When I was at clergy conference earlier this week, my friend Claiborne Jones, who is the rector of the Church of the Epiphany in Decatur, told me what one of her parishioners said to her after church one Sunday. The man said, “I was driving down the road, and I saw a religious bumper sticker on the car in front of me. I thought it was just awful— terrible theology. Then I pulled up next to the car at a light, and whom did I see inside? My rector!”

I knew immediately the bumper sticker Claiborne’s parishioner was talking about. I’ve seen it on Claiborne’s car many times, and, unlike her parishioner, I always thought it was funny. Across the top of the bumper sticker, in large letters, it says: “Jesus loves you.” Under that, in slightly smaller script, it says, “But I’m his favorite.”

I think when the man from Epiphany realized that the bumper sticker was intended to be tongue-in-cheek, he probably laughed (at least, I hope he did). And, I think Jesus laughs with us when we laugh at ourselves like that. But, you know, we’re laughing at ourselves because that bumper sticker really does get at a sad truth about most of us human type beings. We want to be the favorite, the greatest.

I’ll tell you when Jesus wasn’t laughing; it was when his disciples were talking about who would be the greatest and they were not doing it tongue-in-cheek. Far from being a joke, the scene is set for this to be a turn that is so disheartening that I really marvel that Jesus didn’t just shout at them all to just get away from him so he could start all over.

We’ve just heard Peter’s confession at Caesarea Philippi: “You are the Messiah.” Then Jesus began talking about what that meant — disgrace, torture, death. Peter rebuked him: “Don’t talk like that!” Jesus said, “Get behind me Satan!” and went on to say, “You must take up your cross if you want to follow me. If you would save your life, you must lose it.”

Well, they obviously don’t get the message, so Jesus takes them to Galilee and tries to keep their presence a secret so he can focus on teaching these disciples that he will be betrayed, and killed, and rise again. But they don’t understand; I mean, this is not how the Messiah, the power and presence of God, is supposed to talk. And they remember Jesus’ rebuke to Peter when he didn’t get it, so they do what most of us so often do when we don’t get it and we’re intimidated; they say, “Uh-huh,” without a clue. And they avoid walking with Jesus and stick to themselves.

When they get to Capernaum, in the house at last, Jesus asks, “What were you arguing about on the way?” They are so busted.

There was a long silence. A long silence. A long, uncomfortable silence. The kind of silence experienced in an elementary school classroom when a student is looking at his feet wishing with all his being that he could either go back in time or be anywhere but in that place, with that teacher waiting for an answer about what he did. They were silent because while Jesus had been telling them that he must suffer and die, that they must lose their lives to save them, they had been arguing about who was the greatest. “Jesus loves you. But I’m his favorite.”

Claiborne’s bumper sticker is funny because it’s making fun of our tendency to want to be the greatest. But this is just them doing that, and it isn’t funny. I imagine Jesus’ spirit just deflating. I imagine him having to catch his breath after what must have felt like a blow to the belly.

But he does. Thanks be to God, he never gives up on them no matter how idiotic they act (which is something I take comfort in). He sits them down (a sign that he has an important teaching) and says, “Whoever wants to be first must be last and servant of all.”

Now, this is upsetting. This is more talk that doesn’t sound to them like God’s presence and power. When Jesus talks about servants, that doesn’t conjure up images of someone who graciously offers to clear the table. A servant was someone who belonged to another person. A servant was a nobody. Servants had no rights. They were poor and dependent on their masters. Jesus tells them (and us) that we are to pursue a life of service that is unconcerned with acquisition, or prestige, or power (as the world understands it), or pride, or even thanks.

Then he picks up a child. Another “wrong” move. In Jesus’ time, children were open and loving, of course, but Jesus is about the only one to value that. In Jesus’ time, children weren’t considered warm, sweet, little people who were cherished gifts from God. Children were the lowest of the low, nobodies. They were helpless, valueless, with no rights, totally dependent. A child represented only the potential for being of any use at all. Jesus tells the disciples that this is whom they are to welcome. This is the model —Childlike service to others, not to our own pride.

So, if you are a servant, if you strive to be childlike, what can you expect? Well, our culture employs a system of rewards that actively discourages such a perspective. When was the last time you saw Nike give a kid a multi-million dollar endorsement contract for excellence in service? When did you last hear of a scholarship being awarded based on a childlike willingness to trust, or a recognition of one’s own helplessness? People who want to serve can expect lots of lip service from our culture, but little help. In the State of the Union address in 2002, President Bush drew applause by promising to expand Americorps by 50%, empowering tens of thousands of idealistic young Americans to serve their country and help the disadvantaged. Now the President and Congress have slashed the Americorps budget by 80%, leaving many of these young, service-minded people in the lurch.

Childlike service is not an easy way to live. You will be swimming directly against everything in our culture that encourages us to live for rewards and recognition and compensation and public thanks. Jesus gives us an entirely new perspective, a new way of seeing, a new way of centering our lives. We are told that to save our lives, we must see, center, and live as servants. And we must de-center our lives away from culture and conventional wisdom. That is greatness — greatness through humility.

But there’s a funny thing about achieving greatness through humility; if you know you’ve got it, you don’t. It’s like the joke about the man who says, “I’m very humble, and proud of it.”

Jesus asked them, “What were you arguing about,” and there was a long, uncomfortable silence as they looked at their feet. They had been concerned with their own stature, their own pride. And so are all of us, at times. Is there anyone here who, when asked by Jesus whether we’ve lived a life motivated by pure service, pure humility, wouldn’t have to look at our feet in embarrassed silence? I don’t think so.

So, if it was that hard for the disciples, and it’s this hard for us, why even try to live that way? Why not just go with the flow and devote your life to power, prestige, money, acknowledgment, being the greatest?

The answer is simple. I’ve seen it so many times in my life, and so many times in the lives of others. I know you’ve seen it too. I’ve seen that at the end of the day, sometimes at the end of life, to be the greatest — to have accolades and honors and money and prestige — doesn’t mean much. When people talk to me about what’s really meaningful in life, whether that be in my office or on their deathbed, what they talk about, with regret or joy, always relates to service and selfless giving for others. People talk about relationships established in that kind of self-giving love, or about opportunities lost.

Why live that hard way? Because Jesus was, of course, right. It’s the only way to really live.