Holy Thursday marks a liturgical threshold—a moment suspended between love and betrayal, intimacy and abandonment, service and sacrifice. This year, I crossed that threshold in an unexpected place: a prison chapel, where I accompanied Bishop Vincent Long OFM Conv, Bishop of Parramatta, as he celebrated a Holy Thursday liturgy with thirty-two incarcerated men.
I entered the Parklea Correctional Centre that morning with quiet apprehension—not fear, but an awareness of the weight of the stories held within those walls. The chapel itself bore witness to transformation: crucifixes and religious artworks, carved and painted by inmates over the years, lined the walls. As each man stepped into the space—some with guarded expressions, others offering quiet nods of welcome—something about the small room changed. A sense of reverence settled over us. What the space lacked in grandeur, it made up for in presence. And in that presence, God was unmistakably there.
The Gospel reading was from John, chapter 13—the account of Jesus washing the feet of His disciples. I’ve heard it many times before, often followed by a carefully choreographed ritual. But nothing quite prepares you for the dissonance—and the grace—of watching a bishop kneel on the carpet of a plain room to wash the feet of men the world often chooses not to see. Here, the ritual lost its predictability and became what it must have been the first time: a scandalous act of love.
Reflecting on this moment, Bishop Vincent offered a striking interpretation: “Footwashing is not just a physical act—it’s a metaphor for service, an act of selflessness. Jesus became a servant to his disciples. Even though He was their ‘Master’, He reversed His role.”
This wasn’t simply a ritual gesture—it was something deeply human. Though the men had the freedom to opt out, each one chose to participate. There’s a particular vulnerability in removing your shoes before strangers, and an even deeper one in allowing yourself to be served in a way that restores a dignity the world so often denies. In a place where control is rarely yours to claim, that kind of surrender isn’t weakness—it’s strength. And it was a strength Bishop Vincent received with tenderness and humility.
After the ritual, the man beside me leaned over and said quietly, “I don’t know why, but I feel nervous talking to him”—speaking of the Bishop. There was awe in his voice, but also hesitation, as if he wasn’t sure whether he was worthy of the encounter. Yet, Bishop Vincent made no distinction. As he reminded us in his homily, “We are all equal in the eyes of God. We must remember that dignity we have.”
His words cut through the false hierarchies we often cling to—titles and robes, uniforms and past mistakes. None of these ultimately define us. What remains is our inherent dignity, not because of how the world sees us, but because of who we are in the gaze of God.
And yet, I realised that this moment was not just for those whose feet were washed—it was also for me. Because redemption is not a concept that applies only to those behind bars. It applies to all of us who carry the unseen weight of sin, regret, fear, and pride—who, in our own ways, are held captive by patterns of self-protection or self-condemnation.
“There’s no part of you that God rejects, that God doesn’t like,” Bishop Vincent said. In that setting, the words carried unusual weight. Sin doesn’t change who we are at our core—it only clouds it. And God, in His mercy, gently calls us back—not to shame us, but to restore us.
As the liturgy came to a close, Bishop Vincent offered this final encouragement: “May we all be strengthened in our endeavour to live our lives with a sense of confidence and trust in the future.”
There is a particular kind of hope that lives inside prison walls—not the naïve kind, but the hard-won, often quiet conviction that one’s story is not over. And that, perhaps, is what I carried with me most of all. The belief that we are all—every one of us—more than our failures, more than our limitations, more than the labels imposed on us by others, or even by ourselves.
Holy Thursday teaches us that God kneels before us not in judgment, but in love. And it challenges us to do the same—for others, and for ourselves. In the washing of feet, in the breaking of bread, and in the mutual gaze of dignity restored, I heard the whisper of Christ again: You are not beyond redemption. You can begin again.
Special thanks to Richard Korkor, our prison chaplain, who kindly organised Bishop Vincent’s visit and the Holy Thursday liturgy. Gratitude also to Parklea Correctional Centre and the NSW Department of Communities and Justice for their hospitality and support in making this encounter possible.
Gelina Montierro is a Senior Communications Officer for the Diocese of Parramatta.
