March 16, 2026
Servant leadership is one of those phrases that gets used so often it has almost stopped meaning anything. We put it on leadership retreat agendas and LinkedIn bios, and somewhere in the process it got domesticated — turned into a management style instead of what it actually is: a scandalous, pride-killing act that the most powerful person in the room chose to perform on his knees. When Jesus washing feet at the Last Supper is examined not as a sweet devotional moment but as the social earthquake it was in first-century Palestine, the whole picture changes. It was an act of deliberate humiliation — chosen freely, performed on people who had just been arguing about who among them was the greatest — and it was meant to be remembered. What follows is an attempt to sit with what that moment actually cost, and what it might ask of us today.
The story begins before Jesus ever picks up the towel. Two of his closest disciples — Simon Peter and John — had been sent ahead to prepare the space for the Passover meal. In the ancient Near East, foot washing wasn't optional sentimentality. People walked dirt roads in open sandals all day. By the time you arrived anywhere, your feet were genuinely filthy. The custom of hospitality was clear: at minimum, a host left a basin of water by the door so guests could wash their own feet — a gesture that communicated equality. If a servant was present, they would kneel and wash the guest's feet as a sign of honor. If the host themselves stooped to do it, that was a declaration: I find you so valuable I will lower myself to lift you up.
Simon Peter and John knew all of this. They were the hosts. And neither of them moved. What Pastor Justin Ulrich described in unpacking this passage is a slow, painful game of chicken — each disciple arriving, each one noting the unwashed feet, each one sitting down anyway. Not one of the twelve made a move, because to reach for the basin was to admit you were beneath someone else in the room. Twelve grown men sat down to the most significant meal in human history with dirty feet, too proud to serve and too proud to ask to be served.
Then Jesus arrived. And still nobody moved. In John 13:3, the apostle John takes care to note that Jesus knew the Father had put all things under his power — that he had come from God and was returning to God. John wants you to understand the full weight of what happens next: the most powerful person in the room, the one with every reason to demand the seat of honor, got up, took off his rabbi's cloak — the garment that marked his authority — wrapped a towel around his waist, and got on his knees.
Try this actionable step for today: notice one place this week where you stayed in your seat because moving felt like losing.
If you want to understand what Terraforma actually believes about pride, love, and the way of Jesus, explore it here.
When Jesus reached Simon Peter in that room, Peter's response was not gratitude. It was refusal. "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" There is a whole world of feeling packed into that question. Peter should have been the one kneeling — he knew it, and the shame of knowing it made receiving the gesture almost unbearable. "You will never wash my feet," he said. An absolute. The kind of thing you say when the help being offered exposes something you'd rather not look at.
Jesus' answer is one of the most direct things he says in the entire gospel of John: "Unless I wash you, you have no part with me." This isn't a threat — it's a diagnosis. There is something every person carries that they cannot clean up on their own. The pride, the wandering, the selfish calculations that run quietly in the background of even the most well-intentioned life — none of that yields to effort or willpower alone. It has to be received. Simon Peter's instinct, like most people's instinct, was to earn his way to cleanliness. Jesus said that option isn't on the table.
This is the part of the passage that lands differently depending on where you are. Some people are genuinely good at showing up for others — they're reliable, present, capable. But they have never learned how to let anyone show up for them. The self-sufficiency that serves them so well in the Loudoun County professional world — the thing that got them the job, the promotion, the mortgage — becomes a wall the moment they actually need something. The actionable step here is small and uncomfortable: identify one area of your life where you are refusing help you actually need, and tell one person about it. Not a solution — just an admission.
For those wondering what it looks like to move from isolation into something more connected, Terraforma's small groups exist for exactly this kind of moment. Learn more here.
After Jesus finished washing every disciple's feet — including the feet of Judas Iscariot, who had already agreed to betray him for a handful of coins — he put his cloak back on and sat down. Then he asked a question: "Do you understand what I have done for you?" What follows in John 13:14–15 is not a theological lecture. It is a very practical instruction: Now that I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also should wash one another's feet. I have set you an example that you should do as I have done for you.
