Tonight we pick up where we left off.
After the parade and triumphal shouts
After the delighted crowd gets swept up
After the religious leaders push back,
Telling the people to curb their enthusiasm,
Not to make such a scene, not to
Draw attention, to make sure the rulers pay attention
to the parades on the other side of the city,
to the parades demonstrating Rome’s grandeur
to the parades meant to dissuade any revolutionaries
From acts of insurrection.
After Jesus says pointedly—to them and to the crowd:
Even if you silence these ones, the rocks
That God created in the beginning
Will cry out with shouts of adulation and joy.
Tonight we pick up where we left off.
I can see the scene playing over in my mind.
The image of Jesus at table with his friends,
As though I was there.
As though I saw it first hand.
As though I witnessed it with my very eyes.
I’m sure I saw you there. I was there, and you were too.
I can see the scene playing over in my mind.
Jesus standing there.
Standing tall. Standing triumphant.
Eyes blazing in defiance.
Raising the bread.
Raising the cup.
While his friends look on, beginning
To whisper in confusion, not quite following
What he means to say.
Whenever I return to this scene,
I think about this:
how Jesus, on the night before he died,
gathered his friends around a table
To rehearse the story of the Jews and their liberation,
The Passover, the Exodus, God’s very song of freedom,
In which God’s chosen people, the Hebrew slaves,
With no hope to free themselves
Are set free from an Emperor and Empire not unlike
The one seated in Rome.
Whenever I return to this scene,
I think about this:
how Jesus, at every step of the way
takes some ordinary action, takes the stuff of earth,
or some ancient story, how he makes it larger than life
Makes it new again, bringing past into present
Reminding us that the story of God is ongoing
Reminding us that God’s favour has never ceased, will never cease
Pointing to the God who is doing a new thing.
Right here. Right now. Even, as the world comes crashing
Down around him.
Jesus tells and retells the story,
Re-enacting it, performing it, embodying it.
Inviting us to look, pay attention, to remember, and to wait.
Remember. Remember to remember.
Put all the pieces of God’s shattered dream
Back together.
“Do this,” he says, “in remembrance of me.”
“Do this,” he says, “and with your very body, live the story of freedom.”
That’s why we’re here tonight.
To re-enact, to perform, to embody this great story of freedom.
Here in the upper room.
We arrive in the room, not sure what to expect.
Jesus waiting there,
Towel around his waist, asking each of his friends
To sit down. And one by one, he washes our feet
The look on each face as he approaches us,
As he goes to each one of us, talks to us, notices us
Holds each of us, in turn, in loving embrace
He lays his hand on your shoulder,
Points to the chair,
and says “come, let me do this for you.
Let me wash your feet.”
Our looks tell a story, don’t they?
Looks of astonishment. Of bewilderment. Of questioning.
Looks of joy. Of wonder. Of deep clarity.
Looks of all kinds. And then, the inevitable acquiescence.
After following him around for so long, we know how he gets.
This is clearly important, and we take him up on the invitation.
And then, of course, there is Peter,
Peter, who’s been there preparing the meal,
Coming in when all is ready,
Coming in with all his usual bluster,
Who when Jesus approaches him says,
No, not me, Lord. No never me.
His face frozen in time is not a look of bewilderment, astonishment, of questioning.
His face, frozen in time, has no look of joy, wonder, or deep clarity.
It is a look of pain, of hurt, of deep offense.
As if he can’t grasp—won’t grasp—what’s happening here.
Don’t touch my feet. You will not touch my feet, he seems to be saying.
And yet we remember how the story goes.
In the end, he too says “yes, okay Jesus, but do it right. ” (head and shoulders, knees and toes)
Maundy Thursday is a story of bodies.
It is the story of flesh and blood, of taste, touch, sight, and smell.
It is the story of hands touching feet.
It is the story of hands raising bread and wine.
It is the story of body and blood.
Offered piece by piece, sip by sip
From Jesus to us—His closest, most intimate friends.
Maundy Thursday is a story of bodies.
It’s a story about Jesus’ body, yes. But it’s a story about our bodies too.
Bodies poured out in covenant promise
For the healing of selves, of relationships,
Of communities, and nations.
“This is my body,” he says.
With all that is to come. With all that is already happening,
These words echo across the mists of time,
Returning us to join him in the upper room.
Here, in the upper room.
Here, in guest suite above the stable,
Here, in the place where Peter and John
have prepared the Passover meal,
Jesus gathers his friends.
In an act of clear defiance against the authorities.
And in our hearing, he says it again.
This is my body.
Nobody can take this from me.
Come what may, this is my body.
This is my choice.
And I choose to offer it for your sake.
For the sake of the world and its liberation.
For the sake of our collective freedom
For the sake of God’s dream
Embodied here on earth. Words take on flesh.
I will not be coerced, and I will not be forced.
This is my body and I give it for you and the life of the world..
It belongs to nobody else
Not Peter who doesn’t want to have his feet washed.
Not Judas who will betray him.
Not us disciples when we flee, much afraid into the night
Not the high priests and palace guards who will arrest
And seize him.
Not Pilate who will try him.
Not the crowds who will turn on him
Not the soldiers who will nail him to the tree
Not the thieves on either side
Not Joseph of Arimathea who will take his body
And lay it in a new tomb
Having heard the call of his people,
Having heard the yearnings and needs of the world,
Jesus responds of his own free will in self-giving
Love, inviting us—inviting all of us to accept the gift
And to live in its light.
In that moment in the upper room,
Air thick with the smell of fire,
Air thick with the smell of sweat and soap
Air thick with the smell of one last memorable meal,
Candles flickering,
Jesus shares a new story by offering his body one last time.
Taking the loaf of bread, he breaks it,
He gives it to us,
Saying, “this is my body,” which I give for you.
And with cup that I pour out for you, God’s covenant—
The covenant God made with us from the beginning
A covenant of love and care,
A covenant to bless you, and through you to bless the world
Is being renewed:
That even though the trials are not yet o’er
That even though we must wait on God through this darkest night
That even though it will seem as though all is lost
You are not forgotten. You are not forsaken.
You are loved.
