Jesus Was Not a Great Man

The Sermon Study Guide is here.

John 13:1-17; Philippians 2:1-11

April 6, 2014 • Portage First UMC

They are all around us. Most everywhere we look, we see them. They are the markers of success, the dividing lines between the “haves” and the “have nots.” We live in a world often obsessed with status and status symbols, with being seen as important and valuable. Sometimes, certain brands are seen as marking someone’s status of having “arrived.” If you drive a certain car or own a house in a particular location, 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).

Actually, those words aren’t from our day and time. They are words from Aristotle, written in the 300’s B.C. It's amazing that, in 2,300 years, not much has changed with regards to our perception of who is successful and who is important—who is great. Life then, as well as now, was 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). And then there were different decorations for senators or for the wealthy or the priests. Because your occupation set you apart, too. 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, though, 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 when his life was threatened, he did not use that status to his advantage. In fact, 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, 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).

The conclusion to all of this is simply this: 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, as I mentioned last week, Rome is gone, though her attachment to greatness and to status symbols seems to live on, but the Empire is gone, and 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? Who is this humble man?

As we move through this Lenten season and get closer to the remembrance of the cross, I want to look this morning at an event on the last night Jesus gathered with his disciples before the cross. It was a night he knew would be his last, and it is at times like that when often the clearest picture of who someone is emerges. And that’s certainly true in John 13. Now, in Disciple 4, we’ve been studying John and noticing how he 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, and he knows that Matthew, Mark and Luke 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” among their peers (cf. Tenney, “The Gospel of John,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 9, pg. 136).

The Gospel of 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 heard that argument earlier, 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!” 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 their bid in for “second-in-command”? Whatever the reason, in Luke’s Gospel, 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, he 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—that’s not what we’re going to do 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, 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. As my senior pastor at the time reminded me, 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 what building plans looked like. There were interpersonal misunderstandings and other stress. And yet, somehow, we got through the week. 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.

I understand Peter in this passage. I get it. 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 most likely 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 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 is pointing out 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 the Christians there to imitate Jesus. He reminds them, in the words of the hymn, 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 those of us who follow Jesus today. 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 in 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, and 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.

Jim Collins, the business author best known for Good to Great, wrote an earlier book called Built to Last: Successful Habits of Visionary Companies. In that book, he describes what he calls Level 5 leaders, the highest kind of leadership, and those sort of leaders are made up of two primary qualities, according to Collins. The first is a tenacious will; in other words, someone who will grab hold of a vision and hang onto it no matter what comes. They are not easily deterred or distracted. But the second quality of a Level 5 leader is humility. These leaders see themselves as servants who are willing to sacrifice their own egos for the sake of their company (Ortberg 84). Isn’t that an interesting combination? Or, maybe I should say, isn’t that a Jesus combination? A tenacious will: set on the cross, focused on doing his Father’s will. And humility: wearing the garb of a slave, taking the position of a slave, doing the work of a slave, suffering the death of a slave (Ortberg 82). Jesus chose humility, and he tells his disciples, squabbling over who is the greatest, to “do as I have done for you” (13:15).

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. 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. 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.” In what way can you “wash feet” today, this week?

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 the internet long enough to listen to your spouse? In what ways can you 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, as I shared last week, 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 the grocery 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 do you know who else Jesus washed that night? Judas. 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?

Many have grappled with that question when it comes to these somewhat incomprehensible actions of Jesus, but none has put it more clearly than C. S. Lewis. In his classic book Mere Christianity, Lewis is responding to those who say Jesus was a great moral teacher, but not God. Lewis puts it this way: “A man who was merely a man and said the sort of things Jesus said would not be a great moral teacher. He would either be a lunatic — on the level with the man who says he is a poached egg — or else he would be the Devil of Hell. You must make your choice. Either this man was, and is, the Son of God, or else a madman or something worse. You can shut him up for a fool, you can spit at him and kill him as a demon or you can fall at his feet and call him Lord and God, but let us not come with any patronizing nonsense about his being a great human teacher. He has not left that open to us. He did not intend to.” To which I can only say, “Amen.” 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.