Jesus Was Not a Great Man

John 13:1-17

April 2, 2017 • Mount Pleasant UMC

They are all around us. Most everywhere you look, you can see them. They are the markers of success, the dividing lines between the “haves” and the “have nots.” We live in a world increasingly obsessed with status and status symbols, with being seen as important and valuable. We could probably all name certain brands that are understood as marking someone’s status of having “arrived.” If you drive a certain car or own a house in a particular neighborhood, if you can afford luxury hotels or expensive restaurants, then you are seen as “successful.” Name brands on clothes (though not just any name brands—ask a teenager to tell you what the current “right” ones are), certain occupations or income brackets, particular titles, or even “VIP Seating” at concerts, ballgames or other events. A “gold card” used to mean you were someone important; now that’s not good enough. It has to be at least a platinum card—and I'm not sure what’s above that, though there’s probably another level. There are premier clubs, members-only clubs, exclusive offers and so on. The problem is this: it seems that no matter how high you might rise, there’s always one more level above you. And that’s what we’re told to strive for. To be “great” in today’s world, you have to be successful. Here’s one description of what that looks like: a successful man “despises honors offered by the common people…He indulges in conspicuous consumption, for he likes to own beautiful and useless things, since they are better marks of his independence” (qtd. in Ortberg, Who Is This Man?, pg. 74).

Those words sound like they were written yesterday but they were actually written by Aristotle in the 300’s B.C. How little things have changed over 2,300 years! Life then, as well as now, was very much about striving for recognition. And you could do that in a number of ways in the Roman Empire. Their society was divided into two parts. The “elite,” about two percent of the population, and the “rabble,” the nobodies, the ones who had no chance at being “great.” For the elite, that meant you wore clothes indicating your rank in society. Beginning at age 14, male citizens were allowed to wear the toga, which, as John Ortberg says, had no purpose except to show how important you were. “Drafty in winter, sticky hot in summer, keeping one hand covered and unusable, difficult to arrange…, it had only one value: the proclamation of status” (76). Your occupation set you apart as well; there were different decorations for senators or for the wealthy or the priests. You were “somebody” if you owned land and had people—slaves—working the land for you, if you had time for “organized leisure” during the day. It’s been said that the slaves in the Roman Empire vastly outnumbered those in charge; had the slaves decided to rise up against their masters, they could have won by sheer numbers alone. But they were kept down, defeated, and made to stay in their place. Wealthy mean were “great;” slaves were not.

There were other ways of reinforcing status. Where you sat in a theater indicated who you were and how “great” you were. The kinds of gifts you were able to give. Even the titles, many of which were honorary by the first century, much like the titles of “Lord” or “Duke” are in England today. In the first century, you would trumpet your title and your achievements. And it was very, very important to be a citizen, especially to be born a citizen. Citizenship could be purchased, but even that was a sort of second-class position. To be a born citizen of Rome meant you were on your way to greatness. The Apostle Paul, for instance, was a citizen, born a citizen, and yet only once did he even mention that (cf. Acts 22:28). His most common description of himself was as a “slave of Jesus Christ” (cf. Romans 1:1 and elsewhere). Most of our English Bibles clean that up and call him a “servant,” which somehow sounds nicer, kinder. But the word Paul uses to describe himself and Christians in general is “slave,” someone who is not voluntarily employed, someone who has no hope of rising to another level. Why would Paul, a Roman citizen, an heir of privilege and status, do that? And more than that, why would he talk so much about following this Jesus who was crucified? Crucifixion was a punishment reserved for slaves, for outcasts, certainly for non-citizens. It was shameful, and that was true not only in the Roman world, but also in the Jewish religious world. After all, Deuteronomy said, “Anyone who is hung on a pole [or tree] is under God’s curse” (21:23). To go around the Roman Empire and say, “We serve a man who was condemned and killed as a slave, and we’re actually slaves to him” was incomprehensible. In fact, as John Ortberg observes, it would be social suicide. He says, you “might as well mark your Facebook status ‘Loser’ and hope for a date” (76-79).

So here’s my point: in the understanding and shape of the first century world in which he lived, Jesus was not a great man. He was a loser, a slave, a condemned criminal. And yet, Rome is gone, while the followers of Jesus are still here. Who is this man, this un-great man, who inspires and calls us to renounce claims to greatness and become slaves?

