Maundy Thursday, John 13:1-17, 31b-35
When I was in college, I lived for a year and a half in a house owned by the Episcopal Diocese of Kentucky. This house was on the same property as St John’s Episcopal Church, right next door to the house they used as their church office. It had a nice big porch for young adult gatherings, a living room full of hand-me-down furniture, and the walls were covered in the original artwork of previous tenants. We had a big Episcopal flag flying from the corner, a cross on the front door, and a sign that said “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You” in the yard. It could not have been more obvious to the neighborhood that this house full of weirdos was owned by a Christian group. And yet, on occasion, we still received proselytizing visitors hoping to introduce us to our Lord and Savior. Depending on who answered the door, these evangelists might receive a shy “no thank you” or an invitation to a porchswing debate, or if they were unlucky enough to meet me, something else entirely. With a part-time on-campus job and a full-time academic schedule, I was rarely home during the day, so I missed most of those opportunities. But once, during Holy Week, a knock came on our door.
I was in my Sunday best and headed out the door when the knock came, so I scared the visitors nearly to death as I opened the door on the second knock. Two smartly dressed young men about my age stood on the porch, pamphlets in hand, and introduced themselves to me as I locked the door behind me. They wondered if I had the time to talk about Jesus, and I said I hoped I’d always have time to talk about him, but that in this particular moment I was headed someplace else to talk about him. They laughed a bit at that, and I asked if they would care to join me, pointing toward the church just behind the house. I’m not sure if it was shock or curiosity, but they graciously accepted my invitation.
As I led the two evangelists to the parish hall entrance, I told them who I was and explained that today was a holiday in the Episcopal Church. I told them they were welcome to observe or participate as much or as little as they wanted, and warned them that folks would be taking their shoes off at some point. It was Maundy Thursday, and I managed to invite two evangelists of a very different tradition to the liturgy without a second thought. It was only mid-service, as I watched the deacon bring out basins and pitchers of warm water, that I paused to look at Maundy Thursday through the eyes of a visiting outsider. Between the washing of strange feet and the sharing of wafers and wine we call the body and blood, Maundy Thursday may be the weirdest thing we do as liturgical Christians. If it isn’t the weirdest, it’s definitely near the top of the list.
The two young men were very gracious, they observed and followed along in the bulletin and whispered questions periodically. They did not choose to participate in the footwashing, nor did they approach the altar rail, but they stayed the entire time and thanked the rector after the service for having them. They said goodbye and went back to their mission, and it wasn’t until much later that I realized we never did get to talk about Jesus. I don’t know that their experience visiting the Episcopal Church with me on that day made much impact on their lives going forward, but I’ve realized that the Maundy Thursday service was really the best way I could have shown them who I understand Jesus to be. Maundy Thursday, with its weird name and its odd traditions, holds within it a millennia of Christian discipleship, a living memory of what it means to follow Jesus. By observing this particular holy day, we are reiterating our own existence.
Often, the Eucharist takes center stage on this holy day. We recognize this night to be the liturgical anniversary of the last meal that Jesus shared with his friends, when he instituted the sacrament of Holy Communion in the broken bread and the shared wine. The apostle Paul reminds us today that one of the biggest components of his ministry to new Christian communities was to pass on to them the practice of sharing bread and wine in communion with all the baptized in remembrance of Christ, and as such the sacramental meal is to be the central worship of Christian life. This is good and right, and has become our practice in the Episcopal Church today. Some of you may remember a time when Holy Communion was only available monthly, or quarterly, with Morning Prayer as the primary Sunday service in the Episcopal Church. Others of you may, like me, have lived your entire lives in this renewed understanding of the sacrament as a weekly offering. I know that all of us, especially on this day when we are so accustomed to giving thanks for the particular gift of Christ’s bodily presence in our midst, are painfully aware of the grief of being unable to receive it. When we are unable to gather in person and share the cup of salvation, what are we celebrating today?
In some communities, like the one to which I brought two unsuspecting visitors several years ago, the ritual of footwashing is the central act of Maundy Thursday. The practice of clergy pouring water over the feet of their flock, or members of the congregation gently rinsing and drying one another’s feet, is a powerful and countercultural act of submission and service to one another. In some denominations, this practice carries an additional weight as a rite of passage for the newly baptized, as young children are invited to wash the feet of the elders in the congregation, who then trade places with the little ones. As with the blessing and sharing of bread and wine, this is an act that we can take on in solidarity with Jesus, our teacher and our model. As Jesus washed the feet of those he loved, those who would abandon and betray and deny him, so we are invited to wash the feet of one another in reverence for the image of God in each of us and in recognition of our call to servanthood. This act of humility disrupts the hierarchies and expectations and definitions that ensnare us and separate us from one another. We could perhaps stand to incorporate this practice in our common life more than once a year. This practice also is unavailable to us this year, as we remain safely separated for a little while longer. Without it, what is special, what is significant, what is unique about this day?
I want to point out to you something that may seem in other years like a strange end to a festive evening. In our separated state, this last odd tradition may strike a deeper chord. After the prayers, after the readings and the sermon and communion, we will do one last bit of liturgical theater before we go our separate ways. We will strip the altar. That evening when I brought two strangers into the sanctuary for Maundy Thursday worship, this was the event I had the hardest time explaining, but which cut me to the heart. As the clergy in silence extinguished and removed the candles, pulled down the hangings and removed the linens from the altar, and stashed away the beautiful silver vessels of communion, I wept. Not because I am so attached to these beautiful objects, or because it was visually impactful, although these things were true. I wept because in the barren and hurried stripping of the sanctuary, I understood Jesus a little bit more. In order to be truly with us, he had to become what we are at our core, stripped of appearances and titles and the glamour of our performances. At the end, before he was betrayed, Jesus told his disciples who they were, by reminding them of who he was. At his very core, stripped of kingship and triumph and fame, Jesus is God’s love for us. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. That is who we are, because of who God is, who Jesus became for our sake. Love, laid bare. In the end, that is all that remains.
Mother A Writes 