Kenosis: The Self-Emptying of Christ in Scripture and Theology

By Paul T. Nimmo and Keith L. Johnson

Seventeen distinguished scholars from the fields of biblical studies, historical theology, and systematic theology engage with the past and present significance of the doctrine of kenosis—Paul’s extraordinary claim in Philippians 2 that Jesus Christ emptied and humbled himself in obedience on his way to death upon the cross.

In the “Christ-hymn” of Philippians 2, the apostle Paul makes a startling claim: that Jesus “emptied himself” in order to fulfill God’s will by dying on the cross. The self-emptying of Christ—theologically explored in the doctrine of kenosis—is a locus within Christology and factors significantly into understandings of the Trinity, anthropology, creation, providence, the church, and even ethics. As such, it has been debated and reflected upon for centuries.

The present volume draws together some of the finest contemporary scholars from across the ecumenical spectrum to expound the doctrine of kenosis—its biblical roots, its historical elaborations, and its contemporary implications. With original essays from John Barclay, Beverly Roberts Gaventa, David Fergusson, Katherine Sonderegger, Thomas Joseph White, and more, this indispensable resource offers an extensive overview of this essential affirmation of Christian faith.

Contributors:

John M. G. Barclay, Matthew J. Aragon Bruce, David Fergusson, Beverly Roberts Gaventa, Kevin W. Hector, Keith L. Johnson, Cambria Kaltwasser, Han-luen Kantzer Komline, Grant Macaskill, John A. McGuckin, Paul T. Nimmo, Georg Pfleiderer, Rinse H. Reeling Brouwer, Hanna Reichel, Christoph Schwöbel, Katherine Sonderegger, and Thomas Joseph White.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eerdmans
• Release date: Jul 19, 2022
• ISBN: 9781467461009

Book preview

Introduction

The Canvas of Kenosis

Paul T. Nimmo and Keith L. Johnson

The doctrine of kenosis concerns the biblical claim that Christ Jesus emptied and humbled himself in obedience on his way to death upon the cross. While the doctrine traditionally has been conceived as a locus in relation to Christology, its substance also bears upon the doctrine of the Trinity, the doctrines of creation and providence, the doctrine of the church, and the discipline of theological ethics. Debates about Christ’s kenosis played an important role in the development of the Nicene tradition, and a line of careful consideration of the teaching by the church’s most significant theologians can be traced down through the following centuries. However, the doctrine of kenosis has received more sustained treatment over the past two hundred years than at any other point in its history. A range of constructive proposals have been advanced within several different traditions, with the result that the doctrine has been firmly in the foreground of theological attention. A similar dynamic has played out in contemporary biblical studies. While much attention related to the doctrine has been focused on the so-called Christ-hymn of Philippians 2:5–11, biblical consideration of the theme has ranged far and wide—not only across the immediately surrounding epistolary material but also into the Gospel sources and even into the Old Testament. These developments mean that attending to the doctrine of kenosis today requires a simultaneous engagement with the complexities of biblical interpretation, historical theology, and constructive dogmatic theology. This volume is designed to guide readers into this complexity in order to achieve greater clarity and to encourage further reflection.

The word kenosis has its origins in Paul’s description of Christ Jesus in Philippians 2. A careful consideration of the doctrine of kenosis will both begin with and remain connected to this passage, which reads:

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. (Phil 2:5–11, NRSV)

In these verses, Paul narrates a series of events that occur before, during, and after this very particular human life on earth. The narrative takes the form of a V pattern, in that it begins from the heights, descends to the depths, and then ascends again to the heights. The turning point occurs with the word Therefore (dio) in verse 9, when the active agent changes from Christ Jesus (vv. 6–8) to God (v. 9), and thereafter to creatures (vv. 10–11).

Remarkably, Paul depicts Christ Jesus as in some way the agent of his own human birth. While he does not explain directly how this is the case, he implies that Christ Jesus possesses this agency because he exists in the form of God (morphē theou) and has equality with God (v. 6). He gives no indication that this equality is something to which Christ Jesus has aspired, nor does he signal that Christ Jesus has been granted this status at some point. He simply depicts this equality as a mode of existence in which Christ Jesus is subsisting (hyparchōn, translated as was in v. 6) before the incarnation. From this divine position, Christ Jesus exercised his agency in two correlated actions. First, he emptied (ekenōsen) himself in order to be born as a human and take the form of a slave (morphē doulou). Then, second, he humbled (etapeinōsen) himself during his human life by obediently submitting his will to God, even to the point of embracing a degrading and shameful death on a cross.

