Judas’ Feet Got Washed Too

There are Sundays when I don’t find myself in a sanctuary.

Not because I don’t miss it.
Not because I don’t long for the table.

I do.

But I’m learning that faith isn’t only about showing up where worship is attended. Sometimes it’s about showing up where worship is lived. Sometimes the Spirit calls us into places where the work of grace asks for our presence more than our attendance.

I’ve realized that answering that call doesn’t always begin with doing something. More often, it begins with becoming still enough to hear it.

That kind of stillness can feel uncomfortable. The world teaches us to fill every empty space, to measure faithfulness by activity, attendance, productivity, or routine. Even our spiritual lives can become crowded with good habits that leave very little room to actually listen.

I’m beginning to wonder if grace has never been found in how well I fill my calendar, but in how willing I am to leave room for interruption.

That isn’t a rejection of worship. It is worship.

It is trusting that the Spirit is still speaking, still sending, still inviting us beyond what is familiar. It is believing that God is not confined to the places where we expect to meet.

That isn’t a free pass. It’s a responsibility.

It demands listening instead of assuming. Trust instead of certainty. I don’t always understand where the Spirit leads me, and honestly, I don’t think understanding has ever been the requirement. The call is to listen. The call is to trust.

Sometimes the holiest thing I can do is resist the urge to manufacture purpose and instead remain open to receiving it.

There is a difference between acting because I have decided what needs to be done and responding because the Spirit has quietly gone ahead of me.

One fills the silence.

The other is born from it.

The table is where we are fed, but the table has always been meant to send us back into the world ready to notice where grace is already at work.

Jesus didn’t gather disciples so they could become experts at attending worship. He gathered them so they could become people who carried grace into places where grace seemed impossible.

And maybe that’s the part that keeps undoing me.

Judas’ feet got washed too.

Jesus already knew the betrayal was coming. He knew the kiss. He knew the cross. And still, He knelt. Still, He washed. Still, He loved.

The grace we receive was never earned.

Neither is the grace we are called to share.

Grace isn’t created.

It’s shared.

Maybe the work was never to become the one holding the towel.

Maybe it was simply to be still long enough to notice who already is.