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John 13:1-17

It’s one of the most intimate scenes in the Gospel of John. Jesus kneels. The one who “knew that the Father had given all things into his hands” wraps a towel around his waist and begins washing his disciples’ feet. Dusty feet. Tired feet. Ordinary, human feet.

And Peter is not having it. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?”

There’s discomfort in his voice. Resistance. Maybe even embarrassment. When Jesus insists, Peter protests: “You will never wash my feet.”

It’s a strong reaction to an act of love. But perhaps we understand it. Serving is easier. We know how to give. We know how to help. We know how to show up with casseroles and kind words and capable hands. Serving lets us stay in control. Serving allows us to feel useful, strong, needed.

Receiving is another story. Receiving requires vulnerability. It asks us to admit that we are tired. That we cannot fix everything ourselves. That our feet are dusty too.

Peter’s resistance may not be pride in the loud sense. It may be the quiet pride of self-sufficiency, the kind that whispers, “I should be able to manage this on my own.”

But Jesus gently tells him, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” In other words: Let me love you. Let me care for you. Let me serve you.

Lent is often framed as a season of giving something up or taking something on. But perhaps it is also a season of allowing ourselves to be tended to by Christ. A season of loosening our grip on independence and remembering that we, too, are in need of grace. We cannot follow a kneeling Savior if we refuse to kneel long enough to receive his care. And the truth is, when we allow ourselves to receive love – from Christ, from others – our service changes. It becomes less about proving something and more about sharing what we have first been given.

The basin and towel are not just symbols of what we are called to do. They are reminders of what we are invited to accept. This week, perhaps the invitation is not, “How can I serve more?” but “Where do I need to let myself be loved?” Because sometimes the holiest act is not kneeling with the towel. Sometimes it is sitting still long enough to let someone else kneel for you.

Take some time this week to sit with John 13: 1-17, and as you do reflect on the following questions:

• Why do you think Peter resisted Jesus washing his feet? Where do you see yourself in his reaction?
• When is it hardest for you to receive help or care?
• What might it look like to let Christ tend to your weariness this Lent?
• How might receiving love more freely transform the way you serve others?

Let’s pray:

Jesus, you kneel before us with basin and towel, offering a love that humbles and heals. Soften our resistance. Loosen our need to appear strong. Teach us to receive your grace with open hands and honest hearts. And as we are washed by your mercy, shape us into people who serve from love, not from striving. AMEN

John 13:1–17

“He loved them to the end.”

Before the cross. Before the garden. Before betrayal and denial. Jesus kneels. The One who holds all authority removes his outer robe, wraps a towel around his waist, and takes the lowest place in the room. No announcement. No sermon. No applause. Just water. Just feet. Just love.

In a culture – ancient and modern – that prizes recognition, platform, and influence, Jesus chooses obscurity. The Son of God does the work no one wants to do. And then he says, “You also ought to wash one another’s feet.” Not as a symbolic gesture once a year. But as a way of living.

Hidden service is love without spotlight. It is humility without self-congratulation. It is obedience that does not need to be seen.

As we continue toward Lent, this is our invitation: to practice love that kneels. This week, commit to one quiet act of service each day. Not dramatic. Not public. Not posted. But hidden.

Begin in Prayer

Each morning, pray: “Jesus, show me where to kneel today.” Ask God to open your eyes to small, unnoticed needs.

Choose the Unseen Thing

Look for:

• The task no one wants to do
• The person who is overlooked
• The chore that goes unthanked
• The encouragement that can be given anonymously

Clean something without mentioning it. Leave a note of blessing without signing your name. Take on an inconvenience without explaining yourself. Pray intentionally for someone who frustrates you (this might be the hardest one!). Let it remain between you and God.

Resist the Urge to Reveal

Notice the temptation to tell someone. To hint. To be appreciated. To be known as generous. Simply smile and release it. This is where the transformation happens.

