I have a sin nature.
So do you. Under the right circumstances you will do the wrong thing. You won’t want to. You’ll try not to, but you will. Why? You have a sin nature.
You were born with it. We all were. Our parents didn’t teach us to throw temper tantrums; we were born with the skill. No one showed us how to steal a cookie from our sibling; we just knew. We never attended a class on pouting or passing the blame, but we could do both before we were out of our diapers.
Each one of us entered the world with a sin nature.
God entered the world to take it away. But it would come at great cost.
Look carefully at the words the angel spoke to Joseph.
Joseph son of David, do not be afraid to take Mary home as your wife, because what is conceived in her is from the Holy Spirit. She will give birth to a son, and you are to give him the name Jesus, because he will save his people from their sins. (Matt. 1:20–21)
We may not see the connection between the name Jesus and the phrase “save his people from their sins,” but Joseph would have. He was familiar with the Hebrew language. The English name Jesus traces its origin to the Hebrew word Yeshua. Yeshua is a shortening of Yehoshuah, which means “Yahweh saves.”
Who was Jesus? God saves.
What did Jesus come to do? God saves.
God saves, not God empathizes, cares, listens, helps, assists, or applauds. God saves. Specifically “he will save his people from their sins” (v. 21). Jesus came to save us, not just from politics, enemies, challenges, or difficulties. He came to save us from ourselves.
Here’s why. God has high plans for you and me. He is recruiting for himself a people who will populate heaven. God will restore his planet and his children to their garden of Eden splendor. It will be perfect. Perfect in splendor. Perfect in righteousness. Perfect in harmony.
One word describes heaven: perfect.
One word describes us: imperfect.
God’s kingdom is perfect, but his children are not, so what is he to do? Abandon us? Start over? He could. But he loves us too much to do that.
Will he tolerate us with our sin nature? Populate heaven with rebellious, self-centered citizens? If so, how would heaven be heaven?
It wouldn’t. But God had a plan, a story he was writing from the beginning. The main character? Christ. The climax of the action? It began in the Upper Room.
Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into His hands, and that He had come from God and was going to God, rose from supper and laid aside His garments, took a towel and girded Himself. After that, He poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet, and to wipe them with the towel with which He was girded. (John 13:3–5 NKJV)
This was the eve of the crucifixion and Jesus’ final meal with his followers. John wanted us to know what Jesus knew. Jesus knew he had all authority. He knew he was sent from heaven. He knew he was destined for heaven. Jesus was certain about his identity and destiny. Because he knew who he was, he could do what he did.
He “rose from supper.” When Jesus stood up, the disciples surely perked up. They may have thought Jesus was about to teach them something. He was, but not with words.
He then “laid aside His garments.” Even the simple seamless garment of a rabbi was too ostentatious for the task at hand.
Jesus hung his cloak on a hook and girded the towel around his waist. He then took a pitcher of water and emptied it into a bowl. The only sound was the splash as Jesus filled the basin.
The next sound was the tap of the bowl as Jesus placed it on the floor. Then the shuffle of leather as he untied and removed the first of the two dozen sandals. There was more splashing as Jesus placed two feet, dirty as they were, into the water. He massaged the toes. He cupped crusty heels in his hands. He dried the feet with his towel. He then stood, emptied the basin of dirty water, filled it with fresh, and repeated the process on the next set of feet.
Splash. Wash. Massage. Dry.
How much time do you think this cleansing required? Supposing Jesus took two or three minutes per foot, this act would have taken the better part of an hour. Keep in mind, Jesus was down to his final minutes with his followers. If his three years with them were measured by sand in an hourglass, only a few grains had yet to fall. Jesus chose to use them in this silent sacrament of humility.
No one spoke. No one, that is, except Peter, who always had something to say. When he objected, Jesus insisted, going so far as to tell Peter, “If I do not wash you, you have no part with Me” (v. 8 NKJV).
Peter requested a bath.
