Sermons in Holy Week
By ✠Jerome OSJV, Primus of the Old Roman Apostolate

Maundy Thursday Sermon: “Having Loved His Own, He Loved Them Unto the End”

This night belongs to eternity. It is the threshold of the mysteries. It is the solemn gateway through which the Church enters the Sacred Triduum, not in silence, but with a command that resounds beyond time and into the very heart of God: Mandatum novum do vobis—“A new commandment I give unto you, that you love one another as I have loved you.”

But this is no ordinary command. It is not a moral principle appended to an ethical code. It is the Word made flesh, revealing Himself through love, unto love, by love. What unfolds this evening is not a lesson in brotherhood. It is not a supper of human fellowship. It is the deliberate descent of the Eternal Son into the lowest place, that He might raise fallen man to the heights of divine union.

Our Lord, knowing that His hour had come to pass out of this world to the Father, loved His own who were in the world. And He loved them unto the end.

But St. John says more than “He loved them to the end.” The Greek phrase is εἰς τέλος ([eis TEH-los]), a compact expression freighted with layers of meaning. It does not merely signify temporal conclusion—as if Christ’s love extended only to the final moment of His earthly life. No, εἰς τέλος means to the uttermost, to perfection, to completion in its fullest sense. It is love without measure, love poured out without remainder, love stretched across the beams of the Cross until there is nothing left to give.

This is not human affection. It is not the love of friendship, or companionship, or sentiment. It is divine charity made flesh and blood. It is the self-emptying of the Eternal Word in obedience to the will of the Father. It is the sacred logic of sacrifice, the love that descends into death so that man might rise into life. As the Fathers have taught us, there is no telos—no goal, no finality—apart from the Cross. And the Cross is already planted in the Upper Room.

εἰς τέλος speaks not only of duration, but of intensity. Not only of continuity, but of consummation. Christ loved them not only until the end, but unto the end. That is, into the very depths of love’s purpose—namely, our redemption. His love was not cut short by betrayal, not diminished by human frailty, not defeated by suffering. It was love perfected in weakness, manifest in bread and wine, fulfilled in the nails and the lance.

In this phrase, we see unveiled the heart of the priesthood and the heart of the Mass. For every priest must learn to love εἰς τέλος. To go beyond comfort, beyond admiration, beyond even duty—to love as Christ loves: in humility, in silence, in sacrifice, without counting the cost. The priest who offers this Sacrifice must himself be a sacrifice. He must love the souls entrusted to him not with the measure of the world, but with the measure of the Crucified.

And every communicant must also learn to love εἰς τέλος—to approach the altar not merely to receive, but to be conformed to what he receives. The Eucharist is not a private consolation. It is a covenant of blood. It is the Love that goes unto the end, that demands everything, and in return gives the All.

The Eucharist: Sacrament of the Crucified God

In the Upper Room, Our Lord does not give a token of His departure. He does not establish a ritual to symbolize His absence. Rather, He bestows the reality of His abiding presence. What begins at this altar is not a “farewell meal,” but the institution of the Most Holy Eucharist—the re-presentation of the one eternal Sacrifice of the Cross.

Hoc est enim Corpus meum. Hic est enim calix Sanguinis mei. No prophet had ever spoken such words. No patriarch had dared to claim such authority. These are not phrases of metaphor or allegory, but words of divine causality. The One who spoke the universe into existence now speaks His Flesh into bread, His Blood into wine. What was once a figure becomes a fact; what was once promise becomes fulfillment.

St. Thomas Aquinas, that angelic voice of clarity, says it thus: “This Sacrament is the memorial of Christ’s Passion: it is the fulfillment of ancient types; the greatest of His miracles; and a unique consolation to those who mourn His absence.” For what He is about to suffer tomorrow, He offers today—freely, fully, sacramentally. There is no mere foreshadowing here. The Cross is mystically present already, for Christ the High Priest begins His offering tonight, veiled under sacramental signs, in anticipation of the brutal clarity of the morrow.

The Eucharist, then, is not sacred bread, nor holy symbol, nor spiritual fellowship. It is Christ Himself—Body, Blood, Soul, and Divinity—hidden in humility, abiding in love, given to those He has called His own. The same Christ who hung on the gibbet of the Cross. The same Christ who rose glorious from the tomb. The same Christ who reigns forever in majesty. This is what we receive tonight.

