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Four years ago, Father Schneier and I offered a series of Lenten reflections based on the classic work of Victor Hugo, Les Misérables. We used the BBC film adaptation—six powerful one-hour episodes—because the original novel is over 1,200 pages! But as long as it is, Les Misérables is not just a story of injustice and revolution—it is a story of redemption, of mercy, and of grace.
The heart of that story is found in one singular moment—a moment that mirrors the essence of what we celebrate tonight. Jean Valjean, imprisoned for stealing a loaf of bread to feed his starving family, is released after 19 years of hard labor, a broken, bitter man. Hardened by cruelty and rejection, he wanders from place to place, unwanted and feared. Then, something extraordinary happens: he is received into the home of a humble bishop, Bishop Myriel. The kind cleric offers him food, shelter, and a warm bed.
And how does Jean Valjean respond? He steals the bishop’s silver in the night and runs. Caught by the police and dragged back, it seems he is destined for a return to prison. But the bishop responds with radical grace and generosity. He tells the police the silver was a gift—and even grabs two additional silver candlesticks from rectory saying, “You forgot to take these.” Then, when the police leave, the bishop turns to Valjean and says: “With this silver, I have bought your soul for God.”
That act of mercy, compassion, and undeserved love changes Valjean's life forever. It is the moment when darkness gives way to light. Where once he was a man filled with rage and despair, now a seed of hope takes root in his heart. The rest of the story is about how that one moment of grace becomes a ripple of transformation—how one life redeemed can become an instrument of redemption for others.
What most viewers of the film and musical don’t realize, is that Victor Hugo spent over a hundred pages of the book detailing the bishop’s life before this moment. It’s easy to find that section tedious; why spend so much time on a character who doesn’t reappear? But Hugo is showing us something important: this extraordinary moment of mercy didn’t come out of nowhere. It was formed in the small, ordinary decisions of a faithful life. Acts of kindness, patience, generosity, and humility, done over and over again, made that bishop into the kind of man who could offer such radical forgiveness.
And this, friends, is the key to understanding Holy Thursday.
Tonight, we remember another moment of mercy, not in fiction, but in history. We remember a supper shared long ago—Jesus’ Last Supper with His disciples. But this wasn’t just a farewell meal. Tonight, the Church celebrates two extraordinary acts of love: the institution of the Eucharist and the washing of the feet.
The Gospel tells us that Jesus, knowing that His hour had come, got up from supper, laid aside His outer garments, and wrapped a towel around His waist. Then, the Son of God adopted the posture of a slave and began to wash the feet of His disciples.
This act was more than a gesture—it was a total reversal of expectations. Washing feet was the job of a servant, not a master. And certainly not the job of God! That’s why Peter protests—“Lord, you will never wash my feet!” But Jesus insists. “Unless I wash you, you will have no share with me.”
In this simple, humbling act, Jesus gives us what the Church calls the mandatum—the commandment: “As I have done for you, you must also do.” Love one another as I have loved you. No exceptions. No qualifications. No disclaimers. Just love.
Like the bishop in Les Misérables, Jesus does not simply preach mercy—He embodies it. Beginning with his hidden life of 30 years and then manifested magnificently in his 3 years of public ministry, Jesus lowers Himself, serves His friends, and prepares them to do the same. Moments later, He takes bread and wine and gives them something even greater. “This is my Body… this is my Blood.” He offers Himself entirely—not just as teacher or healer, but as food for the journey. In the Eucharist, Jesus gives His very self so that we might live, and love, and serve in His name.
The Eucharist is not just a memorial; it is the very presence of Christ, His saving action made present for us today. It is our daily reminder of the love that saved us and the strength we need to love others. Just as Jean Valjean carried those silver candlesticks with him for the rest of his life as a reminder of grace, we carry Christ within us every time we receive the Eucharist. We become living tabernacles—bearers of divine mercy.
But how do we live that out?
The answer, again, lies in the example of the bishop. It’s easy to admire his mercy. But to imitate it? That’s much harder. It means daily choosing compassion when we’d rather choose revenge. It means forgiving people who don’t apologize. It means looking at those who hurt us or disappoint us and seeing not enemies, but souls in need of grace.
Extraordinary acts of love aren’t formed in big moments alone. They are formed in the ordinary routines of daily faithfulness: praying when no one sees, serving when no one thanks you, showing up, forgiving again and again, and asking God to help you do it all over tomorrow. That’s how the bishop became the kind of man who could forgive a thief. That’s how we become the kind of people who can forgive, serve, and love like Christ.
Holy Thursday is not a reenactment. It is a participation. We do not come here tonight to watch Jesus serve—we come to be transformed by that service. We come to kneel with Him as he washes the feet of the unworthy and imperfect and leave each Eucharist ready to do the same.
In a world so quick to cancel, condemn, and close doors, what would it mean if we lived this Gospel out with courage and humility? What would it mean if we looked at the broken, the bitter, the forgotten—those like Jean Valjean—and offered not judgment, but mercy? What if we saw in them what Christ sees in us?
Holy Thursday brings together three mysteries: the bishop’s kindness is grace offered. The washing of the feet is service commanded. The Eucharist is love sustained. This is not a story we admire—it is a life we are called to live.
So, who in your life needs to be served? Who have you written off that Christ is calling you to forgive? What wound in your heart needs healing through the gentle act of service? Tonight, as Christ kneels to wash your feet, as He feeds you with His very Body and Blood, allow yourself to be changed. Then, go. Love, forgive, serve, and give—just as He has done for you.
The bishop’s act changed one life. Christ’s act changes the world.
Let us receive His love again tonight. And let that love shape how we live—not just in great moments, but in the quiet, hidden, ordinary parts of daily life. As we begin the Paschal Triduum, may we more fully live the commandment Christ gave us: to love one another as He has loved us. Amen.
