Now
before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to
depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in
the world, he loved them to the end. (John 13:1-2)
I saw my sister Maryanne’s name come up on the caller ID on my cell phone. “Hey, Honey, what’s up?” I said. She shot right to the point: “Do you have any interest in seeing me while I’m still alive?” she asked.
Maryanne’s cervical cancer had been diagnosed too late. It had metastasized to her brain, and by the time the doctors knew she had cancer, her illness was considerably advanced. Married and with a teenaged son, she had fought the illness ferociously, but there was only so much that could be done. By the time she asked me that very blunt question, it was obvious the disease would win and her time would be short. I had not seen my sister in the flesh for many years, so I flew to Tacoma for a last visit. We laughed, caught each other up on our lives, and shared a meal just as we might’ve done under other circumstances; nevertheless, it was the long silent moments of eye contact and the fierce hug as we parted that said what we didn’t want to put into words. Indeed, they said that for which words were inadequate.
The first time I attended a Lutheran/Roman Catholic Dialogue our topic was ministry to the dying. The pastors and priests in my discussion group all agreed that we very rarely minister to the dying because our culture tells us to avoid the reality of mortality. We keep hoping for recovery, and by the time we realize death is imminent, the patient has subsided into a coma. It’s an exceptional thing to be present with someone who knows his or her death is approaching. If you knew you would die soon, how would you react? What would you most want to do? What would you choose to be your legacy?
In the gospel appointed for Maundy Thursday, we have this extraordinary tale of Jesus’ last meal with his disciples—a group of men whom he has embraced as family. They have chosen to do the will of God, and so they are as closely yoked to Jesus as if they had been born of the same parents.[i] During this last holiday meal together, Jesus, the teacher and master, takes the role of the slave and servant and performs this menial but loving and intimate act of service. He has—to Peter’s great shock—destroyed the hierarchy of leader and follower, teacher and disciple. After all, when death is near, what do these silly designations matter?
This Passover feast will be the last time Jesus’ friends and spiritual brothers ever have the chance to eat with him, speak with him, or embrace him. The Jesus they will see tomorrow will be beyond their reach, and the Jesus they meet on Sunday will be beyond their imagining. I have to wonder if they had any sense of foreboding about what was to come.
But Jesus knows. He uses this tender act of humility and love to underscore two great commandments[ii] for those he is soon to leave. The first is that we forget our petty differences and distinctions and love each other in the caring and selfless way Jesus has demonstrated. The second is that we do this—share this Passover meal—in remembrance of him.
The Maundy Thursday liturgy has traditionally included three important things: the meal, the washing of the feet, and the stripping of the altar—an act which is intended to symbolize the disgrace, indignity, pain, and loss our Lord suffered on this night. For several years at Faith Lutheran of Philadelphia we’ve used this occasion to introduce young people to the Sacrament of the Altar. I, as their teacher and pastor, have washed the children’s feet as a demonstration that, in God’s eyes, the teacher is not greater than the student and the pastor is no more holy or beloved by God than is the third grader making their First Communion. But on this particular Maundy Thursday I would ask that we give focus to the rest of the story of this night, the part which plays out after the meal and the foot washing.
Death is waiting, and not merely death but the betrayal of Judas, the denial of Peter, the fear which paralyzed other disciples, the anguish of Jesus’ prayer in Gethsemane, the injustice of his trial, and the cruelty to which he will be subjected. As the ornaments are removed from our chancel and the furnishings are covered in black, we are to remember that we live in a world just as cruel and brutal as the one in which Jesus lived, and yet we are still called to love this world as he did. After we leave in silence following this sacred mass, we may well go home, turn on our TVs or our computers, and learn of some new atrocity which has occurred in the war in Ukraine or on the streets of Philadelphia. Death will be waiting for us.
How should we live? How can we love? How do we honor the Savior who shared this painful world with us?
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