Maundy Thursday

By The Rev. Bernard W. Poppe, Rector

Holy Week captures the themes and drama of the love of God in a way that is beautiful, tragically poignant and mystically triumphant. The Tenebrae service last night previewed the themes of the shadows of desolation creeping over the light. With readings of lamentations and psalms that voice the cries of those who are suffering and lost, the spirit touches the depth of pain in any person. Regardless of the circumstances that may have caused the pain in our lives, we are connected to the writers of lamentations and psalms, not in their physical reality, but in their spiritual reality. When the psalmist writes, “Save me O God for the waters have risen up to my neck. I am sinking in deep mire, and there is no firm ground for my feet....” we don’t know what that writer was experiencing that caused him to write this, but we deeply and viscerally understand the emotion behind it.

Quite literally water is rising in this state causing great suffering to those displaced from their homes. I watch the news of my home state Rhode Island also suffering from floods. The cries of “Save me O God..” call out from those facing a literal flood.

The cries from Haiti, the Middle East and so many other places torn by natural disaster and war also need saving from the waters of suffering as they rise. The shadows of Tenebrae give voice to this as they try to overcome the light. But at the end of the service, it is the light of Christ triumphant that will not be put out. The presence of God giving strength and hope to those in need, to those who rescue and those who rebuild.

The service of Tenebrae is abstract in it’s witness. Maundy Thursday, by comparison is much clearer. The Latin word, Mandatum, from which we get the word “Maundy” means command. Jesus gave his disciples the command to love one another as he had loved them. It sounds simple enough, but is so difficult. How can we ever plumb the depths of Jesus’ love for us in order to show that love to each other? As if in response to this unspoken question, Jesus shows them a simple way. He washes their feet. And he expects them to wash each others feet.

The action is bother literal and mystical. Jesus does in fact wash their feet, in much the same way we read the story of Mary washing his feet with her tears in an earlier story this past Lent. It is a sign of humility and love. But it is also a sign of trust and humility on the part of those whose feet are being washed. Jesus’ humility allows them to be vulnerable.

There is an intimacy in washing feet. Many people keep their feet hidden, especially if they are scarred or disfigured, or discolored. Often our feet bear the marks of physical difficulties, a metaphor for the pain traveled along this life’s road. To show another person our feet is to risk them seeing something that is painful for us to let others see.

Again, while that is literally true about our feet, it is also spiritually true. We try to hide and mask the pains and emotional scars that have accumulated in our lives. We do not want others to see them and feel vulnerable if they do.

When Jesus took the disciples feet in his hands to wash, he cleansed the dirt from their feet in a physical way, but also invited them to share their spiritual pain as well. To make themselves vulnerable to his love and healing touch. Love one another as I have loved you, he commands them. Interesting that he does not ask, but commands.

Tomorrow during Good Friday we’ll see just how vulnerable he made himself. The command is to be completely vulnerable and completely trustworthy of another’s vulnerability. It’s both simple and threatening, and difficult. And yet, here we are.

In our ceremony there are four chairs set up. I’ll invite anyone to come forward to sit in any of them and I’ll begin washing the feet as the shoes and socks are removed. I also will invite anyone who wishes to do the washing as well. Some may choose to do both - have your foot washed and then wash another person’s.

Reading bible stories is a rich experience. Beneath the story itself is a layer of human and spiritual truth. That’s what we delve to find. Holy Week is the richest mine of these stories since the themes go the deepest beyond the stories which are powerful in themselves, but even richer in the spirit which moves through them. It is that spirit of God which finds us and invites us in. It is that spirit of Jesus which commands us to learn from Him and love one another as he has loved us.

We’ll have a few moments of silence to meditate on this love and then as I move to the stations I’ll invite those who wish to participate in this part of the ceremony to do so. Amen.

©2010 St. George’s Episcopal Church, Maplewood, NJ

Maundy Thursday

By Mary Davis, Seminarian Intern

I have to chuckle to myself, stepping into this pulpit tonight. The irony here is almost laughable, and I have to tell you why. Maundy Thursday is my favorite liturgy of the entire church year. The intimacy of our movements during this service touch every one of our senses – we hear the scripture readings which compel and command us to love one another, we smell and taste together the Eucharist or Last Supper, we hear the sacred silence and see the darkness and desperate stillness which follow the stripping of the altar – all of it, for me, is a present and lived expression of our life with Jesus. It is very real, tangible and experiential. Maundy Thursday wraps us and encircles us, as 21st century Christians, and mysteriously links us to the 1st century disciples, and to Jesus in their midst. I long for this experience every year; even though I know that it comes with a heavy and painful price; and, that price, I know, is paid tomorrow on Good Friday.

All of that being said, [and here’s where my nervous chuckle comes in] there is one part of tonight’s service which I have always kept at a distance. And that centers around the sense of touch in the foot washing ritual. Last year, as a matter of fact, when we participated in the foot washing together with the congregation from St. Andrew’s and Holy Communion, I sat there, startled, yet firmly planted in my pew. My only movement was shifting in my seat to allow those near me, who wanted to participate, to pass by. So don’t think that I’m oblivious to the irony that tonight, here I stand to preach about it.

Foot washing. Somehow, in my gut, I knew it was loaded, far deeper than my surface level embarrassment about the condition of my feet. I always told myself, ‘it’s ok, I have runner’s feet – (you runners out there know what I’m talking about!) blackened toenails and heavy calluses – there’s really no need to subject myself, or the washer, to that.’ But my level of discomfort told me that my skepticism surrounding this sacrament goes far deeper than just the cosmetic appearance of my feet.

