Now is the Time

Now the Son of Man has been glorified… [John 13:31].

As the Easter season moves toward its close, the lectionary takes us not forward in time but backward—to the night of betrayal, when Jesus speaks of “glory” even as Judas walks out the door. This Sunday, the Gospel reading is John 13:31–35 [the Fifth Sunday of Easter, RCL, Year C]. In John’s Gospel, glory is not a reward after the cross but is revealed through it. In these verses, Jesus gives his disciples a mandatum novum—a “new” commandment—to love one another “as I have loved you” [13:34]. The timing of that commandment matters. It is given not in triumph, but in tension. This free verse meditation explores what it means to live in that tension, to bear witness to resurrection while still standing in the shadows, to love in the “now” of a broken world.

Now?
Not after the stone is rolled away?
Not when the heavens split or the trumpet sounds?
Not even when the tomb is found empty?
But now—
just after the traitor has slipped into the night?

This is how glory begins in John’s Gospel—
not with victory but with vulnerability,
not with acclaim but with betrayal still hanging in the air.
Glory begins when love keeps loving
even when the cost is everything.

Jesus speaks of being “glorified” five times in two verses.
The verbs tangle time:
past, present, future—
as if the love of God
cannot be neatly scheduled.

We want glory to be conclusive,
resurrection to be the end of the story.
But Jesus says: it starts now—
even when the world is unraveling,
even when the pain is fresh,
even when Judas is still walking down the steps.

This is Easter, too.
Not just lilies and brass and empty tombs,
but the hard love that keeps giving
before the world understands what it means.

And into this fragile moment,
Jesus speaks a new command:
“Love one another.
As I have loved you.”

Not “when things settle.”
Not “once they deserve it.”
Not “after you get it all figured out.”
But as I have loved you—
now.

Love shaped like a towel and basin.
Love that breaks bread with betrayers.
Love that kneels.
Love that bleeds.
Love that forgives while the hammer still swings.

This is how the world will know.
Not by our certainty.
Not by our polish.
Not even by our good intentions.
But by our love.
Love that abides in the already and not yet.
Love that says,
even here, even now—
this is glory.