"The Good News Is...Even Judas Gets His Feet Washed" (April 2, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Even Judas Gets His Feet Washed

Rev. Stephen M. Fearing

Guilford Park Presbyterian Church

Combined Maundy Thursday Service with Fellowship Presbyterian Church

Thursday, April 2, 2026

Text: John 13:1-35

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Scripture Reading

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already decided that Judas son of Simon Iscariot would betray Jesus. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from supper, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" Jesus answered, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Peter said to him, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me." Simon Peter said to him, "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!" Jesus said to him, "One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you." For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, "Not all of you are clean."

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had reclined again, he said to them, "Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, slaves are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them. I am not speaking of all of you; I know whom I have chosen. But it is to fulfill the scripture, 'The one who ate my bread has lifted his heel against me.' I tell you this now, before it occurs, so that when it does occur you may believe that I am he. Very truly, I tell you, whoever receives one whom I send receives me, and whoever receives me receives him who sent me."

After saying this Jesus was troubled in spirit and declared, "Very truly, I tell you, one of you will betray me." The disciples looked at one another, uncertain of whom he was speaking. One of his disciples—the one whom Jesus loved—was reclining close to his heart; Simon Peter therefore motioned to him to ask Jesus of whom he was speaking. So while reclining next to Jesus, he asked him, "Lord, who is it?" Jesus answered, "It is the one to whom I give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish." So when he had dipped the piece of bread, he gave it to Judas son of Simon Iscariot. After he received the piece of bread, Satan entered into him. Jesus said to him, "Do quickly what you are going to do." Now no one knew why he said this to him. Some thought that, because Judas had the common purse, Jesus was telling him, "Buy what we need for the festival," or that he should give something to the poor. So, after receiving the piece of bread, he immediately went out. And it was night.

When he had gone out, Jesus said, "Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me, and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, 'Where I am going, you cannot come.' I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another."

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The Scandal of Grace

I don't know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too. That world doesn't make sense to me. It's a decidedly inconvenient scandal that just rubs me the wrong way. Because Judas deserves to be canceled. He deserves condemnation. He deserves the scorn we've thrown at him these past two thousand years. Or does he? Nearly twenty-two years ago, Guilford Park's own Tim Peck preached a sermon questioning Judas' exclusion from the twelve stained-glass windows that decorate the front of our sanctuary. He's been stripped of his discipleship credentials, Tim noted, replaced by Paul as the twelfth disciple.

But then Tim reminds us that one scandal replaces another. We pat ourselves on the back for relegating Judas to his rightful place in history's penalty box. But in his place, we lift up another who did no less harm to the very man he would later proclaim. And round and round we go, preferring hands full of stones to hands outstretched and open to the scandal of grace. I don't know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too... but I want to.

Seeing Judas in Ourselves

I want to because I see more of Judas inside me than I care to admit. In Judas, I see the part of me that is sick and tired of the wicked prospering while the righteous wane and wither. In Judas, I see the part of me that is impatient with Jesus' non-coercive way of changing the world. In Judas, I see the part of me that loves as long as loving pays off. In Judas, I see the part of me that would rather explain people than love them, condemn them rather than pray for them, and reduce them to their worst act while asking everyone else not to do the same to me.

I want to know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too, because like him, I need Jesus to kneel before the worst parts of me without turning away. I need the basin. I need the towel. I need a mercy I did not earn and cannot control.

I hope that this evening we can hold Judas and his actions uncomfortably close to us. Because it's easy to villainize him and, in so doing, stay at a safe distance ourselves. But Jesus doesn't keep his distance from Judas; neither should we. Jesus kneels before Judas, fully aware of what he is about to do. Jesus kneels before Judas and lovingly washes his dirty feet. Jesus kneels before Judas, our brother, whose kinship with us is closer than we often realize.

Mercy That Unsettles Us

Or perhaps it's not Judas and his actions that unsettle us. Perhaps it's Jesus and his actions that do. In a culture that mistakes mercy for weakness and gentleness for surrender, what Jesus does here seems…absurd. He kneels before the one who will betray him. He does not shame him. He does not humiliate him. He does not crush him. He loves him. And to people like us, schooled in vengeance and baptized in scorekeeping, that kind of mercy feels not beautiful, but foolish.

