“Don’t you know who I am?!”

The man glared at the woman behind the checkout counter. I studied him from my vantage point two spots back in the line. From the outburst, it was obvious he was somebody important, but I didn’t know him. Judging from her reaction, neither did the clerk.

“I’m sorry, sir. That’s our policy on returns.” She was trying to be polite, but the strain in her voice was evident.

“We’ll just see about that!” growled the man as he stomped off, presumably to find a manager who understood the special needs of important people.

The clerk shrugged her shoulders and reached for an item on the counter. “Everybody thinks they’re somebody,” she muttered.

She’s right. There are now almost seven billion people on earth and it seems each of us thinks the world revolves around us–or at least that it should. The maddening fact that nobody else recognizes us as the true geographical center of the universe keeps us striving for that elusive goal: to be know as an Important Person.

I don’t know many important people personally, but it seems that most of the important persons I read about in magazines are, on balance, not too happy. They’re always getting divorced or sued or impeached. It puts me in remembrance of a proverb: “A poor man never worries about being kidnapped and held for ransom.” If you’re a nobody they may never name a holiday after you, but it decreases your chances of being investigated by the network news.

Still, the important-person syndrome is everywhere. We jockey for position at home, at work, at the club. We tell ourselves that the ulcers, sleepless nights, and wounded relationships will be worth it when we get to the top. Even in the church, where the motto is supposed to be “Preferring One Another,” most would really prefer preferential treatment. From the president of the women’s fellowship to the head deacon to the up-and-coming-fastest-growing-church-in-the-city pastor, everyone seems to cry, “Look at me!”

I occurs to me that Jesus wasn’t an important person–at least not in the eyes of the other important people. He was, instead, an unpretentious man who went around talking about God and helping others. In a world of people clamoring for recognition, he quietly sought to do the will of his Father. He never tried to step into the limelight; fame found him. He accepted it, it seems, more as a price to be paid than a thing to be coveted.

When he stood before Pilate he didn’t ask, “Don’t you know who I am?!”

A really important person doesn’t have to. Maybe there’s a lesson in that for all of us.