Later that night the disciples realized the enormity of this gesture. They had pledged to stay with their Master, but those pledges melted like wax in the heat of the Roman torches. When the soldiers marched in, the disciples ran out.
I envision them sprinting until, depleted of strength, they plopped to the ground and let their heads fall forward as they looked wearily at the dirt. That’s when they saw the feet Jesus had just washed. That’s when they realized he had given them grace before they even knew they needed it.
Jesus forgave his betrayers before they betrayed him.
He didn’t exclude a single follower, though we wouldn’t have faulted him had he bypassed Philip. When Jesus told the disciples to feed the throng of five thousand hungry people, Philip retorted, “It’s impossible!” (John 6:7, paraphrased). So what does Jesus do with someone who questions his commands? Apparently he washes the doubter’s feet.
James and John lobbied for cabinet-level positions in Christ’s kingdom. So what does Jesus do when people use his kingdom for personal advancement? He slides a basin in their direction.
Peter quit trusting Christ in the storm. He tried to talk Christ out of going to the cross. Within hours Peter would curse the very name of Jesus and hightail his way into hiding. In fact, all twenty-four of Jesus’ followers’ feet would soon scoot, leaving Jesus to face his accusers alone. Do you ever wonder what God does with promise breakers? He washes their feet.
And Judas. The lying, conniving, greedy rat who sold Jesus down the river for a pocket of cash. Jesus wouldn’t wash his feet, would he? Sure hope not. If he washed the feet of his Judas, you will have to wash the feet of yours. Your betrayer. Your turkey-throwing misfit and miscreant. That ne’er-do-well, that good-for-nothing villain. Jesus’ Judas walked away with thirty pieces of silver. Your Judas walked away with your security, spouse, job, childhood, retirement, investments.
You expect me to wash his feet and let him go?
Most people don’t want to. They use the villain’s photo as a dartboard. Their Vesuvius erupts every now and again, sending hate airborne, polluting and stinking the world. Most people keep a pot of anger on low boil.
But you aren’t “most people.” Grace has happened to you. Look at your feet. They are wet, grace soaked. Your toes and arches and heels have felt the cool basin of God’s grace. Jesus has washed the grimiest parts of your life. He didn’t bypass you and carry the basin toward someone else. If grace were a wheat field, he’s bequeathed you the state of Kansas. Can’t you share your grace with others?
“Since I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash each other’s feet. I have given you an example to follow. Do as I have done to you” (John 13:14–15 NLT).
If you think washing the disciples’ feet was the ultimate act of servitude, just wait. It was only the beginning. The hours that followed hold the most remarkable example of service, humility, and sacrifice that Jesus’ followers, and anyone since, have ever seen.
It was nearly midnight when they left the Upper Room and descended through the streets of the city. They passed the Lower Pool and exited the Fountain Gate and walked out of Jerusalem. The roads were lined with the fires and tents of Passover pilgrims. Most were asleep, heavied with the evening meal. Those still awake thought little of the band of men walking the chalky road.
They passed through the valley and ascended the path that would take them to Gethsemane. The road was steep, so they stopped to rest. Somewhere within the city walls the twelfth apostle darted down a street. His feet had been washed by the man he would betray. His heart had been claimed by the evil one he had heard. He ran to find Caiaphas.
The final encounter of the battle had begun.
As Jesus looked at the city of Jerusalem, he saw what the disciples couldn’t. It is here, on the outskirts of Jerusalem, that the battle would end. He saw the staging of Satan. He saw the dashing of the demons. He saw the evil one preparing for the final encounter. The Enemy lurked as a specter over the hour. Satan, the host of hatred, had seized the heart of Judas and whispered in the ear of Caiaphas. Satan, the master of death, had opened the caverns and prepared to receive the source of light.
Hell was breaking loose.
History records it as a battle of the Jews against Jesus. It wasn’t. It was a battle of God against Satan.