The contrast between Christ Jesus’s preincarnate life in the morphē of God and his incarnate life in the morphē of a slave is turned on its head when viewed in light of the fact that the direction of movement is the same in both cases: downward. Both before and after his human birth, there is a clear movement toward a lower status in order to fulfill the divine will. This self-humbling and self-giving movement prompts a corresponding upward movement effected by God, signaled by the therefore (v. 9). God vindicates Christ Jesus by exalting him to the highest possible status by giving him the name that is above every name (v. 9), which can be none other than the divine name. Paul immediately links this divine name to the name of Jesus, drawing them together. He emphasizes this connection by referencing a text drawn from Isaiah, in which God says: There is no other god besides me, a righteous God and a Savior; there is none besides me. Turn to me and be saved, all the ends of the earth! For I am God, and there is no other. By myself I have sworn, from my mouth has gone forth in righteousness a word that shall not return: ‘To me every knee shall bow, every tongue shall swear’ (Isa 45:21–23). In the original context, the text from Isaiah emphasizes God’s singularity and the challenge it poses to every false idol. Paul’s use of this passage drives home his own point: Christ Jesus, the one who emptied himself and acted with humility and obedience, is one and the same as the God of Israel. And this is the point at which the agency of creatures enters the picture, so that they may worship Christ as Lord—and not simply any particular group of creatures, but all creatures.

In the many centuries that have followed Paul’s letter, this brief narrative about Christ’s descent and ascent has played an outsized role in the Christian tradition, and at times provoked raging controversy, in part because of the way in which it gestures so simply and so serenely toward so many complex metaphysical issues. Thus questions have arisen concerning the relationship between the preincarnate and the incarnate Jesus Christ—in other words, between his existence in the form of God and his existence in the form of a slave—and concerning the kind of continuity and distinction that is to be claimed on either side. Questions have also emerged regarding the way in which Christ Jesus—in the form of God and in the form of a slave—relates to God, both in terms of being and in terms of agency, and again regarding the continuity and distinction that are in view. In this connection, particular pressure on Christian thinking has arisen at the point where the narrative of kenosis reaches its critical turning point—where the relation between the depths of the incarnate one’s suffering on the cross and the depths of the eternal divine being is considered. And finally, questions have also been posed regarding the appropriate ethical directives and dispositions to formulate and follow in light of the example of Jesus Christ, and regarding what it might mean to have the same mind that was in him (v. 5).

It is clear that a broad consensus quickly emerged in the Christian tradition in terms of how to approach this difficult text and its attendant implications. Thus, in the patristic era, there was a general willingness to subscribe to the view that the being of God in Jesus Christ was not subject to change or suffering, and that the assumption of flesh at the incarnation represented a kenosis by way of addition and concealment: the addition of human being to the Son of God and a consequent concealment of the divine glory during his life on earth. This view, or views closely related, dominated the theological scene in east and west through the medieval period and into the Reformation. At this point, however, a development in Lutheran Christology led to a new question arising in respect of kenosis. Under the assumption that in the hypostatic union, the attributes of the divine nature were communicated to the human nature, the question arose as to what the human nature did with its possession of these divine attributes in the course of his earthly history. Two possible answers arose—(1) that the incarnate Jesus Christ refrained entirely from using these communicated attributes or (2) that these communicated attributes were used, but only in secret. Caught between two equally awkward doctrinal formulations, the Lutherans finally decided broadly in favor of the former.

A rather different controversy in theological accounts of kenosis was to arise three centuries later, and again had its roots in Lutheran theology. At this point, under the influence of increasing attention to the history, humanity, and personhood of Jesus, a number of German theologians began to advance the view that in the incarnation, there was a kenosis of the divine attributes on the part of the Son of God. This allowed for the depiction of a more human Jesus Christ without the metaphysical difficulty of trying to account for two natures within one person, but at the cost of engendering major theological controversy. Nevertheless, such kenotic views remained popular for some time, transferring with lasting effect into English-speaking circles in the late nineteenth century. Indeed, the idea of an ontological kenosis of the divine being in the incarnation—and even outwith the incarnation—once again became prominent in the second half of the twentieth century. Such reinvigorated interest was spurred by various factors: the ongoing appeal of a very historical, personal account of the life of Jesus; the influence following two terrible world wars of questions of theodicy on consideration of the identity of God; and the liberationist rise in concern regarding the deleterious consequences of the ethics of self-denial usually associated with traditional accounts of kenosis. And interest in kenosis has remained strong in the opening decades of the twenty-first century as well: not only because it is a theme bequeathed by Scripture for the ongoing consideration of Christian exegetes and theologians, but also because of its capacity to invoke many of the central metaphysical claims of the Christian faith. This last feature has ensured that kenosis has remained at the forefront of theological attention and significance at a point in time when the exploration, defense, and revision of such claims represent a prominent focus of theological endeavor.

