Easter weekend gets all the attention. The Good Friday service is dramatic and emotional. Sunday’s a full-on celebration. But tucked between the palm branches and the empty tomb is a moment that’s just as important, and honestly, way more awkward.
It’s called Maundy Thursday — and no, that’s not a typo or the name of a Southern grandmother. It’s one of the most overlooked yet deeply meaningful nights in the entire Gospel story.
The name comes from the Latin mandatum, meaning “command,” pulled from Jesus’ line in John 13:34: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” That’s the “maundy” part. But it’s what happens around that command that makes this night so unforgettable — if we’d slow down long enough to actually notice it.
Because this is the night Jesus washed his friends’ feet.
And not in a metaphorical, “love you bro” kind of way. In a literal, hands-in-dirt, kneeling-on-the-floor, washing-everyone’s-nasty-sandals-off kind of way. It’s uncomfortable, it’s vulnerable and it’s probably not the moment you’d choose if you knew you were about to die. But Jesus did. He chose service over spectacle, presence over power. And that should mess with us a little.
This is also the night of the Last Supper. You know, the origin of that Communion moment you’ve had in churches with plastic cups and stale wafers. Or that scene in the latest episode of The Chosen. But that first meal wasn’t a tidy ritual. It was tense. Confusing. Beautiful. Jesus broke bread and poured wine and told his disciples it was his body and blood — which, in context, had to feel like a pretty strange dinner conversation.
Even C.S. Lewis wasn’t sure what to do with it. “I don’t know and can’t imagine what the disciples understood our Lord to mean when, His body still unbroken and His blood unshed, He handed them the bread and wine, saying they were His body and blood,” he wrote. “Yet I find no difficulty in believing that the veil between the worlds … is nowhere else so thin and permeable to divine operation. Here a hand from the hidden country touches not only my soul but my body.”
In other words: it’s weird. It’s holy. It’s beyond comprehension — and still, somehow, right in front of us. “The command, after all, was Take, eat: not Take, understand,” Lewis added.
Today, some churches hold Maundy Thursday services with foot washing or candlelight vigils. Others read the Gospel story in silence, letting the tension hang in the air. Many evangelical churches skip it entirely, which is a shame — because this moment gives us a version of Jesus we desperately need to remember. Not Jesus preaching to crowds. Not Jesus flipping tables. But Jesus kneeling. Jesus serving. Jesus making space for his friends, even the ones who were about to abandon him.
This is the kind of love that doesn’t flinch when things get complicated. It’s not about image or performance. It’s not about perfect theology or the right vibe. It’s about picking up a towel and loving people in the most inconvenient, unglamorous way possible. It’s about showing up when it’d be easier to ghost.
In a culture obsessed with status, platform and being right, Maundy Thursday quietly calls our bluff. It says if your version of following Jesus doesn’t involve humility, presence and sacrificial love, then maybe it’s time to start over.
So before you jump to Friday’s somber reflection or Sunday’s celebration, stop here. Let yourself feel the strangeness of the story. Let it unsettle you in the best way. Because this — the awkward meal, the dirty feet, the betrayed love — is where real discipleship begins.
