1. The Struggle to Be Loved
Father, as we come to John 13 this morning, help us see Jesus. We know how to speak about love, but we still struggle to receive it and to live from it. Holy Spirit, open our hearts to what is true. Show us where we need Your grace and lead us again to Your Son. In His name, amen.
Good morning, church. Last Sunday we were in the opening verse of John 13. John tells us that Jesus loved His own who were in the world, and He loved them to the end. We talked about the people gathered around that table. Judas was there, and Jesus knew he would betray Him. Peter was there, and Jesus knew he would deny Him. The others were there, and Jesus knew they would scatter. These were men He had loved and taught for years. He knew what was coming, and still He loved them.
I wonder whether you thought about that this week. Was there a moment when somebody disappointed you or you grew tired of trying to love? Maybe you were hurt by something they said, or you gave your time and felt as though it made no difference. You noticed yourself pulling back. I know that can happen to me. When it does, we need to remember that by the Father's grace, we can begin again. He hasn't finished teaching us how to love.
Last Sunday's message began while I was sitting in a cabin in West Virginia, writing in my notebook. I kept returning to that phrase, that Jesus loved them to the end. But the longer I considered it, the more I wanted to understand something. How could He keep loving these men when He knew how they would respond? And what is it about us that makes loving people so difficult, even when we really do care about them?
I've been thinking about how closely our struggle to love is connected to our struggle to know who we are. We want our lives to matter. We want to be loved and to know we're valuable. Those are ordinary human desires. But how much time do we spend looking to other people, or to what we accomplish, to reassure us? Underneath it all is a question we may rarely speak aloud: Who am I?
We begin learning about ourselves in relationships almost from the beginning. A baby recognizes familiar faces and responds to affection. That's a beautiful part of being human. But as we grow, we become very aware of approval and disappointment. We learn what earns praise and what upsets people. And without really deciding to, we can begin letting those responses tell us who we are.
In my notebook I drew a line across the page. At one end I wrote 1981, the year I was born, and at the other I wrote 2080. I don't know if I'll live to be nearly a hundred, but I wanted to look at a whole lifetime on one little line. We spend the years between those two points going to school, working, raising families, building relationships, and doing the ordinary things that fill our days. And somewhere along the way, we come to depend on three answers to that question of who we are.
One answer is, I am what I do. When we're accomplishing something, when our work matters to someone, we feel useful. And there's nothing wrong with enjoying good work. But then we fail, or we reach a season when we cannot do what we used to do. Suddenly, we're not sure what to think of ourselves. We begin talking about everything we accomplished years ago because we're afraid of what it means if we can no longer accomplish those things today. Another answer is, I am what people say about me. Have you ever noticed how ten people can encourage you, and one person can criticize you, and that one conversation follows you home? You replay what was said. You wonder whether you should have answered differently. Perhaps the person has already forgotten the conversation, but you're still thinking about it the next morning. Their words have become more than an opinion. Somehow they've begun speaking to your sense of worth.
And then there's, I am what I have. Our possessions are part of that, but so are our friendships, our families, our health, and the things that make life feel familiar and safe. These are gifts worth cherishing. Yet we know they can change. Health can fail. People we love can die. A friendship can end. And alongside the real sorrow of losing something precious, we may find ourselves wondering who we are without it.
Then I drew another line in my notebook, but this one went up and down. Something goes well, and we're up. Someone disapproves, and we're down. We feel secure for a while, and then something changes. I looked at the years of my own life and realized how much energy I've spent trying to stay above that line. Trying to do enough, trying to be understood, trying not to lose the things I care about. Maybe you've experienced some of that too.
But what happens if those are the things holding our identity together? At some point we won't be able to do everything we've done before. We cannot control what others say about us, and none of us can keep all that we have. Where will we stand when those things change? I think it's worth asking, because the answer affects how we treat the people we love.
If I need your approval to know that I matter, then I'm going to be terribly concerned about whether you're pleased with me. I may start keeping track of what I've given you and what you've given back. Last week we talked about the line we sometimes draw in love, that quiet condition that says, I'll love you if. And sometimes we don't recognize that line until somebody crosses it. But John shows us someone who wasn't living that way.
2. The Security of Being Loved
Think about the baptism of Jesus. When He came up from the water, the Spirit descended, and the Father declared Him His beloved Son. This was before His public ministry and before the crowds gathered to hear Him. The Father wasn't waiting for Jesus to accomplish enough to deserve that declaration. He was already the eternal Son. When He entered the wilderness and was tempted, He didn't have to prove His identity by turning away from the Father's will.
Now, we aren't Jesus. His relationship with the Father is His eternally; ours is given through Him by grace. Paul tells us in Romans 8 that through the Spirit of adoption we cry, “Abba, Father,” and that the Spirit bears witness that we are God's children. But isn't it interesting how we can believe those words and still spend so much time worrying about what people think of us? We know what Scripture tells us, and we're still learning to live from it.
