It was probably the timing—a week before our 35th wedding anniversary—that made me read an article about Michelin-star restaurants. In the September 17 New York Times article, “Michelin’s Coveted Stars Can Come with Some Costs,” author Julia Moskin notes that the “Michelin Guide—owned by the French tire manufacturer—is the world’s most recognized authority on fine dining.” Moskin discovered that in “interviews, dozens of restauranteurs, chefs and officials across the country said ‘the status the stars confer is priceless and comes with vast earning potential.'”

Those coveted stars had a humbler origin than I thought. According to the article, “the star system—one, worth a trip; two, worth a detour; three, worth a journey—was devised more than a century ago to guide businessmen as they motored around France on the company’s tires.”

The owner of Southern California’s only three-star restaurant noted that the stakes are higher today when someone is flying from Germany to San Diego to eat at your restaurant.

There’s also intrigue about how Michelin awards those coveted stars. Notes Moskin, “Curiosity has always swirled around how the company does it work: Who are the inspectors? How often do they visit? What does it take to rise from two stars to three?”

I’d rather be tooling around the south of France on a set of Michelin tires than worrying about rising from two stars to three. But reading about the process of ranking and stars does have a certain appeal.

It's a human thing. I mean, ranking and analyzing and thinking how some of us are better than others is just so natural. I begin to fret over my own set of stars. And in those mad moments, I think, what’s wrong with wanting more stars? Why shouldn’t someone confer four stars, maybe five, on my insightful (read right) opinions, my impressive CV and my curated treasures. And these stars come with a bonus—an overestimation of myself. Ta-da!

When status stardust blinds me to who I am, I need the clear-eyed words of the Apostle Paul: “Don’t cherish exaggerated ideas of yourself or your importance, buy try to have a sane estimate of your capabilities by the light of the faith that God has given to you all.” (Romans 12:3, Phillips)

From that sane estimate flows another quality, a quality likely unheard of in Michelin Guide world—humility. Charles Spurgeon said that “humility is to make a right estimation of oneself.”

In the Christ follower's world, this right estimation has its beginnings and end in paradox. We hear this in a king's humble cry, “Have mercy on me, O God, according to your steadfast love; according to your abundant mercy blot out my transgressions.” (Psalm 51:1) We see paradox in an ordinary young woman’s extraordinary submission to God, and she sings, “My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant.” (Luke 1:47, 48)

The culmination of paradox is Jesus. Paul’s lyrical prose in Philippians 2 takes us to heaven, where Jesus doesn’t count equality with God a thing to be grasped. Then down to earth where Jesus not only is born in the likeness of men, but also takes the form of a servant, and we go down yet again as Jesus “humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death, even death on a cross.” And Paul takes us back to heaven where Jesus is not just exalted, but highly exalted.

That's another paradox at play. The paradox in our lives where we can have the mind of Christ our Savior, and instead of grasping for status, we shine as lights in a dark world. We give ourselves in service to him and to one another. The day will come when the king of paradox doesn't give us stars for what we've acheved but crowns for what he has done in and through us.