Sermon preached at the Sung Eucharist of Maundy Thursday 2026

When Jesus advanced towards Peter with basin and towel to wash his feet, he uttered words that could sum up the whole life of faith. He said to Peter; 'You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.'

For all the moments of clarity we might enjoy in our faith – the assurances of God’s love in prayers manifestly-answered; when things work out well, better even than we had dared to hope; moments when faith feels obvious and assured; nevertheless a great deal, perhaps for some people the whole life of faith, is a good deal less clear, less understandable.

In times of trouble, or illness, or grief; in the face of intractable war and suffering; in the cancer ward – it would be strange if we thought we always understood what God is doing, here and now.

'You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.'

I have a friend, a very faithful friend, who has lived with physical pain pretty much throughout her life. In fact, pain is just the cherry on the top of a whole life which is deeply challenging; her mobility is impeded, as is her speech. She has a great deal to complain about, but that isn’t her style.

She has a friend who is clearly very important to her indeed, who also lives with chronic physical pain. She prays for this friend – she prays hard – she is frankly exhausted with praying for her friend – and she is honest about her dismay that nothing seems to get any better. We talk about it sometimes, and share our hope that there is a bigger picture, that God is doing something with all her prayers, though we can’t quite imagine what.

'You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.'

In the heat of suffering – our own or those we love – we may not be able to grasp or feel the hope in this statement; the promise that understanding will come, later. 

Of course it could feel like being fobbed-off, like the child who suspects that their parents just can’t be bothered to explain; the child who finds it impossible to accept that any explanation would be beyond their comprehension; not something they could grasp right now. Even for those of us who are more mature in years, perhaps in faith, it seems evident that with God there are still explanations for which we are not yet ready, not yet able to receive. That is not God holding out on us, or fobbing us off; it is a call to patience and trust as we await the fullness of understanding that we are promised; until we know even as we have been known, as St Paul puts it. However, I doubt God is surprised, let alone offended, if our patience and trust sometimes buckle; when bafflement breaks into frustration and anguish, even anger.

Peter was baffled, offended even by the thought of Jesus washing his feet. Jesus must have known that the full meaning of this action would be impossible for Peter to grasp right now, but he offered a first step towards understanding. Unless I wash you, Peter, you have no share with me. Let me do this, Peter, for the sake of what we are to one another – for the sake of our relationship – for the share you already have in my teaching, my friendship, my band of followers.  I’m doing this because I don’t want to lose you and your share in me.

There is about to be suffering – terrible suffering – not just for Jesus but for all those around him. In the washing of their feet, a physical sign of that new commandment after which today is named, the disciples are given something they can barely understand, but which promises to lead them towards greater and greater understanding of Jesus and his mission, as they themselves wash the feet of others, and learn how to love as he loves. By imitating him they, and we, deepen the share we have in him.

But suffering is always testing, always a challenge. Jesus gives his disciples this sign, this commandment, and, we remember also tonight, the bread to be broken and the cup to be shared in perpetual remembrance of him. He gives all this on the night before his betrayal, to prepare them for, and to get them through the suffering ahead; the agony of his passion, death and burial.

Hopefully, they will understand just enough to get them through the senseless suffering of this innocent man.  Hopefully they won’t completely lose hope of the promised understanding and the share they have in him.

'You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.'

Tonight we wash feet, break bread and share the cup, as we prepare for the coming days. We probably understand these things little better than Peter did. The suffering we carry and the agony we see in places of conflict and need is senseless, and it is nigh on impossible to fathom what God might be doing.

But like the first disciples of Jesus we are given these simple practices; washing feet, sharing bread and wine, which of themselves are somewhat understandable because of their simplicity – simple signs of loving service and sacrifice – this is my body, this is my blood. Simple signs to grasp, to repeat, to carry us through every storm of suffering – signs that promise greater understanding when we have the capacity, the mental bandwidth, the spiritual maturity (perhaps) to receive it.

Easter will come, but it will not be any kind of answer – it will not suddenly complete our understanding. The likelihood is that we will still be somewhat baffled, as the disciples were – wondering what all that sorrow was about, and what this new life could possibly mean.

There is a small panel in the National Gallery by the 15th century Flemish artist Dirk Bouts, entitled ‘Christ Crowned with Thorns’. It is a devotional image, designed to create an emotional connection between the viewer and Christ. He is weeping, his face is drawn and weary; blood trickles from the vicious crown that he wears; and a light elegant robe flutters around his thin, naked frame. 

But it isn’t a depiction of that historical moment when Jesus was mocked and abused by soldiers in the Praetorium. Looking down the painting, his elegant and exquisitely-rendered hands display the wounds of crucifixion. This isn’t Jesus in the time of his earthly passion, this is the risen Christ.

Easter does not explain away the suffering; it isn’t an opportunity to look away from what is hard to understand, from the senseless suffering that we all know, but a call to look deeper; to look even in hope.  Some may think that the very existence of suffering, especially innocent suffering, whether or not it touches them especially, is sufficient reason to reject any notion of God. Bouts (and indeed the gospel) confronts us with the innocent suffering of the very human in whom God makes himself known in human terms.

It is an Easter image because it invites us to wonder, to trust that God is doing something more than just empathising with us. It invites us into the promise that in Christ God will render everything, even our suffering, meaningful – it was, and is, and will be redeemed, and we will know it.

But for now, we do not understand it all, and the good news is that we don’t have to. The momentous events we celebrate in these coming days will overwhelm us and our understanding, but I’m willing to bet there will be something; some little glimpse, a small step towards understanding what God was doing in the passion and death of Jesus, and what God therefore is doing wherever suffering and death overwhelm us.

'You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.'

May we, for now, like Peter, allow the Lord to wash us, to feed us, to be betrayed and rejected for us, to suffer and to die for us – and allow him thus to serve us in ways we cannot yet understand – and all so that we may have a share in him, and in his risen life.