And Jesus knew it. He knew that before the war was over, he would be taken captive. He knew that before victory would come defeat. He knew that before he sat on the throne again, he would have to drink the cup. He knew that before the light of Sunday would come the blackness of Friday.
And he was afraid . . .
Never had he felt so alone. What must be done, only he could do. An angel couldn’t do it. No angel has the power to break open hell’s gates. A human couldn’t do it. No human has the purity to destroy sin’s claim. No force on earth can face the force of evil and win—except God.
“The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak,” Jesus confessed (Mark 14:38). His humanity begged to be delivered from what his divinity could see. Jesus, the carpenter, implored. Jesus, the man, peered into the dark pit and begged, “Can’t there be another way?”
Did he know the answer before he asked the question? Did his human heart hope his heavenly Father had found another way? We don’t know. But we do know he asked to get out. We do know he begged for an exit. We do know there was a time when he could have turned his back on the whole mess and gone away.
But he didn’t.
He didn’t because he saw you right there in the middle of a world that isn’t fair. He saw you cast into a river of life you didn’t request. He saw you betrayed by those you love. He saw you with a body that gets sick and a heart that grows weak.
He saw you in your own garden of gnarled trees and sleeping friends. He saw you staring into the pit of your own failures and the mouth of your own grave.
He saw you in your Garden of Gethsemane—and he didn’t want you to be alone.
He wanted you to know that he has been there too. He knows what it’s like to be plotted against. He knows what it’s like to be conflicted. He knows what it’s like to be torn between two desires. He knows what it’s like to smell the stench of Satan. And, perhaps most of all, he knows what it’s like to beg God to change his mind and to hear God say so gently, but firmly, “No.”
For that is what God said to Jesus. And Jesus accepted the answer. At some moment during that midnight hour, an angel of mercy came over the weary body of the man in the garden. As he stood, the anguish was gone from his eyes. His fist would clench no more. His heart would fight no more.
The battle was won. You may have thought it was won on Golgotha. It wasn’t. You may have thought the sign of victory was the empty tomb. It wasn’t. The final battle was won in Gethsemane. And the sign of conquest was Jesus at peace in the olive trees.
For it was in the garden that he made his decision. He would rather go to hell for you than go to heaven without you.
Around nine o’clock the next morning, Jesus stumbled to the cleft of Skull Hill. A soldier pressed a knee on his forearm and drove a spike through one hand, then the other, then both feet. As the Romans lifted the cross, they unwittingly placed Christ in the very position in which he came to die—between humanity and God.
A priest on his own altar.
Noises intermingled on the hill: Pharisees mocking, swords clanging, and dying men groaning. Jesus scarcely spoke. When he did, diamonds sparkled against velvet. He gave his killers grace and his mother a son. He answered the prayer of a thief and asked for a drink from a soldier.
Then, at midday, darkness fell like a curtain. “At noon the whole country was covered with darkness, which lasted for three hours” (Matt. 27:45 GNT).
This was a supernatural darkness, not a casual gathering of clouds or a brief eclipse of the sun. This was a three-hour blanket of blackness. Merchants in Jerusalem lit candles. Soldiers ignited torches. Parents worried. People everywhere asked, “From whence comes this noonday night?” As far away as Egypt, the historian Dionysius took notice of the black sky and wrote, “Either the God of nature is suffering, or the machine of the world is tumbling into ruin.”1
Of course the sky was dark; people were killing the Light of the World.
The universe grieved as God said it would. “On that day . . . I will make the sun go down at noon, and darken the earth in broad daylight. . . . I will make it like the mourning for an only son, and the end of it like a bitter day” (Amos 8:9–10 RSV).
The sky wept. And a lamb bleated. Remember the time of the scream? “At about three o’clock, Jesus called out” (Matt. 27:46 NLT). Three o’clock in the afternoon, the hour of the temple sacrifice. Less than a mile to the east a finely clothed priest led a lamb to the slaughter, unaware that his work was futile. Heaven was not looking at the lamb of man but at “the Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world” (John 1:29 RSV).