Maundy Thursday 2026: Year A - A Towel, A Table, A Command - John 13:31-31

(The following was first preached on Maundy Thursday 2026 at the 8th Street Church, Oklahoma City, USA)

Maundy Thursday – John 13:31–35

The calendar tells us we are nearing resurrection—nearing lilies and alleluias and bright mornings.

But life doesn’t always move that quickly, or that cleanly, or that predictably.

Despair and joy.

Doubt and faith.

Uncertainty and trust.

Darkness and light.

Lent and Easter don’t take turns as neatly as we’d like.

They overlap.

They blur.

They sit right next to each other at the same table.

Which is why we don’t so much celebrate these seasons as we observe them.

We pay attention.

We stay awake.

We notice.

We let them speak.

We let them shape us.

We don’t rush grief, and we don’t force joy.

We observe.

Which means we bring our whole selves—our senses, our questions, our intuition—to the moment we’re in, and we ask:

Where is God here?

Not just in the light, but in the shadows too.

Not just in the clarity, but in the confusion.

Not just in the certainty, but in the ache.

And Maundy Thursday is where you feel that most.

Because tonight is not neat.

It’s not resolved.

It’s not triumphant.

Tonight is heavy.

Jesus knows what is coming.

The disciples do not—not fully—but they can feel something shifting. Something is ending. Something is breaking open.

And in the middle of that moment—right in the tension—Jesus says something strange:

“Now the Son of Man has been glorified.”

Now.

Not after the resurrection.

Not after the victory.

Not after everything makes sense.

Now.

In the betrayal.

In the leaving.

In the unraveling.

That is where glory is.

Which tells us something about how Jesus understands glory.

Because in our world, glory is about power.

It’s about being seen.

Winning.

Leaving a mark.

Building a name.

Glory is conquest, control, and the ability to bend things to your will.

That’s what our modern-day kings insist.

But Jesus—on this night—redefines glory.

He says glory looks like a towel and a basin.

It looks like washing feet that will soon run away from you.

Feeding people who will betray you.

Loving people who do not yet understand you—and will not stay with you.

Glory looks like giving yourself away.

And then he says something even more startling.

He turns to his disciples—confused, fragile, not-yet-ready disciples—and gives them a command:

“Love one another… just as I have loved you.”

Do what I have done.

To one another.

In other words:

Live like this.

Which is both beautiful and terrifying.

Because it means what Jesus is doing here is not just a one-time display of divine love for us to admire.

It is a pattern.

A way.

A command.

It is the shape of the life we are called to live.

The way of the table.

Broken bread.

Spilled-out wine.

And if we’re honest, we would rather keep it symbolic.

Contained.

Meaningful.

Optional.

But Jesus won’t let us.

He ties his glory to a towel.

He ties his identity to a table.

And then he says:

Now you.

And that’s where it gets uncomfortable.

Because this kind of love is costly.

It’s inconvenient.

Slow.

Often unnoticed.

It doesn’t always “work” the way we want it to.

It doesn’t guarantee results.

It doesn’t protect us from being hurt.

In fact, it almost assures that we will be.

Because this is the kind of love that stays at the table—even when it knows what is coming.

This is the kind of love that serves—even when it is not returned.

This is the kind of love that gives itself away—without needing control, recognition, or outcome.

And yet—this is the command.

Not because Jesus is trying to burden us.

But because he is showing us what is real.

What lasts.

What endures.

In a world obsessed with power, Jesus redefines glory—not through conquest, but through a towel, a table, and a love that outlasts death.

And he calls us not just to admire it—but to live it.

And this command is not just for the twelve disciples.

It is for us.

For the confused, fragile, not-yet-ready people gathered here.

And that word—*command*—is where we get the word Maundy.

Maundy Thursday.

The night of the command.

So what would it look like for us to take that seriously?

For us—the people of 8th Street?

What would it look like to be formed into this kind of love?

To carry a towel.

To extend a table.

To love in a way that outlasts death—not in some grand, abstract way, but in the ordinary, concrete, daily moments that make up our lives?

Let me tell you a story.

In 2006, I took about 75 students to the Gulf Coast after Hurricane Katrina.

The devastation was overwhelming.

We thought we were going to “make a difference.” But honestly, it was so vast that it felt like nothing we did would matter.

And the group itself—it was a typical youth group.

Full of energy.

Full of potential.

But also full of tension.

Students who didn’t really know each other.

Some who didn’t want to.

There were wounds. Conflict. Grief. Stories far heavier than most people that age should carry.

It made for a community that was… complicated.

So the night before we began, I gathered everyone for communion.

But we did it differently.

Instead of coming forward in a line, I asked them to take the bread and cup and bring them to someone else.

Someone they didn’t know well.

Someone they needed to reconnect with.

Someone they needed to say “I’m sorry” to.

And as they offered the bread and cup, I asked them to offer words—simple words of encouragement, honesty, or care.

A way of preparing them to serve—not just others, but one another.

There was a mom on that trip.

She had lived through unimaginable loss—her husband had been killed, and she was raising her kids alone.

And if I’m honest, I was pretty sure she didn’t like me.

I assumed she was there to keep an eye on things.

But as I gave instructions, I had a quiet but unmistakable sense:

Go to her.

So I did.

I walked up, got down on one knee, and said:

“I’ve heard some of your story. And I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what that’s been like. But I want to honor you. To care for your kids well. I value you.”

Then I handed her the bread and cup and said:

“Because I have received grace, I offer grace to you.”

And something shifted.

I can’t fully explain it.

But I watched her face soften. Tears came. Something opened.

We didn’t make much of a dent in the work that week.

But something made a dent in me.

And over the years, that moment became a deep and lasting friendship.

That moment didn’t come from a grand plan.

It came from a small act of obedience.

A quiet, human step toward love.

And that’s exactly what Jesus is inviting us into.

Not just inviting—commanding.

And we need the practice.

So tonight, we do things a little differently.

The tables are set around the room.

Bread. Cups. Fruit.

Signs of abundance.

Signs of grace.

Signs of a God who always makes room.

Take your time.

Be together.

Have the easiest, most relaxed “good neighbor” conversation you’ve ever had.

---

When you’re ready, go to a table.

Take bread. Take a cup.

And then—don’t eat it.

Carry it to someone.

Someone you know.

Someone you don’t.

Someone you need to encourage.

And as you hand it to them, speak a word.

Name what you see.

Offer gratitude.

Speak blessing.

Then say:

“Because I have received grace, I offer grace to you.”

This is how we pick up the towel tonight.

Not by washing feet—but by offering words.

Words that lift.

Words that serve.

Words that remind one another:

“You matter.

You are seen.

You are loved.”

And then receive one in return.

Let someone serve you.

And if it makes you uncomfortable… just say, “thank you.”

There’s no rush.

Move around.

Stay present.

Share with more than one person if you feel led.

Because if we cannot live this here…

It will be very difficult to live it out there.

This is a table of grace.

This is a table of love.

And tonight—we don’t just receive it.

We become it for one another.