Before I begin, I want to name what we’re carrying into this moment. Our nation launched military strikes on Iran Saturday, and the attacks continue this morning. Iran is striking back. People are dying. The news keeps unfolding even as we sit here. We bring our fear, our anger, our grief, our questions into this room. God meets us here. And in the passage we just heard, Jesus kneels before his disciples—including his betrayer—with a basin and a towel. That’s the word we need today.
The world is showing us one kind of power this morning. Jesus shows us another.
Think about the last time you met someone important—really important. Maybe a CEO visiting your workplace, a governor at a community event. What did you expect? A firm handshake. A few words of wisdom. At minimum, you expected them to act like someone worth meeting—confident, composed, maybe a little distant.
Now imagine that person walking into the room, taking off their jacket, grabbing a bucket of soapy water, and starting to scrub the floor. On their hands and knees. At your feet.
You’d be uncomfortable, right? You might even try to stop them. “No, no—you don’t need to do that. That’s not what people like you do.”
That discomfort? Hold onto it. Because that’s exactly where the disciples found themselves. They’d followed Jesus for years—seen him heal the sick, calm storms, teach with authority that silenced critics. They knew who he was. And then he knelt down with a basin and a towel.
John tells us this happened just before Passover, when Jesus knew his hour had come. Knowing everything about to happen—the betrayal, the trial, the cross—he chose to spend some of his final hours washing dirty feet.
Last week, Martha’s encounter with Jesus at Lazarus’s tomb asked whether we can trust Jesus in our grief. This week, the Upper Room asks a different question: can we accept the kind of savior he actually is? Accepting a savior who serves—really accepting it—turns out to be surprisingly difficult.
When my dad died in 2016, Nicole and I were away from home for a while. When we finally drove back to the parsonage, exhausted and grieving, I noticed something as I pulled up to the house. Someone had mowed the lawn.
I don’t know who. It was unrequested, unexpected. And my first instinct wasn’t gratitude—it was discomfort. Mowing was my responsibility, my routine, my thing. But I hadn’t been there. Someone saw that gap and quietly filled it—not with fanfare or even a note, just with service.
I was being served in a moment when I couldn’t serve myself. And receiving that gift required letting go of the idea that I should always be the one giving. That’s harder than it sounds. Peter was about to learn the same lesson.
John sets the scene with theological weight: “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them fully” (v. 1). The Greek phrase used here means that—loved them “to the end” or “to completion.” This foot washing isn’t a random act of humility. It’s the complete expression of Jesus’ love, a living parable of what he’s about to do on the cross.
And notice who’s in the room. Verse 2 tells us Judas has already decided to betray him. Jesus washes the feet of his betrayer. This transforms the passage from a nice lesson about service into something far more costly.
Peter’s resistance reveals how deeply this violated expectations. “You will never wash my feet!” isn’t stubbornness—it’s theological protest. Masters don’t serve servants. The Messiah doesn’t do slave work. But Jesus responds: “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Receiving Jesus’ service isn’t optional—it’s essential to belonging.
And then, having served them, Jesus commissions them: “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you too must wash each other’s feet. I have given you an example: just as I have done, you also must do” (vv. 14-15). This isn’t suggestion—it’s commission. Because Jesus served us, we owe service to one another.
John Wesley insisted there is no holiness apart from social holiness—our love for God must overflow into love for neighbor. We can’t claim to follow Jesus while refusing to kneel with the towel. Every baptized Christian is called to wash feet—to serve in ways that may feel beneath us, in places no one will applaud, among people who may never say thank you.
And we see this all around us. In hospitals and classrooms. In homes where exhausted parents show up for bedtime fears anyway. Right here at McPherson First—in the people who arrive early and stay late, who prepare meals and greet strangers and teach children week after week. Every time power kneels to serve, Jesus’ example lives again.
The good news is that before Jesus ever asked his disciples to wash feet, he washed theirs first.
The call to serve doesn’t begin with obligation—it begins with gift. We’re invited to pass along what we’ve already received. The same grace that knelt before the disciples kneels before us still, in bread and cup, in scripture and prayer, in the kindness of strangers and the patience of friends.
And Jesus didn’t wash the disciples’ feet because they were ready for it. Peter wasn’t. Judas was about to betray him. None of them understood what was happening. Jesus served them anyway—not because they deserved it, but because that’s who he is.
You don’t have to earn your way into this kind of love. You don’t have to have your life together, your faith figured out, or your doubts resolved. Jesus meets us where we are, basin in hand, towel over his arm. And once we’ve been served like that, we discover we actually want to serve others—not because we should, but because we’ve experienced what it means to be loved by someone who kneels.
So what does that look like in practice? As United Methodists, we make five promises when we join the church: to support the church with our prayers, presence, gifts, service, and witness. This week, we focus on service—using our gifts to help others—and presence—showing up and engaging in the faith community.
Receive before you serve. When someone offers help this week, instead of deflecting with “I’m fine,” practice saying yes. Notice what it feels like to let yourself be served.
Pick up a towel. Look for one small, uncelebrated way to serve someone—a quiet act that fills a gap someone else can’t fill for themselves.
Name a servant. Send a note or text to someone whose behind-the-scenes service has blessed you. Let them know their work matters.
In the Upper Room, Jesus knelt with a basin and towel and redefined what it means to lead, to love, to follow. He served his disciples before he commissioned them to serve. As witnesses to this upside-down kingdom, we’re invited first to receive—then to pick up the towel ourselves. The one who kneels is the one who truly leads.
Will you pray with me?
God who kneels, Christ who serves, Spirit who empowers—teach us to receive your grace and share it freely. Send us with basin and towel. Amen.
In crafting today’s sermon, I employed AI assistants like Claude and Apple Intelligence, yet the ultimate responsibility for its content rests with me. These tools offered valuable perspectives, but the most influential sermon preparation hinges on biblical study, theological insight, personal reflection, and divine guidance. I see AI as a supportive aid to enrich the sermon process while ensuring my own voice in proclaiming the Word of God.
Rev. Andrew Conard 