The New Mandate
Holy Week Reflections from Trinity Episcopal Church
It wasn’t a big crowd.
Just a small, warm gathering of folks in the fellowship hall at Trinity Episcopal on Maundy Thursday evening. Tammy and I found a seat beside Father Brad Mullis and his son Charlie.
Dinner was simple but amazing—baked chicken, carrots, green beans. The kind of meal that doesn’t try to impress. It just nourishes.
We’ve been more intentional about Lent this year. Slowing down. Paying attention. That’s what brought us here on a Thursday night—choosing presence over comfort.
We read through the liturgy together, taking turns with the scripture and prayers. Some parts in unison, others passed from voice to voice.
There was no performance. Just presence.
Then came the foot washing.
Tammy and I were both a little nervous. Let’s be honest—it’s humbling to have someone wash your feet, and maybe even more so to kneel and wash theirs. But that’s what we did. I’m still not sure which is harder.
I knelt and washed hers first. The water was warm. We dried each other’s feet gently, patting them with towels while we knelt before each other—an act of humility that felt more sacred than I’d expected.
We could’ve stayed home. Could’ve turned on the TV and settled in for the night. But we found ourselves, instead, on the road less traveled.
And the road led us somewhere deeper. Somewhere earthy and real.
This wasn’t a dramatic reenactment. It wasn’t a staged performance.
It was a visual reminder of the new “mandate” Jesus gave—
Love one another as I have loved you.
After dinner and foot washing, we moved into the sanctuary.
Everything was clothed in white: the altar, the pulpit, the space itself.
The Gospel reading was from the Last Supper, when Jesus washed the feet of all twelve of his disciples—including Peter, who would deny him… Thomas, who would doubt him… and Judas, who had already betrayed him.
He knew they’d fail him—and he washed their feet anyway.
That still blows my mind.
In spite of all my own shortcomings, Jesus loves me. And I’m not sure I’ll ever fully understand what it would feel like for him to kneel and wash my feet. But I think… he would.
The service followed the familiar rhythm—prayers, scripture, Eucharist—until the end, when everything changed.
We sang Go to Dark Gethsemane, a hymn that walks you step by step through the agony of Christ:
from the garden,
to the judgment hall,
to Calvary.
No chorus. No high drama.
Just quiet instruction:
Learn of Jesus Christ to pray… to bear the cross… to die.
As the last notes faded, members of the congregation quietly began to strip the church.
The white coverings were removed.
The lights were dimmed.
Candles extinguished.
And finally, a black veil was draped over the cross.
No benediction.
No dismissal.
We left in silence.
Because at that point, there’s nothing more to say.
All has been said.
Today we commemorate the new mandate.
And the execution of God Himself.
We sit in the silence now.
But resurrection is coming.