The three years that Jesus’ disciples had spent with their Rabbi were filled with traveling and shared meals, discussions and misunderstandings, listening and learning. Now, all of this was about to come to a close. Recognizing the signs of the gathering storm, Jesus began to understand that his time on earth might be drawing short, and strove to give his friends some final guidance. Your own loved ones may have done something similar for you just before they went. What Jesus chose to say to his disciples at the last supper they shared was, “Remember me” by continuing to have meals together and, “Love one another as I have loved you.” This, in a nutshell, is what this service commemorates—our own final Communion meal until Easter arrives.

The two features that distinguish this service from a regular Eucharist are the foot-washing ritual and the “stripping of the altar” in closing. Both are poignant and theologically related. The closing of this service, as we gradually lay the church bare before departing without a dismissal, reflects the ending of Jesus’ life. The three days that fall between now and Easter used to be called the “still days”, as there is no bell ringing until the Gospel reading at the Easter Vigil, mirroring the abandonment and ensuing loneliness of Jesus, and the stillness of his grave. The empty church stands for human betrayal and presents a stark contrast to the washing of feet, which represents Jesus’ self-giving. 

Growing up, I heard this day called “Clean Thursday” and was encouraged to tidy my room and wash my hair, which I later assumed referred to the ritual of foot washing. However, the name may date to the early days of the Church, when candidates for Easter Vigil baptisms bathed on Thursday, so as to avoid what Augustine of Hippo described, in the 4th century, as “the offence to decency of the font” if they arrived unwashed on Saturday! The association with the Last Supper and the name Maundy Thursday from mandatum novum (“new commandment” in Latin) developed later. Since then, the washing of feet, while distinct from Baptism, has become nearly sacramental. It reminds us of the generosity of God that washes off the consequences of our mistakes, which we make continually, much as a traveller’s feet gather dust along the road.

Indeed, in Jesus’ days, it was normal to wash feet upon arrival at a home because sandals and unpaved roads meant dusty feet. However, the host would typically only offer a basin, and people either washed their own feet or had a servant do this. It was not unprecedented that the host himself poured water, but it was an exceptional courtesy reserved for honoured guests, such as those of Abraham, whose feet he offered to wash in Genesis 18.

So we may say that in the Upper Room, Jesus acted as both host and servant, while only a few days earlier, at another house, he had received a similar gesture as a guest. Though in that setting, the host offered no water at all, and Jesus did not hesitate to indicate to him that this was a significant breach of hospitality. Instead, there it was a woman who poured out perfume on Jesus’ head, in a gesture that resembled the anointing rituals for kings, priests, and the dead; and in some Gospels, she was also said to wash his feet with her tears and wipe them with her hair. Her action revealed a glimmer of understanding of what was about to happen to Jesus, and to what end, and it expressed a devotion that was willing to cross cultural boundaries of propriety.

The woman was not a servant, and nor did Jesus automatically regard women as such (recall that in his estimation, Mary had made a better choice by listening rather than cooking!). She was not a host or a family member either, which makes his willingness to receive her as significant as her willingness to give. Unlike Peter, whose initial refusal to accept Jesus’ gesture shows clearly that it was unsettling, Jesus allowed himself to be touched. Then, a few days later, he became the host and servant at the Last Supper; and finally, in his death, he allowed his body to be carried, washed, anointed, and buried. 

To me, Jesus’ willingness to embody the three roles—host, servant, and guest—carries the symbolism that aligns with St Augustine of Hippo’s description of the triune God as, simultaneously, the “Lover, Beloved, and Love itself”. If we are made in this divine Image, then we, too, are relational beings who give and receive love to others and within ourselves, and challenge assumptions about who is entitled to love. Hence the mandatum novum, the new commandment to “love one another as I have loved you.” This is not quite the same as “love your neighbour as yourself,” is it?

Many of us do not love ourselves enough. We try to be agreeable, useful, productive, strong, and undemanding. We measure our self-worth by perceived control or achievements. Most painfully, many of us live with patterns of self-harm and self-blame in the wake of traumas inflicted by others. Jesus’ message to his followers was, in part, that God loved them unconditionally. Our own capacity to love others is sustained by the knowledge that somebody loves us. May we find some comfort and strength in knowing that at least our Creator always does so, even as our fellow humans cannot maintain it at all times.

I find that Maundy Thursday sermons typically exhort us to serve others, or remind us that sometimes, we find it difficult to be served. Both are valuable insights, but they do not address the “elephant in the room”; that is, the deep discomfort many of us feel about having our feet washed. I believe that this discomfort does not arise simply from being put in the position of receiving care, but from the way the act crosses boundaries of closeness, at least in our culture. The challenge, then, lies not only in giving or receiving, but in the loss or shift of power that occurs when care or physical proximity takes place outside its usual context. The end-of-life interactions of Jesus did reveal a life that permitted a closeness transcending cultural expectations based on status (with the disciples) and intimacy (with the woman). But we have no reason to say he did not feel awkward about it! After all, he did say to his followers that he had washed their feet “as Lord and Master,” which, to me, names his feelings about the fact that in that moment, he chose to relinquish his status. In fact, the same verb is used here for Jesus removing his robe for the foot washing and for laying down his life – the ultimate self-emptying of power. 

To connect this to our experiences, for example, I was deeply moved by being cared for when I was hospitalized, but I did not feel awkward because it aligned with my expectations regarding professional roles. Similarly, I would not hesitate to receive a pedicure. However, when parishioners show care to me that goes beyond the expectations of politeness, it is both more moving and more difficult to accept, because it disrupts the expected relationship patterns. Likewise, when people who have spent years caring for others find themselves in need of help, they may decline it based on the perceived loss of control and independence. We may also unconsciously rush to repay kindness so that we no longer feel indebted, precisely because such moments shift the balance of power in friendships. At the same time, it can be difficult to care for someone whom we consider more competent, knowledgeable, or powerful than we are, or who has been our mentor or elder, because we fear it may be inappropriate or unwelcome. 

So yes, when it comes to foot washing within the church service, even though it is a theological gesture, it does ask us to suspend the norms regarding personal space and physical contact, and to enter into the imbalance of power that results. As I minister, I feel grateful for the willingness of people to experience this moment. The beauty of this rite is that it continues to speak, even as cultures change. In fact, today, it allows all of us to echo Christ’s humility in our various roles: those who wash feet imitate Jesus’ service to the disciples, and those who are washed recall his willingness to receive the woman’s closeness and touch.

And for those who will not participate directly, I invite you to take a moment to reflect and perhaps re-evaluate the sense of distance and control we maintain in relation to God and to one another. You might choose to recall a moment of role reversal or power imbalance in your own life. In those memories and future experiences, may we hear again Jesus’ words to Peter: “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.” These words remind us that our discomfort with shifts in power is natural, but not always necessary. By the very fact that we are made in the image of a relational God, we are meant to be mutually dependent. 

While washing another’s feet as part of the Maundy Thursday liturgy is a ritualized form of care, in daily life, we may express and receive it in countless practical ways. May we learn to receive love without resistance and offer it without calculation, and recognize in both the presence of God among us.