The Strange became Sacred
Raju Bhagwat, 16 April 2025, Maundy Thursday
Read John 13; Matthew 26
It’s been a weird week. Weird in a way I still don’t know how to talk about without trailing off mid-
sentence. But it was the night that the strange became sacred. Sacred memories I still treasure.
Last Sabbath, Rabbi sent us ahead to fetch a donkey. Not just any donkey - a colt. A borrowed one. I
offered an alternative - maybe a majestic white stallion, something more befitting a king arriving to
take possession of his kingdom. He just looked at me, and I swear those eyes of his see right through
ambition like a hot knife through hummus. So, we fetched the donkey. And the crowds? Oh, they
went wild. Hosannas and gowns and cloaks and garments strewn all the way into Jerusalem. It was
like every prophecy was coming true - yet, it was so different from what we had expected.
The temple tantrum came next. That was… well, it was something. He’d done it before, so we half-
expected it. But this time he didn’t just toss tables. He seemed to flip expectations upside down.
Again. Coins rolled across the floor, freed doves flapped away furiously, and the Pharisees' faces
were a study in rage. Not just weird - this was dangerous too.
Then came the fig tree incident. Cursed and withered - symbolic, no doubt. But I was still trying to
figure out whether it was a metaphor, a miracle, or a dramatic warning. Probably all three. That’s
how it is with Rabbi. You start peeling back one layer and find seventeen more beneath it.
Tonight, I was just looking forward to Passover. Finally, something familiar. Something predictable,
and comforting. Rituals and food and laughter. The kind of evening where we could eat without
someone storming off or being questioned about the end of the world. Well, so much for that!
We were reclining, feeling relaxed and glad to be off our feet, when he got up, took off his robe, tied
a towel around his waist, and started washing our feet. Feet! The ones caked in donkey dust, fig tree
sap, and temple courtyard pigeon grime. One by one, he knelt before each of us like a servant. I
wanted to stop him, but something in his hands - those same hands that had raised the dead - made
me sit still.
Peter, of course, made a scene. Always the voice in the room saying what the rest of us are thinking.
But Rabbi calmed him with a sentence that sounded like poetry and warning all at once: “Unless I
wash you, you have no part with me.” Weird. And wonderful. And wildly uncomfortable.
Then came the bread. The wine. Strange talk about these being his body and his blood. And that we
should repeat this often, in memory of him. Like he was going to die, or something. The cryptic talk
of him being betrayed. Judas standing up, storming out. The door closing with a loud thud that
sounded like destiny’s distant drum. We sang a psalm after that - I don’t remember which one. I just
remember feeling like something had ended, even though nothing visible had happened. Yet.
He wanted to pray in Gethsemane. But the bewilderment I felt as his follower and friend, watching
things unravel, and unable to read the divine plot twists playing out in real time, had me exhausted
and ready to sleep. So, I slipped away, mumbling something about needing my rest. It felt minor.
Innocent. But maybe that’s how betrayal always begins - not with daggers, but with distance.
Living Biblically Today
1. Let God serve you
John 13:8–10 shows us something we don’t like to admit - we’d rather do something for Jesus than
have Him do something uncomfortable for us. We prefer to control the exchange. But Maundy
Thursday tells us that the way into Christ is not through performance, but through permission. Let
Him kneel before the parts of you you’ve tried to hide - even from yourself. There’s healing in His
basin and towel, even if there’s pride in your heels.
2. Don’t mistake ritual for relationship
Matthew 26:26–28 shows Jesus reinterpreting the Passover - bread and wine no longer just memory,
but mission. It’s possible to go through religious motions and miss the sacred shift. The disciples had
done Passover their whole lives. That night, it became personal. If your faith has gone stale or
mechanical, maybe it’s time to let Jesus re-teach you the meaning of the meal. The table was never
just about history - it’s always been about His presence, and our presence together, with Him.
3. Embrace sacred discomfort
John 13:12–17 recounts Jesus putting His robe back on after washing the disciples’ feet and asking,
“Do you understand what I have done for you?” The honest answer, then and now, is: not entirely.
But sacred moments rarely come wrapped in clarity. The Kingdom is often found in strange places—
like the space between your unwashed heel and Christ’s calloused hand. So, let Him disrupt your
dignity. Let Him flip your expectations. Maundy Thursday invites us to welcome the holy that comes
dressed as uncomfortable.
4. Stay in the tension of unanswered prayers
Maundy Thursday leads into Gethsemane, where Jesus wrestled with the will of the Father. The
disciples were invited to pray, but they slept. Too often, we treat spiritual fatigue as failure. But the
call here isn’t to perfection - it’s to presence. To remain watchful even when the outcome is unclear.
To pray even when we’re tired. To stay in the story, even when the next chapter scares us.
Discipleship sometimes means sitting in the tension, not rushing to resolution.
Prayer
Lord Jesus, I confess that I love You better when You are predictable. When You teach, not when You
kneel. When You bless, not when You break. But tonight, You undress royalty to wash my weary
feet. You offer broken bread when I wanted certainty. You whisper surrender while I cling to control.
Teach me to stay when the room grows dark. To let You serve me when I feel unworthy.
To follow even when I don’t understand the plot. I do not deserve a place at Your table.
But You still pull out the chair just for me. Thank you. Amen.
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