The present collection of essays seeks to offer a timely orientation to some of the most important historical consideration of and current research on this compelling theme. By offering soundings along an interdisciplinary trajectory, from the biblical through the historical to the constructive, this book seeks to offer an extensive overview of a wide range of exegetical and theological material, yet without any sacrifice of scholarly rigor or intensity. In this way, it seeks both to inform readers and to provoke them to consider further for themselves the complexity yet also the fruitfulness of contemplating the kenosis of Christ Jesus.

1

Kenosis and the Drama of Salvation in Philippians 2

John M. G. Barclay

The theological term kenosis derives from the phrase he emptied himself (ekenōsen heauton) in Philippians 2:7, which occurs within an evocative narrative running from 2:6 to 2:11. This is a story that, by common consent, falls into two halves: a downward movement expressed in three short clauses (2:6–8), followed by an upward trajectory also structured in three three-line sections (2:9–11). In the first half, Christ, depicted as being in the form of God (2:6), emptied himself (2:7) and humbled himself, becoming obedient all the way to death, even death by crucifixion (2:8). In the second half, the subject changes to God, who super-exalted Jesus and gave him the name above every name (2:9), evoking universal worship and acknowledgment that Jesus Christ is Lord to the glory of God the Father (2:10–11). In contrast to the verbless articulations of divine realities found elsewhere (e.g., 1 Cor 8:6; Rom 11:36), this paragraph has at its heart a sequence of past-tense verbs whose telos is eschatological (2:10–11). As a sequenced narrative of actions, with named agents and shifts in agency and momentum, one may reasonably dub this story a drama, in which every act has its place in a narrative line.¹

The compressed, poetic style of Philippians 2:6–11, its crafted design, and its use of terms unparalleled in the Pauline corpus have convinced many that the origins of this text lie before and outside Paul’s letter to the Philippians, perhaps in an early Christian faith-summary or hymn.² Nowadays there is less confidence in judgments concerning the historical, cultural, and liturgical origins of this text. Whatever its source, it reaches us already contextualized and interpreted by Paul, and this fact should be decisive for our own interpretation. Rather than speculate on its original meaning, we should ask what sense can be made of this drama within the frame of Paul’s theology, as articulated in this letter to the Philippians and within the corpus of Pauline letters.³ In other words, rather than isolating this paragraph, I will ask how its allusive poetry acquires meaning within its wider literary and theological context. There is a place for the historical self-discipline that examines each text or text-segment on its own. But when a text such as this could mean many different things, it seems reasonable to ask what understanding is gained by placing it within the literary frame generated by its first known user, or author, Paul.⁴

I will argue that Philippians 2:6–11 is first and foremost about soteriology: kenosis (like its other motifs) is located within a drama that climaxes in a depiction of eschatological salvation, in acclamation of Jesus as Lord (2:10–11). Without this soteriological frame, neither the Christology expressed in this text nor the ethics that derive from it can be properly understood. Within God’s determination of all things toward the saving Lordship of Christ, the kenosis that descends to crucifixion enables the obedience that draws all reality (even death) into the compass of God’s transformative love. Because humility is not an end in itself, the Philippians’ conformity to this good news entails not the imitation of selfless sacrifice, but a self-with solidarity that participates in the reconciling work of God.