Reflect at Week’s End

Set aside 20 minutes at the end of the week, and reflect on the following questions:

• When did I feel resistance?
• When did I feel joy?
• What surfaced in me — pride, resentment, freedom, tenderness?
• How did hidden love shape my heart?

You may discover something surprising: when love is unseen, it becomes purer. When service is hidden, it reshapes us from the inside. Hidden service does not make headlines. But it reshapes our hearts. It loosens the grip of ego. It softens sharp edges. It trains the soul to love without needing to be loved back.

Jesus kneels still: in kitchens, offices, classrooms, sanctuaries, hospital rooms.

This week, we kneel with him.

Let’s pray:

Lord Jesus, You who wrapped a towel around your waist and chose the lowest place, Free us from the hunger to be noticed. Loosen our grip on recognition. Teach us the quiet joy of unseen love. Open our eyes to the small needs around us. Give us courage to kneel. Shape our hearts to serve without applause. And in the hidden places, form in us the humility that looks like you. AMEN

John 11:1–44

Lent begins in a graveyard. In John 11, Lazarus has been dead four days. The grief is real. The loss is heavy. Martha names her disappointment. Mary weeps. Jesus himself weeps. There is no rush past sorrow in this story.

And then, in a voice that echoes through stone and silence, Jesus calls: “Lazarus, come out.” A miracle happens. But the miracle is not finished.

Lazarus emerges – alive – but still wrapped in burial cloths. His hands are bound. His face is covered. Resurrection has begun, but he cannot yet move freely. And then Jesus turns to the crowd and says :

“Unbind him, and let him go.”

Jesus raises Lazarus. The community removes the grave clothes. At the beginning of Lent, this matters.

We often think of resurrection as something God does alone: dramatic, sudden, complete. But John 11 reminds us that new life can arrive tangled. Healing can begin while we are still wrapped in fear, shame, grief, or old stories about who we are.

Sometimes we step into new life, and still can’t fully move. And that’s where the community comes in.

Lent is not only a season of personal reflection; it is a season of shared responsibility. We are called not just to seek our own renewal, but to help loosen what binds one another. To notice where someone is trying to step forward but feels restricted. To gently unwrap the layers of isolation, judgment, or despair.

We cannot raise each other from the dead. But we can help remove the bindings in which we are often wrapped.

We do this through listening, through forgiveness, through creating spaces where honesty is safe, through refusing to define people by their worst moment, through staying when things are messy. Resurrection is rarely tidy.

John 11 also reminds us that Jesus does not avoid grief. He stands in it. He weeps. He feels the weight of it. Lent gives us permission to do the same. We don’t skip to Easter. We sit in the reality of loss, trusting that even here, Christ is at work.

And when new life begins – even quietly – we become people who help make freedom possible.

This week, perhaps the question is not only, “Where do I need resurrection?” but also, “Whose grave clothes might I help loosen?” Because sometimes the holiest thing we can do is help someone else walk freely into the life God has already begun in them.

Take some time this week to sit with John 11:1-44, and reflect on the following questions:

• Where might you still feel wrapped in “grave clothes”: fear, regret, grief, or old labels?
• Who has helped unbind you in the past?
• How might you gently help create freedom for someone else this Lent?

Let’s pray:

Jesus, you call us out of what entombs us and into life we cannot create on our own. Give us courage to step into the light even when we still feel bound. Make us a community that helps one another live free. AMEN

John 11:1-44

Before resurrection, there are tears.

In John 11, Jesus stands at the tomb of his friend Lazarus. He knows what he is about to do. He knows resurrection is coming. And still, he weeps.

Jesus does not bypass grief. He does not silence sorrow with quick miracle. He does not rush Martha or Mary toward a brighter outlook.

He weeps.

As we approach Lent, this may be one of the most important invitations we receive. We live in a time of relentless sorrow. The suffering of the world is not abstract, it is constant and close. Wars rage. Creation groans. Communities fracture. Many carry private griefs beneath steady smiles. It can feel overwhelming, and sometimes the temptation is to harden ourselves just enough to function.

