"I would have been Washington"
What Napoleon's confession from exile reveals about greatness
“Had I been in America, I would willingly have been a Washington... But had Washington been in France, I would have defied him to have been what he was in America; at least, he would have been a fool to attempt it.” — Napoleon, from exile in St. Helena, 1815
You know what historical fact absolutely blows my mind?
Napoleon and George Washington were alive at the same time.
You’re probably smarter than me and this trivial pursuit point is glaringly obvious to you, but I had never connected the dots.
For some reason, I had always pictured Napoleon as ancient history—cannons and cavalry charges, something from a distant era far removed from the American founding. But Napoleon's coup happened in November 1799. Washington died five weeks later, in December. Napoleon was a 14-year-old military cadet when Washington resigned his command. He was a rising general when Washington was a retired president tending his farm at Mount Vernon.
I stumbled into this through a bit of a revolutionary-era history kick I’ve been on. I read several books on the American Revolution, just finished Ken Burns’s new documentary series on the founding, and somewhere in there picked up a few books on the French Revolution and a biography of Napoleon. (I also watched Ridley Scott’s Napoleon movie—that’s an article for another day.)
As I was learning about these two revolutions separately, it finally hit me: these happened at the same time. These two men existed in the same world.
Which sent me down another rabbit hole:
Did they know each other? Were they friends? Did one admire the other?
As it turns out, they kind of knew about each other. Or at least, Napoleon knew about Washington. He ordered ten days of national mourning when Washington died. He held a memorial service. And years later, exiled on St. Helena with nothing left but time to think, he kept circling back to Washington—trying to explain why he didn’t do what Washington did.
That quote above? “I would willingly have been a Washington”
It’s not repentance. It’s self preservation. Napoleon is arguing that Washington’s path was impossible in France, that Washington himself would have failed, or been “a fool,” to try it there.
The more I dug into this, the more I saw a stark contrast between these two historical giants, specifically in their approach to power, sacrifice, and legacy. I think its worth sharing here because of what it reveals about how greatness actually works.
A Quick History Refresher
If you’re fuzzy on revolutionary details (no judgment), here’s the short version:
The late 1700s saw two of the first great popular revolutions against monarchy. The American Revolution (1775-1783) threw off British rule and established a republic. The French Revolution (1789-1799) overthrew the king and... well, it got complicated (and really bloody).
The American Revolution produced the oldest Constitution in the world, a peaceful transfer of power, and institutions that have lasted nearly 250 years.
The French Revolution produced the Reign of Terror, the guillotine, chaos, and eventually a military dictator who crowned himself Emperor.
Washington and Napoleon were the central figures in determining how each revolution turned out.
Washington’s path: He was appointed Commander-in-Chief of the Continental Army in 1775. He held a ragtag army together for eight brutal years, lost more battles than he won, but kept fighting until the British gave up. By war’s end, he was the most popular man in America. The army was loyal to him personally. Some officers wanted him to use that loyalty to seize power—he refused and rebuked them. Some suggested he become king—he rejected it as an insult. Instead, he resigned his commission and went home to his farm. A few years later, he was called back to preside over the Constitutional Convention. Then elected president—unanimously, twice. He could have stayed for life. The people would have supported it. Instead, he walked away again, to set an example. Died two years later as a private citizen.
Napoleon’s path: He rose through the ranks during the chaos of the French Revolution, becoming a general at 24. In 1799, he seized control through a coup and immediately began twisting the machinery of the republic to serve himself. He staged popular votes to legitimize each power grab: First Consul, then Consul for Life, then Emperor. The people voted for him, and he used their support as a rubber stamp for his ambition. By 1804, he crowned himself Emperor. He conquered most of Europe. Then he lost it all, was exiled, escaped, reclaimed power for a hundred days, lost it all again at Waterloo, and died on St. Helena, known as the world’s loneliest island.
Both men had the popular support necessary to consolidate power.
One used it to serve himself, the other to serve the greater good.
Same era. Completely opposite outcomes.
The Grasping Instinct
Napoleon wanted to be great. He said so openly. "I live for posterity," he told his companions on St. Helena. "Death is nothing, but to live defeated and without glory is to die every day."
His theory of greatness was accumulation. Victories, territory, titles: Emperor of the French. King of Italy. Protector of the Confederation of the Rhine. Mediator of the Swiss Confederation. Grasp and hold.
His coronation in 1804 tells you everything. In that era, monarchs were crowned by religious authorities—the whole point was that your power came from God, not from yourself. Napoleon did something unprecedented: he took the crown from the altar and placed it on his own head while the church watched.
