Maundy Thursday, John 13:1-17, 31b-35

April 17, 2025
Rev. Veronica Alvarez 
Faith-La Fe

Tonight, we gather in the quiet of Holy Week, on the threshold of the cross, to remember a night filled with love, humility, and divine tenderness.

This night is called Maundy Thursday — from the Latin mandatum, meaning “commandment.”
Because on this night, Jesus gave His disciples — and us — a new command: “Love one another, as I have loved you.”

And what does that love look like?

Jesus knew His hour had come. And what does He choose to do with His final hours? He kneels. He washes feet.

John 13 tells us, “Having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end.”

And then — in a moment both ordinary and holy — the Lord of all creation takes off His outer robe, wraps a towel around His waist, and does the work of a servant.

He kneels before each of His disciples — even the one who would betray Him — and washes their tired, dirty, human feet.

He kneels before Judas — the betrayer — and still, He washes his feet. Still, He loves him.

What kind of God does that?

This is not a love that waits to be deserved. It’s a love that gives — even when it knows it won’t be returned.  Because that is what Jesus does: He loves them and us to the very end.  He shows us that love is not just a feeling — it’s action. It’s sacrifice. It’s humility. And yet, we can’t talk about this night without pausing at Judas — and asking what this moment means for us.

Because betrayal isn’t just an ancient story. It echoes in our lives even now.  We know what it feels like — to be let down. To be wounded by someone we trusted. A friend. A partner. A family member.  Sometimes we even feel betrayed by the Church… or by God.

And if we’re honest, sometimes we’re the ones who betray — in small ways or in significant ones.  We fail to show up. We say one thing and do another. We protect ourselves at the expense of others.  Our instinct is to pull back. To shut down. To protect our hearts from ever being hurt like that again.

But Jesus does the unthinkable. He kneels before His betrayer.

He doesn’t expose Judas. He doesn’t humiliate him or cut him off. He loves him. He serves him. He feeds him.

What kind of Savior stays at the table with His betrayer? The kind who invites us to do the same!.

Tonight, as we sit in the shadow of the cross, this moment becomes an invitation — a sacred opportunity — for reconciliation. Reconciliation with others. Reconciliation with ourselves. Reconciliation with God.

Jesus offers us another way — not by denying our pain, but by refusing to let it turn us bitter.

Jesus teaches us that we are not defined by betrayal — we are defined by His love.  We can name our wounds honestly… and still choose grace. Our response to being hurt can bear witness to the One who loves us — even when we hurt Him.

This doesn’t mean pretending everything’s okay. Jesus never denied the reality of what was coming.
He felt it deeply. But He did not let Judas’ betrayal make Him less loving. He stayed true to who He was — even when others weren’t.

And this is our invitation:

To be honest about the pain, but not ruled by it. To set boundaries when needed, but not build walls around our hearts. To stay soft. To stay loving. To keep showing up — even when it costs us.

Because that is what Jesus did. He loved us to the very end.  So maybe — just maybe — tonight is more than remembrance. Maybe this is also an opportunity.  Not for easy reconciliation — not a glossing over of wrongs or a forced peace — but for the kind that begins with truth. With humility. With the willingness to kneel, like Jesus did — even in the presence of betrayal.  Reconciliation isn’t something we can force. But Jesus shows us the way.  He kneels before the one who will hurt Him — and still, He loves him. Still, He serves him.

And perhaps He’s inviting us to do the same — in the broken relationships we carry in our hearts tonight. In the conversations we’ve avoided. In the grudges we’ve nurtured. In the places we’ve given up on healing.

This night is not only about what Jesus did long ago — it’s about what He is doing now.
In us. Among us. Through us.  He is still washing feet. He is still offering grace.
He is still calling us to be a people of reconciliation — not because it’s easy, but because it’s holy.

And it is only possible when we let the love of Christ flow through us — when we realize that the strength to forgive, to keep loving, to wash feet, comes not from ourselves but from the Spirit alive in us.

Jesus teaches us that our response to betrayal can be the most powerful witness of who we belong to.

Because this is what divine love looks like: It doesn’t flinch at betrayal. It doesn’t abandon in the face of denial. It doesn’t stop serving, even when it knows the cross is coming. And so tonight, we follow His example — not just by reading His words, but by doing what He did.

In a few moments, we’ll be invited to come forward and wash one another’s feet.  This is a holy moment. It’s not about having clean feet — it’s about having open hearts. It’s about learning to receive love, and learning to give it. It’s about letting go of our judgments — because Jesus washed even Judas’ feet. The love we offer tonight doesn’t ask, “Do you deserve this?” It simply says, “I am here to serve you.”

Before we move into that act of grace, let’s take a moment of silence.
To name our own wounds. To name the person we struggle to forgive. To offer our hearts — whole or broken — to the One who kneels before us still. (Pause for 15–30 seconds of silence)

And now, we move toward the table.  Because before He entered the shadows, Jesus gave His friends one more gift: A meal. A promise. A table of love.  Around that table, Jesus took bread, and broke it, and said, “This is my body, given for you.” He took the cup and said, “This is my blood, poured out for you.”  On the very night He was betrayed — even as Judas sat at the table — Jesus offered Himself in love. He fed the one who would hand Him over.  This table is not just about remembering the past — it is a living promise.  A communion of saints. A place where heaven touches earth. Every time we gather here, we proclaim: Love still wins. Grace is still offered. Jesus is still with us. Tonight, we come as Jesus’ friends — imperfect, yes, but deeply loved. Because this table isn’t just for the faithful. It’s for the faltering. It’s for the broken. It’s for all of us.

And as we receive His body and blood, may we also receive His call: To become bread for the hungry, and wine for the weary. To become His body in the world.

After the meal — after the sharing of love — the room begins to change.

We will strip the altar tonight. We remove everything beautiful, everything sacred, just as Jesus was stripped of His garments, His dignity, and finally His life. We strip the altar, not just as a symbol, but as a lament. As a confession. As a recognition of what our sin cost, and what His love gave.

The light begins to fade. The shadows grow. The cross is near.  But even as the darkness comes, we remember His command:  A new commandment I give you: that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, so you also should love one another.  This is not a suggestion. It is the very heartbeat of our faith.  Love one another. Serve one another. Wash each other’s feet — literally and spiritually — every day of your life.

Tonight, we practice being the church Jesus called us to be — a church of towel-bearers and foot-washers, not throne-climbers. A people of humble love.

So come. Let yourself be served. Let yourself be changed. Let us walk with Jesus, all the way to the cross.

As we leave this place tonight, let’s not leave behind what we’ve seen and heard. We’ve witnessed a love that kneels to serve — even in the face of betrayal.  A love that doesn’t wait until we have it all together. A love that shows up, humbles itself, and keeps giving.  This is the love Jesus calls us to share.

So, as you return to your homes, your relationships — remember His command: Love one another, as I have loved you. That kind of love shows up in everyday choices: Offering kindness when it’s inconvenient. Listening when we’d rather turn away. Serving, even when it costs us something. Forgiving, even when we’re still hurting.

This week, find one way — just one — to wash someone’s feet. Maybe not literally, but in spirit:
Through a phone call.  A helping hand. A patient response. A quiet act of mercy.

We are not called to perfection. We are called to love.  The cross is close — and so is God’s grace.

So go into the night with this promise: Jesus walks with you. His love will not let you go.
And His command remains: Love one another.

Go now with the peace of Christ in your hearts, and the towel of Christ in your hands.
Amen.