But the gospel shows us another way. Jesus does not stand at a distance from human pain. He steps into it. He feels it. He shares it.

“Jesus wept.”

These two words remind us that lament is not weakness. It is holy ground.

This year, Lent begins with honesty. It begins by allowing ourselves to see what is broken – in the world, in our communities, and in our own hearts – without immediately trying to fix it. Resurrection will come, but first we stand at the tomb. And we weep with God.

The Sacred Practice: Grieving with God

This week, set aside 20–30 quiet minutes.

Create a simple sacred space.
Light a candle. Sit in silence. Take a few slow breaths.

Read John 11:32–36 slowly.
Notice Jesus’ tears. Notice who is around him. Notice what moves in you as you read.

Name what you are grieving.

• A personal loss or disappointment
• The suffering of someone you love
• The pain of the wider world
• The state of the church
• The ache for justice, healing, peace

You may wish to write these down. Do not censor yourself. This is not a performance of faith. This is honesty before God.

Sit with your grief in God’s presence.
Imagine Jesus standing beside you – not explaining, not correcting, not minimizing – simply present. Allow your sorrow to be seen.

Close by entrusting your grief to God.
You might place your hands open on your lap as a sign of release.

This is not about solving our struggles or the world’s pain. It is about refusing to numb ourselves to it. It is about letting our hearts remain tender.

In grieving with God, we resist cynicism. In lament, we refuse despair. In tears, we prepare for resurrection. Lent teaches us that facing pain honestly is the only path toward new life.

Let’s pray

Tender Christ, You who stood at the tomb and wept, teach us how to grieve without losing hope. Hold the sorrow of this world in your wounded hands. Receive the grief we carry – for our lives, for our communities, for your creation. Keep our hearts soft. Keep us honest. Keep us near you. And in the quiet places of lament, plant the seeds of resurrection. Amen.

John 9:1-41

This week’s reading begins with healing, but it ends with exclusion. A man who has been blind from birth is given sight, a moment that should have been met with celebration. Instead, it becomes the beginning of conflict. Questions pile up. Authorities interrogate. Lines are drawn. And eventually, the man is cast out of the very religious community that should have rejoiced with him.

This story forces us to confront a hard truth: sometimes our traditions react defensively when grace doesn’t fit its expectations. The problem isn’t the healing. The problem is that the healing doesn’t happen the “right” way, at the “right” time, or with the “right” answers.

What unsettles the religious leaders is not just what Jesus has done, but what the healed man refuses to do afterward. He won’t deny his experience. He won’t soften his truth. He won’t pretend gratitude without honesty. All he can say is simple and direct: “I was blind, and now I see.” That honesty costs him everything.

John 9 names something we rarely want to admit: faith can become more invested in protecting certainty than in making room for transformation. When that happens, people are pushed out, not because they are wrong, but because their stories don’t fit the system.

And yet, the Gospel doesn’t leave us there. After the man is expelled, Jesus goes looking for him. This is one of the most tender moments in the story. Jesus does not defend the system. He does not ask the man to return and try again. Instead, he meets him outside – in the place of rejection – and offers relationship, dignity, and belonging.

The good news here is not that religion can fail. The good news is that God does not fail the people tradition or religion pushes out.

When many carry wounds from church or faith communities – their own or others’ – this story invites reflection without defensiveness. It asks us to notice where fear might be louder than compassion, where rules might matter more than people, and where honest stories are met with suspicion instead of care.

Because following Jesus means being willing to ask:

• Who feels pushed out right now?
• Whose truth feels inconvenient?
• And how might we choose presence over protection?

The light Jesus offers does not exist to shame or expose, but to reveal and make room. Sometimes, that light shines brightest just beyond the doors we thought were closed.

As you sit with the reading this week, take some time with the following reflection questions:

• When have you seen faith communities struggle to make room for honest stories?
• What fears might cause religion to prioritize certainty over compassion?
• Where might God be inviting you to choose relationship over rules?

