A Night That Transformed How I See Love

You know, there's something about Maundy Thursday that really gets to me. It makes me think harder about love – not love as this nice concept we talk about, but love when it actually costs something. I keep picturing Jesus washing the feet of people who were about to deny Him, betray Him, abandon Him... yet He still served them quietly without pulling back.

That's what unsettles me, because when I look at my own life, I still flinch when I run into people who've hurt me. You know how it is – that friend who shared my deepest vulnerabilities with others after I trusted them, that person who deliberately twisted my words to make me look bad in front of people I respect, or that group who made me the constant target of their jokes until I dreaded walking into a room. I'd like to believe I've healed from all that, but the ache resurfaces when I see them again. And I know there are parts of me that still want to close up rather than love again.

So no, this day doesn't feel symbolic or ceremonial to me. It feels real. It brings back stuff I've buried. It reminds me that love, if it's only there when it's easy or deserved, probably isn't love at all. And I'm still learning how to live with that – not just understand it, but actually do something about it.

It's not hard to love the people who've always been kind to me, right? The ones who've never betrayed my trust or made me feel small. But when someone has deliberately tried to sabotage my reputation? When I've been excluded from gatherings because someone was spreading rumors about me? When I've been mocked for my quieter nature or made to feel like there's something wrong with me for needing time alone? That kind of love isn't easy.

And that’s what Jesus did.

It wasn't just the breaking of bread or washing feet. It was who was at the table. Judas was there. Peter was there. All of them. The same ones He walked with, the same ones He loved. And in just a few hours, they would all leave. One would betray Him, one would deny Him, the rest would disappear. But He still served them. Still fed them. Still chose to love them without holding back.

I've had those moments too. The times when I reached out to someone who'd stabbed me in the back, offering forgiveness they never asked for. When I defended someone's character even though they'd publicly humiliated me before. When I kept silent about the hurtful things someone had done, refusing to participate in the same gossip that had wounded me. When I chose not to retaliate after discovering someone I trusted had been undermining me for months. And seeing that kind of love given anyway... it just gets to me.

Honestly, I’ve been both Peter and Judas in different ways. I’ve stayed beside people in their pain, but resented them silently in my heart. I’ve told God I was doing it out of love, when deep down, I was just trying to feel needed or right. I’ve offered help and comfort, but with conditions...expecting something back, even if it was just appreciation or validation. And when I didn’t get it, I felt bitterness grow, and I didn’t fight it as hard as I should have.

There were moments I kept replaying someone’s offense long after I said I forgave them. I’d bring it to God in prayer, but more as a way to vent than to surrender. And sometimes, I used prayer as a cover for pride asking for change in others while ignoring what He was asking me to lay down.

I’ve avoided His voice when it felt like it would cost too much. I’ve delayed obedience until it fit more comfortably into my plans. I’ve told myself I was waiting on His timing when really, I was stalling because I didn’t want to let go. And I’ve asked for clarity when deep down, I already knew what He was asking. I just didn’t like the answer.

I’ve spoken words that looked kind on the outside but carried judgment underneath. I’ve done things that looked like love but were rooted in self-righteousness. I’ve chosen what was easy over what was holy, not once or twice, but as a pattern. I’ve sought justice for myself while ignoring mercy for others. And I’ve made peace with little compromises, thinking they weren’t a big deal—knowing full well they were pulling me away from Him.

These aren’t just mistakes. They’re things I know wouldn’t please God. Things I’ve done not just despite Him, but against Him. And the hardest part is knowing I knew better, and still did them anyway.

And still, I’ve been welcomed back to the table. Every time.

Jesus didn’t wait for me to get everything right before inviting me in. He didn’t need me to justify my delays, or explain why I held on to things I should’ve surrendered. He saw every moment I chose comfort over obedience, every thought I nursed that went against Him and He still called me His. He knew I would twist good intentions into self-serving choices. He knew I would say His name with my mouth while resisting Him in my heart. And still, He welcomed me. Not because I proved anything, but because He loved me before I even knew how to love Him back.

That kind of grace leaves me speechless, because if I were Him, I probably would've walked away from me. But He didn't. He stayed. Every time. It’s the kind of love Paul describes in Romans 5:8: “But God demonstrates His own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.” He loved us while we were still in the mess, not when we had it all figured out. And He continues to love me, even when I still mess up.

Jesus knew what was coming. He knew Judas would betray Him. That Peter would deny Him. That the others would run and leave Him alone. And yet, He still chose to serve them. He loved them, even when they were at their worst. He didn't defend Himself, didn't retaliate, didn't even call them out. He simply stayed.