Philippians 2:6–11 as a Drama of Salvation

If Philippians 2:6–11 is a narrative drama, what is it a narrative about? It is clearly a christological narrative, but it would be completely unparalleled for Paul to tell a story about Christ that made no difference to the condition of the world. Especially since the nineteenth century, the drama has been read in ethical terms, with Christ exemplifying the heroic self-humiliation that the Philippians are to imitate. As we shall see, Paul does draw out social and ethical implications, and it would be a mistake to pit soteriology against ethics: Paul has no interest in relating the Christ-event if it makes no difference to the way that believers behave. But both the Christology and the ethics can be understood aright only if our text is read first as a soteriological drama, as a depiction of how God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself (2 Cor 5:19).⁵

This claim may surprise New Testament scholars, who have been known to insist that Philippians 2 makes no direct soteriological statement.⁶ It is true that we find within Philippians 2:6–11 no for us statements and no references to sin, faith, or the church. Nonetheless, there are at least two reasons to read this text as outlining the saving movement of God toward the cosmos. First, the characteristically Pauline even death on a cross (2:8) evokes numerous associations in the letters of Paul, for whom the cross is never a bare fact, but the site of God’s saving power (e.g., 1 Cor 1:18–25; Gal 3:13–14; 6:14–15). Secondly, one should read 2:9–11, the telos of this drama, as the installation of Jesus as saving Lord of the cosmos. For Paul, the acclamation Jesus Christ is Lord does not merely recognize the authority of Christ (as if his Lordship was an objective fact with no subjective implications); it affirms allegiance to and alignment with his purposes. The (baptismal?) confession Jesus is Lord (1 Cor 12:3) is a self-involving declaration of faith, and Paul makes plain that "if you confess (homologeō) with your mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in your heart that God raised him from the dead, you will be saved (Rom 10:9). Those in our text who confess" (exomologeō) with their tongues that Jesus Christ is Lord have recognized that God has super-exalted him (Phil 2:9—an act that at least includes the resurrection). As Lord of all, he is rich to all who call upon him, for everyone who calls on the name of the Lord will be saved (Rom 10:13, citing LXX Joel 3:5). In other words, the bending of every knee and the acclamation of every tongue in Philippians 2:10–11 is not just submission but saving submission, since it is through reordered alignment to the lordship of Christ that the world is rescued from its enemies (1 Cor 15:20–28).⁷ As Paul puts it later in Philippians, those who await the Lord Jesus Christ (an echo of 2:11) await him as Savior, whose power to submit all things to himself redeems created beings from their humiliating subjection to decay (Phil 3:20–21). That submission is depicted in Philippians 2:9–11, and Jesus’s eschatological power is, for Paul, not an overpowering, but a salvific reordering of creation toward its telos.⁸ The things in heaven, on earth, and under the earth that will confess the Lordship of Christ may include nonhuman powers, but they do not exclude human beings, since Paul traces a close connection between the redemption of humanity and the liberation of the cosmos (Rom 8:19–23; cf. Col 1:15–23). Thus the climax of our Philippian drama is a scene in which Christ determines the destiny of the cosmos, which is restored to worship and thereby to its proper share in the glory of God.

If Philippians 2:9–11 depicts the goal of the Christ-event, how does it follow from the first half of this passage (2:6–8)?⁹ The dio kai (that is why, 2:9) that serves as the hinge between the two halves suggests a logical connection. Those who offer an ethical reading of the passage sometimes take 2:9–11 to vindicate or validate the example of Jesus: God’s exaltation of Jesus authorizes his life of humility, which provides a Lordly example.¹⁰ Or the reversal of Jesus’s fortunes is the reward for his exemplary behavior, a demonstration of the divine law (Lohmeyer) that God lifts up the humble and delivers the oppressed. But to be installed as Lord of the cosmos is no ordinary reward or paradigmatic deliverance: Christ’s Lordship is completely incommensurate with anything that humble believers could expect for themselves, even if it is the source of their hope (3:20–21). Those whose reading of our text is primarily christological find in 2:9–11 God’s manifestation of the status of the one who emptied himself: God here demonstrates who the humble Jesus really is. But 2:9 depicts a substantial change in conditions (with the change in subject, from Christ to God): what happens in 2:9–11 does not simply reveal what was true in 2:6–8; it follows on from it as a result. So our question becomes sharper: How does the downward Christ-movement of 2:6–8 lead toward God’s action in 2:9–11?