The Priesthood: Sacramental Headship, Not Functional Ministry

But Our Lord does not institute the Eucharist alone. He also institutes the priesthood—not a vague priesthood of “all believers,” but the ministerial priesthood of His chosen apostles, set apart, sealed with authority, ordained to stand in persona Christi. When He says, “Do this in memory of Me,” it is not an invitation to recall, but a command to re-present—to make present again His one saving Sacrifice, not symbolically, but sacramentally.

And in that moment, the Twelve are no longer merely disciples. They are priests. Priests not of their own design, but conformed to the Eternal High Priest Himself. What they receive, they are charged to give. What they behold, they are commanded to confect. What they witness, they are commissioned to offer, until the end of time.

This is why Christ does not entrust the Eucharist to the crowd, nor delegate it to the community. The altar is not a shared platform. It is the place of sacrifice, and only he who is configured to Christ in sacramental character may approach it with consecrating hands.

The priest is not a presider. He is not a facilitator. He is not a celebrant in the modern, convivial sense. He is a victim with the Victim, an oblation alongside the Oblation, a servant who disappears that Christ may be manifest. His identity is not self-chosen; it is given. He is not his own. He is crucified with Christ. And unless he dies to himself, he cannot bear the weight of the mysteries he handles.

Christ the Priest and the Victim

To understand the full gravity of this night, we must go deeper still. Christ does not only institute a sacrifice, and He does not only institute priests. He makes Himself the Sacrifice. He is not merely the priest who offers—He is the offering itself. He is both Priest and Victim, both the one who acts and the one who is acted upon. This is the mystery that crowns all liturgical theology and gives the Mass its true identity.

The priesthood Christ establishes is not ceremonial. It is sacrificial. A priest is not primarily one who teaches, counsels, or governs, but one who offers. And what he offers must be holy—indeed, it must be Christ Himself.

The old covenant had many priests and many victims. The new and eternal covenant has only one Priest and one Victim—Jesus Christ. And in the Sacrifice of the Mass, He perpetuates this offering through His priests. They do not offer a new sacrifice. They do not add to Calvary. But they make present again—sacramentally and truly—that one eternal oblation by which the world was redeemed.

Here we see why the priest must consume what he consecrates. This is no rubric of formality. It is intrinsic to the nature of the sacrifice. In the Old Law, the priest who offered the victim also partook of it, completing the ritual. In the New Law, the offering must be consummated. The Sacrifice must be received.

When the priest says the words of consecration, he is not merely pronouncing them—he is being conformed to them. Christ speaks through him. And just as Christ gave Himself totally in sacrifice, He also entered fully into that sacrifice. The priest must do the same. To offer without receiving would be to divide what God has joined.

It is Christ who offers, and it is Christ who receives. The priest, acting in persona Christi, must do both. To consume the Victim is to complete the priestly act—it is the liturgical enactment of total union. The priest gives what he receives and receives what he gives: Christ Himself.

The Mandatum: Humility in Hierarchy

Thus, it is no contradiction—indeed, it is the perfect harmony of the divine economy—that the Eternal High Priest now rises from table, removes His outer garments, girds Himself with a linen towel, and kneels to wash the feet of sinful men.

This is the mystery of God made low.

The Creator stoops before the creature.

The Word through whom all things were made bends down before the dust of the earth.

The Master kneels before His servants.

The Sinless One pours water over the feet of sinners.

And He does so not as prelude, but as proclamation. Not to obscure His divinity, but to reveal its proper form. For the Son of Man came not to be served, but to serve—and to give His life as a ransom for many. Here, in this act of abasement, the priesthood is revealed not in the vesture of power, but in the nakedness of poverty. Not in dominion, but in descent. Not in prestige, but in purification.

This is not egalitarian theatre. This is not a liturgical performance to affirm horizontal bonds of fraternity. The Mandatum is not a rite of communal inclusion. It is a prophetic gesture, a sacred sign, an enacted homily of sacrificial hierarchy. It is the icon of Christ the Priest who, robed in humility, cleanses those whom He has chosen to share in His offering.

