Evangelical theology is essentially a theology of the cross. Like the apostle Paul we Christians today should be able to say that we know nothing but the cross and glory in nothing but the cross (1 Corinthians 2:3; Galatians 8:14). The cross is without doubt the center of the New Testament message. Yet in our correct emphasis on the atonement we sometimes neglect the incarnation. Similarly, we concentrate on Jesus as Savior, but do not sufficiently heed the insistent New Testament summons to follow Jesus the example.
So let me explore with you some of the biblical references to the Incarnation and some of the ways we are exhorted by the apostles to imitate the Incarnation. Perhaps the title offends you. For of course the Incarnation was entirely unique. It is utterly impossible, literally speaking, for us to be "made flesh." For we are not the Eternal Word, and in any case we are flesh already. Nevertheless, there are principles implicit in the Son's great stoop we call the Incarnation, which we are told to copy.
Vulnerability
"She gave birth to her firstborn son and wrapped him in swaddling cloths, and laid him in a manger.... And this will be a sign for you: you will find a babe wrapped in swaddling cloths and lying in a manger. And they...found...the babe lying in a manger" (Luke 2:7, 12, 16). This deliberate repetition of the familiar Christmas phrase "wrapped in swaddling cloths, lying in a manger," almost as a refrain in the narrative, should arrest our attention afresh. The baby in the cattle trough was a "sign," the angel said, an identification sign. Not just to identify for the shepherds the object of their search, but also to identify for us what kind of a God the living God is.
We are not to picture Jesus as a modern baby lying with nothing on but a diaper, freely waving his arms and kicking his feet, but as a baby in "swaddling cloths," the long narrow strips of bandage wrapped round his limbs and body and making free movement impossible. Jesus must have looked like a miniature Egyptian mummy, living indeed, but bound hand and foot.
Is it not almost unbelievable that the Creator, on whose freedom and power we all depend, should allow himself to be bound, and to lie in helpless weakness in the straw?
Paul says that he "emptied himself," not of course of his deity but of his glory. "Mild he laid his glory by." He "took the form of a servant." He made himself vulnerable. And now his mind is to be in us. For we are to empty ourselves and to humble ourselves. Of course we cling to power. We like to "make friends and influence people," to exert our authority, to boss our subordinates and to throw our weight about. It all feeds our ego, boosts our morale, protects our threatened security.
Too often down the ages the church has been power-hungry, marked more by authority than by weakness, more by self-assertion than by self-sacrifice. "But it shall not be so among you," Jesus had said.
The Incarnation challenges us to acknowledge the values and standards of Jesus, and to assert that love is stronger than force. He was born naked, defenseless, vulnerable. Why should the disciple wish to be different from his teacher? Too often we rely on the power of the world to get our own way. But he emptied himself. So must we. The Lausanne Covenant sought to apply this truth to evangelism and affirmed that "Christ's evangelists must humbly seek to empty themselves of all but their personal authenticity in order to become the servants of others" (paragraph 10). The same truth is applicable to our whole Christian lifestyle.
Poverty
I hesitate to use the word "poverty," although it is a biblical word. Perhaps I could equally well write of "simplicity." To quote the Lausanne Covenant again, which said we were "shocked by the poverty of millions and disturbed by the injustices which cause it": "Those of us who live in affluent circumstances accept our duty to develop a simple lifestyle..." (paragraph 9). Of course "poverty" and "simplicity" are both relative words; they are bound to mean different standards of living in different cultures. Nevertheless, we cannot dodge the challenge of the Incarnation. It summons us freely to renounce our wealth for the sake of others who are poor.
Paul takes two whole chapters in Second Corinthians (chapters 8 and 9) to write about the collection he was organizing in aid of the poverty-stricken churches of Judea. The Christians of Macedonia (Northern Greece), although comparatively poor themselves, had given generously to the fund. So Paul urges the more well-to-do Christians of Achaia (Southern Greece) to follow suit. He wants to test the genuineness of their love, he says. How? By their generosity. And from this he goes straight to the Incarnation: "for you know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake he became poor, so that by his poverty you might become rich" (2 Corinthians 8:9).
True, this is not the only passage of Scripture about wealth, and we all have to learn to interpret Scripture by Scripture. In 1 Timothy, for example, we are warned not to go to the other extreme of austerity for its own sake, which is a denial of our Creator who "richly furnishes us with everything to enjoy" (1 Timothy 4:3-5; 6:17).
These two strands of teaching are not contradictory, however. Although God's good creation gifts are not to be rejected for themselves, but rather to be received, from his hand with thanksgiving, yet out of solidarity with those who suffer we are called to make sacrifices for their sake. Faith in our Creator and love for our fellow-creatures must go hand in hand.
