A Reflection for Thursday of the Fourth Week of Easter
Find today’s readings here.
We are still basking in Easter light. But today’s Gospel takes us back—not to breakfast on the shore with the risen Jesus, not on the road to Emmaus, but to the quiet intimacy of the Upper Room. The night before everything changes. The night before Jesus is put cruelly and deliberately to death. The air in the room is heavy—thick with friendship, fear and farewell.
The lines we read in today’s Gospel—where Jesus speaks of messengers and masters, betrayal and blessing—immediately follow a moment not included in today’s verses, but crucial for setting the scene. So, widen the frame just a little.
The meal is over. The disciples are quiet now, unsure what to say, their feet clean but their hearts uneasy. A few moments earlier, Jesus had stood up from the table, tied a towel around his waist and stooped down—yes, down—to wash each of their feet. One by one. The basin is still there. The towel, now damp, rests nearby.
Then the lens pans across. Jesus puts his robe back on, returns to the table and says:
“You call me ‘teacher’ and ‘master,’ and rightly so, for indeed I am. If I, therefore, the master and teacher, have washed your feet, you ought to wash one another’s feet. I have given you a model to follow, so that as I have done for you, you should also do.” (John 13:13–15)
And then he asks the question:
“Do you realize what I have done for you?” (John 13:12)
It is not rhetorical. He has just done something unthinkable: The one they call Lord and Teacher has stooped down to wash their feet. And now he wants them to stop and take it in. This is not a soft or symbolic gesture—it is gritty, disruptive, deeply physical.
The Son of God kneels to scrub dirt from between toes. This is where divine love gets its hands dirty. And in John’s Gospel, this is the moment we are given instead of the familiar words—this is my body, this is my blood. The Eucharist is not absent—it is embodied in action, not speech; from the floor, not the altar.
Now turn the camera around until the lens lands on you. The focus tightens. Your face fills the frame. You are no longer just watching this Gospel unfold—you are in it.
This is not just a scene from long ago. It is personal. What Jesus did then is meant to shape how you live now. At the sink. In the grocery line. On the subway. In the tension of a hard conversation, in the quiet of holding someone’s hand, or in the chaos of managing children in the backseat. Wherever you are today, this Gospel is for you.
The Eucharist does not end at Communion. It begins there. It flows from the altar into every moment that calls for compassion.
The French sacramental theologian Louis-Marie Chauvet helps make this clear. He speaks of the Eucharist not only as a gift, but as a “return-gift.” The grace you receive is not meant to stop with you—it invites a response. Not just in devotion, but in how you live: in acts of love, mercy and presence. The Eucharist bears fruit when it transforms how you show up for others. In this light, the basin and the towel become just as Eucharistic as the bread and the cup.
And Johann Baptist Metz, a German Catholic priest and theologian best known for exploring how memory shapes discipleship, reminds you that remembering Jesus is never neutral. He calls this a “dangerous memory”—dangerous because it unsettles. If you remember Jesus rightly, it changes you. It sends you.It leads you into places you would rather avoid—into the lowliness of service and the suffering of the cross.
Jesus did not just preach humility. He lived it—kneeling, touching, serving.
And now he speaks again:
“Amen, amen, I say to you, no slave is greater than his master nor any messenger greater than the one who sent him. If you understand this, blessed are you if you do it.” (John 13:16–17)
Not blessed are you if you admire it. Blessed are you if you do it.
And then the promise:
“Whoever receives the one I send receives me, and whoever receives me receives the one who sent me.” (John 13:20)
So widen the shot one more time. The scene is no longer just the Upper Room. It is wherever you are right now—where I am—where we are, each one and all of us together.
This is where the Gospel takes flesh. Whether you are folding laundry, making lunch, caring for someone who is struggling or simply choosing to respond with gentleness, this is where the return-gift is offered back. The question still echoes: “Do you realize what I have done for you?”
And perhaps the most faithful answer you and I can give—the most Eucharistic response—is the one we live. This is the call not only to individual discipleship, but to the church as a whole: to be a community that serves. Not polished or perfect, but formed by clean water and dirty feet—ready to kneel, ready to love, ready to be sent.
The Upper Room sends us out—not just with words, but with a water basin and towel in hand, ready to serve in real, tangible ways.
Do this in memory of me. Not only at the altar, but wherever love takes shape in service. Not only in the liturgy, but in daily life. In every act of care, every moment we show up for someone, every time we give of ourselves with humility and love. Let your life be a living memory of what God has done for you from the beginning, and what God is still doing through you and me.
Go and do the same. Let your life carry the memory and return the gift.