After the description of Christ in the form of God, the downward movement in 2:7–8 is described in two sets of three clauses, each with one main verb. First, Christ emptied himself, taking the form of a slave, coming to be in the likeness of humans (2:7); then, being found in form as a human being, he humbled himself, becoming obedient all the way to death, even death on a cross (2:7–8). Leaving aside for now what it means for Christ to empty himself (see the next section), we may examine the explanatory clauses that follow. The form of a slave indicates a radical lack of power and honor. Slaves, who had no rights over property, their children, or even their own bodies were legally and socially the most powerless members of ancient society, even if a fortunate few derived influence from the power of their owners.¹¹ In what sense did Jesus take the form of a slave? Some suggest that Jesus is here the slave of God (echoing the Servant of Isaiah) whose life is lived in obedience (2:8). But Paul nowhere else uses that title of Jesus, whose status is that of a Son not a slave. Others find a forward reference to the cross (which was often but not only used for slaves), although Paul never himself associates the cross with slavery.¹² Since the form of a slave is immediately followed by coming to be in the likeness of humans, it seems more likely that Jesus’s slavery is part of his human condition, under the constraints that have befallen the whole created order. In a parallel text, Jesus is described as born of a woman, born under the law (Gal 4:4), the latter state described as slavery (Gal 4:1; 5:1) and correlated with a general condition of slavery under the elements of the cosmos (Gal 4:3, 9). Elsewhere the whole creation is subject to the slavery of decay (Rom 8:21). If death no longer rules (kyrieuei) over the risen Christ (Rom 6:9), it appears that once it did, when he died (what is subject to a kyrios is a doulos, a slave). In sharing the human lot, Christ became subject to the limiting conditions, including mortality, that rule our current created life.

In the second set of clauses (2:7–8) Jesus’s self-humbling takes him all the way to death, indeed, most shamefully, death on a cross. As we know from 1 Corinthians, the term cross (stauros) evokes for Paul utter incapacity and degrading foolishness (1 Cor 1:18–25). Death—and Jesus’s cursed death, in particular (Gal 3:13)—is as far removed from God as a human can be, the nadir in human alienation from the life of God. And that seems to be the point. Jesus goes all the way to the furthest point of human misery, in full solidarity with a broken world. Elsewhere, Paul links the dead Jesus with the abyss (a bottomless depth) to which one might think of descending to bring Jesus up (Rom 10:7). As described in Ephesians 4, he descended to the lower parts of the earth (Eph 4:9), probably when he joined the dead. There may be hint of this solidarity in Philippians 2:10, when the knees that bow to the exalted Lord belong to entities that are heavenly, earthly, and beneath the earth (katachthonia/oi). That last term was widely associated with death (both the dead themselves and the powers that rule the underworld), and Jesus’s presence even there is integral to his capacity to be Lord of every part of the cosmos.¹³ The logic seems to be spelled out in Romans 14:9: For this reason Christ died and lived again, that he might be the Lord both of the dead and of the living (Rom 14:9). That suggests that Jesus’s participation in death entails not just his acceptance of human mortality or his complete self-devotion. It is his self-extension into the world of the dead, normally regarded as lost to God.¹⁴

Now we begin to sense why God’s exaltation of Christ to universal Lordship follows from his kenosis and self-humbling in 2:6–8. Throughout Jesus’s path of descent, even to death, he operated in obedience (2:8), that is, in obedience to God: this is, for Paul, Jesus’s singular mark that no human being had displayed since Adam (Rom 5:12–21). Obedience indicates that there is a divine purpose in this descent, and that in his solidarity with the limitations and horrors of human life Jesus maintained an unfailing link with the Father. His obedience tethers the whole human experience to the life of God, holding it within God’s purpose and reach. Why? So that God’s redemptive power might work from within the alienated world, and might absorb, enclose, and thereby transform what is lost. It was because Jesus reached to these depths, but still, in obedience, was joined to the saving purposes of God, that therefore (dio, 2:9) God installed him as universal Lord, as the fulfilment of the plan to which Jesus was obedient. What is depicted in 2:9–11 is not the reward for Jesus’s self-humbling obedience, but the completion of its purpose. Although the exaltation of Jesus was a reversal of his previous condition, it fulfilled the purpose of the kenosis. Jesus went to those depths not to display an ethical ideal but to envelop the full gamut of human life within the renewing love of God—a purpose that reaches its goal in the saving Lordship of Christ.

What is envisaged here is what Paul calls the swallowing of death by life (1 Cor 15:54; 2 Cor 5:4), the absorption and enclosure of all that is alienated from God within a larger, re-creative power. Jesus enters into the human condition in all its vulnerability in order that God may assume it and enfold it within a transformative grace. By raising the dead Jesus, God owns the world that Jesus has entered and transforms it by taking it up within the superior power of life, the mortal clothed with immortality (1 Cor 15:53–54; 2 Cor 5:2, 4).

