Receiving love from a vulnerable Jesus 
Maundy Thursday  |  Luke 22:7-38; John 13:1-17, 31b-35

It was only a few years ago now, when I drove the four of us up to Beaverton, Michigan for a family Thanksgiving. It was so much easier then, when the kids had the whole week off, the seven-hour drive would feel worth it, coming up on Monday, let’s say, and then come back on Saturday. We’d get time with my parents before my sister and her family would arrive. We’d spend Tuesday preparing the menu and shopping list, determining the kind of glaze for the turkey (orange pomegranate) and what sides to go along with the stuffing, mashed potatoes, and sweet potatoes that are all mandatory. And remember, stuffing is allowed to be the name of the dish, and need not be confined to the description of its cooking place. But we’d often have bacon and balsamic brussels sprouts, blanched green beans, and a bib lettuce salad.

I spent the day in the kitchen cooking for fourteen, which, for a few years, included my Aunt Maggie, Grandma Joy, Uncle Hal, and his friend Stacie. And my Mom would put up a folding table at the end of their main table to make one long table, unrolling a length of brown craft paper that the kids would decorate for the big dinner. 

There are so many memories of that time, of the ritual: a family liturgy full of anticipation and love.

And in the midst of this dinner, there would be a sense of impermanence, of timeliness—this could be the last dinner together. Signs of illness, of challenge—glimpses of an unwelcome future.

The Last Supper

This is an odd time to be talking about Thanksgiving, but I always think about it today. Anyone else? Culturally, it is the one day of the year when we prescribe what we are to eat, like the Passover does, and in the gospels, Jesus invites his followers to collect the materials needed for the feast. Food and family, together, whenever these occur, I am pulled in.

And in each telling of the last supper, there is a sense of gathering, of something ending and something else beginning. And in each, there is a darkness, too, the specter of betrayal and departure that lingers, that receives from the cup, that is counted as present before dashing off into the night. And it is supposed to feel more sinister than it is, more troubling than it actually does, perhaps.

In front of Mark’s telling of this event is a spontaneous anointing of Jesus as a woman prepares the Messiah for what is to come. The disciples, for their part, quibble over the moment. How dare this woman do this, and waste such expensive ointment. We should have sold it, they say, voicing the concern of every prudent economist in the room, and today is often quoted unironically.

In Luke’s version of the last supper, there is much avoidance of what it is they are actually there to do — to be with Jesus one last time, to learn from him, to witness, watching what is to come.

Instead of being present to this moment, they quibble over which of them is the greatest disciple. Peter attempts to prove his willingness to die for Jesus. And in their final test, Jesus invites them to go out and buy some swords so they all can pretend to be revolutionaries — only to find they already have some, like they already have money, too, as if they haven’t really been listening or, perhaps, believing in Jesus the whole time.

A Hint of Darkness

Perhaps you feel it, too, that hint of darkness and dread today. Of confusion and frustration. That we have come together, even for this meal tonight, in this sacred place, with joy and reverence. And yet our minds may be elsewhere. Or perhaps they are here, but not fixed with joy on the grace of God, but on the precarity of relationship, on the squeaking or wheezing noise that can be so distracting, the frustration with the friend who has done us wrong, you know, the usual. Distractions have a way of getting past our defenses.

And yet, the other thing I always associate with this day, besides the ignorance of the disciples and the hint of darkness that infuses it all, is the simple ignorance of the day. It is when the disciples are ultimately the most clueless and the least plugged into the moment. 

Of course, when I say “the disciples” I am using the common shorthand for what Luke refers to as “the Twelve”. And even among them, Judas isn’t clueless, since he is in the midst of his betrayal. And on the outskirts of the inner circle are people — like the woman who anoints Jesus — who get it. This is how it is, isn’t it? The ones in the know so rarely do. And the outsiders have the better view.

But this vision of ours, today, is not of ignorance, like the disciples, is it? We know. And so our vision is complicated by joy and sorrow. Of knowledge and a desire for ignorance. That we may come together to share in the grace of God with joy and with a hint of dread for the night to come.

The Intimacy of Jesus

It is difficult to read John’s gospel in Holy Week, for its language is divisive, its intent is not pure. The evangelist is trying to draw a line between the Hebrew tradition and a tradition growing around Jesus. This gospel is also the source of many of our most beloved and poignant traditions for this weekend; especially tonight.

It is only here that we read of Jesus’s service to his disciples. When he disrobes, ties a towel around himself, and washes their feet. He is so vulnerable. So intimate. And, perhaps, in a sense, so lonely. They don’t join him — though, in the end they will.

This intimate moment with the disciples is so full of embarrassment — but not for the one who stripped down. The embarrassment is all on Peter, who doesn’t want his Messiah to serve him, who doesn’t want him stripping before him, washing his feet, making himself low. But then — when he does — Peter’s assessment changes. He decides, well, if we’re going to do this, let’s do it! Wash me up, Jesus! And I imagine people today lifting their hands to the sky and saying Wash me in the blood of the Lamb! 

Because we’re so obsessed with power, with rules, with control, like Peter, we flip the switch between serving and being served, missing the power of intimacy for the power of supremacy. So we want our leaders to serve and lord it over them like kings when they don’t. And we miss that this is a posture of mutuality, of intimacy and community. That Peter is a servant, too. And James and John, Mary and the “Beloved Disciple” serve each other. 

Our Struggle and Our Grace

For many of us, our struggle isn’t cleaning the kitchen or getting our hands dirty for the team. We’re terrible at being served. At sharing that kind of intimacy without expectation, without power, without evaluation and control, without supremacy.

And I think it is connected to why we want celebrations without grief and hints of darkness. We want times of solemness that are personal and not public. We want to serve and be served and not actually have to touch each other’s feet. Just like we want the living without the dying.

But that’s not how it works. We get both. 

And today, we get Jesus doing both for us — serving those who don’t deserve it. Sharing with the one who will betray him. He loves these people. And he offers an incredible vision of intimacy. Like Mary did for him in Bethany. Like we do for each other here, tonight.

We dare to show our love bravely and earnestly because this is what Jesus invites us to do for one another — to be more open than before, more generous than before, more vulnerable than before in service to our friends and neighbors.

As our previous Presiding Bishop likes to say, God love you. God bless you. And may God hold us all in those almighty hands of love. Amen