Leveling Up on Servant Leadership

Maundy Thursday and the Meaning of Greatness

Have you ever experienced the quiet, almost disarming power of being loved in a way you didn’t see coming? Not because you earned it, or asked for it—but because someone saw your need and moved toward you anyway.

These moments don’t usually announce themselves. They show up through small acts of humility—a kindness offered without spotlight or self-reference, a gentle word spoken when a sharp word would have been justified, a presence that stays even when things get hard and messy.

Love like this humbles us.
It softens us.
And it sticks with us.

On Maundy Thursday, the night before His crucifixion, Jesus extended that kind of love. It wasn’t sentimental or guarded. It was embodied and vulnerable. It took a towel and a basin. It broke bread and poured wine. In those final hours before the cross, Jesus did not defend Himself or gather strength and support to resist what was coming. He gave. He served. And He revealed a vision of love and leadership that continues to upend our assumptions about power and belonging.

MAUNDY THURSDAY TEACHING ON VIDEO
NOTE: Video content is unique. It is not a replica of, but a companion to, this essay.

When the One in Authority Stoops Low

In John 13, as the disciples gathered for the Passover meal, Jesus stood up from the table. He removed His outer garment, wrapped a towel around His waist, and began to wash their feet. It’s a scene so familiar to many of us that it’s easy to forget just how jarring it must have been in the moment. This was no symbolic gesture. In their world, foot washing was the work of the lowest-ranking household servant. It was a task to be avoided, not embraced. And yet Jesus took it on willingly.

Peter’s discomfort was immediate. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” he asked. His question carried weight—not just surprise, but protest. To him, and to the others, Jesus was the Teacher, the Master, the one whose hands should never be doing such a menial thing. But Jesus responded, “Unless I wash you, you have no part with me.”

This wasn’t simply about hygiene or social reversal. Jesus was revealing something of God’s character, and something about the nature and extent of grace. In a culture that often equated influence with being served, Jesus showed that real authority moves toward others as a servant.

Imagine, for a moment, the modern equivalent. A world leader who steps off the podium not to interview with reporters or to join his motorcade, but to pick up litter from the crowd. A CEO who spends an afternoon folding a staff member’s laundry in the breakroom. These aren’t hypothetical acts of virtue—they’re the kind of holy disruption Jesus enacted in that upper room. He knew His disciples. He knew one would betray Him, another would deny Him, and the rest would scatter. Still, He chose to serve them to the fullest.

After He finished, Jesus asked, “Do you understand what I have done for you?” And then, gently but clearly: “You also should wash one another’s feet.” What He offered wasn’t just a teaching moment—it was a new way to live.

A Meal That Redefines Our Belonging

Later that same night, Jesus took the bread and the cup and did something even more surprising. He reframed the entire story of Israel’s deliverance around Himself. The bread, once a symbol of heaven’s provision and the Exodus, now became His body. The cup, long a sign of God’s covenant, was now His blood, poured out for the forgiveness of sins.

This wasn’t a departure from the story of redemption—it was its fulfillment. Jesus wasn’t setting aside the old; He was showing that He had been at the center of it all along. The meal that had once pointed to freedom from Pharaoh would now point to a deeper freedom—the kind that only grace can bring as we are set free from the worst in ourselves.

To appreciate the weight of this moment, it helps to remember what symbols can mean. A national flag is more than fabric—it tells a story of sacrifice and hope. A wedding ring doesn’t just sit on a finger—it speaks of promise and presence. A worn-out Bible passed down through generations carries a history of faith and struggle. The bread and the cup of communion do something similar. They tell us who and whose we are. They tether us to a love that came before us and will carry us long after our strength fails.

And they do something more. They remind us that we don’t earn our place at the Lord’s table. We receive it. Jesus didn’t hand out pieces of Himself to those who had passed a test. He gave Himself freely, even to those who would soon run away. The Lord’s Supper still carries that same spirit. It doesn’t require you to come with polished faith or ordination credentials. It asks you to come with open hands and a humble heart.

The Command That Comes After Grace

The word “Maundy” comes from the Latin mandatum, meaning “command.” That night, Jesus gave one: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.” These weren’t empty words. They came after the towel, after the basin, after the breaking of bread. The love Jesus commanded was the love He had already demonstrated. It was embodied. Tangible. Painfully personal.

Pastor and theologian Fleming Rutledge once wrote that the foot washing is “not an example, first of all, but a declaration of who Jesus is.” Her words ring true. Before love becomes an ethic to live out, it must first be received as a gift given to us. Grace can’t be imitated if it hasn’t first been welcomed. If we skip over that step—if we try to serve others without recognizing and receiving Christ’s service to us—we turn love into performance rather than response.

But once we’ve received it? We’re invited to live it. And that life looks like forgiveness when it feels costly. Service when it feels inconvenient. Hospitality that stretches past comfort. In a culture drawn to platform and acclaim, this kind of love can feel invisible. It’s not something that goes viral, but that connects quietly, one soul at a time. But in the eyes of God, nothing is more seen and rejoiced over than this.

The way of Jesus isn’t simply about lowering oneself. It’s about making space for others to belong. It’s not about appearing humble—it’s about choosing the path that leads toward healing, even when no one notices. That’s what Jesus did in that upper room. And that’s what He invites us into still, first as receivers, then as givers.

A Table, a Towel, and an Invitation

Maundy Thursday is more than a day on the church calendar. It is a call to remember who Jesus is—and what kind of life He makes possible for us. In a world that tells us to prove our worth, Jesus brings a towel and a table. He reminds us that we are not valuable because of what we achieve. We are valuable because He has loved us to the end.

So let Him wash your feet. Let Him nourish you with grace. Let Him remind you, again, that you are already His. And when you rise from the table, carry His love with you into the places where you live, work, and play. In small acts of kindness. In quiet moments of presence. In choosing humility when pride would be so much easier.

This is the way of Christ. It’s quieter than we expect, slower than we prefer, and more lovely and lasting than we deserve.

And it is always the way toward life.