“Unless I wash you,” He says to Peter, “you shall have no part in Me.” It is a terrifying sentence. And it is not spoken only to Peter. It is spoken to every man called to serve at the altar. For unless the priest is first washed, he is unworthy to offer. Unless he is first emptied, he cannot mediate. Unless he is first humbled, he will profane the mysteries he is appointed to handle.

This foot washing is no sentiment. It is judgment and mercy intertwined. It is the divine pedagogy of priestly formation. He who would ascend the altar must first descend into the basin. He who would preach the truth must first be silent under the hand of the Master. He who would stand before God must first fall at His feet.

And it is no coincidence that it is the feet which are washed. For the feet are the members most acquainted with the earth. They bear the dust of the journey. They speak of movement, of pilgrimage, of mission. To wash the feet is to cleanse the way. It is to prepare the chosen for what they must now become: men not of the world, but sent into it; not for themselves, but for Christ and His flock.

Here, Christ institutes not only the Eucharist and the priesthood, but the essential form of both. The Eucharist is the Sacrifice of Love. The priesthood is the ministry of Love. And Love goes downward. Love descends. Love kneels. Love washes, bleeds, and dies.

And if the priest forgets this—if he ascends the sanctuary steps with pride in his heart, with ambition in his mind, with presumption in his soul—then he is no longer in persona Christi. He is in persona Judæ. For the priest who refuses to serve will betray. The priest who will not kneel will fall. The priest who cannot weep will soon no longer believe.

So tonight, the Church does not merely remember what Christ did. She sees what every priest must become. She contemplates not a moral gesture, but a mystical revelation. The Church, in her sacred hierarchy, is not a machine of control. She is a Body, ordered from Head to members. And the Head—Christ the Priest—rules by serving, reigns by kneeling, conquers by suffering.

Let the bishop, then, gird himself with the towel. Let the priest, then, pour water into the basin. Let the deacon, then, stoop low in silence. For tonight, God reveals what greatness is: to serve the least, to cleanse the sinner, to love εἰς τέλος.

The Betrayal: The Price of Freedom, the Mystery of Sin

Even now, the betrayer sits at table. Even now, Judas receives from the hand of Christ the first Holy Communion—and commits the first sacrilege. The God who humbles Himself to be food is betrayed by the one who feeds on Him. The Eternal Word made flesh, who in that moment pours out His love in sacramental form, is handed over by lips that have just received Him. And still He permits it. What thou must do, do quickly. It is not the cry of desperation, but the sovereign permission of the Word made flesh, whose love is strong enough to suffer rejection, whose providence is vast enough to enfold rebellion, and whose mercy is deep enough to pass through treason on the way to triumph.

It is a moment of profound paradox. The Bread of Life becomes the price of betrayal. The chalice of salvation is received by one who has already sold the Savior. The kiss of peace becomes the weapon of treachery. And Christ does not resist it. He does not prevent the hand from dipping with His own. He does not withhold Himself from the one who would mock Him. Instead, He gives, and gives, and gives—knowing full well what the gift will be used for.

This is the mystery of sin permitted—permitted not because God is indifferent, but because He is patient; not because He is powerless, but because He is all-powerful. Here, as throughout salvation history, He allows freedom even when it wounds Him, because without freedom, there can be no love, no loyalty, no true obedience. Judas is not a puppet; he is a priest in embryo, chosen, instructed, entrusted, and yet freely resolved to do the unthinkable.

What thou must do, do quickly. These are words of divine permission, but not divine complicity. Christ authorizes nothing evil. He simply refuses to obstruct the choice. The betrayal becomes a necessary ingredient in the Paschal Mystery—not necessary by nature, but necessary because of man’s sin, and used by God for man’s salvation. This is the same God who brought water from the rock, life from the womb of the barren, and glory from the ignominy of the Cross.

The betrayal of Judas is a warning, not only to the wicked, but to the pious. For Judas was not a stranger—he was an apostle. He was not merely nearby—he was within the inner circle. He heard the same teaching, witnessed the same miracles, sat beside the same Lord. And he fell. He fell not by ignorance, but by hardness of heart. He betrayed Christ not from without, but from within the household of faith.

