This image illustrates foot-washing, which came to symbolize Jesus’ New Commandment to “love one another as I have loved you” (John 13:34), spoken after he washed his disciples’ feet at the final meal they shared before his death.

Over the second half of Eastertide, we read excerpts from chapters 13 to 17 of John’s Gospel. These chapters are known as the “farewell discourse,” Jesus’ long and tender address on the night before his death. The last time we heard a portion of it in church was on Maundy Thursday, during the service that commemorates the Last Supper. That evening, we knelt to wash one another’s feet, and departed from the church in silence with no blessing. We left behind a chancel stripped of all adornments and the absence that echoed the grief and shame of the disciples, and the loneliness of Jesus. And yet, the Last Supper also marked the final hours of seeming normalcy, in which Jesus poured out his love and hope. He broke bread, washed his followers’ feet, and offered this: “A new commandment I give you, that you love one another as I have loved you” (John 13:34). 

Is this teaching truly new? It echoes both the Golden Rule—“Do to others as you would have them do to you” (Matt. 7:12)—and the Summary of the Law: “Love the Lord your God with all your heart… and love your neighbor as yourself” (Deut. 6:4–7; Lev. 19:18, 34; Matt. 22:37–40; Mark 12:30–31; Gal. 5:14; Rom. 13:8–9; Luke 10:25–28). Jesus built on the wisdom of his tradition: “What you hate, do not do to others” (Tob. 4:15); “Judge your neighbor’s feelings by your own” (Sir. 31:15); “Welcome the stranger, for you were strangers in Egypt” (Lev. 19:34). These are enduring truths grounded in reciprocity and empathy. But at the Last Supper, Jesus reframed them into “love, as I have loved.” This is no longer rooted in fairness or compassion, but in unconditional self-giving love, extended even to those with whom we have little in common. As the Good Samaritan did (Lk. 10:25-37), and as Peter admitted it must be done (today’s Acts 11).

This reminded me of An Invisible Thread, a memoir recounting the unusual friendship between Laura Schroff, an advertising executive in Manhattan, and Maurice, an eleven-year-old panhandler—actually twelve, but unsure of his age because his birthdays were never marked. He had never been taught to blow his nose or cut his meat because he had never eaten anything that required cutting. He had been told he was illiterate, though he actually could read and write slowly. And since the age of five, he had believed he would not live past his teenage years.

One day in 1986, as Maurice stood on a street corner asking for change, Laura nearly passed him by. But she stopped, and took him to lunch. That unplanned and unremarkable act began a relationship that would last for decades and transform both their lives. The memoir plays with the idea of fate, and derives its title from a Chinese proverb: “An invisible thread connects those who are destined to meet, regardless of time, place, or circumstance.” In Christian theology, we might interpret such “an invisible thread” as the movement of the Holy Spirit.

The memoir rarely names God directly, which may explain its broad success over the two decades following its publication. Yet its spiritual foundations are clear. Laura, raised Catholic, attended church regularly as a child despite the horrors of her home life. Maurice, raised by a devout grandmother, often spoke of divine guidance and later became an ordained deacon in his church. Psalms were read at deathbeds. In grief and danger, prayer brought solace. Laura wrote, “I truly believe God—or fate, or whatever name you give it—was guiding me.” 

Like God entering our world to live among us—today we read, “the home of God is among mortals” (Rev. 21:3)—Laura stepped into Maurice’s decrepit apartment, scarred family, and academic struggles. Their bond was never conventional, convenient, or even universally supported by Laura’s friends or partner. Yet she chose to offer him food, trust, and a glimpse into a life that he then strove to create for his future family, which is really what saved him from addiction and crime, and an untimely death. Laura’s own childhood was marked by abuse, and her first marriage ended with betrayal. I think that’s why she recognized Maurice’s hunger not only for food, but for stability and dignity. She cared for him out of empathy rather than pity, and made it clear that she expected no gratitude, good behaviour, or repayment – only friendship, which over time, deepened into something familial. Here is a link to the video taken at Laura’s 50th birthday party (20 years ago!), which offers a lovely glimpse into both of their personalities and the connection they share.

This reminds me that all meaningful relationships are layered and dynamic. Romantic love may emerge from friendship, and vice versa. Parental love may eventually include friendship. And care may become kinship. In changing Maurice’s life, Laura found healing, purpose, joy and eventually, a new family that includes not only Maurice, his wife, and their many children, but also the countless readers touched by their story. This is how the Golden Rule, the Summary of the Law, and the New Commandment work: in showing mercy to others, we ourselves are healed. 

What does this mean for us? First, love may begin awkwardly, and transcend differences in age, race, privilege, and ability. True care acknowledges difference without reducing a person to it. Laura stated explicitly that she didn’t help Maurice because he was Black and she was white, but because he was hungry and she could help. Yet, she understood and respected the initial distrust among Maurice’s family, only two generations removed from the era of segregation. When we claim not to “see” race, age, sexual orientation, appearance, or disability, we risk erasing a part of one’s identity and life story. It might not really be the most “interesting” or “core” part of their identity, according to the person’s own understanding, but that’s not up to us to pre-determine. Sincere love seeks to see, understand, and embrace.

Second, charity is based on discernment, but should not be paralyzed by it. Laura worried that offering Maurice a glimpse of privileged life might hurt more than help, or that fostering trust might increase his risk on the streets. She knew that despite her maternal affection, she could never replace his biological mother, whom he still loved despite her addiction and neglect. These were valid ethical concerns. We, too, worry about how our gifts may be spent. And in our own relationships, we must honour boundaries and accept the reality that some of our feelings will never be reciprocated. But none of these should prevent making connections or excuse inaction, because once we do act, God will strengthen those invisible threads that are meant to be.

Third, we need not wait passively for destiny to intervene. We can choose to approach each encounter with an openness “to show hospitality to strangers [and in doing so] entertain angels without knowing it” (Hb. 13:2). Or more likely, become “an angel” for someone else, as Maurice referred to Laura. And church may be one of the best places to discover such “unlikely” friendships! Across pews and coffee hours, our lives touch even when, in the wider world, they never would have crossed. From these moments, invisible threads may begin to tug at the edges of our lives.

Finally, this story reminds us not only to serve, but also to receive. Jesus said, “unless I wash you, you have no part with me” (John 13:8). There are moments when we must accept help and grace. Perhaps someone once tended to your injury, offered generosity, or spoke a word of affirmation – these are moments of foot-washing. They remind us that love is not abstract but is mutual, incarnate, and divine. Thanks be to God.

Questions to Consider

1. Where do I notice God ‘washing my feet’; that is, how do I experience unexpected mercy, tenderness, or renewal throughout my day? Do I sometimes resist this ongoing care?

2. The old commandment was to love your neighbour as yourself. The new is to love as God loves you. In what ways is God’s love for me more generous, patient, and forgiving than how I love even myself?

3. Where today do I need to ask for grace to love someone beyond what feels easy or natural? Are there daily moments when I can silently serve others without seeking recognition?