Thirty Pieces of Silver and a Basin of Water

Would you wash Judas’s feet if you knew?

I think about that every year.

He knew Judas would betray Him for money.He knew they would all scatter.He knew Peter—the rock—would deny Him.

And still… He knelt.

In a culture where washing feet belonged to the lowest servant, not the teacher, not the Messiah—He took the basin anyway. One by one, He moved around the room. Dust, callouses, skin that would soon run.

And when He came to Judas, He didn’t skip him.

No hesitation.No exposure.No pulling back.

Just the same quiet care.

I don’t think I would have done it.

I want to believe I would—but if I’m honest, I struggle to love people who misunderstand me, let alone someone who would sell me out. To kneel in front of that kind of betrayal, knowing it’s coming, and still choose tenderness… that’s not natural love.

That’s something else.

It means love, at its purest, is not earned.It’s not reactive.It’s not self-protective.

It is chosen.

He wasn’t surprised.He wasn’t overpowered.He wasn’t hoping Judas would change.

He knew.

And He loved anyway.

That’s the part that unsettles me.

Because it means He sees clearly—every future failure, every quiet denial, every moment I will choose something lesser—and He doesn’t pull back.

He still comes near.He still serves.He still offers Himself.

So maybe the question isn’t just, “Would I wash Judas’s feet?”

Maybe it’s—

Why would He wash mine?