A Broadway Parable of Grace

Many of y'all know I love a good Broadway metaphor in my sermons! In the musical Les Misérables, the French guard Javert lives a life of strict legalism. In his view, mercy threatens justice. After his former prison inmate, Jean Valjean, is released after serving 19 years of hard labor for stealing a loaf of bread, Javert makes it his mission to hunt him down and return him to prison once he breaks his parole. For most of the play, the two play a cat-and-mouse game, with the protagonist eluding Javert's grasp. Then, famously, in a twist of fate, the tables turn, and Jean Valjean gains the upper hand, finding himself in a position where he could end everything by taking Javert's life. But he famously raises his pistol, fires a shot into the sky, and spares Javert's life. The prison guard then faces a moral crisis. His whole life, he's believed in moral absolutes: criminals are bad, the law is good, and justice means strict enforcement. But Jean Valjean's mercy disrupts everything. Javert doesn't know what to do with grace. He doesn't know how to live in a world where his feet get washed, too. He sings these words in despair and disgust: "All it would take was a flick of his knife / Vengeance was his and he gave me back my life / Damned if I'll live in the debt of a thief / Damned if I'll yield at the end of the chase." As he finishes his lament, he takes his own life by jumping off a bridge.

A Step Away from Retribution

As a nation right now, we stand with Javert on the edge of a bridge, just before the fall. We can choose to keep repeating endless cycles of retribution, or we can step back from the edge and move toward something else: the kingdom Jesus proclaims, where mercy reigns. To be sure, reconciliation cannot happen without accountability, and grace does not erase harm. But endless cycles of retribution help neither the oppressor nor the oppressed. And yet sometimes, a simple, beautiful, humble, silent act of kneeling and washing feet can interrupt the patterns we have constructed for ourselves, patterns we have been tempted to think are inevitable.

I don't know how to live in a world where Judas gets his feet washed, too. But I want to. And Maundy Thursday calls me to take a step toward that kind of world. When I do, I take a step away from Javert's bridge—away from acts of retribution that hurt not only my neighbor but also myself. Because retribution stands in opposition to the humanity we see in Jesus Christ. And when I choose to hate my neighbor instead of washing his feet, I become less human. That is not who I want to be, and I suspect it is not who you want to be either.

Come to the Basin

Tonight, Jesus invites us to take a step into that world: a world where mercy interrupts vengeance, where grace gets down on its knees, and where love is known not by what it says, but by what it does. So come to the basin. Come to the towel. Come to the table. And let the love with which Christ has loved us become the love by which we learn, at long last, to love one another.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God's children, say: Amen.

"The Good News Is...Rooted in Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness" (March 22, 2026 Sermon)

The Good News Is...Rooted in Justice, Mercy, and Faithfulness

Rev. Dr. Stephen M. Fearing
Guilford Park Presbyterian Church
March 22nd, 2026
5th Sunday in Lent (Year A)

Scripture Readings

Matthew 23:23

“Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cumin and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith. It is these you ought to have practiced without neglecting the others.”

John 8:2-11

Early in the morning he came again to the temple. All the people came to him, and he sat down and began to teach them. The scribes and the Pharisees brought a woman who had been caught in adultery, and, making her stand before all of them, they said to him, “Teacher, this woman was caught in the very act of committing adultery. Now in the law Moses commanded us to stone such women. Now what do you say?” They said this to test him, so that they might have some charge to bring against him. Jesus bent down and wrote with his finger on the ground. When they kept on questioning him, he straightened up and said to them, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” And once again he bent down and wrote on the ground. When they heard it, they went away, one by one, beginning with the elders, and Jesus was left alone with the woman standing before him. Jesus straightened up and said to her, “Woman, where are they? Has no one condemned you?” She said, “No one, sir.” And Jesus said, “Neither do I condemn you. Go your way, and from now on do not sin again.”

Sermon Manuscript

To state the obvious, our world is currently filled with pain and division. As a pastor married to a therapist, Tricia and I often reflect on why this is and what role we should play—as parents, faith and mental health professionals, and followers of Jesus—in helping to repair the breach. I’m especially grateful for a common refrain she shares with me, which both saddens and challenges me to do better: she often laments that, as a society, we seem to have lost interest in and the ability for nuance in nearly every situation. Social media algorithms lure us into rage and then reward us for sharing it with others. Growing partisan hostility discourages any form of compromise for the common good. Preachers are accused of being “too political” just for sharing the basic tenets of Christianity. Our culture favors those who are deliberately combative in their tone, extreme in their beliefs, and callous with their words. Amid all of this, there is enormous human collateral damage. Why? Because nuance has left the building. We’re too busy arguing why we’re right and everyone else is wrong that we fail to see who suffers in the wake.

Sadly, you and I do not know the name of the collateral damage in today’s passage from John’s Gospel. She is an unnamed woman whose identity is of little use to the people who have thrust her before Jesus in contempt and rage. It was early in a morning, perhaps not unlike the one we are gathered on today. He had sat down and was teaching near the temple to those who would listen. But his tutelage is interrupted by scribes and Pharisees who have allegedly caught this woman in the very act of adultery. “Teacher,” they muse, “the law says we should stone her. What say you?”

