St. Paul in his second letter to the Corinthians is struggling to maintain his authority within the Corinthian community he founded. After his visit and evangelization of Corinth, others had arrived preaching a variation on the gospel Paul had initially preached, probably a variation that placed emphasis on the following of Jewish ritual laws. These “super-apostles,” as Paul calls them later in II Cor. 12:12, point to mystical experiences and great acts of power as evidence for their authority. Paul, in defending his authority in the Corinthian community, does not deny his ability to lay claim to similar mystical experiences and acts of power, but instead places emphasis on the sacrifices he has made on behalf of the gospel as the mark of his authority.

St. Paul’s statement in II Corinthians 12:10 is paradoxical. He states, “Therefore I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities for the sake of Christ; for whenever I am weak, then I am strong.” I am not often content with those things. Weakness I can deal with. I know, to some extent, my limits. Hardships and calamities I can deal with, too, as they seem to be the nature of the human experience. Admittedly, some people have more hardships than others, and sometimes I become irritated with the unfairness of how some seem to suffer more intensely than others. My hardships being, to return to a theme from an earlier reflection, relative “tempests in teacups” compared to those of others also helps me handle them with relative equanimity.

It is the insults and persecutions that get to me the most. There is a malevolent intentionality behind these. On these counts, too, I am relatively fortunate. I do not suffer persecution, and rarely encounter insults. Of course, that is because I am perceived as a member of the preferred group in our society. I am perceived, and therefore treated, as a white, educated, middle class, gender conforming male. As such, I avoid the insults and persecutions that others may suffer.

This week, however, I came face-to-face with just how much my privileged position clouds my impressions, and the way I speak, of the experience of the marginalized other. I was also challenged as to whether I had any right to speak out on behalf of the marginalized other, and I would like to address my responsibility to speak out on behalf of the other first.

There are two forces that compel me to speak out. First, I believe firmly that the gospel compels all followers of Christ to not only seek out and embrace the marginalized other, but we are also instructed to act in their interest. Latin American liberation theology calls this a “preferential option for the poor.” When we are empowered to make decisions and take action we are compelled to consider first and foremost how our decisions and actions will impact the poor. I interpret “the poor” as all who are disenfranchised in society, whether economically, socially, politically or in any manner. This is also what I mean by the “marginalized other,” a person who has been pushed to the edges of society.

Beyond the gospel mandate for a preferential option for the poor, I also believe that those of us who do live within the privileged classes of society have a responsibility to confront the systems that grant us privilege at the expense of the marginalized, using our privileged position on their behalf. I have my privileged position in society through very little merit of my own. Yes, I did work hard for my education, and I do work hard for my current economic position, but I also had access to these opportunities for hard work partially because of the privileged context of my birth. Were I born in a different context, I might not have had the opportunities of which I now take active advantage. I think of all those people born in developing countries who lack access to the many resources we in the United States take so much for granted. What would have been my chances to be where I am today were I born in such a context? Did I “earn” the context of my birth, and therefore did they “deserve” theirs for some reason? I think not.

But I digress too much. This past week while reading about the tragic burning of eight black churches in ten days I became impassioned to join my voice to those crying out with the question of “#WhoIsBurningBlackChurches”. Some answers to the causes of the fires have been discovered. A fire at Fruitland Presbyterian in Gibson County TN, has been attributed to lightening, and another at Greater Miracle Apostolic Church in Tallahassee, FL, has been attributed an electrical fire caused by a fallen tree. The fire that finally broke national news silence at Mount Zion African Methodist Episcopal Church in Greeleyville, SC, has also been ruled as caused by lightening. At least three of the fires, including the one at nearby College Hill Seventh Day Adventist Church in Knoxville, TN, are being investigated as arsons. That still leaves two fires with undetermined causes.

Social media networks, particularly Twitter, came alive with indignation that the mainstream media had not been reporting on these fires. In joining my voice to the outrage about the media silence, I raised the snarky question about why the media was not reporting on this recent “attack on religion.” I was immediately challenged that this was not an attack on religion but an attack on blacks. I initially defended my statement, wanting to use the rhetoric of the “attack on religion” to shine the light on the problem. However, I also began to reflect on how my position of privilege and my use of language were leading me to appropriate the experience of the black community and universalize it as an attack on religion rather than recognizing the reality that it was not an attack on religion, even though the specific targets in this instance were churches, but was rather an attack on black men and women through the medium of their places of worship. This same difficulty arises when one rephrases the “black lives matter” slogan as “all lives matter.” “All lives matter” ignores that the black community’s experience says that their lives are devalued. The cry “black lives matter” is a cry of pain and anger in the face of systemic discrimination against black lives. When I, as a white man, say, “Oh yes, I know. All lives matter” I am minimizing this cry of pain and anger by subsuming and universalizing the message, even if that is not my intention.

When we hear questions like “#WhoIsBurningBlackChurches” and statements like “black lives matter,” we need to be careful not to try to universalize the statement or discount it. These are profound cries of a community that knows firsthand what St. Paul is saying about the experience of insults, hardships, persecutions and calamities. We need to listen like the Corinthian community to the message and allow the other to speak with authority just as St. Paul claimed the authority of apostleship from his experiences. We also need to be wary of allowing our positions of privilege to cloud the message we are hearing or to misrepresent the voice of the marginalized. When we speak from privilege we make the mistake of the “super apostles” in relying on our privilege. When we listen with our whole heart and allow the pain and anger of the experience to touch our deepest being, then we can join hands with those who have experienced marginalization and together experience the promise of the Lord when he said, “My grace is sufficient for you, for power is made perfect through weakness.” (II Cor. 2:9).