The soteriological logic is what Morna Hooker has called interchange and what Susan Eastman labels double participation: Christ participates in our condition in order that we might participate in his.¹⁵ In order to reconcile the world, God made Christ sin so that we might become the righteousness of God in him (2 Cor 5:19–21); Christ became a curse so that we might receive the blessing of Abraham in him (Gal 3:13–14); he became poor so that by his poverty we might become rich (2 Cor 8:9). Within Philippians 2:6–11, Christ’s participation in the fallen world is given significant attention, while our participation is depicted only within the universal acclamation of the exalted Lord (2:10–11). But it is depicted there, and it is not long before Paul spells it out. Just as Christ was found in human form (2:7), salvation consists in being found in Christ (3:9), and just as Christ took the form (morphē) of a slave (2:7) all the way to death, so Paul is conformed (symmorphizomenos) to his death (3:10) in order that I might attain somehow to the resurrection of the dead (3:11). Just as Jesus humbled (etapeinōsen) himself (2:8) but was exalted within the glory of God (2:11), so believers expect that their bodies of humiliation (tapeinōsis) will be transformed and conformed (symmorphon) to Jesus’s glorious body, thanks to his power as Lord (3:21). Thus, the drama of the incarnation is oriented toward the incorporation of every being into the transformed cosmos under the power of Christ (or in Paul’s shorthand, in Christ).¹⁶ That theme will be developed in Colossians (Col 1:15–20; 2:9–10) and Ephesians (Eph 1:7–10, 19–23; 2:11–22; 4:1–16), but it is already adumbrated in Paul’s earliest letter: For God has determined us not for wrath but to obtain salvation through our Lord Jesus Christ, who died for us so that whether we are awake or asleep [that is, alive or dead when he comes] we might live together with him (1 Thess 5:9–10). Christ is for us (and with us) into death, that we might be with him in life: that is precisely the shape of the drama in Philippians 2:6–11.

He Emptied Himself

The Philippians 2 drama is from first to last the drama of God: at its opening Jesus is in the form of God (2:6), and at its close, his lordship (echoing Isa 45:23) includes him within the identity of God, to the glory of God the Father.¹⁷ As the opening makes clear, this is not the story of a divinized human being, raised from human status to divine: whatever the echoes of Adam in this narrative, this figure who became a human being (2:7) is the man from heaven (1 Cor 15:47), truly human but not what any other human has been since creation.¹⁸ In fact, the drama of salvation sketched above requires that the human life and death of Jesus is God’s radical self-involvement within the created world, so that the figure who is center-stage in this drama is integral to the identity of God, in origin and destiny, even if distinguished from God (2:9) in the sense of the Father (2:11).¹⁹ The complexity here (as in 1 Cor 8:6 and Col 1:15–20) will take a long time for the church to unravel, but it is not the main focus of our text, which is concerned with Christ’s action for and with humanity.

That this person in the form of God acts for the world seems to be the point of the puzzling language of Philippians 2:7. Both the rare noun harpagmos and the odd expression to einai isa theō continue to elicit hefty scholarly dispute. Although I cannot here provide the necessary philological detail, I consider that the best reading is somewhat at odds with the prevailing consensus. The phrase to einai isa theō, which is normally translated equality with God, is best taken as a statement not of status but of mode or quality of being: the Greek word isa is an adverb (equally/equivalently), not an adjective (equal). The meaning is: he did not consider harpagmos to be a manner of existence equal/equivalent to God.²⁰ When we understand this phrase aright, it opens anew the possibility to read harpagmos in its most common meaning, as an act of seizing/taking. In the last fifty years, New Testament scholarship has been unduly influenced by a single article that interpreted harpagmos as something to take advantage of, or something to use for his own advantage.²¹ That fitted a primarily ethical reading of this text (in effect, Christ decided not to be selfish) and was safely orthodox, since it had Christ consider how to use an equality he securely possessed (not how to grasp it). But this is an almost unparalleled meaning for the term, which is more naturally translated as a verbal noun, seizing/snatching. Thus, as I read the verse, being in the form of God, Christ did not consider seizing to be a manner of existence equivalent/equal to God.²²

