Maundy Thursday Sermon 2020

Maundy Thursday

April 9, 2020

Grace to you and peace from God our Father and our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

I have loved Maundy Thursday – and all of Holy Week, for that matter – since before I can remember. A story my parents love to tell is when I was about four or five years old, and I was coming out of our Maundy Thursday service. The church was dark and bare, as we’d just witnessed the stripping of the altar, while my mom’s beautiful mezzo voice chanted Psalm 22 into the darkness. As the story goes, I looked up at my dad with very big eyes and said, “Pastor, that was incredible!”

Four-year-old Johanna was right. The Maundy Thursday service is incredible. There is so much going on, in the lessons and the actions. The powerful recollection of the Passover; the intimacy of that first Eucharist as Jesus celebrates the Last Supper with his disciples; the shocking humility of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet; and finally the desolation expressed by the stripping of the altar. It is incredible.

All of that makes this year’s Maundy Thursday so very painful for me, and for many of us, this year. I think of the line from Psalm 137: “How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?” How can we remember and celebrate these events that are all about community, and touching one another and being with one another – when these things are all so hard to come by, if not outright forbidden, right now? No Eucharist, no washing each other’s feet, no gathering for a meal.

So I have had to spend some time reframing this for myself. (That’s a good word for this time, isn’t it - reframe? We’re doing a lot of reframing these days!) It helps a bit to think about how our experience of this night echoes that of the disciples. Consider what it was like for them. I suspect the air was thick with fear for the disciples, as the authorities ramped up their conspiracy against Jesus. He was a hunted man at this point, and they all knew it! Not to mention they are country folk in the big city, which is itself disorienting, confusing, and fearful – being in a place where they don’t know the way around and very few speak their language. And now, in addition to all this disorientation and fear, the disciples are hunkered down, locked in a room together.

In the midst of all this, they gather together to share a meal: these twelve friends and their teacher, perhaps others—gathering to share a meal as they have done many times before. It is a note of familiarity, an anchor, in a world that seems to be spinning out of control.

But then to this moment of familiarity and comfort, Jesus brings a twist: he gets up from the table, takes off his outer robe, ties a towel around himself, pours water into a basin, and begins to wash the disciples’ feet. Though Jesus acts calmly and deliberately, this had to have thrown them for a loop. Though it was common to be given water for washing your feet when you entered a house, people usually washed their own feet; maybe, if your host was wealthy enough to have servants, one of them would do it for you. But even that was when you first came in, not in the middle of dinner. Furthermore, that was the unpleasant task of a servant, not your host, and certainly not your Teacher, your Master, your Lord.

So they did not expect it. It shakes them out of their own thoughts. We see that in Peter’s response – “you’ll never wash my feet!” I’m sure I would have said the same! Suddenly here is Jesus, kneeling before each of them, serving them, demonstrating his love for them, showing them that real love means even this level of humility.

And now here we are, hunkered down, afraid to go out. Like the disciples, we are in an unfamiliar place, a foreign land, a city with frightening noises and shadows and unseen dangers. We cannot understand the voices around us—not because they speak a different language, but because we seem to hear so much contradictory information, or rapidly changing advice. Some of us are completely alone. Some of us are with those we love, but with the constant close quarters, tensions are running high. Some of us long to be with loved ones who do not live in our homes, but we can’t, and it is breaking our hearts. All of us are lost in thoughts we never thought we’d have to think.

And in the midst of this, Jesus does something surprising. He calmly, deliberately, takes a basin of water and begins to wash our feet. For us this night, in this time, that can be only a metaphor. But for us hunkered down ones, for us who feel lost in a strange place, it is our souls that are dusty and tired, our spirits that are weary from what already seems like too long a journey. And that is what Jesus washes: our spirits, our souls. It is unexpected, but it is real. Later in this service, you will be invited to wash your hands in the bowl of water I hope you set up before watching. You may think, “Great, wash my hands again… just what I need!” But this time, let it not be for germs. During that time (or maybe every time you wash your hands for the rest of this Holy Week), don’t count to 20. Instead, picture those waters as Jesus deliberately and calmly washing and refreshing your very soul.

That calmness of his action is especially important for us right now. The world outside is in turmoil, but even if we shield ourselves from that, the chaos still invades our hearts and our lives daily, and we know we are not immune. But in the midst of it: Jesus is calm. I wonder if the disciples thought back to when Jesus calmed the storm on the sea? I wonder if his deliberate and gentle demeanor now stilled the storm in their hearts, their roiling fears about what was to come?

And then there are his words! I bet the disciples were relieved when he said, “You do not know now what I am doing.” Uh, yep, you got that right! But his explanation is plenty clear: “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet… I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.” The words, together with the gesture, say all we need to know about what Christ-like love is about: it is humility and service.

And so it is for us, my friends. The love of Christ, the love that washes over our weary souls, is shown in humility and service. That is always the case. There was a best-selling book published back in the 80s, Gabriel Garcia-Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera. I haven’t read it, nor do I even what it’s about, but it’s sure a compelling title: Love in the Time of Cholera. What is love in the time of Covid-19? Well, it is just what love always is, for the disciples of Jesus. It is humility and service: humility, in that we cannot know what the Lord is doing or what it means for us; service, in that caring for one another is still our mandate.

That love will look different for each of us. It might be making masks for the hospital, or for your friends and family to wear to the grocery store. Perhaps it means, if you are able, helping out at Loop Ministry, or at least donating food, or any number of other ministries still striving to get people what they need in this time of increased need and reduced resources. It might mean checking on a neighbor, asking if they’d like to add anything to your Instacart order, or calling someone whom you know is alone or frightened. Certainly, for all of us, it means praying, lots of praying for all manner of people in the midst of this crisis. But in all these things, it means turning your eyes away from your own fears and concerns; it means looking toward Christ, who so calmly washes our feet and our spirits and our hearts; and it means looking toward others whom Christ loves (and that’s everyone), serving them, loving them, as best we can. It is being mindful, but not fearful. That is Christ’s commandment, and it is Christ’s promise.

Yes, it is an incredible night, this Maundy Thursday, unlike any other. It is in some way this year a desolate night as we sit alone, the altars of our normal existence stripped until there seems to be nothing left. But though we cannot be together, though we cannot wash one another’s feet, though we cannot gather at the table to receive the gracious gift of his body and blood, still he is with us even in our desolation. Still he brings that sense of calm and peace. Still he loves us, loves us to the end. Still he teaches us to love one another, as he has loved us. And for us right now, that is enough.

Let us pray… Gracious and loving God, just as you were with your disciples on that fearful night, be with us in our own fears, uncertainties, and desolation. Cleanse our hearts and our souls, washing the dust from them. And make us ready to love and to serve one another, however we are able, just as you have commanded. In the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.