This is what love looks like...

 

 “Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me; and whoever receives me receives him who sent me.”

— John 13:20

 

This morning we drop into a scene that should make us slightly uncomfortable—but in a good way. Jesus has just knelt down and washed the feet of his disciples. It’s the kind of intimate, earthy, awkward moment that probably had the disciples staring at each other thinking, “Is this really happening?”

Let’s be honest: feet are not the most glamorous body part. And in first-century Palestine, they were not just smelly—they were practically a public health hazard. And yet, Jesus kneels with a towel, a basin, and no rubber gloves. He chooses the role of servant, and in doing so, turns the whole idea of power on its head.

“Servants are not greater than their master,” he says, “nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them.” In other words: if I, your teacher, am down here with dust under my fingernails, then you can’t exactly walk around acting like royalty.

Jesus seems to be saying, “Don’t get ideas above your station, folks. This is what love looks like—it looks like kneeling, like washing, like serving. It’s not flashy, and it doesn’t come with a loyalty card or performance bonus.”

And then, just as we’re starting to feel inspired by this beautiful act of humble love… he says, “I’m not speaking of all of you. I know whom I have chosen.” Cue ominous music. Jesus is aware that one of them—Judas—is going to betray him. “The one who eats my bread has lifted his heel against me.”

Now, there’s something deeply poignant about this. In the same breath as he teaches about love and service, Jesus acknowledges betrayal. It’s like he’s saying: even when we do the most loving thing, someone might still turn against us. And yet—he washes Judas’s feet anyway.

Let’s pause there. Judas gets his feet washed. Jesus doesn’t skip him. He doesn’t say, “Er, actually Judas, why don’t you just sit this one out?” No. Even betrayal doesn’t stop love from bending low.

There’s a whole sermon just in that: love that includes even the one who will hurt us. Now, I’m not saying you should go round inviting all your enemies over for a pedicure. But it does challenge us. It suggests that grace is not just for the deserving. It’s for everyone. Even the awkward ones. Even the ones who vote differently. Even your cousin who brings up conspiracy theories at Christmas dinner.

And then Jesus says something truly astonishing: “Whoever receives one whom I send receives me.” This is big. Jesus is saying: *When people receive you—the towel-bearing, foot-washing, grace-sharing you—they are receiving Christ. And when they receive Christ, they are receiving God.*

Which is quite a promotion, really. You may have thought you were just making soup for your neighbour, or volunteering at the food bank, or listening patiently to someone’s rather long-winded story—but according to Jesus, that’s divine work. Sacred work.

There is no such thing as *just* kindness. There is no *ordinary* love. When it’s done in the spirit of Christ, it becomes a way in which God is made visible.

Now, this doesn’t mean we suddenly need to get very pious about everything. “Behold, I bring thee a casserole, in the name of the Lord!” No, please don’t. That’s weird.

But it does mean that every act of compassion—every quiet, humble, loving thing—is an echo of what Jesus did on that floor with a towel and a basin.

In progressive Christianity, we often talk about how faith is not about believing six impossible things before breakfast, but about how we live. And Jesus affirms this here. He doesn’t say, “Blessed are you if you analyse these things correctly,” or “Blessed are you if you develop a sound theological framework for servanthood.” He says, *“You are blessed if you do them.”*

This is good news for us—those of us who have questions, doubts, and an occasional inability to remember where Leviticus is. (It’s near the beginning, if that helps.)

So let’s not overcomplicate things. The Christian life isn’t about perfection or performance. It’s about presence. Showing up. Bending down. Washing feet—not literally, unless you’re into that—but metaphorically: helping, including, lifting up.

You don’t need to be a saint or a scholar. Just bring your towel. Be willing to serve. And recognise the sacred in the ones you serve, too.

Jesus says, “Whoever receives you, receives me.” So go ahead. Be received. Be humble. Be slightly ridiculous in your generosity. And trust that somewhere in all that, God is being revealed.

Amen.