The implied contrast here may be the normal behavior of rulers (who expropriate what is not their own in conquest or exploitation) or the classic myths of Greek and Roman deities (whose sexual conquests and general abuses of power are often described with this vocabulary). Paul uses the cognate verb (to seize) elsewhere (1 Thess 4:17; 2 Cor 12:2, 4), as well as the concrete noun (thief or exploiter, 1 Cor 5:10, 11; 6:10), and the implied contrast is gift. Christ gave himself for our sins (Gal 1:4); he loved me and gave himself for me (Gal 2:20); because (or though) he was rich, he made himself poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich (2 Cor 8:9, a metaphor close to Phil 2:6). Christ reckoned the divine nature to be not taking but giving, not using creation but giving himself for it. As Paul makes clear elsewhere, it is the Christ-event that establishes this truth about God: If God is for us, who is against us? He who did not spare his only Son but gave him up for us all, will he not also give us all things with him? (Rom 8:31–32). Philippians 2:6–11 is the story of this gift.

He emptied himself indicates how this came about, but what does this emptying mean?²³ Once again, Paul indicates how this language is best received. Elsewhere he uses the verb kenoō four times, twice in relation to a boast (emptied in the sense of having no impact; 1 Cor 9:15; 2 Cor 9:3), once with reference to faith (Rom 4:14), and once in relation to the cross of Christ (1 Cor 1:17). In this last, to empty the cross means to render it powerless, without effect, and that sense predominates in Paul’s use of the adjective kenos and the adverbial clause eis kenon: to say that God’s grace to Paul was not kenē is to insist that it was not ineffective (1 Cor 15:10), while to assert that Paul has not labored or run eis kenon is to claim that his efforts were not fruitless.²⁴ This gives good grounds for understanding he emptied himself as meaning he deprived himself of power. That would fit the following clause taking the form of a slave (2:7), since, as we have seen, the slave is paradigmatic of the person without social, legal, or personal power. For Christ to empty himself as a human being would mean that he renounced the capacity to exercise power as humanly understood, humbling himself to the epitome of powerlessness, even death on a cross (2:8). Something here is given up, such that the human Christ is not isolated from, or immune to, human weakness, but is fully present with the human condition at its most vulnerable.

But now everything depends on how one understands the relationship between divine and human power, and here again Paul helps us out. In 1 Corinthians 1–2, where death on a cross is the central theme, Paul explores the paradox that a scene of abject human weakness (a naked man pinned helpless in agony in public view) is, humanly conceived, weakness and folly, but for those who are called, both Jews and Greeks, Christ the power of God and the wisdom of God; for the foolishness of God is wiser than human beings, and the weakness of God is stronger than human beings (1 Cor 1:24–25).²⁵ It is clear from this text that stronger does not mean stronger on the same scale as humans measure strength, because in human terms there is no power on the cross, only total incapacity. The crucified Jesus can be the power of God only if God’s power is qualitatively different from human power—not greater on the same scale, but operating on a different plane. Nor is it the case that God’s power can be equated with human weakness or can be expressed only there: that would again place God’s power on the scale of human power, only at its opposite pole. Rather, God’s power is radically transcendent, such that it can be expressed both in humanly measured weakness and in humanly measured power. Because it is a different kind of power, it is not limited in expression to any point on the spectrum of human power. It can take effect in phenomena that humans recognize as powerful (e.g., the signs and wonders that Paul calls acts of power, Rom 15:18–19; Gal 3:5; 1 Cor 12:10). But it can also be expressed in phenomena that humans experience and can categorize only as weakness (1 Cor 1:24–25; 2 Cor 12:9–10).

Divine power and human power are thus profoundly incommensurable kinds of power, even if we use the same term for both. We have seen that Jesus emptied himself in the sense that he renounced the capacity to exercise power as humanly understood. He determined that his divine life would be expressed not in the form of human power but as a slave, subject to humiliation and death. He renounced, in other words, one possible expression of divine power (that is, as humanly recognizable power), but that does not mean that he renounced divine power as such. The crucified Christ is still (viewed from a perspective freed from human measurement) the power of God (1 Cor 1:24), and the humiliated Christ is still (when viewed aright) the Lord of glory (1 Cor 2:8). Thus, this kenosis is not the loss of divine power as such, nor its diminution. There is genuine loss, the loss of the capacity to express divine power in humanly powerful forms, but that does not entail that divine power is no longer at work and no longer fully powerful. Nor is this the concealment of divine power; it is the choice to exercise it only in humanly powerless forms. Divine power is here limited neither in extent nor in visibility but in its mode of expression, a limitation necessary for Christ to enter the human condition, in humble (but powerful) obedience, all the way to death. Only so could the divine self-giving enter the depths, but without losing its divine, salvific effect.

