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John 13
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May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be
acceptable in thy sight, O Lord our strength and our redeemer. Amen.
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Every once in a while, the Lord shows me something, something I could
never have figured out for myself. It’s as if he lifts a
veil, and I suddenly see things from a whole new perspective. One
of those extraordinary experiences occurred years ago, the first time
I assisted as lay server in a Communion service. I wasn’t at
all sure I wanted to be there – up front, assisting the priest
as chalice bearer — but the person who was supposed to be server
that day hadn’t shown up – and as a newly fledged seminarian,
I was pressed into service as her alternate. So there I was,
standing off to one side of the Communion rail, holding the chalice of
wine and waiting for the priest to approach with his paten full of
bread, when suddenly God the Holy Spirit gave me a whole new perspective
on what I was actually seeing.
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As I watched middle–aged parishioners kneeling at that rail and
holding their cupped hands up for bread, I suddenly saw their faces
change – into the faces of newborn babies. Their bodies
were still adult bodies kneeling at that rail, but their faces suddenly
changed, transfigured – to the faces of newborn babies. You
know how a newborn baby can look ugly and cute at the same
time? Well, that’s how these faces suddenly looked to
me — unformed, needy and totally vulnerable. And I realized
that that’s how we must look to God our heavenly
Father – utterly defenseless, utterly in need and yet totally
appealing, all the same.
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I’m reminded of that experience today as I think of Jesus giving
bread and wine, his Body and his Blood, to his disciples for the first
time at that extraordinary candlelit supper he shared with them the
night before his crucifixion. Though they don’t yet realize
that the forces of darkness are about to close in on them and take
Jesus from them, Jesus knows it full well. So on the very night
he’ll be handed over to suffering and death, he begins to give
them what they will need to carry on without him. He breaks
bread with them and tells them that this is his Body, broken for
them. He offers them wine, which he calls his Blood, shed for
them and for others. And he tells them that with these elements
of his very life within them, they will now be able to make him visible
out in the world. Even if they are, in a sense, small, immature
and unprepared for all he wants them to do – he has now given
them his own Presence, his own Body and Blood to go with them and
supply their need. He is giving them himself.
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But that wasn’t all Jesus gave to them that night. While
they were still trying to figure out what he meant by these words,
Jesus rose from the table, wrapped a towel around his waist, and poured
out, from a pitcher, a basin of water. Then he moved from one
astonished disciple to the next, washing each man’s feet and
gently patting them dry with a towel.
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By and large, the disciples – except for Peter – were
shocked into silence. For this was work that in Jesus’ day
was considered so menial that even slaves weren’t usually asked to
do it. And yet, it was a common courtesy, an act of hospitality,
to bring a weary traveler a basin of clean water so that he might wash
his own feet, soiled with the dirt of street and highway, before
entering his host’s home. Only here it was Jesus, their
teacher and their Lord, who was crouching down and doing the
washing – with a depth of humility and gentleness they could
hardly fathom. And as the water in the basin grew murkier and
murkier, no man could deny that he’d needed the
cleansing. What were they to make of this? And what are
we?
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In this account, as it always is with John, the murky water signified
more than just murky water. It was cleansing from sin, from the
dirt of the world, as well as the actual cleaning of their feet. At
the same time, Jesus’ humble gesture toward his friends served as
a gesture of welcome into a brand new home – the home he was going
away to prepare for them. And finally, the foot washing was an
indication not just of what he was doing for them, but what he wanted
them to do for others; to serve one another in humility and
gentleness, to cleanse one another from sin, and to welcome others
into the Kingdom of God. Layer upon layer and symbol upon symbol,
Jesus gives his disciples his final, parting gifts.
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But he knows them – and he knows us. He knows how wrapped
up we can get in our own affairs, our own concerns, our own
routines – preoccupations that blind us to the deeper grace he
wants us to see. So he names what he’s just done for them
not as cleansing or absolving, though it is that; nor as a generous,
welcoming gesture, though it’s that too; and not even as
serving one another, though that’s probably closest of
all. No. He calls it love. And he tells them
that — for his followers — love is not optional. In
fact, he makes it a new commandment – a gift wrapped up as an
order. For that, in fact, is what we do on Maundy
Thursday. We receive our orders, our mandatum, from Jesus
Christ.
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“What I want you to do,” he tells them, “is what you
have just seen me do for you. I want you to love others as I have
loved you. I’m sending you out from candlelit rooms, from
safe havens, from established routines so you too can touch the leper,
feed the hungry and bring sight to the blind – not just for their
sake but for yours as well. ”
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And that, of course, is why we have gathered here today. To take
his Body, in the form of bread, into our own bodies and allow his
Blood, in the form of wine, to course through our own veins – not
just so we ourselves will be fed, but so others will be too. And
when we wash each other’s feet, gently and compassionately, it
will be his own love that touches them.
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You see, when we minister in His name, allowing his loving Presence to
flow through us, our own faces are transfigured. And people see
not us — but Jesus.
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To God be the glory.
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Amen.
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