Daily reflections through Holy Week
By ✠Jerome OSJV, Primus of the Old Roman Apostolate

Maundy Thursday – The Gift, the Commandment, the Betrayal

It is the first day of the Triduum. The solemn door opens. And we step into a sacred threshold—Maundy Thursday, Feria Quinta in Coena Domini, the day of the Supper, of the Mandatum, of the Priesthood, and of the Holy Eucharist.

This is the only day in the Roman year when the Church dares to speak of glory in the midst of Passiontide. In the Tridentine rite, the sacred ministers clothe themselves in white. The Gloria is sung for the last time. The bells ring out, and then fall silent. And why? Because something is being instituted—not ended. The Passion has not yet begun in blood. It begins in gift.

Tonight, the Church kneels with Christ in the upper room. She listens with awe to the words that create the New Covenant:

“This is My Body… This is My Blood… Do this in commemoration of Me.”

With these few words, Christ empties Himself anew—not merely by taking the form of a servant, but by becoming our Food, hidden under the appearance of bread and wine. The Passover of Israel becomes the Sacrifice of the Lamb. And in this moment, Christ gives the Church what no prophet could give: the Eucharist, the Priesthood, and the Commandment of Charity—all born in one liturgical act.

And yet, beneath the white vestments, a shadow already falls. For the one who will betray Him has already stretched his hand toward the dish. Judas is present. And the Lord knows.

He does not cast him out. He does not expose him. He simply continues to love him, to feed him, to kneel before him.

The Mandatum, the foot-washing preserved in the pre-1955 rite as a separate and optional devotion after the Mass, unveils the humiliation of divine love. Christ does not only command charity—He enacts it. He, who flung stars into space, now bends down and washes the feet of sinful men. He who is the Head becomes the servant.

But even this act is misunderstood. Peter, impetuous and proud, resists. He cannot bear the thought of being served by the one he ought to serve. He forgets that to receive Christ’s love requires humility—the humility to be washed.

And so must we. We must allow ourselves to be washed. To be fed. To be loved—on God’s terms, not ours.

The pre-1955 Missal preserves the sacredness of this night not by diluting it with dramatics, but by enshrining it in awe. The Canon of the Mass remains unchanged, because tonight’s sacrifice is already Calvary—but hidden in mystery, veiled in bread and wine. The Offertory and Communion chants sing of the Chalice of salvation and the Body of the Lord received with reverence and trembling.

And after the Last Gospel, there is no dismissal. The Mass does not end. It is interrupted. Because the Passion has begun.

The Blessed Sacrament is not reposed in the tabernacle. It is carried to the Altar of Repose—ornately veiled, adorned with flowers and candles—but this beauty is fragile. For this is not a feast. It is a vigil.

And the altar is stripped in silence.

Vestments are removed. Linens taken away. The tabernacle is left open and bare.

This is not merely a symbol. It is a liturgical expression of desolation. The Bridegroom is taken from us. The sanctuary is exposed. The household of God is left empty, for He has gone out into the night.

The Church invites us to follow Him in prayer—to remain with Him, if only for an hour, in the garden of His sorrow.

But already we know how the story will unfold. The betrayal is sealed. The sleep has begun. The swords are drawn. And the Passion will now move swiftly.

But tonight, we are still in the Upper Room.

Let us not rush past it. Let us not forget the greatness of the gift.

Tonight, the Lord gives us everything.
His Body. His Blood. His Priesthood. His commandment. His kneeling. His silence. His patience. His love.

And He gives it knowing He will be betrayed. He does not give because we are worthy. He gives because He is good.

And so tonight, the Church—poor and trembling as she is—stands in the radiance of this mystery, and prays not to be worthy, but to be faithful.

She prays to remember what the apostles forgot:
That love is not a feeling, but a death.

That glory is not triumph, but gift.

That the altar is not a table—it is a Cross.

And that the Bread we receive is not a symbol.
It is Christ Himself.

May we never forget what He gave us.

May we never take lightly the words spoken this night.

And may we never again approach the sacred mysteries without awe, without reverence, without humility.

For this is the night in which Christ our God passed from this world to the Father, and gave Himself to those He loved—to the end.

Let us kneel with Him.
Let us watch with Him.
Let us love Him.

Before He is taken from us.

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Lent Conferences 2025

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