The question of what this looks like in practice is harder than it sounds. Pastor Justin Ulrich's answer — drawn from the text — is that the truest form of this service happens in obscurity. Not the kind of serving that comes with a plaque or a mention from the stage or even a thank-you. The kind that happens when you let a coworker take credit for work that was mostly yours. The kind that happens at 11pm when your teenager crawls into your room and needs something you genuinely do not have left to give, and you give it anyway. The kind that happens when Jamie Ulrich comes home at 10% and Justin, at 30% himself, says I've got the kids — take care of you — not because he had it, but because love asked him to.
The pre-fame example Pastor Justin cited is worth sitting with: before King David ever stood in front of Goliath, he was faithfully delivering lunch to soldiers. The notoriety came later. The character was built in obscurity first. The actionable step today is to find one task this week — something practical, something unglamorous, something nobody will notice — and do it without telling anyone.
The contrast between how our culture defines influence and how Jesus modeled it is not subtle — it is total. The table below names what that difference actually looks like when it moves from concept to daily life.
The world's way: Protect your position, guard your status, and measure success by how far up you have moved.
The way of the towel: Willingly move toward the lowest task in the room, even when no one is watching and nothing is gained.
The world's way: Show up for others when there is credit to be earned, recognition to be received, or an audience to notice.
The way of the towel: Do the unglamorous work in secret, and hold your need for acknowledgment underwater until it stops fighting back.
The world's way: Self-sufficiency is the goal — needing others is a liability, and asking for help is something to avoid or apologize for.
The way of the towel: Acknowledging what you cannot fix or earn on your own is not weakness; it is the beginning of something real.
The world's way: The story you tell about your contribution, your effort, and your results is how influence is built and maintained.
The way of the towel: The question is not who gets the credit — it is whether love happened and whether you were there to serve it.
Practicing the way of the towel looks different for everyone, but the sermon points to a recognizable pattern. It shows up as:
There is something specific about life in Brambleton and the broader Ashburn corridor that makes this tension feel very close. The commute on Route 267, the performance pressure at work, the carpool line, the HOA inbox, the sense that everyone around you is managing everything with more ease than you are — it creates a particular kind of exhaustion that is hard to name out loud. Terraforma Church meets on Sunday mornings at Brambleton Middle School, and it is the kind of place that is not interested in adding one more thing to your calendar unless it actually gives something back. If any of this landed somewhere real for you, there is no pressure — but the door is genuinely open.
Jesus did not model servant leadership as a strategy — he modeled it as the truest picture of what love does when it has nothing to prove. The most powerful person in the room got on his knees for the proudest, most oblivious people in the room, and he called it an example worth following. That is still the invitation.
If you want to explore this further or find a community that is genuinely trying to live it out, you are welcome to plan your visit and see what Sundays at Terraforma look like. Or if you're not ready for that, feel free to contact us and ask whatever you need to ask first.
Q: What does Jesus washing feet at the Last Supper mean?
A: When Jesus washed his disciples' feet in John 13, he was deliberately taking on the role of the lowest servant in the room — despite being the most powerful person present. It was a living illustration of the cross: a picture of how far he was willing to descend to lift others up. The act was also a direct rebuke of the disciples' ongoing argument about who among them was the greatest.
Q: How do I serve others humbly when I keep wanting recognition for it?
A: The desire for recognition is not a character flaw — it is a deeply human reflex. The practice Jesus modeled was not the suppression of that desire but the deliberate choice to serve anyway, in ways that are hidden and unglamorous. One place to start is finding one small act of service this week that you commit to not mentioning to anyone.
Q: How do I overcome pride in leadership?
A: Pride in leadership most often shows up not as arrogance but as an unwillingness to be seen needing help, or as a quiet insistence on credit. John 13 suggests the antidote is not self-criticism but a concrete practice: look for the lowest, least-noticed task in your environment and do it. The character formed in obscurity is what eventually qualifies a person for greater responsibility.
Q: What does it mean to serve in secret without anyone knowing?
A: Serving in secret means choosing acts of care and contribution that offer no social return — no recognition, no appreciation, sometimes not even awareness from the person you served. The theology behind it is straightforward: if the only service you offer is the kind that gets noticed, the thing being served is your own need for significance, not the person in front of you.
Q: How do I let people help me when I'm too proud to receive it?
A: Simon Peter's instinct to refuse Jesus was rooted in shame — the awareness that he should have been the one serving. Receiving help requires acknowledging that there are things you cannot fix, earn, or manage on your own. Starting small helps: name one area of genuine need to one trusted person, and let that be enough for now.