So I went back to John 13 and noticed how often John tells us what Jesus knew. In verse 1, Jesus knew His hour had come. In verse 11, He knew who would betray Him. Later He speaks of knowing those He has chosen. But listen to verse 3. Jesus knew the Father had given everything into His hands, that He had come from the Father and was returning to Him. He knew what had been entrusted to Him, where He came from, and where He was going.
And then He gets up from supper, lays aside His outer garment, takes a towel, and ties it around Himself. He pours water into a basin and begins washing His disciples' feet. These men have been walking dusty roads in sandals. Washing feet was lowly work, and their Lord and Teacher was doing it Himself. I wonder what that room felt like as He moved from one man to the next. John doesn't tell us what each disciple thought, but he does show us what Jesus did.
John tells us that the Father had placed everything into the hands of Jesus, and then he tells us about Jesus using His hands to wash their feet. The hands to which everything had been entrusted were holding the dusty feet of men who would soon fail Him. Jesus wasn't confused about who He was. He wasn't giving up His authority. Later He tells them they're right to call Him Teacher and Lord. He was their Lord while He knelt before them.
I think this is part of what John wants us to understand. Jesus knew His Father. He wasn't waiting for these men to recognize His worth before He would serve them. But that didn't mean what happened next would be painless. Later John says Jesus was troubled in His spirit as He spoke of the betrayal. Sometimes we imagine that if we really trusted the Father, other people's actions wouldn't hurt us. Yet Jesus experienced anguish and still loved. His sorrow was real, but it did not determine whether He would remain faithful.
And that brings me to something I want to share with you. I've been writing about this in my journal, trying to understand what it means to love someone freely. I'd like to let you into some of those more intimate thoughts, because I haven't been writing about an abstract problem. I've been looking at my own heart, and perhaps you'll recognize something of yours as well.
How do you love someone freely? I wonder how much of what I call love is still connected to my desire to be loved?
Now, let me tell you why I wrote that. I want to love people. I want to listen when they're hurting, to be generous with my time, and to help when I can. Many of you know this to be true because you've seen me try. You've also seen that I don't always get it right. I've said before that my life is my testimony. I don't mean it's the testimony of someone who loves perfectly. I mean it's where the Father's grace has been at work, and where I still need that grace today.
I circled that question because even when my desire to love is sincere, I can still want something back. I want to be understood and to know that what I've given has mattered. When someone doesn't respond as I'd hoped, I've had to ask myself what I'm really disappointed about. Has something wrong happened that needs addressing? Or was I hoping that person would reassure me that I mattered? Sometimes both things are true. We can be genuinely hurt and still find that our desire for approval has become tangled up in that hurt. And I wonder if you know what that's like. Maybe you've spent years caring for somebody, or you've given your time to help a friend, or you've done something quietly at church because you believed it was right. You weren't expecting applause. But you did hope someone would understand what it cost you. And when nobody seemed to notice, you felt something shift within you. You may still love that person, but now you're carrying disappointment along with your love.
There's nothing wrong with wanting affection or appreciation. We were created for relationships. But when I depend upon your response to establish my worth, I place a weight on our relationship that you can't always carry. I'm asking you not only to receive my love, but to tell me who I am. And if you can't do that, I may begin treating you differently. I don't want to stop caring about people. I want to become freer to love them without needing their response to settle something within me.
Now return to the basin. Jesus knew His Father, knew these men, and knew what was coming. He didn't need them to prove that He mattered before He would kneel. I find myself wondering what might change if we lived with greater confidence in the love the Father has given us through Christ. Could we serve without needing to be noticed? Could we be misunderstood and still respond truthfully and kindly? Could we be hurt without allowing that hurt to decide our worth?
But then Jesus comes to Peter, and the conversation takes a turn. We've been considering what it means to give love without demanding something in return. Peter helps us consider another question: what happens when we're the ones who need to receive it?
3. The Freedom to Love
When Jesus reaches Peter, Peter asks whether his Lord is really going to wash his feet. Jesus tells him he doesn't understand what is happening now, but that he will afterward. And Peter says he will never allow it. Then Jesus tells him, “If I don't wash you, you have no part with me.” Suddenly Peter wants his hands and his head washed as well. It's a remarkable exchange. Peter knows that Jesus is his Lord, but he doesn't yet understand what his Lord is offering him. And Jesus insists that Peter must receive what He is giving.
We don't know everything Peter was thinking, because John doesn't tell us. But the scene helps me consider something about myself. We want to be loved, yet receiving care can make us uncomfortable. Someone offers to help, and we say we'll be fine. Someone asks how we're doing, and we tell them everything's good, even when it isn't. Perhaps we're afraid of being a burden. Or perhaps we've spent so long being the person everyone depends upon that we don't know who we are when we're the ones in need.
We feel useful when someone needs us. We know how to solve a problem, visit someone who's hurting, or help a friend get through a hard day. Those can be beautiful ways of loving. But what happens when we're tired or grieving and cannot manage on our own? Sometimes admitting we need someone else feels like admitting we've failed. I wonder whether that's because we've begun believing again that we are what we do.
