On the night before He died, Jesus did something nobody expected. He didn’t gather His disciples for a final strategy session or a farewell speech. He picked up a towel, knelt down, and washed twelve pairs of dirty feet — one by one.
John tells us why: “Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” Everything Jesus did that night — the foot washing, the bread broken, the cup poured out — flowed from that love. A love that didn’t stop at inconvenience, at grossness, at cost.
Here’s what strikes me most. Jesus knew exactly who He was. He knew He had come from God and was returning to God. He held all authority in the universe. And yet He wrapped a towel around His waist and got to work.
That’s the model He left us. Not a ritual to repeat, but an example to follow. Wherever there is a need that feels beneath you, wherever serving someone costs you something, wherever putting another person first is genuinely inconvenient — that is your foot-washing moment.
But here’s the thing about Jesus washing the disciples’ feet that goes even deeper. He looked at Peter and said, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.” The foot washing wasn’t just about hospitality. It was pointing to the cross — to a cleansing that no one could do for themselves. His body would be broken. His blood would be poured out. And that sacrifice, like the blood on the doorposts in Egypt, would be the only thing standing between us and judgment.
We cannot serve our way to God. We cannot be good enough, generous enough, faithful enough. We have to let Jesus wash us first. And once we’ve received that grace — really received it — serving others stops feeling like a burden and starts feeling like the most natural thing in the world.
This week, look for your foot-washing moment. It probably won’t involve actual feet. But it will cost you something. Do it anyway — not out of duty, but out of love. That’s where Jesus always started.
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