This is why the Fathers saw in Judas a figure not only of individual treachery, but of ecclesial tragedy—the icon of apostasy from within, of corruption in the sanctuary, of priests who break communion while still offering sacrifice. His fall is a warning to every age, and especially to our own, when betrayal often comes clothed in vestments and justified with doctrine inverted.

And yet Christ, in His mercy, allowed Judas to kiss Him. He called him “friend” even in the hour of betrayal. He did not cease to love him, though He could not save him against his will. Such is the love of God: unyielding in truth, unchanging in charity, ever desirous that none be lost—even the traitor.

And with those words—What thou must do, do quickly—the hour accelerates. The chalice is drained. The hymn is sung. The traitor departs. The Cross begins to loom. The darkness gathers its strength. And the Church, silent and watchful, prepares to follow her Spouse into the garden.

There is no triumph without Gethsemane. No Easter without this hour. No glory without this descent. The betrayal, the agony, the arrest—all of it is permitted, even woven into the tapestry of redemption. For grace does not erase history. It transfigures it.

The Church learns tonight what love costs.

And she learns it by watching the one who was betrayed—yet never ceased to love.

Gethsemane: The Chalice of Obedience

And so they go out—the Lord and the eleven—to the garden across the Kidron, to the place called Gethsemane, where olive trees stretch like ancient sentinels beneath the moon. It is here that the final drama of the human will plays out—not in the courts of men, not in the public spectacle of trial or execution, but in the hidden stillness of the night. Christ enters the solitude of obedience. He enters the silence of surrender.

This is the true sanctuary before the sanctuary of Calvary. The garden is an altar, the earth is a chalice, the darkness is a veil. And here the Son begins to offer Himself not only in figure, but in feeling. He who is without sin takes upon Himself the full weight of sin—not as guilt, but as burden; not as corruption, but as agony.

My soul is sorrowful even unto death. These are not poetic words. They are the cry of the sinless one tasting death before the cross, not merely physical death, but the death of abandonment, of betrayal, of the full weight of every human sorrow and spiritual affliction. Here, in Gethsemane, the priest drinks the chalice before it is even lifted on Golgotha.

Christ falls prostrate—not in failure, but in surrender. He who created Adam now embraces the ground from which Adam came. He who is the new Adam now takes upon Himself the full horror of the Fall. The agony is so intense that His sweat becomes like drops of blood. And yet, with trembling lips and burning heart, He speaks the words that define all true religion: Not My will, but Thine be done.

This is not resignation. It is not quietism. It is love in its highest register: willing what the Father wills, even when it costs everything. The chalice is not just suffering. It is the mystery of divine justice and mercy, concentrated and handed to the lips of the sinless Lamb. And He drinks—not because it is pleasant, but because it is the will of the Father.

In this hour, He asks His friends to watch with Him. Just to watch. Not to preach, not to perform, not even to speak—just to stay awake in love. But they sleep. Their flesh is weak, though their spirit is willing. And so He is alone—not because He chose isolation, but because the world, even the Church, does not yet know how to stay awake in the presence of grief.

The Church tonight must return to Gethsemane. The Church must kneel beside the blood-soaked earth and learn again how to be silent with Christ, how to suffer with Him, how to say fiat in the darkness. The sanctuary lamp now flickers in the chapel of Repose, and the faithful are invited to watch with the veiled Host. Not because Christ is in danger—but because we are. The danger is forgetfulness. The danger is indifference. The danger is comfort that silences love.

The priest, above all, must learn Gethsemane. For if he offers the Sacrifice of Calvary on the altar, he must first share the agony of the Garden in his soul. He must learn to say, “Yes, Father,” even when every nerve cries out, “Let it pass.” He must love the chalice because it is His Master’s chalice. He must drink it to the dregs—not because he is strong, but because grace is stronger.

Gethsemane is not a place of escape. It is the place where Christ embraces the Cross before He carries it. It is where the true face of love is revealed—not exalted, but sweating blood; not triumphant, but obedient.

It is where the Bridegroom says Yes to the Bride’s salvation.

And it is where the Church must remain tonight.

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Lent Conferences 2025

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