That's not the kind of strength our culture values, is it? We celebrate people who cut ties with anyone who hurts them, who publicly call out those who've wronged them, who make sure others know when they've been mistreated. But Jesus? He stayed humble. He served the very people who hurt Him. That's real strength. The strength to love when it feels impossible. The strength to stay open when your heart's been broken. The kind of strength that doesn't need anyone's approval.

Sometimes I think we forget that love doesn’t always look like strength. It’s not always loud or brave or obvious. Real faith often shows up quietly...in the moments no one claps for. In the choices that feel like loss. It’s keeping your mouth shut when you want to defend yourself, because you know God sees what others don’t. It’s praying for someone who’s torn you down, even when you’re still aching from it. It’s staying kind to someone after you’ve found out what they’ve said about you behind your back. It’s not matching their pettiness, even when everything in you wants to. It’s holding on to your dignity when you feel stripped of it.

It doesn’t always feel holy in the moment. Sometimes it just feels like weakness. Like you’re losing. But maybe that’s the kind of love Jesus lived ...steady, surrendered, and willing to be misunderstood.

That’s the kind of love that gets my attention. Not the love that comes easy or shows up when I feel safe. But the kind that stays when it hurts. The kind that chooses restraint when retaliation would feel more satisfying. It’s not impressive. But it’s real. And I think that’s the kind of love that changes people, not all at once, but over time. It’s the kind of love I still want to learn. The kind Jesus didn’t just preach but lived.

And maybe that's the love I, and honestly, all of us need most desperately. Those rare, transformative moments when I finally let go of my need to be proven right. When I stop building walls to protect myself from being hurt again. When I choose vulnerability over safety.

I've spent so much time thinking I needed to be stronger to love well. That if I just had more courage or wisdom or patience, I could forgive like Jesus did. But that gets it backwards, doesn't it? I don't choose to love because I'm somehow strong enough to do it on my own. I can love because Jesus loved me first. Because He showed me what it looks like.

He doesn't grow tired of me even when I make the same mistakes over and over. He listens to my same old worries without impatience. He welcomes me back after I've ignored Him for weeks. He understands my limitations before I even explain them. He sees all the parts of myself I try to hide from others—my insecurities, my selfishness, my fears—and loves me no less for it. He stays constant when everyone else seems to come and go. Even on days when I feel completely unlovable, His love remains unchanged.

That's what changes me. Not guilt or obligation or fear, but witnessing that kind of love up close. It creates something new in me—a desire to trust again when trust feels foolish, to give when there's no promise of return, to stay open when everything in me wants to close up shop and call it a day. Because once you've been loved like that, you start seeing people differently. Not as threats or disappointments, but as souls worth staying for, worth serving, worth the risk of being hurt again.

I've had Holy Weeks where I tried to get everything right...fasting, praying, feeling all the right emotions. But this time feels different. I don't need a huge spiritual breakthrough. I don't need all the answers. What I need is to simply be with Him. To sit quietly in His presence, even when I feel like I've failed Him too many times. To receive His gentle care, even when I know I don't deserve it.

Maundy Thursday stands out because it reminds me of the kind of love that doesn't make sense by any worldly standard. The kind that asks for nothing in return. That night, Jesus showed a love so contrary to human nature—choosing to serve those who would soon abandon Him. And He gave us a new commandment: “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another” (John 13:34).

And maybe that's what this week brings back into focus. That love doesn't always come packaged with clarity or understanding. It doesn't always feel profound or inspiring in the moment. Sometimes, it just asks you to be present. To notice the person right in front of you. To care, even when you're exhausted and don't have the perfect words to say.

We don't need to manufacture some perfect spiritual response to what this week means. Maybe it's enough to simply pay attention. To be a little more open with those around us. To be a little more willing to stay connected, even when every instinct tells us to protect ourselves and pull away. Because this is how Jesus loved me...not with conditions or expectations, but with a steady presence that never grows tired of my returning.

And if you’ve ever even tasted that kind of love—the kind that sees you at your worst and doesn’t walk away, the kind that defends you when you’re too tired to fight for yourself, the kind that gives you grace for the hundredth time—if you’ve known even a glimpse of that... then let it do something in you. Let it soften the places you’ve hardened to survive. Let it pull you out of your fear of being let down again. Let it shape the way you walk through the world.

Choose to love when it doesn’t feel fair. Stay open when shutting down feels safer. This world doesn’t need louder voices or better performances. It needs people who’ve been loved in all their imperfection and still choose to love others the same way. Be one of them. If you’ve ever been loved like that, don’t let it stop with you. Let it pass through you. That’s what makes it real.