"Grace" is a fundamental Christian word. God is "the God of all grace," and the gospel is the good news of grace. There is no Christianity without grace. But grace means generosity. Our God is a generous God. Jesus Christ's generosity was so great that, although he was rich, he actually became poor for us. We must be generous too. How can we claim to "imitate the Incarnation" if we wallow in our wealth and care nothing for the poor?
Identification
One of our major failures in the realm of evangelism is our neglect of the principle of the Incarnation in relation to it. We hear a good deal about the Great Commission, and about the need to fulfill it, which is true and fine. But the usual versions of the Commission which are quoted are Matthew 28:19, "Go and make disciples of all nations," and Mark 16:15, "Go into all the world and preach the gospel to the whole creation." Consequently, the emphasis is on preaching the gospel and on securing converts. We seldom hear the Johannine version of the Commission, whose emphasis is more radical, for it alludes to the style of our evangelism rather than the goal: "As the Father has sent me, even so I send you" (John 20:21; cf. 17:18). It is only this version which explains the command (recorded by Matthew and Mark) to "go" and which gives us a model for our "going." We are to go in humility, not in triumph, in weakness, not in power. For we are sent into the world by Christ, in the same way as he was sent into the world by the Father, and our penetration of the world is to be patterned on his.
In his mission Jesus was equally loyal to the world in which he lived and to the Father to whom he belonged. He never denied the Father by assimilating to the world. Nor did he ever deny the world by a false pietistic devotion to his Father. His double devotion to God and men, to the Father and to the world, is seen at every stage of his earthly career. First, he was born into the world. He did not descend by parachute or arrive in a spaceship like an alien. He was made flesh. He identified himself with our humanity, although without losing his divinity.
Throughout his ministry he fraternized with dropouts, the "friend of publicans and sinners," although without ever losing his own purity. And in death he was actually "made sin" for us, although without losing his personal sinlessness. At each stage he identified with us, without losing his own identity.
We too are to immerse ourselves in secular society, to become one with people in their need, although without ever losing our distinctive Christian identity as those who know God and belong to Christ.
A church thus immersed in secularity for Christ will be marked by service, sensitivity and suffering. First, service. Christ came into the world not to be served but to serve (Mark 10:45), and he sends us into the world to serve. Moreover, our service is not to be viewed as a means to an end, namely that our evangelism will lack credibility unless it is accompanied by service, but as an end in itself, service in its own right as one of the authentic demands of love.
Next, sensitivity, especially in personal evangelism. We should not neglect opportunities to witness to strangers, but it will be more natural and more costly to witness to friends (and relatives as well), in whose lives we are already deeply involved. We shall also renounce all wooden stereotypes in our presentation of the message. We cannot possibly share the gospel with everybody in precisely the same terms, as if human beings were mass produced and everybody was an exact replica of everybody else—unless we are totally lacking in sensitivity. Instead, we shall seek to meet people where they are, and to present the gospel to them appropriately. This indicates the true place of dialogue in evangelism, what the Lausanne Covenant calls "that kind of dialogue whose purpose is to listen sensitively in order to understand" (paragraph 4). As Dr. Michael Ramsey, Archbishop of Canterbury, has eloquently written, we must "go out and put ourselves with loving sympathy inside the doubts of the doubters, the questions of the questioners, and the loneliness of those who have lost the way."
Then suffering. Jesus came to serve, and because he served he suffered. He was the "suffering servant" of the Lord. As Douglas Webster has written in his Yes to Mission: "Mission sooner or later leads into passion. In biblical categories…the servant must suffer.... Passion is not only the result but in some respects the climax of mission; it is that which makes mission effective ... every form of mission leads to some form of cross. The very shape of mission is cruciform. We can understand mission only in terms of the cross."
Here is the need for us to renounce evangelical triumphalism, our success mentality, and recognize both that our Lord was despised and rejected by men and that the servant is not above his master.
"Imitating the Incarnation." The very concept comes into direct collision with the accepted standards of the world. The world has a lust for power, and uses power to get its own way and shield itself from getting hurt. But Jesus made himself vulnerable. His weakness exposed him to pain.
The world worships mammon, lays up treasure on earth, and seeks material security and comfort first. But Jesus made himself poor, in order to make others rich.
The world goes its own way, does its own thing, minds its own business. But Jesus laid aside his own affairs, and refused to regard equality with God a thing to be grasped for his own enjoyment. He emptied himself and identified himself with us, taking to himself our flesh, our sin, our curse.
"Lord Jesus, you have told us that the disciple is not above his teacher. Help us to take seriously your call to us to follow you. Give us courage to face realistically the pain, the weakness, the poverty and the costly identification with others, which the Incarnation involved for you. Let your mind control our mind, and your life style give direction to ours. We ask it for the glory of your holy name. Amen."
John R.W. Stott was rector of All Souls Church in London and a Sojourners contributing editor when this article appeared.
Got something to say about what you're reading? We value your feedback!