The Liberation of Letting Go

As we’ve marked ourselves with ashes and opened ourselves to this season of Lent, we are invited into a stance that some of us (myself included) may have a knee-jerk reaction to. Words like submission, sacrifice, self-discipline, and repentance. Our reaction is often qualified, because these words have historically been used to control women, to scare people into church membership, and to justify absolute control. But their true meaning is far from this misuse—a truth that might prompt a different kind of reaction.

In fact, I’d like us to consider a different word: kenosis. From the Greek keno, meaning “to empty.” The 16th-century Spanish mystic, St John of the Cross, described it as a self-emptying of one’s own will to become entirely open to God and God’s will. Not a self-emptying to a man, or to a political leader, or to injustice, but a self-emptying to the way of God.

In Lent, we are invited with more awareness than at other times to enter kenosis. A season to remember that Jesus is Lord not just in our minds but with our whole bodies and souls. This means preparing ourselves for his way—a way laden with suffering, rejection, and death. And so we rend our hearts and strip ourselves clean from whatever hinders this way. Some may take up one or all three Lenten invitations: fasting, deepening prayer, or giving more of our time and talents to those in need.

This way subverts the patterns of the world—a world clinging to what is fleeting. It carries a paradox: when we lose ourselves in God, we become more of who we are—liberated, healed, and saved. In other words, if we try to save our lives we will lose them, but when we lose our lives for God’s sake we will save them.

A few months ago I stumbled across the podcast Soul Boom—a show about spiritual revolution hosted by actor Rainn Wilson (best known as Dwight Schrute from The Office). One of his guests shared a story of growing up in a rigid Christian household before exploring other forms of spirituality. What pushed him away from Christianity more than anything else was the teaching of an almighty, omnipotent God. When puberty brought questions he couldn’t answer, he abandoned his faith. He couldn’t reconcile the idea of a God who could do anything with the reality of injustice and oppression in the world. How could such a God be so powerless? How could we worship that kind of God?

This is not an uncommon struggle. It is a question raised across centuries—not only by atheists, but by most of us at some point in our lives. It is also at the heart of today’s scripture. Jesus is offered three temptations. On the surface, none of them are bad: food for the hungry, wise rule over the world, and good religion. He could have them all—for what? Just a bow of the knee, a kiss of the ring, a quick “praise be” to the devil. It sounds so simple. If it were me, and I could have my mortgage paid, patriarchy and capitalism dismantled, and the world handed to compassionate leaders—all for one quick nod to the devil—I’d take the deal. The ends would justify the means.

But this is not the way of Jesus. Even after forty days and nights of deprivation, he doesn’t take the bait. He who will one day feed the multitudes, be glorified, and reveal true religion through God’s reign of love, instead chooses the road less travelled: the way of self-emptying, the way of suffering, rejection, and death. Because the ends do not justify the means. In Christ’s perplexing wisdom, God’s reign is not won by shortcuts or bargains with evil. God’s way is kenosis—the mystery of the cross. For those who try to save their lives will lose them, but those who lose their lives for Christ’s sake will save them.

What we witness here is a complete reversal of human understanding of power. What the devil offered, Christ already had. He already had the power to feed, to heal, and to save. But his way subverted human logic. True power does not hoard control and resources at others’ expense. True power submits, sacrifices, and repents. True power is kenosis.

This is the only way we can enter true healing, true liberation, and true love: by becoming entirely open to God and God’s will. This God emptied God’s self into our world, became like us with flesh, sweat, and fragility, entered our despair and our inability to love, to reveal what true power looks like. A power that brings God’s kingdom here on earth. The power of kenosis.

Even in our sinfulness—even in our attempt to kill this revolutionary love—God continues to pour out God’s self. Even the cross cannot separate us from God. For this love is unkillable. It is the only thing that lasts, the only thing that keeps springing up anew: a love that gives itself away again and again.

This doesn’t mean evil has no consequences. We know too well the suffering caused by greed, corruption, and violence. But evil is fleeting. It always has been and always will be. In the face of the fake powers flailing about in our world, only one power lasts: a love that empties itself for others.

When we direct our whole lives this way, we live and breathe the only truth: Christ is Lord. Yesterday, today, and tomorrow. No matter the headlines, no matter who rules nations or corporations, the powers of this world will wither like wood on a cross. Control, greed, and corruption will fade. They always have and they always will.

This is the subversive power of Christ: a power emptied for life, liberation, and salvation. And this is the mystery we are invited to embody in Lent—to give all we are and all we have to the one who walks the way of kenosis, the way of the cross, to bring salvation more beautiful and liberating than we can imagine.

And so, in a moment, we will embody this mystery at the Lord’s table. A feast where, with just one bite and one sip, we receive all the saving power of God. At this table we learn what true power is: bread broken, love poured out, a meal where everyone—exes and enemies, loved ones and ancestors—are welcome. This is the way of kenosis. The way of the cross. The way of God’s power come to earth, here and now.