Let’s pray:

Jesus, light of the world, meet us where faith has wounded and pushed us or others away. Soften our hearts when fear takes over, and teach us to choose compassion over certainty. Make us a people who open doors, who listen deeply, and who follow you beyond what feels safe. We offer this and all our prayers in your strong name. AMEN

John 9:1-41

In John 9, Jesus and his disciples encounter a man who has been blind from birth. Almost immediately, the disciples ask a familiar question: “Who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?”

It’s a human reflex, when we encounter suffering, we look for someone to blame. Blame helps us feel safe. It creates order. It reassures us that hardship can be explained and controlled.

But Jesus refuses the question altogether. “Neither this man nor his parents sinned,” he says.

With that single response, Jesus dismantles a whole way of thinking. He releases the man from inherited guilt, moral suspicion, and the crushing weight of needing to explain his suffering. The focus shifts from why this happened to what God is doing now.

Blame is heavy. It settles quietly into our lives, sometimes handed to us by others, sometimes carried for generations, sometimes woven into how we speak to ourselves. We blame our bodies, our choices, our pasts. We assume that pain must be earned, that struggle must mean failure.

Jesus offers another way. Today’s Sacred Rhythm invites us to notice the blame we carry, and to gently and prayerfully set it down.

Begin by finding a quiet, comfortable place.
Take a few slow breaths. Let your body settle. Imagine yourself standing in the presence of Jesus, just as you are.

Name the Blame
Ask yourself, without judgment:

• Where do I tend to blame myself?
• What stories do I tell about why I am the way I am?
• Whose voices do I hear when something goes wrong?

You don’t need to fix or explain anything. Simply notice what arises.

Hear Jesus’ Words
Slowly read or recall Jesus’ response: “Neither this man nor his parents sinned.” Imagine those words spoken directly to you, not as a correction, but as a release.

Let It Go
Picture the blame you carry as something you are holding: a weight, a label, a stone. In prayer, imagine placing it into God’s hands.

You might say quietly: “This is not mine to carry.”

Rest in God’s Gaze
Spend a few moments simply being seen by God, without explanation, defense, or apology. Let yourself be held in compassion.

You may wish to return to this practice whenever shame or self-blame begins to surface again.

As you breathe in God’s grace, keep prayer going. You might want to use the following:

Loving God, You see us clearly and you see us kindly. You know the stories we carry, the blame we have inherited, and the shame we have learned to live with. Jesus, you refused to reduce a life to a cause or a fault. Teach us to let go of the need to explain our pain and to trust that your grace is already at work within us. Release us from the burdens that are not ours to carry. Help us live as people seen, named, and loved by you. AMEN

John 5:1-18

At first glance, John 5 looks like a simple healing story. A man who has been ill for decades is restored. He stands, picks up his mat, and walks.

But the deeper disruption isn’t physical, it’s communal.

For thirty-eight years, this man has lived on the margins. His condition has shaped where he can go, who notices him, and how fully he can participate in community life. He waits near the pool not just for healing, but for a chance to belong again, to move freely, to be seen as more than his illness, to take part in the rhythms of daily life others take for granted.

When Jesus heals him, something profound happens: the man is no longer confined to the edges. But instead of celebration, the response is outrage.

The healing happens on the Sabbath, and suddenly the focus shifts away from restoration and toward rule-breaking. The mat he once lay on becomes evidence against him. The act that gives him his life back becomes the reason he is questioned, judged, and scrutinized.

This is where the story presses us. Jesus doesn’t just heal a body, he challenges a system that has grown more concerned with order than with people. A system that protects its rules even when those rules quietly keep some people outside.

Healing disrupts the status quo because it changes who gets to participate. John 5 asks us to notice that exclusion isn’t always intentional. Sometimes it’s built slowly, carefully, through traditions, assumptions, and judgments that feel normal to those inside. Over time, those rules begin to matter more than the people they were meant to serve.

