Mending Our Need to Control

John 13: 1 – 17

Friends, as we step into John’s Gospel this morning, we enter a scene where so much of what we think we know about God, about love, and about power begins to unravel—and to be mended in a new way.

John has spent twelve chapters preparing us for this moment, showing us Jesus moving through the world not as someone grasping for power, but as someone revealing it through relationship and transformation. Jesus has refused at every turn to let others control his timeline, his identity, or his mission. Still, the disciples have been doing what we do—trying to put Jesus into categories, roles, and reactions that make sense to them.

But now, on the night before Passover, when everything is coming to a head, Jesus offers them not control, but love. Not clarity, but communion. Not power over, but power under.

The moment Jesus gets up from the table—during the meal, right in the middle of the familiar rhythms—something shifts. Foot‑washing was supposed to happen earlier, done by servants, done before dinner, done in a way that kept social roles neatly intact.

But Jesus refuses to let those social roles control of the script.

He takes off his outer garment, ties a towel around his waist, pours water into a basin, and begins to wash the disciples’ feet. It’s not only an act of love—it’s an interruption. It is Jesus gently but firmly loosening the disciples’ grip on control.

They had a role for him: Teacher. Lord. Master.
But now he is kneeling.

They had a role for themselves: followers who serve the leader.
But now they are being served.

And that is deeply uncomfortable. Because if Jesus doesn’t stay in his expected role, then neither can they. Neither can we.

Peter shows us this better than anyone. He resists not because he doesn’t love Jesus, but because he does. He wants to protect Jesus’ dignity… and perhaps his own. He wants to stay in a role he knows—I serve you; you never serve me.

But Jesus seems to recognize that Peter’s resistance is rooted in something deeper: the fear of losing control.

Receiving love—real love, tender love, love that kneels to serve—is terrifying. Because it means letting go of the story we’ve been telling about ourselves. It means allowing someone else to touch the places we try to manage and hide.

Jesus washes the feet that have walked with him through dusty roads, confusion, mistakes, misunderstandings. He tends to the parts of them that are most human, most vulnerable, least “in control.”

And he says with his actions:
“You don’t get to control how I love you.”

Which means we cannot control the outcomes of that love either.
We cannot control who God chooses to raise up.
We cannot control which parts of us are healed first.
We cannot control the path through which God’s grace finds us.

The disciples knew exactly how their world worked.
Power flowed from the top down.
Honor followed titles.
Roles were fixed.
Everyone knew their place.

And we know this world well. We live in it every day.
We often cling to these structures—not because they’re holy, but because they’re predictable. They give us the illusion of control. If I can stay at the top of the hierarchy, or at least in a stable spot where I know my role and know who is above and below me, maybe I can keep myself safe.

But Jesus dismantles the whole thing on the spot.

He kneels.
He serves.
He loves.

And in doing so, he mends the damage that our grasping for control has caused.

Because control always divides: who is in charge, who is worthy, who is important, who is useful.
But love gathers. Love levels. Love heals.

This is not Jesus losing power—it is Jesus redefining it.
This is not Jesus surrendering authority—it is Jesus revealing true authority.

Jesus tells his disciples—and us—“You are blessed if you do these things.”
Not if you understand them.
Not if you admire them.
Not if you can write a theological essay about them.

You are blessed if you let go—if you step into love that costs you your illusions of control.

Because friend, receiving love like Jesus offers and loving others like Jesus loves will cost us:

• It will cost us the belief that we know the right outcomes.
• It will cost us the comfort of fixed roles.
• It will cost us the power we hold to protect ourselves.
• It will cost us the safety of staying in charge.

And yet, every place where we surrender control becomes a place where God can create something better—something freer, something truer.

To wash another’s feet—or to allow our feet to be washed—is to say:
“I will not use power to stay above you, and I will not use pride to stay apart from you.”

It is to embrace the vulnerability of mutuality.
It is to trust love more than we trust control.

And yes—it is hard.
Letting go always is.
But control has never saved us. Love has.

As I sat with this text this week, I found myself wanting to tease out how the world is reordered by what Jesus does. Perhaps the best question today is: How is it that Jesus trying to loosen our grip? The grip we think we have?

Maybe we’ve been trying to control the story of our lives.
Maybe we’ve been trying to control how others perceive us.
Maybe we’ve been trying to control our place in a world of hierarchies.
Maybe we’ve been trying to control God—how God works, whom God loves, where God shows up.

But in the upper room, Jesus invites us into a different posture—one where we unclench our hands, step out of scripted roles, and let love dismantle the structures we use to keep ourselves safe or comfortable.

The kingdom of God is not built on control.
It is built on communion—on love poured into a basin and passed from one person to another, on bread and cup shared at a table where all belong.

So what would it look like for us to become the kind of community that practices this with great intention?

It would look like releasing the need to always be right or the ones who know what is right.
It would look like releasing the need to always be strong.
It would look like releasing the need to be the one who helps, instead of the one who receives.

It would look like trusting that God’s Spirit is at work in others as much as in us.
It would look like letting go of justification, domination, perfectionism.
It would look like reimagining power—not as something to hold, but something to share.

It would look like washing feet.
And letting our feet be washed.
Over and over again.

Jesus loved his disciples “to the end”—beyond their expectations, beyond their comfort, beyond their control.

And he loves us the same way.

So today, may we release our grip—
On outcomes.
On roles.
On power.
On the illusion that control can protect us.

Because when our need to control is mended by love, we find the freedom Jesus has been offering all along.

May we have courage to receive that mending love at our feet.
May we have humility to extend that mending love to others.
And may we become—by grace—a community where control is surrendered, and Christ’s love is the only power that remains.

Amen.