Maundy Thursday: Judas Gets His Feet Washed, Too
A reflection on John 13:1–35 | Maundy Thursday | April 2, 2026
Editor’s Note: This article is adapted from a sermon preached by Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church. It has been edited for web reading while preserving the heart, tone, and theological movement of the original message.
I don’t know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too.
That world does not make much sense to most of us. We are far more familiar with a world of condemnation, scorekeeping, and retribution. Judas, after all, is supposed to be the villain. He is supposed to stay in history’s penalty box. He is supposed to stand as a cautionary tale, not as someone kneeling at the feet of Jesus and receiving the same mercy as everyone else in the room.
And yet, in John 13, that is exactly what happens.
On Maundy Thursday, Jesus kneels to wash the feet of his disciples. Not just Peter. Not just John. Not just the faithful ones, the lovable ones, or the dependable ones. Judas, too. Jesus knows what Judas is about to do. He knows betrayal is already in motion. He knows the kiss is coming. And still, he kneels. Still, he washes. Still, he loves.
Jesus kneels before Judas, fully aware of what he is about to do, and lovingly washes his dirty feet anyway.
The Scandal of Grace
There is something deeply unsettling about this scene. We prefer a world where mercy is earned and grace is deserved. We want betrayal punished, harm exposed, and villains clearly marked. We want a world where people get what is coming to them.
But the Gospel keeps confronting us with a different kind of world.
Maundy Thursday tells the truth about betrayal, but it also tells the truth about mercy. Jesus does not deny what Judas will do. He does not pretend harm is harmless. But neither does he withdraw his love. The basin and towel become signs of a grace that reaches even where we would rather it not go.
That is what makes this story so difficult. It is not only Judas who unsettles us. It is Jesus.
In a culture that mistakes gentleness for weakness and mercy for surrender, Jesus’ actions can seem absurd. He does not shame Judas. He does not humiliate him. He does not crush him. He stoops low and serves him.
To people trained in vengeance and baptized in scorekeeping, that kind of mercy can feel less beautiful than foolish.
Seeing Ourselves in Judas
It is easy to keep Judas at a safe distance. It is easy to reduce him to his worst act and leave him there. But doing so may keep us from recognizing the harder truth: there is more of Judas in us than we care to admit.
We know the parts of ourselves that grow impatient with Jesus’ non-coercive way of changing the world. We know the parts that want quicker vindication, sharper judgment, and cleaner lines between the good people and the bad people. We know the parts that would rather explain people than love them, condemn them rather than pray for them, and reduce them to their worst moment while begging others not to do the same to us.
Maundy Thursday will not let us keep Judas safely over there. It brings him uncomfortably close. It invites us to see him not just as a villain, but as our brother—someone whose kinship with us is closer than we often realize.
And maybe that is precisely why this story matters so much. Because if Jesus can kneel before Judas, then perhaps he can kneel before the worst parts of us, too.
We need the basin. We need the towel. We need a mercy we did not earn and cannot control.
Standing with Javert on the Bridge
One way to understand the moral crisis of this text is through a familiar story from Les Misérables. In that musical, the police inspector Javert lives by strict legalism. For him, mercy threatens justice. Grace feels like disorder. The categories must remain fixed: wrongdoers are condemned, the law is absolute, and punishment is the only language that makes sense.
But when Jean Valjean spares Javert’s life instead of taking it, Javert’s whole worldview begins to collapse. He does not know what to do with mercy. He does not know how to live in a world where grace interrupts the logic he has trusted. And unable to imagine such a world, he falls into despair.
That image feels painfully relevant. We, too, live in a culture perched on the edge of Javert’s bridge. We are surrounded by endless cycles of retribution, outrage, and dehumanization. We know how to punish. We know how to shame. We know how to keep score. What we often do not know is how to step back from the edge and move toward another way.
That does not mean accountability does not matter. It does. Grace does not erase harm, and reconciliation cannot happen without truth. But the Gospel refuses to let retribution have the last word.
Sometimes a simple, humble, silent act of kneeling and washing feet can interrupt the patterns we have been tempted to think are inevitable.
A Different Kind of World
Maundy Thursday is not sentimental. It is not naïve about betrayal, suffering, or human brokenness. It knows exactly what kind of world we live in. But it also dares to proclaim that another world is possible—a world where mercy interrupts vengeance, where grace gets down on its knees, and where love is known not by what it says, but by what it does.
That is the world Jesus opens before us in the upper room.
And stepping into that world changes us. Every act of retribution hardens something in us. Every refusal to see our neighbor’s humanity diminishes our own. But every act of mercy, every kneeling gesture of love, every moment when we choose not to mirror the cruelty around us—those moments make us more human, not less.
That is the way of Christ.
To wash feet is to reject the lie that domination is strength. To love across betrayal is to reject the lie that vengeance is the only form of justice. To come to the basin and the towel is to confess that we are all sustained by grace we did not deserve.
Come to the Basin
So perhaps the invitation of Maundy Thursday is simple, even if it is not easy.
Come to the basin.
Come to the towel.
Come to the table.
Come and be honest about the Judas-like parts of yourself. Come and lay down the habits of scorekeeping and self-protection. Come and receive again the love of Christ, who kneels before us without turning away.
And then, having received that love, go and practice it.
Love one another, Jesus says, just as I have loved you. Not abstractly. Not sentimentally. But concretely. Humbly. Costly. Tenderly. With open hands instead of stones.
Maundy Thursday calls us into a world where grace is stronger than vengeance and where love is measured by what it is willing to do.
We may not fully know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too. But by the grace of God, we can take a step toward it. And in taking that step, we may find ourselves stepping away from the brink and toward the kingdom Jesus proclaims.
Reflection Questions
- What do you find most unsettling in this story: Judas’ betrayal or Jesus’ mercy?
- Where are you tempted to keep score instead of extending grace?
- What would it look like for mercy to interrupt the patterns of retribution in your own life?
- How is Christ inviting you to come to the basin, the towel, and the table this Holy Week?
Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing preached this message on Maundy Thursday, April 2, 2026, at Guilford Park Presbyterian Church.
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