Readings

1 Corinthians 11.23–26 – For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, ‘This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ In the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me.’ For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

John 13.1–17, 31b–35 – Before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, ‘Lord, are you going to wash my feet?’ Jesus answered, ‘You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.’ Peter said to him, ‘You will never wash my feet.’ Jesus answered, ‘Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.’ Simon Peter said to him, ‘Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!’ Jesus said to him, ‘One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.’ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, ‘Not all of you are clean.’ After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, ‘Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord—and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them. Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, “Where I am going, you cannot come.” I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.’

Sermon

Tonight, we gather in the quiet shadow of the Upper Room.

We come as those who know what lies ahead: the betrayal, the arrest, the cross. And yet, in the gospel we have heard, Jesus does not begin with suffering. He begins with love.

“Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.”

That is the note that sets the tone for everything that follows this night. Not fear. Not anger. Not even sorrow. But love — a love that goes to the very limit; a love that does not turn away.

And what does that love look like?

Surprisingly for the Son of God, it looks like a towel and a basin.

It is a striking thing that, in John’s Gospel, where we might expect an account of the institution of the eucharist, we are instead given this: Jesus rising from the table, removing his outer robe, kneeling at the feet of his disciples, and washing them. The one whom they call Lord and Teacher takes the place of a servant. The one through whom all things were made bends down to wash the dust from their feet.

And perhaps most striking of all, he does this knowing exactly who sits before him. He knows Judas will betray him. He knows Peter will deny him. He knows the others will scatter and abandon him. And still, he kneels. Still, he washes. Still, he loves.

This is not love offered because it is deserved. It is love given because it is who he is.

Peter, understandably, recoils. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” And then, more strongly, “You will never wash my feet.” There is something in us that resists this kind of love. It unsettles us. It overturns our instincts about dignity and worthiness. We would rather serve than be served; rather offer than receive — especially when receiving places us in a position of vulnerability.

But Jesus insists: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Before we can follow him, before we can serve in his name, we must first allow ourselves to be served by him. We must allow him to draw close to the parts of our lives that are dusty, tired, and worn. We must allow him to love us; not as we imagine we ought to be, but as we truly are.

Only then can we begin to understand what he asks of us. “For I have set you an example,” he says, “that you also should do as I have done to you.”

This is the heart of Maundy Thursday. The word “Maundy” comes from the Latin mandatum, meaning a commandment. And the commandment Jesus gives is this: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Not in the abstract. Not in fine words alone. But in concrete, embodied acts of humility and care. To love as Jesus loves is to kneel where the world expects us to stand. It is to notice the overlooked, to tend to the weary, to serve without seeking recognition. It is to offer ourselves, not only when it is convenient or comfortable, but precisely when it is costly.

And that brings us to the words of First Epistle to the Corinthians that we have heard this evening. “For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you…” Here, we are given the familiar words of the Last Supper: bread taken, blessed, broken; a cup shared, a covenant sealed: “Do this in remembrance of me.”

On this night, we hold together these two great gifts: the washing of feet, and the breaking of bread. Both speak of the same self-giving love.

In the washing of feet, Jesus shows us what love looks like in action — humble, practical, attentive.

In the bread and the cup, he gives us himself — his body broken, his blood poured out.

And we are not only to receive these gifts, but to be shaped by them.

Each time we come to the Eucharist, we are drawn again into this pattern of life: to receive the love of Christ, and to become, in turn, people who love as he loves.

We cannot separate the altar from the basin. We cannot receive the bread of heaven and refuse the call to serve one another on earth. For the same Lord who says, “This is my body, given for you,” also says, “I have set you an example.”

And so tonight, as we remember, we are also invited. Invited to come to Christ, not because we are worthy, but because we are loved. Invited to receive from him what we cannot give ourselves: grace, mercy, forgiveness, life. And invited to follow him; not in grand gestures alone, but in the quiet, faithful acts of love that shape a life.

In a world that so often prizes power, status, and self-assertion, Christ shows us another way. The way of the towel. The way of the cross. The way of love that endures to the end. And it is by this, he tells us, that all will know that we are his disciples: if we have love for one another.

So, as we move from this place into the stillness of this holy night, may we carry with us not only the memory of what Christ has done, but the call to become what we have received. Servants of his love. Bearers of his grace. And witnesses, in word and deed, to the One who loved us to the end.

Amen.