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| Maundy Thursday is a peculiar service with a strange name—what are we even doing here? |
©2025 The Rev. Seth Olson
This sermon was preached on Maundy Thursday at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of the sermon may be found here.
Holy God, may my words be your words and when my words are not your words, may your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.
The first memory I have of Maundy Thursday dates back to when I was 6 years old—and I missed the point entirely.
That night, my mom and sister attended this solemn liturgy at St. Andrew’s Episcopal Church, while my dad and I went to… Boutwell Auditorium! Why? Because there was a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles live-action show, of course.
It was everything a kid could hope for: lights, action, smoke machines, and even pizza references. “COWABUNGA,” to quote the turtles! I walked out of that show with my feet barely touching the ground. Then, my dad and I swung back by church to pick up the rest of our family.
I ran up to the wide-open, red, front doors, and froze… Because inside that darkened, cavernous sanctuary, I witnessed something unexpected: a barely-lit nave, tear-streaked faces, silence so thick it hummed, and people who looked like they were carrying the weight of the world on their shoulders. It was holy. And, I couldn’t make sense of it.
I remember trying to comfort my mom. “Don’t worry,” I said, “the Ninja Turtles will come back someday—and you can go with us next time.” She gave me a very kind look that said, “You don’t get it—not yet, at least.” And I didn’t.
Honestly, I still don’t get it all. For Maundy Thursday asks something deeper than comprehension. It asks for presence. For courage. For love. So what are we doing here tonight?
We’re here to hear the commandment—the mandatum—that gives this day its name: “Love one another. Just as I have loved you.” And Jesus did not just say it. He showed it.
No parables. No dramatic healings. No water into wine. No multiplying loaves. Just a towel, a basin, and probably a whole lot of awkward silence as Jesus stooped down to scrub the feet of his friends…
Even Judas. Let’s not skip over that. Jesus knelt at the feet of the one who was actively planning to betray him. And still, he washed. Still, he loved.
This truth is what makes what happened on Maundy Thursday so powerful. Jesus didn’t just love his friends when they were loveable. He didn’t serve only when it was convenient or inspiring. He did not abandon others when things got tense or painful or confusing. Jesus laid everything aside—his robe, his reputation, and his rightful place as teacher—and showed us what love looks like when it costs something.
That’s not an easy lesson. And the assignment we’re given to help us learn this truth is weird, if I am being honest. Yes, foot washing is as challenging as it is strange.
It’s intimate. Vulnerable. Humbling. You’re all too aware of where your feet have been, and suddenly someone is kneeling in front of you like a servant. It feels backward.
And that’s the point. In a world that idolizes status, ego, and keeping up appearances, Jesus flips over the whole thing, like a money-changer’s table. The one through whom all things were made—the one who robed Creation in majesty took off his robe, knelt, and served. The spotless Son of God got his hands dirty.
And then he said: This is how you’re to love one another too. Not just in theory. Not just when it’s easy. Not just when they deserve it. But continually with tenderness, humility, and an open heart. And, Jesus is still saying this, as he calls us to love friend, neighbor, and yes even enemy. That’s why we do what we do tonight. You may also be wondering, how will this ritual work?
After this sermon, you’ll hear an invitation—echoing Jesus’ own. It reminds us that strength in God's kingdom doesn’t come from miracles or might, but from lowly service. That’s why we’ll begin washing feet in a kind of holy chain reaction: I will wash the feet of the first to come forward. And then those who’ve had their feet washed will wash the feet of the next people in line. One by one, those who desire it will be washed, then wash the next person’s feet.
We do this not to reenact the Gospel, but to embody it—to become a living testimony to the kind of love Jesus shows us because… beloved, this love God invites us into is not theoretical. It is one of practicality, of action, of humility. Others will not recognize we follow Jesus as our Teacher because of well-articulated platitude or nobly held aspiration. They’ll know we are Christians by our love—a love that is participatory, practical, and poured out—not unlike a foot-washing. Of course, there’s more meaning to tonight than simply this ritualized act of service.
Tonight, we also break bread and share the cup. We remember the Last Supper and the mystery of Jesus giving himself to us in bread and wine. In the Holy Eucharist, like in the foot washing, it is not our own thoughts, words, or deeds that saves us. Rather, we are redeemed by experiencing and partaking in the love of God.
What do we learn by taking part in humble service and simple feasting? We discover anew that God’s love is not distant or sanitized or abstract. It’s embodied. It’s kneeling. It’s breaking. It’s poured out. It touches feet and forgives failures and looks even Judas in the eye.
That’s the kind of love we are called into, that’s the love we’re called to imitate. Lord knows that we don’t love perfectly. So, before setting off at the task of emulating God’s love, first receive. Let the love of Christ wash over you, like water on some weary feet. Let it nourish you like bread and wine. We can accept the Love of God, and in that love we begin to change.
So, that is why we’re here tonight—not to figure it all out. We’re here to feel the water. To sit in the silence. To be knelt before and to kneel. To remember what Jesus has done. To taste the bread and wine, His Body and His Blood. And, to prepare ourselves to walk with him—to stay with him—through what comes next.
Because the darkness will fall, the garden will grow quiet, the disciples will disperse, and the cross will rise. But first, this night.
This humble, awkward, and sacred night when Jesus lays everything aside, and loves us to the end.
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