So I began to research. I discovered that the act of washing feet goes back to ancient times, an act of hospitality. In Genesis 18:4, for example, Abraham welcomes his trio of holy visitors and says, “Let a little water be brought, and wash your feet, and rest yourselves under the tree.” We also know that the ritual was first part of the Temple tradition, and then, thanks to Augustine’s writings in the 4th century, we know that it moved into the early, and still developing, Christian Church. And by the 7th century in Spain, foot washing had become a vital part of the Maundy Thursday liturgy. So here we are tonight, centuries later, still living out our biblical heritage, “bound together with the company of heaven, the apostles and martyrs and the faithful of all ages” and encountering Jesus ourselves in the process.

The mystic Rumi once wrote, “If words do not reach the ear in the chest, nothing happens.” Tonight, we aren’t just witnesses to Jesus sitting at table with his disciples, we are actually entering into an experience with him, rattling that “ear,” both in our individual and communal chests. Jesus speaks to more than just our intellect or our minds today. His humility, though extraordinary, seems pretty clear on one level. One might expect, and in fact, many did expect Jesus, who knew his glory in God, to put on a fine robe as they gathered, and bid others to pay him respect. But instead, Jesus wraps a lowly towel around his waist and washes the disciples’ feet. We learn in 1 Sam 25:41 that the lowest of the low servant positions was the one who washed feet. Jesus turns the established order upside down and he turns our views of self-importance inside out. He lays out a moral example of, what theologians Jean Vanier and Henri Nouwen both call, “downward mobility,” that is, turning away from the things that pull us up on the rungs of social status, and intentionally walking down the path to service and humility. This is what Jesus calls us to do when he instructs us to wash one another’s feet, following his example of humility.

I hear all of this in my head, but this is not what rattles the “ear” of my heart, and this is not why I have resisted participating in the foot washing ritual all these years. My academic self loves to study the intellectual definitions and expressions of humility. And the part of me called to the service of others hears and digests this story loud and clear. But it’s more than that. Jesus washing his disciples’ feet is more than just an exercise in humility! It’s more than teaching us a virtuous way to live! The fuller truth of Jesus’ act in washing the disciples’ feet, which included Judas’ feet as well, is that Jesus’ act was not just a virtue, but the very embodiment of grace. And by participating in this ancient ritual today and sharing in it with one another, we are becoming Christ to each other, offering an experience of God’s grace, amazing evidence of God’s love for us! This ritual offers that assurance to you, and this ritual offers that assurance to me. But here’s the catch, at least for me. . .

As many of you know, I went on a pilgrimage last summer to Taizé, which is an ecumenical monastic community in France. One of the images that struck me with power then, and has stuck with me to this day, even now, almost a year later, was that I was surrounded by Brothers (or monks) who had dedicated their lives to God’s service in the world, and their posture was proof of their devotion and dedication. When taking their vows to the order, and at other times in worship, they would lay prostrate on the floor, kneeling, with both arms spread out, fully extended in both directions. It looked, to me, like Jesus’ frame on the cross, and this was a Brother’s expression of submission, a full offering of self to God. I took that posture seriously, yet knew that I could not offer up such a posture. I could get on my knees, sure. I could even lie down and stretch out one arm, as an offering to God. [demonstrate] I was one arm short, so to speak. To fully extend my second arm into a full posture of surrender to God took more than I was willing to give.

This is where the foot washing comes in. God’s grace is offered to us, through Christ, who knows us completely and fully. It’s about knowing Jesus, and at the same time, it’s about being known. Fully. This was Peter’s protest. “You will never wash my feet,” he says. Peter was willing to offer his confident self. His leadership abilities. His rock-like self-assured qualifications. It was as if he was saying, ‘I’ll offer you some of myself, but not everything. Not all the way to my feet. Not my hidden self, not the one that feared walking on the water, not the one that questioned your teaching, not the one who succumbs so easily to sleep over prayer, and certainly not the one that will deny and then desert you, Jesus.’

Jesus made no distinction, and he instructed his disciples to do the same. Jesus’ radical message of love, in fact Jesus’ new commandment to love, is a love with no distinction, a love which calls us away from the path of increase. There is nothing or no one that Jesus does not love. And that can be scary stuff. Think about it, if we only bring the “clean” parts of ourselves to God, we cannot fully know Christ. “Unless I wash you, you have no share in me,” Jesus says in the Gospel tonight. Christ calls us to follow him, that’s all of us, our dirty feet, the feet with calluses of judgment, of fear, of guilt and pain, and Jesus washes it all clean. My places of shame and doubt, fear and resistance still remain, but they are not hidden from the love and grace of our God.

The definition of a sacrament is “an outward and visible sign of an inward and spiritual grace, given by Christ as sure and certain means by which we receive that grace.” In the foot washing ritual – in fact, in this very foot washing tonight, Jesus isn’t just being a moral teacher, leading by example a life of humility (though he’s certainly doing that). In addition, Jesus’ virtuous humility is the very expression of grace itself. Maundy Thursday is sacramental, experiential grace, evidence of God’s love for us, all of us, bystanders - believers, betrayers – deserters, everyone. John refers to Jesus in his Gospel as “full of grace and truth.” (John 1:14) Jesus offers us this fullness of grace, and this divine action redeems us. Tonight, as in the ages past, we follow Jesus’ commandment to love one another, and God’s powerful and perfect love is made alive in us through one another, a corporate expression of grace. This happens simply because we breathe – regardless of title, gender, race, age, or economic status. The list goes on, but it doesn’t matter, the transformational truth is that God’s grace is offered to all. We “share life with God” which is “free, historical, and graced.” Even me, down to my appalling feet. Even you, down to what ever it is you like to hide. Amen.

© 2009 Mary Davis