It had been a thrilling five days for the twelve disciples. First there was the entrance of their teacher and friend into Jerusalem. Jesus may have been riding on a humble colt, but the people were so excited to see him, they spread their cloaks on the road. On that day, it seemed the whole multitude in Jerusalem had become his disciples—greeting him with joyful praise and loud voices. It was too much for some of the Pharisees in the crowd, but they couldn't get Jesus to quiet his followers.
Then Jesus had entered the temple. What a scene he created! He had the nerve to drive out people who were selling things. The leaders, of course, were furious, but they couldn't do anything because all the people were spellbound by what Jesus said. He taught in the temple every day that week. Some of the scribes and chief priests sent spies to try and trap him in what he said, but they couldn't: he silenced them with his brilliant answers. The Saducees couldn't stump him, either, with their question about the resurrection. Even some of the scribes had to admit, "Teacher, you have spoken well." No one dared to keep asking questions. The people would get up early every day to come and listen to him.
And they—the disciples—were part of the inner circle. Two of them had gotten the colt for Jesus. It was just as Jesus predicted: they went into a village, found a colt that had never been ridden, and when the owners asked, "Why are you untying it?" they said "The Lord needs it," and the owners let them take it! It was incredible. And then there was the excitement of preparing for Passover. It was like a spy mission: Jesus sent Peter and John to meet a man in the city carrying a jar of water, and they found him. He led them to a house, and when they met the owner and said the secret password—"The teacher asks you, 'Where is the guest room, where I may eat the Passover with my disciples?'"—he showed them a large upper room, already furnished. It was amazing.
And here they were, just the twelve of them with Jesus, sharing the Passover meal: the lamb, the unleavened bread, the wine. But it was turning out to be different than other Passover meals. As Jesus gave them bread and wine, he said those moving but strange words about his body being broken for them, and the cup being poured out for them, as a new covenant in his blood. The disciples might have been reminded of other disturbing things Jesus had told them that week: that the temple would be destroyed, and that the last days were coming, bringing terror and distress. And of course they would have remembered that before coming to Jerusalem, Jesus had said—more than once—that he would be betrayed and killed. They had tried not to think about, but now Jesus said the one to betray him had his hand upon the table. They could deny it no longer.
So they began asking one other: who could it be? Who among them would do such a thing? They must have started remembering things that now seemed suspicious. Things like: Bartholomew's awfully quiet. What's he thinking about? Or Philip was never enthusiastic about those mission trips. Could it be him? Or Judas, son of James, he's always going off by himself. What's he doing? And Peter! He's such a teacher's pet—but maybe that's his cover. And as they began questioning one another, they must have started defending themselves. Naturally, they would have pointed out what excellent and faithful disciples they were, what great sacrifices they had made to follow Jesus. Perhaps James and John had talked about the successful fishing practice they had abandoned. Levi might have pointed out that he made a lot of money as a tax collector, but had left it all behind. They might have boasted about the number of healings they had done or the number of demons they had cast out on their missions in the countryside. The disciples who got the colt might have pointed out that Jesus chose them for that special task, and of course Peter and John could argue that they were the ones entrusted with the preparation of the Passover meal. So a dispute arose among them, as to which one of them was to be regarded as the greatest.
And there was Jesus, still at the table, forgotten. He might have been hoping for some words of concern or even some questions about the new covenant, but the disciples were off—engrossed in this burning discussion about themselves. Like the junior high school teacher who inadvertently uses a word with a sexual double meaning—he saw his lesson plan go out the window as the dinner conversation fell into chaos.
Many people have pointed out that the behavior of the disciples no doubt reflected the struggle for power and status in Luke's community. We know, from the book of Acts, that in the early church there were many arguments over who had authority, and who was the greater apostle. The church hasn't changed. Here at Rutgers folks don't seem to be caught up in discussions about who should be regarded as the greatest in the congregation—although perhaps I'm just not privy to those conversations. But I will reveal, and confess, that ministers dispute this about each other. We're always wondering, even if we don't say it, who should be regarded as the greatest pastor among us. Presbytery meetings—we had one yesterday—are the perfect opportunities for such speculation. The meetings themselves are about issues of church governance or money or evangelism or social justice. And we usually avoid personal attacks, even when they're contentious. But the post-Presbytery dissections are another story altogether. In car rides on the way home, or over post-Presbytery beers, the conversation almost always centers on other pastors: who said what, who's so smart or who's so crazy, who's doing a good job, whose church is in trouble, who talks too much, who can really preach. Few of us would claim to be the greatest pastor in the Presbytery, even in the secret of our hearts, but we do wonder who is and how we might compare. These conversations are very interesting—and Jesus never enters into them. He may still be sitting at the table, but he's long forgotten.
Now, before we're too harsh on ourselves, or the disciples, this talk doesn't necessarily come out of a lust for power or inflated egos. More often, it's fueled by fear and insecurity. The disciples knew terrible things were coming: Jesus said he would be killed. He even said that they, the disciples, would be arrested and persecuted, brought before kings and governors because of his name, and that some of them would be put to death. Also, as far as they knew, Jesus had not yet been betrayed—perhaps they feared that, in a moment of weakness, they could become the traitor. No wonder they clung to their spiritual achievements and whatever advantage they could claim. We do this, too—especially in times of budget deficits or declining church attendance or in times of international tensions or pastoral transition. If there are people below us, the thinking goes, maybe we'll be OK. But any way you slice it, arguing over who is the greatest is still sin.
We don't know how long the disciples argued. But finally, Jesus broke in. He said to them, "The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those in authority over them are called benefactors. But not so with you; rather the greatest among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves. For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves."
In other words, look at me. I have served you. At my table there is no greatest and youngest, leader and servant: rather the great among you must become like the youngest, and the leader like one who serves. I am among you as one who serves. Look at me.
Look at me, Jesus might have said. I did not enter Jerusalem riding in a chariot, at the head of a mighty army, but on a young colt that had never been ridden. Look at me, Jesus might have said, I was born to Mary, who was young, single, and poor. Look at me, Jesus might have said, my birth was announced to shepherds, those lowly field hands who do not even have a bed to sleep in at night. Look at me, he might have said, I ate with tax collectors and sinners—and Pharisees—I dined at the house of Zaccheus. Look at me, Jesus might have said, I welcomed children, children you wanted to turn away. Look at me, Jesus might have said, I will die on a cross, at the command of an empire, with criminals on my right and on my left.
So let us look at Jesus. During Holy Week, we are called to watch as he has the last supper with the disciples, goes to Gethsemene, and is arrested. To follow him to the cross and to look on as he is crucified. And maybe we'll understand, as we look at the cross, that we can stop arguing over who is the greatest. That we do not need to prove ourselves at the expense of others. That we do not have to cling to wealth or power or status. That Jesus refused all that, coming to us as one who serves. That—in a way that we will never fully understand—the cross frees us from sin.
And then we'll stand vigil over the tomb, and wait for signs of the resurrection. The resurrection that assures us of Christ's love and power. The resurrection that shows us the cross was not simply one more example of the powerful crushing the weak, because the cross was not the end of the story.
So let's stop our arguing about who is the greatest, and turn, and look, and follow Jesus.