Sometimes I Wonder When God Is or Was the Most Kenotic

Holy Thursday Mass of the Lord's Supper

Sometimes I wonder when God is or was the most kenotic. The word ‘kenosis’ is used in the letters of St. Paul to describe the act of self-emptying performed by Christ.

Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not regard equality with God as something to be exploited, but emptied (kenoted/kenotized/kenotated—however you want to say it) 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.

To kenote yourself means to let go of your status and power and privilege and to become a servant, a slave. Another translation says that to kenotize yourself is to debase yourself to the point of becoming perceived as possessing no value. In either case, someone kenotates themselves whenever they self-empty, letting go of status and power and privilege to become a servant, a slave, to someone else.

So, sometimes I wonder when God is or was the most kenotic. Maybe at the Incarnation? The reality of God living as an infant, completely defenseless despite possessing all power. Maybe on the cross, experiencing the reality of a human death despite existing as the cause and origin of everything that lives. Maybe God becomes the most kenotic during the event we remember tonight, Christ getting down on his hands and knees and washing the feet of sinful human beings even though he is master and teacher and messiah—and God.

There is more. There is the whole sacramental life of the Church. A priest says words at an altar and on command, immediately—so long as the right words are spoken with the right intention, and the right materials are used—Christ shows up in a church and lets people eat his flesh and drink his blood. The priest can be imperfect, a sinner, and Christ will still show up. The people in the church can be imperfect, sinners, and Christ will still show up. The liturgy itself can be a disaster, with the worst kind of music performed inside of a hideous building, nothing said or sung in Latin, and the priest can even use that most horrifically reductive of formulas—Eucharistic Prayer II—and Christ will still show up.

So, maybe God is the most kenotic every time the liturgy is performed in an ugly suburban church built in the 1970s with bad music from the Gather Hymnal being played in front of a crowd of poorly believing, poorly living Roman Catholics kneeling—or sitting—in front of a priest who isn’t perfect and is using Eucharistic Prayer II, and all of this is not happening in Latin. Maybe that is when God is the most kenotic, the most self-emptying, the most willing to let himself be recognized as possessing no value.

I am saying what I am saying because we often take for granted the fact that Christ insists—absolutely insists—on taking the form of a slave and remaining in this broken, sinful world with us. More and more I think we lose sight of the reality of Christ’s perpetual kenosis for fear that Christ will become injured by exposure to our world. We talk and fight about so much in the Church today: what the liturgy looks like, the language of our worship, the quality or style of music, the structure and design of churches, the relative state of worthiness or unworthiness of people to present themselves for sacraments, who is or is not suited to have their feet washed by a priest or bishop or pope on Holy Thursday, so many different issues and points of division—and there in the background is Christ insisting—absolutely insisting—on taking the form of a slave and remaining with us in a broken, sinful world.

I do not mean to confuse or upset anyone with my words tonight. Each of the issues I mention—liturgy and music and sacraments and states of sin and grace and beauty and truth—these issues matter a great deal. We talk and fight about so much in the Church today because what we talk and fight about is important—and there is such a thing as objective truth, and there is a right way and a wrong way to do things. The quality, purpose, and effect of our worship is vital—absolutely vital. I am not saying that the reality of Christ’s kenosis makes relative these questions about how we worship or who rightly worships, or where.

I am saying that the reality of the Eucharist ought to astound us, silence us, render us speechless—at least for a good while. Most of the disciples sit there in silence while Christ kneels and washes their feet; only Peter speaks and is then reprimanded for his words. The washing of the feet of the disciples takes place after Peter’s two confessions that Christ is the Son of God, after witnessing so many miracles and teachings, after so many years of learning the identity of who Christ is. These men knew something of Christ’s divine status and heavenly origin, and yet these men sit there in silence and watch God empty himself and take the form of a servant. I like to think that these disciples are speechless for that exact reason: there is nothing to say at all when God kneels before you and washes your feet. What good are words when Christ, the Son of God, empties himself right in front of you?

There are two responses in the Gospel tonight to the reality of Christ’s kenosis: the first is silence, and the second is the wholehearted imitation of Christ’s emptying himself, letting himself become perceived as possessing no value. “I have given you a model to follow,” says Christ, “so that as I have done for you, you should also do.” The model Christ identifies is the life of kenosis: the perpetual act of letting go of our status and power and privilege for the sake of living as a servant, a slave.  

These two responses to the reality of God’s self-emptying love matter the most—silence, and wholehearted imitation; these are the responses given to us in the Gospel. Between silence and imitation there is a need for words and language to sort out what is right and true and good and beautiful. But first comes silence, and then comes wholehearted imitation.

In a few moments, Christ is going to show up on command, immediately, like a servant, like a slave, because an imperfect priest prays some words in front of many imperfect people. There is nothing to really say, at first, about so great a mystery. And what else is there for us to do but strive to imitate the humility of Christ?

Homily preached on Thursday, March 28th 2024 at the Basilica of the National Shrine of the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary