Grace Lutheran
Maundy Thursday 2025

      • Psalm 41:9–10ESV

      • 1 Corinthians 11:24ESV

      • 1 Corinthians 11:27–28ESV

      • Exodus 12:1–14ESV

      • Exodus 12:1–14ESV

      • 1 Corinthians 11:23–32ESV

      • 1 Corinthians 11:23–32ESV

      • John 13:1–30ESV

      • John 13:1–30ESV

  • Maundy Thursday Devotional Sermon Title: “Knowing the End, He Served” Texts: John 13:1-30; 1 Corinthians 11:23-32; Psalm 22
    If You Knew Tomorrow Was the End...
    What would you do if you knew tomorrow was your last day?
    Would you call your loved ones? Would you check something off your bucket list? Would you make peace with someone you've held a grudge against? Most of us would probably want to make those final moments count—say the things we've left unsaid, do the things we've postponed. We'd want to leave a legacy, make things right, be remembered.
    Now imagine this: you not only know that tomorrow is your last day—you know the exact hour. You know who will betray you. You know the suffering ahead. You know the pain, the loneliness, the cross. What would you do with your final evening?
    Jesus knew. And what did He do?

    A Meal and a Basin

    The room was already prepared. The smell of roasted lamb lingered in the air. The table was set, the Passover elements carefully arranged. Candlelight flickered against the rough stone walls, casting dancing shadows on the faces of the twelve.
    One by one, the disciples shuffled in—dust on their feet, weariness in their eyes. A few exchanged greetings. Others kept to themselves. But even in that sacred moment, their pride got the better of them. Luke tells us they were still arguing—again—about who among them was the greatest. Even after three years with Jesus, even after witnessing His humility, they were still chasing status and power.
    And Judas? He played the part well. Smiled when spoken to. Sat in his seat as though nothing was wrong. But tucked in his cloak was the payment for betrayal. And tucked in his heart was the scheme already set in motion.
    And Jesus?
    John tells us: “Having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end.” (John 13:1) That kind of love is not fragile. It doesn’t bend under disappointment. It doesn’t walk away when betrayed. It doesn’t wait for the other person to make the first move.
    Jesus loved them to the end.
    Knowing all that was about to unfold—He rose from the table. He laid aside His outer garment. He wrapped a towel around His waist. He poured water into a basin.
    And then… the King knelt.
    The King of heaven. The Creator of galaxies. The One before whom angels veil their faces. He knelt.
    Not to be served, but to serve.
    He washed the feet that would soon run away in fear. He gently scrubbed the toes of Peter, who would—within hours—deny he ever knew Him. And yes, He even washed Judas’ feet. He looked into those eyes, knowing the kiss of betrayal was already on his lips. Still… He washed.
    What kind of love does that?
    What kind of Savior kneels before the ones who will abandon Him?
    This was not a gesture meant to impress. It wasn’t ceremonial or symbolic for symbolism’s sake. This was love poured out with water and hands—love that stoops, love that cleanses, love that does the job no one else wants.
    This was more than hospitality. This was holiness.
    This was not a love of sentiment—but a love of sacrifice. Not a service of show—but a service of the soul. Because Jesus didn’t just wash feet that night. He was pointing to what He came to do: To cleanse hearts. To make the guilty clean. To serve the unworthy.
    And He does the same for us.
    He still kneels—at the table where His body and blood are offered. He still serves—offering grace to the undeserving. He still loves—loving us to the very end.
    So when we hear the splash of water, when we kneel to receive His gifts, when we look to the cross—we remember: The King knelt. For them. For us. For you.

    “This Is My Body”

    After the water was poured and the feet were clean, the room settled. The towel was laid aside. The basin was emptied. But Jesus wasn’t finished serving—not even close.
    He returned to the table, not to be honored, but to give. Not to demand loyalty, but to offer love in its most tangible form.
    The disciples took their places around the table, the same table where so many meals had been shared before. But this one was different. The Passover meal was full of meaning, a remembrance of God's deliverance from Egypt. But now Jesus would give it new meaning—eternal meaning.
    He took bread. Ordinary, flat, unleavened bread. Bread they had broken together countless times. But this time, He said something new:
    “This is My body, which is for you. Do this in remembrance of Me.”
    Then He took the cup. A familiar part of the meal, passed from hand to hand, a reminder of the lamb's blood on the doorposts long ago. But now Jesus said:
    “This cup is the new testament in My blood. Do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of Me.”
    The disciples couldn’t fully grasp it in that moment. But Jesus was giving them more than food. He was giving them Himself.
    His true body. His true blood. Broken and poured out—for them.
    And for us.
    Because we are no different than those disciples, are we? We come to His table distracted, proud, sometimes doubting, sometimes burdened. We’ve argued over who’s greatest. We’ve run from the cross. We’ve sold Him out for far less than thirty pieces of silver.
    And yet—He feeds us anyway.
    He doesn’t say, “Clean yourself up first.” He doesn’t say, “Come back when your faith is stronger.” He says, “Take and eat… Take and drink… this is for you.”
    It’s personal. It’s powerful. It’s promise.
    When we receive His Supper, we are not re-enacting something long past—we are receiving a present gift. Heaven touches earth. The Lamb who was slain feeds His people with the sacrifice once offered and now freely given.
    And in that meal, there is forgiveness. There is strength. There is unity. There is Christ.

    The Servant Who Suffered

    The meal was nearly over. The words of love had been spoken. The feet had been washed. The bread and wine had been given and received. But the night was far from finished.
    A shadow fell across the candlelit room—Judas had risen from the table. And John tells us that after he took the bread from Jesus’ hand, “he went out. And it was night.” (John 13:30)
    Yes, it was night—out there, and soon, in here too. Darkness was coming. The betrayal was already set in motion. The agony of Gethsemane, the silence of injustice, the lashes, the thorns, the nails—all of it would follow swiftly.
    But even in the darkness, the Servant did not retreat.
    Jesus knew what Psalm 22 had spoken centuries earlier:
    “Dogs surround me, a pack of villains encircles me; they pierce my hands and my feet. All my bones are on display; people stare and gloat over me. They divide my clothes among them and cast lots for my garment.” (Psalm 22:16–18)
    He knew it was about Him. He knew the suffering was coming. And still… He stayed. He went. He obeyed.
    Because this Servant was no victim. He was the Victor, even in suffering. He came not to be served, but to serve—and to give His life as a ransom for many. (Mark 10:45)
    This is the Servant who loved His enemies. This is the Savior who fed traitors. This is the Shepherd who laid down His life for the sheep.

    Do This in Remembrance of Me

    And now… what do we do with all this?
    We remember. Not just with our minds, but with our mouths. With our hearts. With our lives.
    When Jesus said, “Do this in remembrance of Me,” He didn’t just mean think about Him once a year during Holy Week. He gave us a gift to receive again and again. A meal that nourishes. A presence that strengthens. A promise that holds fast even when we let go.
    So when we come to His table, we come as sinners. But we leave as forgiven children. We come empty. But we leave full.
    The Lord’s Supper is not just a ritual—it’s a reality. Not just remembrance—it’s communion. With Christ. With one another. With grace that never runs dry.
    And then we rise from the table and take up our own towels.
    Because the body and blood that enter us shape us. The Servant who knelt before us now walks beside us. And we are sent out into the world not to climb ladders of greatness—but to bend low in humble love.
    To forgive. To serve. To love—even when it hurts.
    For we have been with Jesus. And Jesus is still with us.
    Until the day we kneel—not at a basin, but before the throne. Until the day the Lamb becomes our eternal Shepherd. Until the meal becomes the feast in glory.
    Come. Eat. Remember. He loved you to the end.

    Until He Comes

    So what would you do if you knew tomorrow was your last day?
    Jesus knew and he gave us a gift.
    A basin of water to teach us how to love. A table of bread and wine to show us how deeply we are loved.
    And in that meal, He speaks the gospel—not in vague poetry, not in abstract theology, but in bread broken and wine poured.
    He says: “This is My body. This is My blood.”
    Not a symbol. Not a metaphor. “This is for you.”
    It’s the gospel in the most intimate form: Jesus giving Himself, fully and freely.
    He told the crowds in John 6:
    “I am the bread of life. Whoever comes to Me will never go hungry, and whoever believes in Me will never be thirsty… The bread that I will give for the life of the world is My flesh.” (John 6:35, 51)
    And then He sealed those words—not just in preaching, not just on the page—but on a cross, and in a meal we still share today.
    Every time you come to this table, He is saying again:
    “I died for you.” “I forgive you.” “I love you to the end.”
    And when we kneel at the altar, we are not just remembering something He did long ago. We are receiving something He gives right now.
    His real body. His real blood. His real grace—for real sinners.
    And one day, that same Savior will return—not with towel and basin, but with crown and glory. Until then, we eat and drink in faith, proclaiming His death, holding tight to His promise:
    “Whoever eats My flesh and drinks My blood has eternal life, and I will raise them up on the last day.” (John 6:54)
    This is the gospel.
    Not something we earn. Not something we achieve. But something we receive.
    Tonight, we don’t leave with full understanding. We leave with full hands, full mouths, full hearts.
    Forgiven. Fed. Loved.
    By a Savior who knelt… Who served… Who gave… And who still does.
    Amen
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