In one sense, this was almost democratic—he was rejecting the divine right of kings, claiming his authority came from merit and the will of the people, not from God. But notice who was doing the crowning. Not a representative of the people. Napoleon himself. Because he believed he was good enough. He had earned it. It was his to grasp.
“I am the Revolution,” he declared. “I am the throne.”
The problem with the grasping theory of greatness is that it’s fragile. It depends on continued winning. The moment Napoleon stopped winning—the catastrophe in Russia, the defeat at Leipzig, the final collapse at Waterloo—there was nothing underneath. The empire existed because of his genius. Without his genius actively sustaining it, it crumbled.
He died in exile on St. Helena in 1821, spending his final six years dictating memoirs, trying to shape how history would remember him. Still grasping, even at the end.
The Emptying Alternative
Washington wanted to be great too. Make no mistake—he was ambitious. He understood legacy. When he resigned his military commission in December 1783, he carefully planned the moment, knowing the power of his example and wanting to be remembered for the benefit of the nation.
But his theory of greatness was the opposite of Napoleon’s.
On December 23, 1783, Washington appeared before Congress and surrendered his commission:
“Having now finished the work assigned me, I retire from the great theatre of Action; and bidding an affectionate farewell to this August body under whose orders I have so long acted, I here offer my Commission, and take my leave of all the employments of public life.”
Witnesses said his voice broke as he read it. Delegates wept openly.
John Trumbull reported from London that the resignation “excites the astonishment and admiration of this part of the world. ‘Tis a Conduct so novel, so inconceivable to People, who, far from giving up powers they possess, are willing to convulse the Empire to acquire more.”
And then there’s the famous reaction attributed of King George III. When the painter Benjamin West told the king that Washington intended to return to his farm after winning the war, George reportedly replied:
“If he did this, he would be the greatest man in the world.”
Washington did exactly that. And then he did it again in 1797, declining a third term as president when he could have stayed in power for life.
His approach wasn’t grasping—it was emptying. Letting go. Building something that could outlast him precisely because it didn’t depend on him.
The Biblical Pattern
There’s a word for this in Christian theology: kenosis. It comes from Philippians 2, where Paul describes Christ as one who “did not consider equality with God something to be grasped” but instead “emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.”
The Greek word translated “grasped” (harpagmos) means something like taken or used “for personal advantage.” Christ possessed divine status. He chose not to leverage it selfishly. He emptied himself instead.
This is presented not as a reluctant sacrifice but as the revelation of what God is actually like. Self-giving love isn’t contrary to divine power—it is divine power. True greatness isn’t the capacity to dominate but the capacity to give yourself away.
Napoleon grasped. Washington gave. And the outcomes followed the biblical pattern exactly: the one who grasped lost everything; the one who let go received back what grasping could never have secured.
Ambition Transfigured
Here’s what I find most helpful about this contrast: it’s not anti-ambition.
Martin Luther King Jr. once preached a sermon called “The Drum Major Instinct” about the desire to be out front, to lead the parade, to be first. His point wasn’t that the instinct is bad. It’s that it needs to be redirected.
He explains how Jesus didn’t condemn James and John for wanting to be great or remembered asking, “Let one of us sit at your right and the other at your left in your glory”. He told them instead what greatness actually looks like: “Whoever wants to become great among you must be your servant.”
“Keep feeling the need for being important,” King said. “Keep feeling the need for being first. But I want you to be first in love. I want you to be first in moral excellence. I want you to be first in generosity.”
This is the message for those of us who want to do something significant with our lives, who feel called to lead, who want to have a great impact: Christ doesn’t look down on that. He loves the desire, He just redefines what “great” means.
Greatness through emptying. Glory through giving. Power through letting go.
The Verdict
The French writer Chateaubriand, who claimed to have met both men, put it perfectly:
“Washington and Bonaparte emerged from the womb of democracy: both of them born to liberty, the former remained faithful to her, the latter betrayed her... Washington’s Republic lives on; Bonaparte’s empire is destroyed.”
Napoleon was the superior military genius, one of the greatest tactical minds in history. Washington was not. But Washington’s side won the war, and his republic endures. Napoleon won battle after battle, and his empire collapsed.
The man who grasped so much lost it all.
The man who emptied himself became “the greatest man in the world”.
That’s the question for all of us with ambition, with a desire to serve, with dreams of doing something that lasts. Not whether to be ambitious but ambitious for what. Not whether to be great but what kind of greatness.
Christ tells us the road will look to the world like loss, but in reality it is this path (and only this path) that leads to life.
Washington understood that. Napoleon never could.