2 April 2026
Mandatum
Tonight is the only night of the year when the Church actually tells the priest what he should preach about. Not suggests. Not hints at. Tells him. The rubrics say the homily should explain what is happening here: the institution of the Eucharist, the institution of the priesthood, and the commandment to love one another.
This night is important, not just because of what Jesus did then, but because of what He is doing now, and what He is asking of us. Because tonight is about ONE thing.
Love… taken to the extreme.
Saint John begins the Gospel we just heard with a line that almost passes too quickly if we’re not paying attention: “Having loved his own in the world, he loved them to the end.” But that phrase—“to the end”—doesn’t just mean “until the last moment,” or, “to the end of time.” It means to the limit. To the extreme. With nothing held back.
Jesus is about to show us what that kind of love looks like.
And the first thing He does… is kneel down. He takes off His outer garment. He wraps a towel around His waist. And He begins to wash their feet.
Now that sounds gentle to us. Almost symbolic. But it wasn’t. Feet in that world were filthy. Dust, mud, animal waste. And washing them wasn’t just unpleasant—it was the job of a slave. And Jesus—God Himself—takes that place.
There is nothing beneath Him. There is nothing He will not do to love you.
And that’s what makes Peter so uncomfortable. “You will never wash my feet.” Because that kind of love is hard to receive.
We’re fine with loving others… at least in theory. We’re even fine with serving sometimes.
But there’s a limit.
But to let someone love us like that? To let God kneel down in front of us… to let Him touch the mess in our lives… to let Him cleanse what we’d rather hide?
That’s harder.
But Jesus says something striking: “Unless I wash you, you have no part in me.” In other words, if you don’t let me love you like this… you can’t belong to me.
Which means this isn’t just about humility.
It’s about salvation.
Because what He’s doing with water and a towel… He does for us in a deeper way in the sacraments.
In Baptism, He washes us completely.
And then, as we walk through life, we pick up the dust again. The dirt. The sin.
And so He kneels again in Confession. Over and over again. Not tired of us. Not frustrated with us. But loving us to the extreme.
The question is not whether He is willing to do it. The question is whether we will let Him.
And then, almost without pause, Jesus moves from the towel… to the table. He takes bread. “This is my body.” He takes the cup. “This is my blood.” And just like that, everything changes.
Because the same love that kneels… now gives itself completely. Not symbolically. Not emotionally. But really.
He becomes food.
And if we’re honest—that’s almost harder to understand than the foot washing. Because no one would have thought to ask God for this. To become one of us? Yes. To suffer for us? Maybe. But to remain with us like this? Hidden under the appearance of bread and wine? Given into our hands?
That’s love beyond anything we would have imagined.
And yet that’s exactly what He does.
Because love desires union.
He doesn’t just want to forgive you. He wants to be one with you.
And so He gives Himself—completely. “This is my body… given for you.”
And He doesn’t say it in the past tense. He says it in the present.
Which means this isn’t just something that happened. It’s something that is happening. Here. Tonight. At this altar.
…And every time we come to Mass, the question comes back to us:
Do we receive this?
Do we desire Him?
Or are we distracted… busy… bored… indifferent?
Because the tragedy is not that God hasn’t given enough. The tragedy is how often we fail to receive what He gives.
…And then there is one more thing.
Because this gift doesn’t sustain itself. The Eucharist doesn’t just exist out there somewhere. It has to be given.
And so Jesus does something almost as astonishing as the Eucharist itself.
He entrusts it… to men. Weak men. Imperfect men. Not the most impressive. Not the most polished. But chosen.
And He says, “Do this in memory of me.”
And from that moment on, the priesthood exists—not as a position, not as a role—but as a participation in His own work. To stand at the altar. To speak His words. To make present His sacrifice. Not because of who the priest is. But because of who Christ is.
And that matters.
Because it means that everything we receive tonight—the forgiveness, the cleansing, the Eucharist—it all comes to us through something Christ established… because He wants to keep loving us like this until to the end of time at His maximum capacity.
Even through human weakness. Even through human frailty.
He still gives Himself.
And so tonight, everything comes together.
The towel. The bread. The words: “Do this.”
They’re not separate.
They’re one reality.
A love that kneels.
A love that feeds.
A love that continues.
And that love is placed into your hands and consumed by you.
Not just to admire.
Not just to receive.
But to become.
Because after washing their feet, Jesus says: “I have given you an example.”
Which means this doesn’t end here.
It goes home with you. Into your marriage. Into your family. Into the people who are hardest to love. Into the moments when it’s inconvenient… uncomfortable… costly.
To love… to the extreme.
To give… without holding back.
To do the “dirty work” of love.
Not because it feels good.
But because that’s what He has done for you.
Tonight is the beginning. The beginning of the Triduum. One long liturgy that doesn’t end until Easter.
And as we leave here—without a final blessing, without a real ending—we’re meant to carry this with us. From this altar… to the garden… to the cross… and beyond.
But it starts here.
With a God who kneels before you.
With a God who feeds you with Himself.
With a God who says: “This is my body… given for you.”