That’s the question we’ve been asking all through the Lenten season, and as we get closer to the remembrance of the cross, I want to look this morning at an event that happened on the last night Jesus gathered with his disciples before the cross. For many of us, it’s a familiar event, taking place on a night he knew would be his last. It is at times like that when often the clearest picture of who someone is emerges. And that’s certainly true in John 13. John’s Gospel is so very different than the other three, and part of that is because John often tells us things the other Gospels have left out. John is probably writing near the end of the first century, near the end of his life. He knows Matthew, Mark and Luke and how they have already told us about the meal that took place on that last night. The meal isn’t talked about in John. Instead, what John wants us to see is something else Jesus did that night that might have been missed. John has had a lifetime to reflect on what it means, and so he wants us to see Jesus kneeling at the feet of his friends.

John tells us it is just before Passover, but tonight Jesus and his friends are celebrating that important meal, gathering in a private room. Now, tradition and basic hospitality dictated that when a group came in from the dusty roads, the host would have a servant ready to wash their feet. However, this was a meal held in secret, so no servants were present, and no one was willing to be the one who washed feet. For them to do so would have been to admit inferiority to all the others; washing feet was considered one of the lowest forms of service. So even these disciples, who don’t come from the cream of the crop or the elite of society, are concerned about status and being seen as “great” at least among their peers (cf. Tenney, “The Gospel of John,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 9, pg. 136).

Luke tells us that, as the meal was taking place, the disciples began arguing about which one of them was the greatest (cf. Luke 22:24). We talked one version of that argument a couple of weeks ago, and now, on this last night, when Jesus’ heart is so very heavy, what does he hear around the table? “I’m the best one.” “No, I’m the best one.” “Jesus loves me more!” “Jesus loves you, but I’m his favorite!” Why did this discussion come up at dinner? Was it just another night at the table for them? Or did they sense that something was about to change? Were they thinking that Jesus was somehow going to take power in Jerusalem, and this was the time to get in line for “second-in-command”? Whatever the reason, in Luke, Jesus reminds them that titles and authority are not the way of his kingdom, that they are to be like one who serves (22:26). In John’s account, Jesus doesn’t say anything at first. Instead, he gets up from the table (I imagine while they are still arguing), retrieves the basin that was meant for the cleansing of their feet, and kneels down and begins to wash their feet. The way John describes it this: “He loved them to the end.” He loved them without any limits (Tenney 135).

Have you ever washed someone’s feet? Don’t worry—we’re not doing that today! I’ve learned over the years that, for some folks, that's a very uncomfortable act. When I was in seminary, they announced once that the next chapel service would be a foot washing service, and it was one of the lowest-attended chapels I think we had while I was there. I have washed feet, as some of you have if you’ve been part of an Emmaus or Chrysalis team, and it is uncomfortable. But it’s also an incredible moment of tenderness and ministry. One time I took a group of youth on a work camp trip to Oklahoma, and we gathered on the last evening in the sanctuary of the church where we were staying. It had been a difficult week. Before we had left home, my senior pastor at the time had reminded me that work camps and mission trips are often a microcosm of Christian community, which means both the best and the worst of people come out. And there had been stress; the site job coordinator had quit just before we arrived, and the pastor of the church had no idea how to read building plans. There were interpersonal misunderstandings and other stress. Somehow, we got through the week and did a lot of work, even if we didn’t always get along. So that last night we gathered, and shared what the week had meant to each of us. Then, we gathered around a basin and I invited people to wash each other’s feet as an act of kindness and forgiveness. You know, of course, we wash our own feet every day, but to wash someone else’s feet, and even more, to have someone wash your feet, is a moment of holy intimacy. It’s a moment of tenderness (cf. Wright, John for Everyone, Part Two, pg. 43). I’ll never forget when someone knelt down to wash my feet, and how much everything within me wanted to push them away, to tell them I’d do it myself. But to do that would have been to rob them of the blessing that comes when we kneel.

