The trees will soon begin to empty themselves. Each gust of wind is a gentle release of crimson and gold leaves surrendering to the earth. It’s more than a seasonal change; it’s a spiritual lesson written in the language of nature.

In the Christian tradition, there is the concept of sacred release: kenosis, a Greek word meaning “self-emptying.” Found in the Apostle Paul’s letter to the Philippians, it describes Christ’s choice to “empty himself” of divine privilege, taking on the form of a servant. This self-emptying wasn’t a loss, but the divine making space for the redemption of the world. It’s the ultimate metaphor for a love that pours itself out for the sake of new life.

Like the tree in autumn, we are also called to the practice of kenosis. We are invited to release what must fall away to make room for what is to come. This can seem like a countercultural exercise. We live in a world that prizes accumulation: more access, more possessions, more commitments, more control. We try to cling to a summer’s pace, even as the light fades. We clutch past hurts, allowing them to define us like brittle, brown leaves that refuse to fall. We hold fast to outdated ideas about ourselves, others and even God. We are fearful of the bare vulnerability that comes with letting go.

But the autumn tree shows us that this release is not death; it is a necessary surrender for survival. By holding onto dead leaves, the tree would never endure the winter, nor would it have the energy for the new buds of spring. The emptiness of its branches is not a void, but a space filled with potential, a quiet waiting for the sun’s return.

What are the leaves you need to release? Is it a grudge that has overstayed its season? The frantic pace of a life without margin? An identity rooted in achievement rather than belovedness? The practice of letting go is a holy discipline. It is an active trust that God is at work even in the emptying, that the space we create by releasing our grip is the very space where God’s grace can take root.

As the last leaves spiral to the ground, may we have the courage to join them. In the quiet, bare weeks ahead, may we find comfort that our emptiness is not a failure, but fertile ground. For it is only when the branches are clear that the strong and deep architecture of the tree is revealed, and the promise of new growth is held, safe and sure, within the waiting limbs.

The Rev. Andrew McLarty is Rector at St. Paul’s Episcopal Church in Columbus.

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