Gospel: John 13:1-17, 31b-35
This evening we begin our journey along the arc of what’s called the Triduum, the three-day cycle carrying us from the quiet darkness of Jesus’ final meal with his disciples to the bright revelation of his resurrection. It’s an arc of motion and activity starting at sundown today and ending at sundown on Easter Day, with one day of overwhelming silence – Holy Saturday – found between the bookends of death and resurrection, those companion boundaries of sorrow and joy.
Each year as I read this passage the same things stand out to me. The betrayal of Judas. The brokenness of those gathered with Jesus, a brokenness they may not have realized they carried within them. The refusal of Peter – again – to accept something Jesus was offering. The willingness of Jesus to humble himself by washing the feet of others. The command that we love one another. The table that was central to that evening and the meal they shared – and a nudge shifting our attention to the table here where we’ll gather later this evening.
Now I don’t want you to think that the fact that the same things about this narrative stand out to me each year is indicative of a “well, here we are again” approach on my part to Maundy Thursday. Quite the contrary: the great gift of all of this is that when these images stand out for any of us, we’re being given a chance to look at them as if we’re seeing them for the first time. We can see how the lens through which we view these things may have changed from previous years. The background light from the present stage of our lives may illuminate them in a different way.
I’ve been particularly struck by three of these threads this year: the brokenness of those with Jesus; the shared time around a table; and Jesus’ commandment to love. For me the idea of brokenness is particularly strong. We live in a world that with the passing of each day becomes more broken. Relationships have been broken. Familiar systems have been broken. The confidence so many carried for neighbors and institutions has been broken. Add to those the many other burdens that appear in our lives – the burdens of illness, loss, grief, uncertainty, and fear – and we reach a point where our strength fails and we simply break.
It’s into these fragile moments that Jesus steps, and in this passage it’s when Jesus kneels before us, to wash our feet … to tend to our wounds … to acknowledge what we feel and remind us we’re not alone in our brokenness. From these moments we then move out to the second thread: the invitation to gather around the shared table. We’re invited to come just as we are, from wherever we are, with whatever we carry. We’re invited to come with the prayer that God is “not weighing our merits, but pardoning our offenses.”[1] We’re invited to come without the presumption of “coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal.”[2] In short, we’re invited to come with our brokenness and allow ourselves through this shared experience to be made just a bit more whole.
Then there’s the third thread, the hardest of all to pull at: the commandment to love one another even as we have been loved. Living with our brokenness is difficult. Accepting an invitation to fellowship at the table when we feel we’re unworthy is difficult. Loving others, especially those we don’t even like, may feel impossible. From my own perspective and my own journey, there are times I don’t want to acknowledge that I must love someone else that I don’t feel is deserving. Like Peter in this scene not wanting Jesus to wash his feet, my temptation is to refuse something that Jesus is asking of me. But Jesus has far more patience than I do. He can wait me out – and I must remember that this isn’t just a command he’s making; it’s a gift he’s offering.
That in the end is a central takeaway from this passage: everything offered by Jesus here is a gift. Table fellowship is a gift. Allowing our brokenness to be soothed, even if just incrementally, is a gift. Being tasked with showing love, especially when love is the last thing we’re feeling, is a gift. Remember: not every gift must be something we get. They can in fact be something we’re tasked to give.
So love one another. Just as we have been loved, we also should love one another. By this everyone will know – through our brokenness, vulnerability, and yes, even through our fear – that we are disciples.
Amen.
[1] From Eucharistic Prayer I. Book of Common Prayer, p. 336.
[2] From Eucharistic Prayer C. Book of Common Prayer, p. 372.