And Jesus steps right into that tension. When we are moving quickly and relying on habit, this story invites us to pause and ask hard, honest questions:

• Who has been left waiting at the edges?
• Who has learned to live outside full participation because “that’s just how things are”?
• And what healing – what grace, what welcome – might disrupt our comfort if we allowed it to happen?

Because the good news of this story isn’t just that the man walks again. It’s that God desires a community where wholeness leads to belonging. Where healing opens doors. Where people are welcomed back into the center of life.

Sometimes the most faithful thing we can do is let love unsettle us, so that others no longer have to live on the margins.

As you sit with the reading this week, use the following questions to guide your reflections:

• Where do you see rules, habits, or assumptions creating barriers to belonging, intentionally or unintentionally?
• When have you witnessed healing or change that made others uncomfortable?
• Who might be waiting, even now, to be welcomed more fully into community?

Let’s pray:

God of healing and wholeness, you move among us in ways that unsettle and restore. Give us hearts that choose compassion over comfort, and courage to loosen the rules that keep others waiting outside. Where love disrupts our certainty, teach us to trust that you are at work. Shape us into a community where healing leads to belonging. AMEN

John 5:1-18

Some waiting is short and defined. And then there is the kind of waiting that stretches on so long it begins to shape who we are.

In John 5, we meet a man who has been waiting for healing for thirty-eight years. He waits by the pool, watching others step ahead of him, hoping that this time might be different. Over time, the waiting becomes more than a season, it becomes a way of life. His identity, his expectations, even his sense of possibility are shaped by how long he has been there.

When Jesus meets him, there is no commentary on why he has waited so long. No explanation. No blame. Just presence. And then a question that is both gentle and unsettling: “Do you want to be made well?”

It is a question not about effort, but about desire, about whether waiting has quietly narrowed what he believes is possible.

Many of us know this kind of waiting. Waiting for healing. Waiting for answers. Waiting for a relationship to change. Waiting for grief to ease. Waiting for justice, clarity, or peace.

In long seasons of waiting, we often do what we must to survive. We adapt. We manage expectations. We learn not to hope too much. Over time, it can feel safer to stay as we are than to risk disappointment again.

Today’s spiritual practice does not rush the waiting. It asks instead: How do we wait without losing ourselves?

• Begin by settling in.
  Find a quiet place. Sit comfortably. Take a few slow breaths. Let your body arrive.
• Name the waiting.
  Without judgment, bring to mind something you have been waiting for, especially something that has lasted longer than you expected. You don’t need to fix it or explain it. Simply name it before God.
• Notice what the waiting has shaped.
  Gently ask yourself:
  • What has this season of waiting changed in me?
  • Where have I grown weary, cautious, or guarded?
  • What parts of me have remained faithful, resilient, or hopeful?
  • Hold these reflections with compassion. This is not about self-critique, but about truth.

• Listen for Jesus’ question.
  Imagine Jesus sitting beside you, not rushing you toward an answer. Hear him ask: “Do you want to be made well?” Notice what stirs, not what you think you should say, but what you honestly feel. There is no wrong response.
• Rest in presence.
  For a few moments, release the need for outcomes. Let the waiting exist alongside God’s nearness. You are not forgotten. You are not alone. You are not failing at faith.

When you are ready, take a deep breath and return gently to your day. Feel free to include the following prayer in your spiritual practice.

Faithful God, you see us in the long waiting, in the seasons that stretch our hope thin. Help us to remain rooted in who we are, even when answers feel far away. Hold us when waiting grows heavy, and meet us with your presence, again and again. Teach us to trust that new life is still possible, even here. AMEN

John 4:1-42

There are so many reasons Jesus shouldn’t have stopped at the well in Samaria, reasons that he should have just gone home.

He was tired. It was midday. The woman was a Samaritan. She was alone. She was a woman in a world where men didn’t engage her publicly. Every social, religious, and cultural rule suggested that this was a moment to keep moving. To stay polite. To stay distant. To stay comfortable.

But Jesus stops anyway.