The Kenotic Life of the Church in Christ

The linguistic links between Philippians 2:6–11 and its surrounding context indicate that Paul expected this narrative to shape the Philippian church. We have noted how being conformed with the death of Christ in the hope of resurrection (Phil 3:10–11) echoes the christological drama, and how the saving effects of the lordship of Christ (2:10–11) are reflected in the eschatological hope of 3:20–21.²⁶ Closer to home, what immediately follows our paragraph is a conclusion (hōste, therefore) urging the Philippians to obey (like Christ, 2:8) and to put into effect your own salvation, for God is at work in you to effect both your desire and your action, for the sake of his good will (2:12–13). Paul expects the Philippians to become embedded in and aligned with the divine drama that leads to salvation (cf. 1:28), because I am confident that he who began a good work in you will bring it to completion up to the day of Christ Jesus (1:6). That day, the eschatological telos of God’s action, will include the universal acclamation of the lordship of Christ, as described in 2:10–11. The downward momentum of Christ’s entry into the human condition has seized hold of the Philippians and drawn them into the reconciling momentum of the salvific drama.²⁷ What is asked of them is not primarily that they imitate Christ, or that they draw analogies from his exemplary action, but that they take their place under his lordship and participate in the drama that is heading toward its eschatological climax.²⁸

If that goal is the unification of all things (every knee and every tongue) under the lordship of Christ, the momentum toward that end necessitates the unity of the community in its solidarity with Christ. Believers await the Savior (3:20) because their hope is to be with him (1:23). They are conformed (symmorphizomenos) to his death, in solidarity (koinōnia) with his sufferings (3:10), and they anticipate resurrection in a body shaped to (symmorphon) his glorious body: it is their union with Christ that constitutes the salvific trajectory. As a community, they are copartners in his grace (synkoinōnoi tēs charitos, 1:7) and in partnership with the Spirit (koinōnia pneumatos, 2:1), and Paul puts notable emphasis on the co-operation and common purpose of the community in the Lord. Striving and rejoicing with Paul and with one another (1:27, 30; 2:2, 17–18, 25; 3:5; 4:2–3, 14), they should have the same mind, share the same love, and be in full accord, with a single purpose and focus (2:2; cf. 4:2). Just as every (pan) knee and every (pasa) tongue will confess Jesus as Lord (2:10–11), all the Philippians (pantes hymeis) make a single entity (1:4, 7, 8; 2:17, 26; 4:21) as they make common cause for the sake of the good news (1:5; 4:14–15).²⁹ The unity of the community is not just a political ambition; it is integral to the reunification of the cosmos in Christ.

This is the frame in which to read the instructions on humility (2:3–4) that are the immediate precursor to the drama of 2:6–11: Do nothing from rivalry or hollow conceit, but in humility consider one another of higher status than yourself, each one looking not to their own interests, but also/especially to the interests of others (2:3–4).³⁰ It is common among scholars to use these verses as the lens through which to read the following Christ-narrative: be humble and serve one another, as Christ became a servant and humbled himself. That makes the Christ-story primarily an ethical drama (an example of humility), whose ending (2:9–11) then becomes difficult to explain.³¹ On my reading, this gets everything the wrong way around. Philippians 2:6–11 is first and foremost a soteriological narrative, the story of Christ’s entry into a stricken cosmos in order to enfold it within the lifegiving and reordering power of God. Christ’s humility is the means to that end, not an end in itself, and when the Philippians are called to humility in their treatment of one another that is also not an end in itself, but a necessary means toward the solidarity of the community (2:1–2), which is a central element in the salvific momentum of the Christ-event.

The instruction to look out for the interests of others (2:2–3) is importantly reciprocal—a command to each and every person, as they "consider one another" of higher status than themselves. There is no possibility that one member (or one type of member) should be subject to a one-sided exercise of power, because everyone is at the same time looking out for the superior interests of everyone else. In paradoxical but characteristic fashion, Paul’s path to equalization runs through not a static equality but reciprocal asymmetry (cf. Gal 5:13: through love be slaves of one another). This mutual service for one another is a necessary antidote to rivalry (the stance of the self against another), but its purpose is not an individualized virtue but the construction of a harmonious community: such instructions serve the vision of 2:2, that the Philippians be of the same mind and share the same love. Solidarity arises through mutual commitment, putting the self in service for one another in order to be fully with each other.

This is how the Philippians are to