Jesus could have instantly jumped into the argument, escalated the situation, and turned his response into a viral rage-bait video that I’m sure would have gained him a large following on social media. But instead, he does something quite rare in our culture: he practices the pause. Quite literally, as it turns out. Without saying a word, he bends to the ground and doodles in the sand. I can only imagine how much this must have angered those who came to argue, or at least puzzled them immensely. What on earth was he thinking? The text doesn’t tell us how long he wrote in the sand, but I like to think it was for an obnoxiously awkward amount of time.

Eventually, the scribes and Pharisees continue to press the issue. So, Jesus straightens up and calmly, gently, but firmly says the words we all know well: “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” Earlier this week, I thought that if I had to recall that verse from memory, I would forget the last two words. Notice, Jesus doesn’t say, “let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone.” No, he says, “let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” It’s as if Jesus, through both his silence and measured response, is refusing to allow the people trying to trap him to look away from the woman, whose life could very well end in bloodshed.

“Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

And then he does it again! Slowly, he lowers himself back to the ground and continues his sand art.

Nearly three and a half years ago, I preached on this very passage at the first worship service I ever led among you as your new pastor. In that sermon, I lamented, as so many have before me, that we don’t know what Jesus wrote in the sand that day. I ultimately concluded that it doesn’t matter what he wrote; what was most important was the deliberate act of pausing to gather his thoughts and craft a thoughtful, faithful response. I still believe that. However, I also think it’s a helpful spiritual exercise to make some educated guesses. Jesus might have been simply drawing something of no great consequence. Perhaps he just drew a line in the sand, as a visual reminder of the choices we face in a loud and complex world.

But today I like to think that Jesus drew a few questions in the sand as if to invite nuance back into the conversation. Perhaps he wrote down questions like those Tanya Denise Anderson poses in her artist statement in our Lenten devotional. How was she “caught” in the act? Was she allowed to explain herself? Was this a loving relationship? Was it even consensual? Or, perhaps most damning of all: if she was, in fact, caught in the act, as her accusers say, then where on God’s good green earth is man? As the saying goes, it takes two to tango!

Whether he wrote those questions in the sand or not, Jesus’s intentional choice to pause and invite space into a tense and charged situation adds nuance to the discussion. That’s good news for those caught in the crossfire of whatever current hot-button issue is. Jesus is calling us to hold the law in one hand and justice, mercy, and faithfulness in the other. One of the biblical mandates Jesus knew well was the threefold command of Micah 6:8: do justice, love kindness, and walk humbly with God. He also knew all too well that we often unintentionally let our zeal for the first part of that equation to diminish our focus on the other two.

Jesus is calling us to hold the law in one hand and justice, mercy, and faithfulness in the other.

Now, neighbors, hear me on this important note. While Jesus is condemning the harsh legalism of the scribes and Pharisees, we must never cast all Jewish law as inherently legalistic or rigid. As my friend Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity reminded me this week, Judaism has a rich history of holding Written and Oral Torah together to interpret and reevaluate the law. In this passage, Jesus isn’t telling the scribes and the Pharisees to abandon their Jewish beliefs. In fact, one could argue that Jesus is actually calling them to return to their Jewish beliefs. Because Judaism is built on a deep appreciation for the law of God, the Torah, and the intentional and faithful interpretations of that law that protect the most vulnerable among us. And that’s not just good news; that’s great news.

It’s great news because, as the Church of Jesus Christ, we have the opportunity to model a different way of living where we invite nuance to guide us toward discipleship. This leads us to a place where we are more aware of the stones we cast: stones like shame, certainty, social media contempt, political caricatures, church gossip, the need to win, or always be right. Because following Jesus means letting go of the stones we have come to hold dear. When we lay down those stones, we might discover that in a world that turns people into issues, Jesus restores personhood. In a world eager to condemn, Jesus creates space for repentance without humiliation. And in a world that loves spectacle, Jesus chooses mercy, and so should we.

Concluding Invitation

Perhaps a good way to start this work is to put down stones and pick up hymnals! What Jesus reveals in this story is what we are about to sing: there is a wideness in God’s mercy, and there is a kindness in God’s justice. I invite you to turn to hymn number 435 as together we conclude this sermon by rising in song:

[sing “There’s a Wideness in God’s Mercy"]

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s children, say: Amen.

www.stephenmichaelfearing.com   |   www.guilfordpark.org

"The Good News Is...So Good It Catches Us By Surprise"

Texts: John 2:1-11 & Matthew 13:31-32

When was the last time you were surprised by something holy? For me, it was about a week or two ago during an argument with our five-year-old. Before sharing this story, I need to clarify two things. First, Hazel Grace, as many of you know, is in kindergarten in the Spanish Immersion Program at Jones Elementary School. Second, I asked her for her permission to tell this story, and she kindly agreed.

