Sermon – Washing Feet

(I preached this sermon at Christ Lutheran Church on Sunday March 1, 2026. The sermon is in response to John 13:1-17. The audio can be found here.)

If you knew you were going to die tomorrow, what would you do tonight?

If you had one last meal… a last conversation… your last chance to show the world who you really are…

What would you want that moment to be?

In the thirteenth chapter of the Gospel of John, Jesus knows.

John goes out of his way to tell us that Jesus is not surprised. He is not confused. He is not naïve.

He knows betrayal is already in motion.
He knows violence is coming.
He knows the machinery of the empire is turning toward him.
He knows the cross is not theoretical, but rather it is scheduled.

And John says something else. Jesus knows that the Father has given all things into his hands.

All things.

Authority. Power. Control. The ability to command.

Everything is in his hands.

And what does he do with that?

He rises from the table.
He lays aside his outer garment.
He takes up a towel.
He pours water into a basin.
He kneels on the floor.

The cross does not begin on Golgotha.

Golgotha is the place outside Jerusalem where Rome executed people. It means “the place of the skull.” It is where Jesus will be nailed to wood and lifted up to die.

But the cross does not begin there.

It begins on the floor.

It begins with water.
It begins with exposed feet.
It begins with service.
It begins knowing violence is coming and choosing not to become violent in return.

Jesus has all authority in his hands and he uses those hands to wash feet.

We are living in a world that believes authority should look very different.

Right now, we are watching nations lay down lives and take up weapons. The United States and Israel have launched attacks inside Iran. Iran’s leader has been killed. The second leader of a nation that we have been responsible for removing.  The situation is unstable. Retaliation is expected. The language is escalating.

And that is only one flashpoint among many.

This is not new. Empires have always flexed power through force. But we are watching it unfold in real time.

The logic of the world is painfully clear:

Strike first.
Eliminate the threat.
Prove your strength.
Make them afraid.
Protect yourself at all costs.

The world lays down enemies’ lives
and takes up missiles.

The world lays down the poor
and takes up profit.

The world lays down the earth
and takes up consumption.

The world lays down the stranger
and takes up detention contracts.

The world lays down workers’ dignity
and takes up wealth for the powerful.

The world lays down mercy
and takes up control.

But Jesus lays down something different.

Earlier in John, he says he lays down his life and takes it up again. And here, on this night, he lays down his garment and takes up a towel.

Laying down.
Taking up.

That pattern runs through his whole life.

The world lays down other people so it can rise higher.

Jesus lays down himself so others can live.

The world protects itself by pushing others under.

Jesus protects our humanity by kneeling down.

The world believes strength means making someone else smaller.

Jesus shows that strength means choosing love when you could choose force.

And here is the part we cannot escape:

Jesus washes Judas’ feet.

He knows.

He knows exactly what Judas is about to do.

And he kneels anyway.

He does not expose him.
He does not shame him.
He does not strike him.
He does not remove him from the table.

He washes him.

Not because he believes he can change Judas’ heart.

But because he refuses to let Judas change his own.

He refuses to let betrayal dictate who he becomes.

That is real strength.

That is freedom of the soul.

That is what it looks like to be so grounded in God that hatred cannot pull you off course.

Peter resists.

“Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”

Peter cannot imagine a Messiah on his knees.

And Jesus says something startling:

“Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”

Unless you let me serve you.
Unless you let me love you.
Unless you let me wash the parts of you that feel dirty or ashamed or broken.

You cannot share in my life.

Before we ever wash anyone else’s feet, we must let Jesus kneel before ours.

And here is something we say often at Christ Lutheran Church:

Everyone who walks through these doors is in need of healing.

Everyone.

Not just the ones who come to the clinic.
Not just the ones asking for food or blankets.
Not just the ones struggling in visible ways.

Also the ones who look like they have it all together.
Also the ones who are always serving others.
Also the ones who smile the widest.

Every one of us carries wounds.

Wounds from grief.
Wounds from trauma.
Wounds from poverty and financial strain.
Wounds from relationships that cracked.
Wounds from addiction.
Wounds from health diagnoses.
Wounds we caused.
Wounds caused to us.

And the first step toward healing is not pretending we are strong.

It is sitting down.

It is taking off our shoes.

It is letting Jesus wash what we would rather hide.

A woman came into this church a couple of months ago.

It was bitter cold.

She asked for socks and a few small things. We gave them to her.

And then she sat down on the step.

She took off her shoes.

No socks. Just bare feet inside old sneakers.

Her feet were damaged. Nails broken. Toes that had clearly suffered. Skin hardened by cold and neglect.

She slid the socks on.

And for just a moment, there was a smile.

Warmth returned.

It did not fix everything.
It did not undo the systems that left her there.
It did not solve poverty.

But for a moment, dignity returned.

For a moment, someone who had been surviving felt seen.

I think about another moment at the clinic.

A woman came in who had experienced deep brutality in her life. She got scared and left the first time. But she came back.

She sat down.

A nurse and a nursing student knelt in front of her.

They fed her yogurt because she needed nourishment.
They kept her conscious.
They listened as she told her story — layers of trauma.

They did not rush her.
They did not try to control her.
They did not fix her life in one afternoon.

They knelt.

And she allowed herself to be cared for.

That is foot-washing.

That is what it means to see the image of God in someone the world has treated as disposable.

That is what it means to refuse to let violence have the final word.

If this were your last night, what would you want to be doing?

Jesus kneels.

There is a saying often attributed to Martin Luther:
“If the world were to end tomorrow, I would still plant a tree today.”

Whether he said those exact words or not, the point stands.

The world may rage.
Nations may strike.
Violence may escalate.

But today, we will plant trees.

Today, we will give socks.

Today, we will kneel.

Today, we will lay down pride and take up a towel.

Because unless Jesus washes us, we have no share with him.

And if we share with him, we cannot become what we fear.

We serve not because it always works.

We serve because control costs too much of our soul.

We love not because it is returned.

We love because refusing to love would turn us into something we were never meant to be.

The cross does not begin at the place of the skull.

It begins on the floor.

It begins when Jesus, knowing everything that is coming, decides:

I will not become what is trying to destroy me.

And he kneels.

Thanks be to God.  Amen.