There's something about Peter that makes me think of this. Earlier he'd confessed that Jesus was the Holy One of God. Later that evening he'd promise to lay down his life for Jesus. I believe Peter meant it. But Jesus knew what Peter didn't yet know about himself: before the rooster crowed, Peter would deny Him three times. He was so certain of his loyalty and had so much to learn about his weakness. I recognize that in myself. It's easy to make promises about what we'll do for Jesus and harder to admit how much we need Him to do for us.
But the washing is more than an example of accepting someone's kindness. Jesus tells Peter that unless He washes him, Peter has no part with Him. There is a cleansing Peter cannot provide for himself. The same is true for us. We cannot remove our sins by trying harder or make ourselves holy by pretending we already are. We need the forgiveness of Christ and the work of the Spirit within us. Sometimes we spend so much energy trying to be good enough that we forget we must first receive His grace.
John writes, “We love because he first loved us.” I've been thinking about that order. We often begin by asking what we ought to do for someone else. How can I become more patient or more forgiving? Those matter, but before them comes another question: Am I willing to receive what Jesus has done for me? His love, received through faith and at work within us by the Spirit, makes a different kind of life possible.
As we learn to receive His love, perhaps we become more patient with the limits of the people around us. Someone can genuinely love you and still fail to understand what you're going through. A spouse may be tired and miss something important. A friend may care but have no idea what to say. Parents and children can deeply love one another and still misunderstand each other. We've all failed to understand someone we love. Our love was real, but it wasn't complete. And neither is theirs.
That doesn't mean excusing harm or pretending wrongdoing is only a misunderstanding. Sometimes love requires an honest conversation, repentance, and boundaries. But there are disappointments we've carried for years because someone couldn't give us what we hoped for. We remember what they didn't say or failed to notice, and sometimes we become so occupied with what was missing that we can no longer see what they did give.
Perhaps someone can't take away your sorrow, but they'll sit beside you while you grieve. They may not understand everything, but they'll listen. Can we receive that gift for what it is? Or have we become so dependent on receiving love in one particular way that we no longer recognize it when it comes differently? Learning to receive the Father's love can also teach us to receive the limited, imperfect love of other people with gratitude.
And think about what that means for us as a church. We're still being formed by grace. We have different experiences, wounds, and hopes. We'll disappoint each other sometimes. We'll need to speak honestly, ask forgiveness, and listen when someone tells us we've caused hurt. And we'll need the Spirit to do more than teach us to be polite, because we can act helpful on the outside while becoming resentful on the inside. The Father wants to make us holy in love, and that reaches the desires beneath our actions.
Look once more at the upper room. Jesus didn't wait until His disciples understood everything before He served them. He knew their coming failures and still washed their feet. Last Sunday we considered Paul's words in 1 Corinthians 13, that love is patient and kind, not self-seeking, and doesn't keep a record of wrongs. Here is Jesus loving men who could not yet love Him with that faithfulness. The next day, He would give Himself for them on the cross. The basin was part of a love that would carry Him all the way there.
When He finished washing their feet, Jesus returned to the table and asked, “Do you know what I have done for you?” He told them that if He, their Lord and Teacher, had washed their feet, they ought to wash one another's feet. Notice the order. He served them first, then called them to serve each other. We don't have to pretend we already love perfectly. We can acknowledge our need, receive His grace, and allow the Spirit to keep forming us.
So I want to return to that question from the beginning: Who am I? There are still days when I answer it by what I've accomplished or what someone thinks about me. I still get troubled by criticism or disappointed when my efforts aren't appreciated. I'm learning. But through Christ, I can return to what the Father has given me. I don't have to establish my worth by trying to stay above that line. I belong to Him through His Son, and I'm learning to live as someone who is loved.
Years later Peter wrote to the church, calling believers to clothe themselves with humility toward one another. I wonder whether he ever remembered that evening and the towel. We can't know. But we do know he was a man who failed, who was met by the risen Jesus, and who learned to care for others. And that's the kind of life I want to grow into, where the grace I've received keeps changing the way I love.
The Father had placed everything into the hands of Jesus, and Jesus used those hands to wash His disciples' feet. He knew His Father, and He knelt. This morning we're going to make some space to remember that love together.
I'll be here with a basin and towel, and if you'd like to come, I'd be glad to wash your feet. If you'd rather have your hands washed, that's fine too. And if you'd prefer to remain seated and pray, you're welcome to do that. There's no pressure. This water cannot cleanse us from sin; only Jesus can do that. But this simple act can help us remember the Lord who knelt before His disciples and called them to love one another.
As we do this, perhaps the question for us isn't first what we're going to accomplish for Jesus this week. Perhaps we can begin by asking whether we're willing to receive His love, to admit where we still need His grace, and to let that grace continue changing the way we love. And I want that work to begin right here, with me, in my own heart.