A week or two ago, Tricia, Hazel Grace, and I had an argument. I don’t remember what it was about - probably something life-or-death, like shoes or snacks. All I remember is that Hazel Grace was throwing down; whatever boundary Tricia and I had imposed in that moment was not to her liking. Voices were raised. Blood pressure was going up. Our four-year-old, Winnie, was in the next room watching Bluey without a worry in the world.  But the other three of us were having it out.

And then something changed suddenly. All at once, Tricia and I realized that Hazel Grace was no longer speaking English. Almost imperceptibly, Hazel Grace had switched from English to Spanish. Tricia and I stood stunned in front of our bilingual kindergartener. She was on a roll! Tricia and I couldn’t understand very much, but we did catch “Mamá y papá no son buenos!”

Tricia and I really wanted to be angry at Hazel Grace, but we couldn’t help but be impressed! The two of us stifled a laugh, not wanting Hazel Grace to think we were laughing at her. When I asked her yesterday if I could share this story with y’all, she laughed and said, “Yeah, that was pretty funny, wasn't it?”

That was the last time I remember being surprised by something truly holy. Because I believe it is a holy thing that Hazel Grace is learning a language spoken by 50 million people in this country, and she’s getting the chance to learn it much earlier than her mother or I ever did. I believe it is a holy thing that Hazel Grace is learning, at such an early age, that English isn’t the official language of the Kingdom of God. It’s a holy thing that she is growing up in a learning environment much more diverse than the one I grew up in. It’s a holy thing that God has given us such a smart child and that our public school system is teaching her to be creative, kind, and bilingual. Now, I’m sure there will come a moment when I’m less thrilled about the fact that my child can argue with me in Spanish, but for now, Tricia and I are grateful, surprised, and delighted.

When was the last time you were surprised by something holy? We start this season of Lent with that question to shake things up a bit. Usually, we begin Lent with stories from Matthew, Mark, or Luke about Jesus being tempted in the wilderness by Satan. But this year, our Lenten theme is “Tell Me Something Good,” so we’re kicking off Lent with a party and a mustard seed. The Wedding at Cana, which one of our college students, Hannah Moore, read, is how John’s Gospel introduces Jesus’ ministry. Rev. Lizzie McManus-Dail introduces the passage perfectly in her commentary on it: “People didn’t think Jesus could boogie like that. It took them by surprise—his dance moves, undoubtedly, but also how much Jesus, Prince of Peace, Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God… loves a good ol’ fashioned Electric Slide.” I love how John introduces us to Jesus through the most ordinary event, a normal wedding. A wedding with ordinary people just like you and me, celebrating love in a way that really hasn’t changed much over the two millennia since.

Therefore, I want us to pause today and acknowledge that the Good News of the Gospel is, above all, about joy. The joy God finds in us. The joy we find in each other. The joy that surprises us when the wine runs out, the party may suddenly come to a halt, and the myth of scarcity rears its ugly head. I, for one, am grateful for this different perspective on Lent this year because, honestly, there’s enough “heavy” in the world right now without Lent adding to it. So together, you and I will spend this Lent following Mary Oliver’s advice in her poem “Instructions for Living a Life: Pay Attention. Be Astonished. Tell About It.”

And so, this story reminds us that the Gospel of Jesus Christ is a joyful, perhaps even playful, thing. In her artist statement for the liturgical art inspired by this passage, Rev. Tanya Denise Anderson says: “The Wedding at Cana is my favorite text because there is a lot of humor in it. There’s humor in a mother approaching her son and telling him to do something without ever actually telling him to do it. There’s his pouty resistance to his mother’s non-demand while she completely ignores him and paints him in a corner. There is humor in a raucous wedding reception where the people are so “lit” that the wine has run out. And, for me, it’s particularly humorous that there’s this huge, beautiful secret of which only a few people are aware.”

You and I are stewards of this “huge, beautiful secret” in today’s texts. A secret, admittedly, that we don’t (or shouldn’t) hide. This secret is summarized in two stories, one about a wedding and another about a mustard seed. It’s a secret that makes us laugh, brings some lightness and relief in a world that sometimes feels less like a dance at a wedding and more like a dirge at a funeral.  The huge, beautiful secret in both Cana and the mustard seed is this: wherever we see not enough or too little, Jesus sees the possibility of joy and abundance.

