameroon—I know, I know, different country,
different music, but work
with me here—I think of my time in Cameroon, and our short-term mission to the
Bulu tribes-people. We were guests of the “Eglise Cameroonaise Presbyterienne,”
the Cameroon Presbyterian Church and fed by the people of the churches, and to make sure we had
meat every day, each parish would provide a chicken from their meager flock.
And I was appalled, embarrassed, even—these folks might have had meat once a
week, many even once a month, and here we were, eating their precious chicken.
But we consoled ourselves with the thought that they would be very insulted if we didn’t
take their hospitality. And who knows? It might even have been true.
Anyway,
that marvelous image in the song certainly applied to them—they were poor
folks, “empty as a pocket, empty as a pocket with nothing to lose” and yet they
were generous, they wouldn’t think of not sharing what they had with us
visitors, nor did they think twice about supporting others, about giving freely
to those who are in need. In their hearts, they knew who Jesus meant when he
said love your neighbors as yourself: he meant everyone they meet.
They
were empty as a pocket, but not of their own doing . . . Their poverty was due
to long years of European colonialism—British in the North and French in the
South—and a corrupt current government. They weren’t empty by choice, but
that’s what Paul asks of us
he asks us to follow Christ and empty ourselves
, to be empty as a pocket by our own choice.
Our
passage follows the one we talked about a few weeks ago, where he writes his
sisters and brothers in Philippi, wistfully and with no little emotion, not
knowing whether he would be released or put to death, because he was in prison
for preaching the gospel. And it’s clear he had a special relationship with the
Philippians, but at the same time, felt they needed some exhorting, some
encouragement. They were undergoing some sort of persecution for their faith,
just as he had. And he beseeches them to live lives worthy of the gospel of
Christ, so that he, Paul, may know that they are in no way intimidated by their
opponents.
In
our passage, he continues to exhort them, again trading upon their personal
relationship: “If then there is any encouragement in Christ, any consolation
from love, any sharing in the Spirit, any compassion and sympathy, make my joy
complete,” he says, proving that he’s not averse to using a little rhetorical pathos. And what would make
his joy complete? That they be of the same mind, that they get along, and maybe
the reason he’s so passionate about this is he’s seen plenty of the opposite in
the churches he founded. In Corinth, they fought over who they followed—“each
of you says,” he wrote, “’I belong to Paul,’ or ‘I belong to Apollos,’ or ‘I
belong to Cephas,’ or ‘I belong to Christ.’” In Galatia, they fought over
whether they had to be observant Jews before becoming Christians (Paul said
no). And it’s possible that he’d heard the Philippians were divided over
something or another.
Whatever
the case, he begs them to be united, to be of the same mind, as he puts it,
“having the same love, being in full accord and of one mind.” And it’s
important to realize that to Paul, the mind represents the entire shebang, as
in be in full accord, be totally, wholly united, united in being . . . For example, he
says, “do nothing from selfish ambition or conceit, but in humility regard
others as better
than yourselves. . . . each of you look not to your own interests, but to the
interests of others.” To be of one mind is to be humble, to subsume your will to the will of
others.
To
put it another way, we’re to be of one mind, and that mind is to be the one
that is in Christ.
Or as Paul says “Let the same mind be in you that was in Christ Jesus. “ Just
as we’re supposed to clothe
ourselves with Christ, we’re to be of the same mind. And the tendency is to
take that metaphorically, or more accurately, as a simile: that our mind is to
be somehow like
that of Christ. But could it be more than that? Could it be that, somehow, we
are to literally have the same mind? After all, as he said himself, Christ is
mysteriously in us and we in him . . . and the goal of many a mystic
spirituality is to unite with the God or Christ or Spirit that is within . . .
Whatever
the case, whatever Paul meant, it’s a set-up for some of the most beautiful
prose he ever wrote. Actually, it’s not strictly prose but a kind of verse, and
our best guess is that Paul is quoting a very early Christian liturgy, which we
call a Christ Hymn
(there’s another in Colossians). And he uses it to elaborate on what it means for the same mind to
be in us as in Christ Jesus who, he says, “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.” That’s what it means to have
the same mind as Christ, to empty ourselves like
Christ.
Paul
is saying that by becoming human via the incarnation, Christ emptied himself of
what he was to become an empty vessel. Scholar and author Cynthia Bourgeault
says this became his standard operating procedure, writing that “in whatever
life circumstance, Jesus always responded with the same motion of
self-emptying.” To illustrate it, she cites O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi in which an
extremely poor couple cannot afford to buy one another Christmas gifts, though
each does have a
prize possession—James, a gold watch given him by his grandfather and Della,
her long, luxurious hair. And that Christmas, James sells his watch to buy
silver combs for Della’s hair and Della sells that hair to buy James a golden
fob for his watch, and though the sacrifice seems pointless, though it seems
for nothing, in reality it makes the love between them tangible, it makes it manifest, visible to them
and anyone else who happened to care.
When
Christ emptied himself of his God-like nature and became one of us, slave to the rhythms and
rhymes of earth, pawn to the powers and principalities that eventually killed
him, he became love manifest. Every time he healed the lame, urged the sick and
brought good news to the poor, love became concrete, it became physical,
palpable and perceptible
to our senses. We could touch
it in Bartimaeus, to whom he gave sight; see
it in the Syro-Phonaecian woman, whose child he cured and dignity he restored;
and feel it as we
placed our hands in his sword-pierced side.
Social-justice
workers—peace enablers, hunger advocates and the like—have a very high burn-out
rate. Besides physical exhaustion, it all seems so hopeless, so pointless.
Despite their best efforts, when one child is fed, ten more take her place.
Political refugees pack the earth no matter how many peace deals are brokered,
how many despots are deposed. The toil of aid workers is grinding, never-ending
and seemingly hopeless.
But
whether they know it or not, whether they are Christian, Buddhist or atheist,
love has become manifest in their actions, it’s become visible and concrete and
solid through their deeds. Through their self-emptying, their self-sacrifice , divine love
impacts the world. Whether they believe it or not.
Through
Christ’s bodily incarnation, love became incarnate as well. And every time
those Bulu tribespeople give a chicken to hungry visitors, or sustain one
another in village existence, love becomes incarnate, it becomes visible, manifest in them. And as followers
of Christ, the same thing happens by means of our own self-emptying: God’s love becomes visible through us. Amen.
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