So I get Peter in this passage. When Jesus kneels in front of him, in the midst of what seems to be a silent room, Peter protests. He says what they are all probably thinking: “You shall never wash my feet” (13:8). In fact, the language he uses is even more emphatic, as if he’s saying, “You will never ever wash my feet, never to all eternity!” (cf. Card, The Parable of Joy, pg. 166; Tenney 136). Part of that response, I think, has to do with the way anyone responds when someone serves them, and part of it has to do with Peter’s belief in Jesus as the Messiah. You see, that’s a title, a very important title, and the Messiah was never supposed to serve. He would be served. The Messiah was part of the elite, and so to see Jesus on his knees, assuming the posture of a slave, was more than status-minded Peter could take: “You shall never wash my feet!” And Jesus tells him, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me” (13:8). There is something happening here, Peter, that you need to get. You need to understand that Jesus is not a great man. He is a humble man, a Messiah who came to serve and not to be served (cf. Matthew 20:28).

That’s driven home by the question Jesus asks when he’s done with their feet: “Do you understand what I have done for you?" (13:12). Nowhere else in the Gospels does Jesus ask such a pointed question (Card 168). Usually, they come to him and ask questions, ask what he meant. And we’re told over and over they don’t get it, they don’t understand this or that. But here, Jesus pointedly asks them if they understand. He doesn’t have time to mess around this night. It’s getting late; he needs them to get this, maybe above everything else he has taught them. “Do you understand what I have done for you?” And without waiting for an answer, he explains it to them: “Now that I, your Lord and Teacher [titles, again], have washed your feet [not something “Lords" and “Teachers” did], you also should wash one another’s feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you” (13:14-15). Right then and there, Jesus says that, according to the world’s definitions, he is not a great man. He is a servant. His followers are not called to be great people. They are called to radical servanthood.

There have been Christians through the centuries that have taken Jesus’ words here literally and for some traditions still today, foot washing has the status of a sacrament or an ordinance, on the same level as we would place baptism and communion. But is washing feet really the point here? Or is Jesus using this “example,” as he calls it, to point us toward something else? Is it possible that the foot washing merely points us toward an attitude of heart and mind and soul that will then shape everything we do?

Paul gets at this when he quotes that great early Christian hymn in Philippians as he urges Christians to imitate Jesus. He reminds the Philippians and us that Jesus was “in very nature God,” and yet he gave all that up to become human in order to save us. “He made himself nothing,” the hymn goes on, “by taking the very nature of a servant, being made in human likeness. And being found in appearance as a man, he humbled himself by becoming obedient to death—even death on a cross!” (2:6-8). As Paul leads into that hymn, he defines what humility is. It’s when we refuse to do what we do out of “selfish ambition or vain conceit.” Humility is the attitude of valuing others above ourselves. Humility is caring for each other, looking out for the interests of others (2:3-4). Humility is kneeling and offering to wash someone’s feet; humility is lived out love.

Unfortunately, there is not a lot of that to be found among today’s followers of Jesus. We love our Christian “celebrities,” and we love putting famous pastors, singers and other talented folks up on a pedestal. When I was growing up, we often sang that song, “They’ll Know We Are Christians By Our Love,” but today they more often know us by what we’re against than by our love or by the humble ways we serve. Bishop Will Willimon says the biggest obstacle he has today reaching people with the good news of Jesus is the church. He has had more than one person tell him, “After I experienced a horrible fight in the church in which I grew up, I haven’t been back” (Willimon, Thank God It’s Thursday, pg. 43). I would imagine you’ve had people say similar things to you, or perhaps you’ve been told that Christians are just hypocrites, that the church is just interested in money, or that Jesus’ followers have abandoned what he taught. And, to some extent, some of those comments are true. Humility—lived out love—following Jesus’ example doesn’t come easy. If it were easy, we wouldn't need the Son of God to set the example for us, to show us how to do it, to call us to do it whether we feel like it or not. It’s a lot like marriage. When we have a wedding, we do not ask the bride and groom if they feel like they love each other. Rather, we ask, “Will you take…will you love?” (cf. Willimon 58). It’s an act of the will, a choice, to love even when we don’t feel like it, even when we don’t understand why we continue to love. That’s what humility looks like. That’s what true greatness looks like, at least as far as the kingdom of God is concerned.