Evil, you see, is ultimately predictable. We have become quite accustomed to the voices in our culture that try their best to drive a wedge between us and our neighbors. Evil’s predictability is, ultimately, its greatest weakness.  The Gospel of Jesus Christ, on the other hand, is filled with upended expectations and a disturbed status quo.  In a world that says there’s not enough, Jesus says, “Here’s more joy.”  In a world that tells us that “might makes right,” Jesus says, “Here’s a mustard seed; it’s enough.”  In a world that teaches us to fear the stranger, hoard what we have, and brace for the worst, Jesus says, “Come to the table. There is room. There is enough. Stay for the celebration.” That is why the Gospel remains forever holy and forever surprising: evil may be predictable, but grace never is.

Rev. Lizzie McManus-Dail puts it this way: “Because this… this is who Jesus is. Jesus doesn’t have to begin with defeating evil because he knows ultimately evil doesn’t stand a chance against a God who loves disco and his mother. Evil doesn’t stand a chance against a God who is not only not afraid of scarcity, but laughs in the face of it. Evil doesn’t stand a chance against a God who will never let an empty cistern or full tomb have the final word. Evil is predictable. But our God loves a surprise because God knows the plot twist is the same every time: God’s goodness will overflow. Every single time.”

Therefore, this Lent, I hope we begin by laughing together. Because you and I are midwives of a story of salvation by a Prince of Peace who isn’t afraid to make his debut at a lively wedding celebration. Such a story is subversive and dangerous to those who benefit from the current system. A Jesus who stays within the halls of power and privilege can be twisted to justify any form of state-sponsored violence and terror. But a Jesus revealed to us at an ordinary wedding? That’s a disturbing truth for those who want to keep us divided. Because a joy like that is nothing less than an act of nonviolent resistance in a callous culture.

And I want to be clear, friends: practicing joy isn’t a selfish act. Our consumerist culture has taught us that joy, and its close cousin, rest, is a luxury reserved only for those who can afford it, or those who have “earned” it, or those who “deserve” it. Joy is a renewable resource that reorients us toward new possibilities when the voices around us say all is lost, or, at least, that all is not new. Yes, there is suffering in the world. Yes, our neighbors are being terrorized in the streets. Yes, there is much that needs our faithful work. But taking joy out of that recipe makes for a bad dish that nourishes no one.

Mary Oliver once famously said, “Joy is not meant to be a crumb.”

And thanks be to God for that. Because at Cana, Jesus does not hand out crumbs. He fills jars to the brim. In the parable, God does not despise small things. God grows a mustard seed into shelter. And in our own lives, the Holy Spirit keeps interrupting our fear, our frustration, and our scarcity with flashes of grace we did not see coming.

So, no, joy is not denial. Joy does not pretend that suffering is not real. Joy does not erase grief. Joy does not ignore injustice. But joy does refuse to let evil have the final word. Joy refuses to surrender our imagination to fear. Joy refuses to believe that scarcity is the truest thing about the world.

This Lent, then, let us practice joy as a form of discipleship. Let us pay attention to the jars being filled. Let us pay attention to the tiny seeds in the soil. Let us pay attention to the moments when laughter breaks through in the middle of a hard day, reminding us that grace is still alive.

And maybe that is one answer to the question we began with: When was the last time you were surprised by something holy? Maybe it was not in a sanctuary at all. Maybe it was in your kitchen. In the middle of a family argument. With blood pressure rising, Bluey playing in the next room, and a five-year-old suddenly switching to Spanish to let you know, in no uncertain terms, that mamá y papá no son buenos.

And somehow, right there — in the frustration, in the laughter, in the love, in the surprise — grace broke in.

That is the kind of thing Cana teaches us to look for. That is the kind of thing the mustard seed trains us to trust. The holy does not always arrive in the places we expect, and it rarely arrives on our schedule. But it does arrive — in ordinary rooms, in ordinary people, in moments that seem too small to matter, until suddenly they are filled to the brim.

And when the world tells us to hoard, to harden, to despair, may we hear Mary’s words at Cana: “Do whatever he tells you.” Fill the jars. Make room at the table. Plant the seed. Stay for the celebration.

Because the huge, beautiful secret is still true: wherever we see not enough or too little, Jesus sees the possibility of joy and abundance. So, church — when was the last time you were surprised by something holy? This Lent, pay attention. Be astonished. Tell about it.

In the name of God the Creator, Redeemer, and Sustainer, may all of us, God’s beloved children, say: Amen.