When I was a kid, I wanted to be a ninja.

Not the silent, shuriken-throwing, smoke-bomb-hurling kind from Saturday morning cartoons—but a Bible ninja. Specifically, an apologetics ninja. Apologetics is the practice of trying to defend God against against attack from God’s enemies.

I wanted to master every slick comeback to confound atheists, Mormons, and anyone unfortunate enough to believe the Bible wasn’t God’s love letter dipped in gold leaf and bound by angels.

I thought that protecting God from the predations of the faceless hordes of the godless through the proper application of an irresistible theological smackdown occupied the most enviable sphere of Christian vocation. I so wanted to be Batman with a bullet—a suitably cross-shaped bullet, to be sure, but a bullet nevertheless. It wasn’t about love, I realize now. It was about winning.

It seems to me now that much of my early faith life was consumed with getting it right, with being right. I thought that’s what was required of me to be a good Christian.

But then you read something like John 13, and suddenly Jesus kicks the legs out from under your theological aspirations.

Think about our text this morning. It’s the night before Jesus dies. The Last Supper is winding down. Judas has just left to betray him, and Jesus knows it. The disciples are confused, probably scared. The air is thick with tension and grief. In this moment, when you’d think Jesus would be giving out final instructions about doctrine or strategy or survival, Jesus gives them something completely different.

He talks about love.

Not just any love, but a specific kind of love. A love that would become their calling card, their signature, their unmistakable mark in the world.

Listen again to what he says in verses 34–35: “A new commandment I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.”

Notice what he doesn’t say. He doesn’t say, “People will know you’re my disciples by your ability to spout Scripture references at the drop of a hat.” Or, “By your righteous indignation at culture’s moral decay.” Or even, “By your strongly worded letters to the editor.”

No. Jesus says, “By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

Cue awkward silence.

I used to think love was soft. Vague. A word cross-stitched onto throw pillows in grandma’s sitting room. But the kind of love Jesus is talking about isn’t squishy or sweet. It’s the kind of love that just hours earlier—kneels and scrubs the dust from someone else’s feet—feet that will walk out the door hunting betrayal.

Think about what had just happened in that room. Jesus—the Rabbi, the Teacher, the one they called Lord—had taken off his outer garments, wrapped a towel around his waist, and washed his disciples' feet. This was servant’s work. Humiliating work. Work so degrading that it would never be done by anyone, even a step above you on the social scale—let alone by someone you were certain was the Messiah.

And yet there was Jesus, washing Judas’s feet. Washing Peter’s feet—the same Peter who would deny him three times before the rooster crowed. Washing the feet of those who would all abandon him within hours.

This isn’t the kind of love you find on the Hallmark channel. This isn’t self-care love. This is love that costs everything and expects nothing in return.

In our world, we’ve seen love weaponized in ways that would make Judas blush. We’ve turned it into a tool of control, a way to maintain power while appearing virtuous.

We’ve seen that kind of love, haven’t we? The kind that says to our queer siblings, “We love you, but just don’t talk about it out loud.

”