At the Table and at the Feet

Tonight, we gather at a table that tells the truth.

On this night, Jesus does not offer a theory of love. He offers himself. He does not preach from a distance. He kneels. He takes off his outer garment. He wraps a towel around his waist and does the work of a servant.

This is the night when love takes flesh in service, in sacrifice, and in sustenance.

The Gospel tells us that Jesus, knowing that his hour had come, got up from supper and washed his disciples’ feet. He knew betrayal was coming. He knew denial was coming. He knew abandonment was coming. And still—he washed their feet.

Holy Thursday reminds us that Christian love is not reserved for the worthy, the grateful, or the faithful. It is poured out precisely where human weakness is most exposed.

Peter resists: “You will never wash my feet.” And Jesus responds, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”  

In other words: To have a share in Christ is to allow ourselves to be drawn into a love that disrupts our comfort and unsettles our complicity.

But this night does not stop at the washing of feet. Jesus returns to the table and takes bread—ordinary bread—and says words that unsettled the disciples and also the church: “This is my body, given for you.”

The Eucharist is not a private devotion. It is not spiritual fuel for individual holiness alone. It is a soul food meal that makes us a people, makes us a family, bound to Christ and therefore bound to one another.

The Eucharist is not a retreat from the world’s pain. It is God’s refusal to abandon the world to injustice.  

This table declares that no one is expendable.
That bodies matter.
That which is broken will not be discarded but redeemed.

Every time we receive the Eucharist, we are making a public claim: that hunger— physical, spiritual, and social—is an affront to God.

Jesus showed us that the same hands that wash feet are the hands that break bread. The same love that stoops low is the love that feeds.  

And so tonight, we must ask: Where are we in this story today?  

We are still at the table, but who have we invited to sit with us?
We are still being fed each time we take the Eucharist, but have we denied communion to those who have been deemed “unworthy”?

And we are still being sent. We were told to go and make disciples.  

And today, we are nourished by the Eucharist not because we have it all together, but because we do not.
We come to this table hungry.
We come to this table tired.
We may even come to this table saddened.

We come carrying the weight of a world marked by violence, division, and fatigue. We come bearing personal losses, unanswered prayers, and deep questions about the future.

And the Eucharist nourishes us for this work.

Because justice work is exhausting.
Because loving in this way will cost us something.  
Because bending low will sometimes leave us misunderstood, criticized, or weary.

Yet Christ still says: Take. Eat.

This bread does not make us spectators. It makes us participants. This cup does not numb us. It strengthens us.

So what does foot washing look like now?

Today, we wash one another’s feet when we choose presence over indifference.
When we listen to the pain of those who are weary, unseen, or burdened.
When we refuse to let suffering be someone else’s problem.  

Today, we wash one another’s feet when we confront injustice, not with just thoughts, but with compassion that costs us something. We have a sign hanging in our church that reads: "Discipleship will cost. Are you willing?”

When we protest the dismantling of families through the unjust immigration process and the killing of innocent Americans taking place by our government.

We wash one another’s feet when we tend to the wounded places in our communities—poverty, racism, violence, loneliness—with humility rather than judgment.

We wash one another’s feet when neighbors check on neighbors, when communities organize to feed the hungry, shelter the unhoused, and accompany those who are grieving or alone.

Foot washing today looks like standing with workers whose labor is essential, but whose lives are treated as disposable.
It looks like confronting racism—not only in hearts, but in systems that decide whose neighborhoods are safe, whose schools are funded, whose lives are protected.
It looks like the Rev. Jesse Jackson Sr.’s unconditional solidarity with the oppressed not only in these United States of America but with those all around the world.  

Foot washing today means refusing to spiritualize suffering while ignoring its causes.

It means asking not only who is hurting, but why—and who benefits from the way things are.

And sometimes, foot washing looks even harder than action. Sometimes it looks like listening—listening to stories of pain, of racism, of exclusion, of fear— without rushing to defend ourselves or change the subject. It looks like staying present when suffering makes us uncomfortable.

Holy Thursday insists that worship without justice is incomplete.

We cannot receive the Body of Christ while disregarding bodies crushed by poverty, violence, and neglect.
We cannot proclaim “Amen” at this table and then remain silent when dignity is denied.

Jesus’ final command is not simply to remember him, but to imitate him: “As I have done for you, so you also should do.”

Tonight, as we wash feet and share this holy meal, we are being formed for a different kind of world.
Where love interrupts injustice.
Where the Church is known not by its proximity to influence, but by its closeness to those who suffer.

May the Eucharist we receive become the compassion we embody.
May the feet we wash tonight shape the way we walk tomorrow.
And may this holy night remind us that the Church is most truly itself when it kneels, when it feeds, and when it loves—without counting the cost.

Amen.