Maundy Thursday

The Rev’d Deacon Alexander Griffin, Assistant Curate

May I speak to you in the name of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.

Good evening. Tonight begins the three most important days in the church year, as we follow Jesus through his betrayal, his death, and his Resurrection. This evening and tomorrow afternoon, we will leave the cathedral in silence with no blessing and no dismissal, because the story continues––the journey we are beginning tonight with Jesus will not finish until Saturday night at the Great Vigil of Easter. Only then will there be the final blessing of what we begin today.

Before I say anything else, I want to encourage you to pay attention to the rituals we do over the next few days, and participate in them fully––they have far more to teach you than anything I can say to you this evening.

Tonight, we have rituals that walk us through the last night before Jesus’ death. Our story begins with Jesus kneeling on the ground and washing his disciple’s feet. In a little while, each of us will have the opportunity to wash someone else’s feet like Jesus did, and then sit down and be a disciple while someone washes your feet. If you’re feeling unsure about this ritual, you’re not alone. If you’re worried about not getting it right, don’t worry about that. The first year I participated in a footwashing, I knocked over the pitcher of water, and spilled it all over the new church carpet. We don’t have carpet in here, so whatever you do, it won’t be as bad as what I did.

But even apart from any nervousness we may feel, or any worries we may have about getting things right, this ritual is overly intimate and kind of awkward. In recent years, churches have invented all kinds of variations as ways to get away from the vulnerability of it all: I’ve heard about rituals of washing hands, shining shoes, pouring coffee—but honestly, I think the weirdness is part of the point.

Peter is uncomfortable with it, too. The disciples had been traveling on the road, so their feet were dirty and smelly. In Jesus’ time, washing someone’s feet was such an un-dignified task that even servants would usually just have to bring the water, and people would wash their own feet.[1] When Jesus takes off his robe and puts on a towel, the clothing of a servant, the Son of God is laying down[2] his dignity and wrapping himself in the humblest form of love. It is a sign that Jesus is not afraid of our mess, our imperfections, our failures, our literal or metaphorical smelly feet. God’s love for us is greater than the things we like to hide away in our shame.

But Jesus doesn’t just ask us to have our feet be washed; he asks us to do the same thing for others. He says, “So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you.”  When we allow our feet to be washed, we accept God’s love for ourselves. When we wash another person’s feet, we accept God’s love for them, too. We demonstrate God’s love through our own hands, and as we embody divine love, we ourselves learn how to love.

On this last night before he died, Jesus gave us a final commandment: that we love one another as he has loved us. When we wash someone’s feet, and when we allow our own feet to be washed, we practice this commandment to love and be loved. Sometimes love is uncomfortable. Sometimes love is dirty or smelly or awkward. Sometimes love spills water all over the carpet. But Jesus, our King of Love, was not afraid to kneel on the ground, to lay down his dignity and to do the work that was too lowly for even a servant.

And Jesus did not just give his dignity to restore our dignity, on this very night, we remember how he prepared to give his life for our lives. You see, after washing the disciples’ feet, Jesus sat at a table and ate dinner with his friends. He took bread, and after giving thanks, he gave it to his disciples, and said, “take, eat: this is my body which is given for you.” We hear these words so often that we can forget what they mean. Jesus gives his body for us.

If you will turn with me in your bulletins to page 15, I want you to take a look at the text the choir is singing for our Communion motet. In this poem, we see the push-and-pull of our fear and shame trying to hide from God’s love. “Love bade me welcome, but my soul drew back, guilty of dust and sin.” We all have those parts of ourselves that we don’t want anyone to see, least of all, God. But God, in gentleness and infinite love, draws near to our shame. When we cannot look at love, God reminds us that even our eyes belong to God. Yes, we have sinned, we have failed, we have made mistakes, but as our poem says, “know you not who bore the blame?” Even now, we want to do something, to somehow make ourselves worthy of Jesus’ sacrifice. Instead, God’s love beckons us to this very table to take Jesus’ body into our bodies, to take Jesus’ life into our lives. This is a beautiful, joyful moment.

But lest we forget that Jesus’ body is broken for us, we will watch as everything is stripped off the altar. The remaining pieces of Jesus’ broken body will be carried to this chapel over here, filled with plants to be like the garden of Gethsemane. We will hear the story of Jesus on the ground again, this time not to wash feet but to pray in fear and agony. Earlier, he was surrounded by his friends; now, Jesus is all alone. Even his most trusted companions have fallen asleep. Our last ritual tonight is to watch and pray with him, in the presence of his body that was broken for you.

As we wash one another’s feet, let us remember that Love is intimate and awkward and not afraid of our dirt and our messy realities. As we eat Christ’s body, let us remember that Love is beautiful and joyful and almost more than we can bear. And as we sit in silence, keeping watch with Jesus, let us remember that our God who is Love, not only gave up his dignity, but was betrayed and abandoned by his friends; suffered, died, and was buried, so that death itself might lose its sting. Dear friends in Christ let us participate in the movements of God’s love. These movements will be our teachers, that we may know, once and for all, a love that is stronger than death. Amen.

[1] Raymond E. Brown, The Anchor Bible Commentary on the Gospel of John, p. 564
[2] Brown, p. 551