John 4 reminds us that God is not constrained by the boundaries we rely on to make sense of the world. God is not afraid of discomfort. God is not interested in maintaining divisions that keep people unseen, unheard, or pushed to the margins.

Instead, Jesus crosses every line that has been carefully drawn, and does so not with force, but with curiosity, respect, and openness. He begins with a simple request: “Give me a drink.”

It’s a small act, but it changes everything.

In that moment, Jesus places himself in relationship. He receives hospitality before offering it. He allows himself to need something from the very person society tells him to avoid. And in doing so, a space opens, not just for conversation, but for transformation.

Radical hospitality doesn’t start with having all the right words or perfect intentions. It begins when we are willing to slow down, notice who is in front of us, and risk connection beyond what feels safe or familiar.

This story invites us to reflect honestly on the boundaries we live with.

• Some of them protect us.
• Some of them organize our lives.
• And some of them quietly keep others out.

Following Jesus doesn’t mean ignoring boundaries altogether, but it does mean asking which ones are rooted in love, and which ones exist to preserve comfort rather than compassion.

In the midst of our week, when energy is low and patience can feel thin, John 4 gently challenges us:

• Where might God be inviting us to pause instead of pass by?
• Who might God be calling us to see, listen to, or welcome more fully?

Because again and again, the Gospel shows us this truth: God is already on the other side of the boundary: waiting at the well, ready for conversation, ready for life to be shared.

As you take some time with the reading this week, include the following questions in your reflection:

• What boundaries – visible or invisible – shape who you engage with in your daily life?
• When have you experienced hospitality that crossed expectations or assumptions?
• Where might God be inviting you to practice a small act of radical welcome this week?

Let’s pray:

God of living water, you meet us where we least expect it and invite us into conversations we’d rather avoid. Give us courage to cross the boundaries that divide, to listen before judging, to welcome before retreating. Open our hearts to those we have been taught to avoid, and help us trust that your Spirit is already at work there. Teach us to love as boldly and generously as you do. AMEN

John 4:1-42

The story of Jesus and the Samaritan woman unfolds in an ordinary place: a well.

Not a sanctuary.
Not a holy mountain.
Just a place people go because they need water.

And yet, it is here – in the heat of the day, in the middle of routine – that Jesus waits.

So often, we imagine God meeting us only in moments of spiritual clarity or faithfulness. But John 4 reminds us that God meets us where we already are: in our habits, our need, our weariness, and even our avoidance. The woman comes to the well at noon, alone. She carries her jar, her story, her thirst, and perhaps her defenses. Jesus meets her without accusation or demand. He begins with a simple request: “Give me a drink.”

This is how holy encounters often begin, quietly, relationally, without spectacle. And so today, we are invited to notice the “wells” in our own lives: the places we return to again and again, the routines that sustain us, and the spaces where we show up just as we are. These are often the very places where God is already waiting.

Begin by settling yourself.
Find a comfortable posture. Take a few slow breaths. Let your body arrive where you are.

Imagine the well.
Picture yourself approaching a familiar place: somewhere ordinary, somewhere you go out of necessity rather than intention. Notice what you are carrying with you. A jar. A task. A concern. A heaviness. A hope.

Notice who is there.
Without forcing the image, imagine Jesus already present. Not rushing. Not demanding. Simply there.

Listen for the invitation.
Jesus does not begin by correcting or instructing. He begins with relationship. What might Jesus be inviting you to notice or speak aloud today?

You may wish to hold these questions gently:

• What do I come here carrying?
• What thirst do I usually ignore or minimize?
• What truth might God already know, and still meet with love?

Stay as long as you need.
There is no rush at the well. Let the conversation be unfinished if it needs to be. God is patient.

When you are ready, take a deep breath and return to the present moment, and if you feel called, offer the following prayer

God who meets us in ordinary places, help us recognize your presence in the routines of our lives and the needs we carry each day. Give us courage to come as we are, to speak honestly, and to trust that we are already known and loved. Meet us at the well again and again, and let your living water renew us. AMEN