Maundy Thursday 2013
March 28, 2013
St. Martin Lutheran Church
Grace to you and peace from God our
Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.
Each
year, I have to fill out some reports for the synod – one for each church, and
one for myself. One question on the pastor report is about how many hours I’ve
spent doing continuing education, and what I have learned from it. One question
is, “What is the most important learning from continuing education this year?”
As I looked back on the year, I had trouble answering this – not because I
didn’t learn a lot from the various classes and workshops I attended, but
because the most important learning I did this year was from you, my
congregation. And probably the single most important lesson I learned this year
(and I said this) was, “It’s okay to let people take care of you.” When I was
anticipating and recovering from surgery, you did all you could to take care of
me, from covering extra duties at church to bringing me meals at my home. A lot
of learning happens when you let your parishioners see you in sweatpants,
unshowered, and on painkillers. A lot of learning happens when you cry in the
pulpit. A lot of learning happens when you have to admit, several times, “I
just can’t do that.” It is humbling to have to reveal your need, your hunger, to people before whom you’d like to appear strong.
We’ve
talked a lot about hunger during this Lenten season, and in Sunday sermons, the
focus has been on spiritual hungers. Spiritual hunger is a slippery creature,
isn’t it? When we asked people to contribute to our hunger-themed devotional,
we said they could write about an experience with either physical or spiritual
hunger. One of our astute confirmation students, in her devotion, wrote that
spiritual hunger can be much worse than physical… and in some ways, I would
agree. It is difficult to name those hungers, and even if we can discern it and
name it, we may not know what will fill it, or how to find it. It’s hard to
know where to start, and we are too proud to ask for guidance, or even to
receive help when it is offered. And so we continue down our path, unfed.
It
is human nature to resist receiving help. Just talk to Simon Peter about it.
Poor Peter, ever eager to please, to be a good friend and a faithful follower
of Jesus. But in the story we’re about to hear, when Jesus gets down on his
knees before Peter and tries to serve him, to wash his feet, Peter responds
like I’m sure many of us would: “No, no, you’ll never wash my feet, Lord!” No,
I couldn’t possibly let you do that. No, I’ve got this under control, I don’t
need help. You don’t need to serve me, and in fact, you shouldn’t.
Why
is being served or receiving help so hard for us? I suppose there are lots of
reasons. One is that, especially as Christians, we see our role as the ones who
do the serving. “So if I have washed your feet,” Jesus says, “You should wash
one another’s feet” – and we’re really good at that! Let’s get out and serve!
It may be hard work, but at the end of the day, it feels good, it’s satisfying,
we like it. But beneath the surface of that, of course, is that when we are the
ones doing the helping or the serving, we are in charge. We have control over
the situation, and are in the dominant position. Being the one with the ability
and resources to help someone else is a very comfortable position to be in,
especially for us Americans, who so value our independence and
self-sufficiency.
Another reason we prefer to be the ones serving, which
is related to that, is that when we are the ones being helped, it means we have
admitted to needing help – tacitly
if not explicitly. Being served implies that you have some weakness, something
you can’t do on your own. Even if you could have done it on your own – if you
receive help, it looks like you
couldn’t. When I was sick, and you asked me what you could do to help, there
was a part of me that wanted to say, “Nothing!” so that I could prove to you
and to myself that I was strong enough to handle this all on my own. I could
make my own meals, or order out, if I needed to. But putting that aside and
letting someone else serve me looked a whole lot – I feared – like, “I can’t handle this. I’m not strong enough.” And who wants to admit that?
Have any of you ever participated in a foot-washing? I
have a few times. To be honest, I don’t like it much and find it uncomfortable.
Well, I should clarify – when I say I don’t like it much, what I really mean is
that I don’t much like having my feet washed. I don’t mind at all washing
someone else’s feet, and actually think it is very cool. I would much sooner
play the role of Jesus in the story, getting down and putting my face right up
close to someone else’s smelly feet, than I would play the part of the
disciples, exposing my own smelly feet to someone else. Seeing other people’s
pain and insecurities is something I am very comfortable with. Comes up a lot
as a pastor. But letting down my own guard and baring my own insecurities and
inabilities is much more difficult. And I know I’m not alone in this, because
pretty much everyone I’ve talked to about foot-washing would rather wash
someone else’s feet than let anyone near their own. We would much rather serve
and help others than ever have to make ourselves vulnerable.
To me, the powerful image in the foot-washing story is
not so much that Jesus sits himself down and puts his face right down in
people’s smelly feet… but that Peter
doesn’t want him to. And that
Jesus tells him he must, if he wants to be a part of what Jesus is doing. The
command that follows, to wash others’ feet like Jesus did for his disciples,
and to love one another as God has loved us – we’re all on board with that. But
Jesus tells us that we cannot be part of that, it cannot be possible, until we
have made ourselves vulnerable enough to acknowledge our own need, our own
hunger, and to let someone into our hearts and serve us – not lazily or
selfishly, but humbly and gratefully. Only then will we possess the humility we
need to serve others with a willing and compassionate heart.
And it is with that humility that we enter these three
days, in which we remember the extremes to which our God has gone to love and
serve us. And our resistance, like Peter’s, to being served is part of what
makes the story that will unfold in the next few days so uncomfortable. Sure,
the beating and mocking and death against an innocent man are troubling. But to
think that all that is for us? For
me? If it is uncomfortable to let
someone else provide a meal, offer to help, or wash your feet, how much more uncomfortable
is this! A body broken and blood spilt, all on our behalf, for our sins,
offered freely and willingly without our even knowing to ask for it. And yet:
Christ’s body is broken and blood is shed for you.
At the end of worship tonight, we will strip the
altar. This is an historic practice in the church that is both practical and
deeply symbolic. As the altar is stripped, and everything emptied from the
sanctuary, and our altar is left bare and exposed, we are reminded how Christ
was stripped and left bare and exposed for us. Jesus went to the absolute extreme of love and
service for us. And yes, we should
do the same – Jesus says that. Love one another as God has loved you. And we
will. But on this night, let us humble ourselves enough just to receive that
love and service, with grateful and willing hearts. Tonight, as the altar is
stripped, may we let our own hearts be stripped and left bare and vulnerable
and ready to receive help. Tonight, let us be ready to receive: the body and
blood of Christ, given for you.
In
the name of the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
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