Tonight is the only night of the year when the Church actually tells the priest what he should preach about. Not suggests. Not hints at. Tells him. The rubrics say the homily should explain what is happening here: the institution of the Eucharist, the institution of the priesthood, and the commandment to love one another.
This night is important, not just because of what Jesus did then, but because of what He is doing now, and what He is asking of us. Because tonight is about ONE thing.
Love… taken to the extreme.
Saint John begins the Gospel we just heard with a line that almost passes too quickly if we’re not paying attention: “Having loved his own in the world, he loved them to the end.” But that phrase—“to the end”—doesn’t just mean “until the last moment,” or, “to the end of time.” It means to the limit. To the extreme. With nothing held back.
Jesus is about to show us what that kind of love looks like.
And the first thing He does… is kneel down. He takes off His outer garment. He wraps a towel around His waist. And He begins to wash their feet.
Now that sounds gentle to us. Almost symbolic. But it wasn’t. Feet in that world were filthy. Dust, mud, animal waste. And washing them wasn’t just unpleasant—it was the job of a slave. And Jesus—God Himself—takes that place.
There is nothing beneath Him. There is nothing He will not do to love you.
And that’s what makes Peter so uncomfortable. “You will never wash my feet.” Because that kind of love is hard to receive.
We’re fine with loving others… at least in theory. We’re even fine with serving sometimes.
But there’s a limit.
But to let someone love us like that? To let God kneel down in front of us… to let Him touch the mess in our lives… to let Him cleanse what we’d rather hide?
That’s harder.
But Jesus says something striking: “Unless I wash you, you have no part in me.” In other words, if you don’t let me love you like this… you can’t belong to me.
Which means this isn’t just about humility.
It’s about salvation.
Because what He’s doing with water and a towel… He does for us in a deeper way in the sacraments.
In Baptism, He washes us completely.
And then, as we walk through life, we pick up the dust again. The dirt. The sin.
And so He kneels again in Confession. Over and over again. Not tired of us. Not frustrated with us. But loving us to the extreme.
The question is not whether He is willing to do it. The question is whether we will let Him.
And then, almost without pause, Jesus moves from the towel… to the table. He takes bread. “This is my body.” He takes the cup. “This is my blood.” And just like that, everything changes.
Because the same love that kneels… now gives itself completely. Not symbolically. Not emotionally. But really.
He becomes food.
And if we’re honest—that’s almost harder to understand than the foot washing. Because no one would have thought to ask God for this. To become one of us? Yes. To suffer for us? Maybe. But to remain with us like this? Hidden under the appearance of bread and wine? Given into our hands?
That’s love beyond anything we would have imagined.
And yet that’s exactly what He does.
Because love desires union.
He doesn’t just want to forgive you. He wants to be one with you.
And so He gives Himself—completely. “This is my body… given for you.”
And He doesn’t say it in the past tense. He says it in the present.
Which means this isn’t just something that happened. It’s something that is happening. Here. Tonight. At this altar.
…And every time we come to Mass, the question comes back to us:
Do we receive this?
Do we desire Him?
Or are we distracted… busy… bored… indifferent?
Because the tragedy is not that God hasn’t given enough. The tragedy is how often we fail to receive what He gives.
…And then there is one more thing.
Because this gift doesn’t sustain itself. The Eucharist doesn’t just exist out there somewhere. It has to be given.
And so Jesus does something almost as astonishing as the Eucharist itself.
He entrusts it… to men. Weak men. Imperfect men. Not the most impressive. Not the most polished. But chosen.
And He says, “Do this in memory of me.”
And from that moment on, the priesthood exists—not as a position, not as a role—but as a participation in His own work. To stand at the altar. To speak His words. To make present His sacrifice. Not because of who the priest is. But because of who Christ is.
And that matters.
Because it means that everything we receive tonight—the forgiveness, the cleansing, the Eucharist—it all comes to us through something Christ established… because He wants to keep loving us like this until to the end of time at His maximum capacity.
Even through human weakness. Even through human frailty.
He still gives Himself.
And so tonight, everything comes together.
The towel. The bread. The words: “Do this.”
They’re not separate.
They’re one reality.
A love that kneels.
A love that feeds.
A love that continues.
And that love is placed into your hands and consumed by you.
Not just to admire.
Not just to receive.
But to become.
Because after washing their feet, Jesus says: “I have given you an example.”
Which means this doesn’t end here.
It goes home with you. Into your marriage. Into your family. Into the people who are hardest to love. Into the moments when it’s inconvenient… uncomfortable… costly.
To love… to the extreme.
To give… without holding back.
To do the “dirty work” of love.
Not because it feels good.
But because that’s what He has done for you.
Tonight is the beginning. The beginning of the Triduum. One long liturgy that doesn’t end until Easter.
And as we leave here—without a final blessing, without a real ending—we’re meant to carry this with us. From this altar… to the garden… to the cross… and beyond.
But it starts here.
With a God who kneels before you.
With a God who feeds you with Himself.
With a God who says: “This is my body… given for you.”