Humility doesn't have to be about literally washing feet, but that is a good image or reminder that humility is really about our heart attitude more than anything else. One of the church fathers, St. Augustine, put it this way: “Pride casts us out, humility restores us…Pride does its own will; humility does the will of God” (Oden, On the Way to the Cross, Kindle version, loc 454). When I was first in ministry, I had the privilege of getting to know Rev. Hunter Colpitts, who was senior pastor emeritus at Muncie High Street when I was there. Hunter had led High Street through some difficult days and was well loved by that church for his gentle strength. During one of our staff retreats, we invited Hunter to come with us to lunch, and while we were there, we got to listen to stories of a life in ministry. I don’t remember a lot of the stories, but I’ll never forget how Hunter summed up his life of serving Jesus Christ. After telling some stories and listening to our dreams and hopes for High Street Church, Hunter smiled at us and said, “You know, you can get a lot done if you don’t care about who gets the credit.” That’s humility. That’s a Jesus-attitude. Mother Teresa put it this way: “Do small things with great love.”

So how do we “wash feet”? We begin by loving the ones around us, serving those who are closest to us. For some, that may be the people in our homes, or on our blocks, or at our work. Maybe it’s not your job to take out the trash, but can you do it anyway? Can you forego your hobby to help with dinner, or to read a story to your daughter, or get off Facebook long enough to listen to your spouse? Sometime when we’re out to dinner, I will watch people and increasingly I’ll see three or four people at the same table, all scrolling through Facebook rather than talking or sharing life. Don’t be that person! Serve others by listening. Tenderly care for those who are around you all the time, the ones we are most tempted to take for granted. An attitude of humility also calls us to love the nobodies. The men gathered in that Upper Room were nobodies in the eyes of their society. Beyond that, leading up to that night, Jesus had always taken the time to talk to and love the nobodies, the people no one wanted anything to do with. The “nobodies” might be the ones the world considers to be the “least,” or they might simply be the people you don’t know. The woman at Kroger who needs help with her bags. The person at the coffee shop who always wants to talk to you. The mother who is trying to wrangle three kids at Wal-Mart. The single mom who would love to have an evening to herself. The person who is quietly crying in the corner at the office. Love the folks God brings into your path, humbly offering to serve, to “wash feet” in whatever way you can. Serve those who can give nothing back to you; that’s one way we follow the example of Jesus.

But then it gets harder, because Jesus also washed the feet of Judas that night. The one who betrayed him. The one who was about to hurt him more than any other human being could. The disciple who, like the rest, had shown so much promise at the beginning. Judas, a friend, a brother. Before the night was over, Judas would be bringing the soldiers to arrest Jesus. Don’t you think Jesus might have been tempted to skip over him, to not wash his feet? Serve an enemy? Love an enemy? That’s absolutely unthinkable! And yet, Jesus washed Judas’ feet. He served Judas the bread and the cup that became what we know as holy communion. Maybe the one thing needed to turn an enemy into a friend is an act of humble service. Or maybe it will at least honor Christ if we are simply willing to serve without demanding our own rights and position because Jesus even served Judas in humility.

The final piece of humility, though, is refusing to rely on our own status in order to somehow “get ahead” or “secure an advantage” for ourselves. Jesus’ example of humility calls us to look outward, to look forward, to consider the other person first and foremost. That’s as hard for us as it would have been for those first disciples, who lived in a society based on rank and privilege every bit as much as we do. And yet, Jesus says humble service is the path to blessing. In fact, at the end of our passage this morning, he tells the disciples, “Now that you know these things, you will be blessed if you do them” (13:17). What an amazing thing to say! We’ll be blessed if we “wash feet.” We’ll be blessed if we put aside our own preferences and seek out others in humility. We’ll be blessed if we follow Jesus’ example, the one who was obedient even to death on a cross. He set us an example. Who is this man? Jesus was not a great moral teacher. He was not a great man. He was and is the Lord who set an example of humility that he calls us to follow.

And so, this morning, we follow him to the table, the place where greatness does not exist. Receiving this bread and this cup does not make us better than others. It does not give us a better status. Actually, participating in the act of holy communion places us back at the table with Jesus and the disciples in that upper room, our feet still wet from being washed by the savior who calls us to follow his example, who calls us to humility. This bread and this cup are the act that bind us to him, that marks us as humble people who serve those around us. If you want to be great, Jesus says, come humbly, receive these two tokens and be sent to serve, to give your life for the sake of others. Will you pray with me as we prepare ourselves to come to the table?