The Christ of the Homeless by Fritz Eichenberg

“For you know the generous act of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sakes he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich.” (II Corinthians 8:9)

This is one of my favorite concepts in theology. Kenosis – the concept that Christ, who was God and shared all the attributes of the Godhead, emptied himself of all being God entails to become one with humanity. Paul alludes to this idea again in the hymn found in Philippians 2:5-1:

Let 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.

In the Second Letter to the Corinthians Paul tells us that this self-emptying of Christ, his becoming poor, was so that we might become rich. Athanasius, the fourth century bishop of Alexandria, Egypt, and one of the great teachers of the church is quoted as saying, “The Son of God became man, that we might become god.” This idea, called theosis, does not mean we become “gods” in the same way that the Trinity is God, but that we becomes “partakers of the divine nature” as II Peter 1:4 states it. Through Christ’s emptying of all the prerogatives of Divinity he lifts up humanity, restoring it to its rightful place that was lost with the disobedience in the Garden of Eden.

Paul is using this self-sacrificing, self-emptying act of Christ to call upon the Corinthians to engage in a similar act of self-emptying and self-sacrifice. Paul is attempting to raise money to aid the community in Jerusalem. The region of Palestine had experienced a severe famine that crippled the economy and led to severe struggles for the believers in Jerusalem and its surrounding areas. Paul is calling on the communities he visits to provide economic relief for those struggling and in need. To the Corinthian community, he offers the example of the churches of Macedonia as a challenge. Despite their own struggles, the churches of Macedonia “gave according to their means, and even beyond their means” (II Cor. 8:3). Now Paul is asking the same of the Corinthian community, a community that excels in everything (II Cor. 7).

Although Paul upholds the model of Christ, who emptied himself of everything, becoming poor for their sake, he does not expect the Corinthians to give everything. In this he seems to moderate Jesus’ command to the rich young man to “sell all you have and give the money to the poor” (Mark 10:21). Instead he calls for giving in eagerness according to one’s means. Paul’s advice calls the Corinthians to examine their abundance, particularly in comparison to the poverty of others ,and give out of one’s abundance, for “it is a question of a fair balance between your present abundance and their need, so that their abundance may be for your need, in order that there may be a fair balance.” Paul is calling for a fair distribution of resources so that none may have too much nor too little.

Wealth distribution is a touchy topic in American society. A couple of years ago we had the Occupy movement challenging the 1% who held the majority of the wealth and giving voice to the discontent of the 99% who felt marginalized. Nothing has changed since then. 1% of the US population controls 43% of the US wealth. The next 4% control an additional 29% of the wealth. That leaves 28% of the US wealth to be shared with the bottom 95%.¹

Let’s look a bit closer to home – Knox county. The median household income between 2009-2013 was $24,038. 34.7% of the population in Knox county live below the poverty level.² Knox county is the 12^th poorest county in the US when ranked by household median income.

Most of us in this church are fairly comfortable financially. Paul would say we have an abundance, even if we are not part of the 1%. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians should challenge us to look at those struggling in our community and give from our present abundance. The Christian faith has a tradition of the tithe – the giving of 10% of one’s income as first fruits. I would challenge us all to examine our practices of giving in light of Christ’s self-emptying and self-sacrifice of all that he was so that we might be made rich in him by being partakers of his divinity. Can we not empty ourselves of even 10% for those who are less fortunate than ourselves? I will admit – I struggle with this. The last I calculated my giving it was around 3%. I have been working on increasing my generosity. Each year I try to increase my giving by 10% of the previous year with the goal of eventually reaching that 10% tithe which is defined by the Episcopal Church as the “minimum standard of giving.”

I would also like to challenge the vestry to look at our communal budget in light of Christ’s self-sacrifice. What portion of the parish budget serves the needs of the poor, the hungry, and the homeless? We do send $25.00 a month from St. John’s to support a homeless shelter, and money collected in the “poor box” does go to Episcopal Relief and Development. What percentage of our budget is spent on our internal needs such as facilities upkeep, utilities, priest salary (when we have one)? I don’t want to discount these expenses, as they are important for our continued existence as a community, but do our budgets, personal and communal, reflect more an inward focus on our personal needs, or a self-emptying for the needs of others?

I will conclude with a selection from a homily on the Gospel of Luke by one of my favorite theologians, St. Basil the Great, a fourth century bishop of Caesarea:

What keeps you from giving now? Isn’t the poor person there? Aren’t your own warehouses full? Isn’t the reward promised? The command is clear: the hungry person is dying now, the naked person is freezing now, the person in debt is beaten now – and you want to wait until tomorrow? “I’m not doing any harm,” you say. “I just want to keep what I own, that’s all.” You own! You are like someone who sits down in a theater and keeps everyone else away, saying that what is there for everyone’s use is your own. If everyone took only what they needed and gave the rest to those in need, there would be no such thing as rich and poor. After all, didn’t you come into life naked, and won’t you return naked to the earth?

The bread in your cupboard belongs to the hungry person; the coat hanging unused in your closet belongs to the person who needs it; the shoes rotting in your closet belong to the person with no shoes; the money which you put in the bank belongs to the poor. You do wrong to everyone you could help, but fail to help.