April 6th,  Maundy Thursday Sermon by The Reverend Loree Reed

John 13: 1–17, 31–35
May the words of my mouth and the meditations of our hearts be acceptable to Thee, O Lord our strength and our redeemer.

God only knows what those disciples expected when Jesus told them he had reserved a room for them that very evening to enjoy a dinner together.  Maybe, given that it was the week of Passover, they simply expected a commemorative meal together in a private place.  Or, maybe, given the sense of foreboding growing all around them that week, they expected him to talk with them about their safety.  But I doubt very much they expected to be given the Keys to the Kingdom.  And I doubt even more they expected to find those keys hidden in the practice of washing other people’s feet.
In fact, even today, when we have heard the story of Maundy Thursday our whole lives long, few of us think of foot washing.  When we think of that last supper we think, instead, of the words Jesus spoke over the bread and the wine when he said, “Take, eat: This is my body, which is given for you.  Do this for the remembrance of me.”  Or we think of the cup of wine, which he told them was now, for them, his “Blood of the new Covenant, shed for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins.”  That’s what we think about when we think of Maundy Thursday, because of course, those are the words of institution that we hear every Sunday, as we take Communion.
Those words come from Matthew, Mark and Luke’s accounts of that last commemorative meal.  But on Maundy Thursday, here in church, it’s John’s account we always read.  And when John talks about the new mandate Jesus was giving his disciples that night – to love one another as he has loved them — the example he offers them is foot washing.  For he wants them to love others humbly and gently, in practical ways.
I’ve thought about that a lot this week, wondering why John took such a different view of that meal — different from Matthew, Mark and Luke.  I think it has something to do with the fact that when you and I take Communion, we eat that bread and sip that wine to benefit ourselves.  We take Communion to get in touch with Jesus Christ, to receive from him what we need to sustain us for the rest of the week.  But when we wash someone’s feet, literally or figuratively, we do it to benefit them, to show them in some concrete way that we care.  No wonder, then, it’s a different account we read on this night when Jesus gave his disciples the new mandate, the new commandment – to love one another as he had loved them.
But there’s even more to it than that.  We think of foot washing as something weird, something unusual, something blessedly optional.¹  And no wonder – because most of us, most of the time, keep our feet hidden.  We’re embarrassed to let others see them because we don’t find them attractive.  Maybe Isaiah did say, “How beautiful are the feet of those on the mountain who bring good news” – but he was talking about the function of those feet – not their appearance.
But that’s the whole point of foot washing – to be vulnerable as we give something precious, one to another.  When we wash someone else’s feet, we come close and take a humble position before them — just as Jesus did before his disciples that night long ago.  And to allow someone to wash our feet is to make ourselves vulnerable, to let them see us, warts and all.  No wonder Peter didn’t want to let Jesus wash his feet.  No wonder we don’t want to either.  When we allow someone else to come that close, we are granting them access into our lives – and who knows what they might do with that information?
But it’s right there that the grace of God enters into the situation in a strange and beautiful way.  As Jesus gently took his disciples’ feet in his hands and humbly bathed away the dirt on those feet, he was telling them, “We are all in this thing together.”  And they felt his gentleness, his compassion, his forgiveness for them – not at a distance, but up close and personal.  And they loved him in return.  No wonder this is the action that accompanies the new commandment – “Love one another as I have loved you.”  It’s the humble love that we give, you see, as we satisfy someone’s practical need, that changes both giver and receiver.  And anyone witnessing such a moment will never forget it.
Amy Frykholm, a member of St. George’s Episcopal Church in Leadville, Colorado, describes such a moment at a Maundy Thursday service at her church, not long ago.

“One year,” she writes, “a homeless man named Kenny joined us for all of the rituals of Holy Week.  Even though he was still drinking heavily (and would soon die of liver failure), he had started to attend church with a quality of faithfulness that was no longer about his seeking our help.

At the foot washing, he ended up seated next to the priest’s tiny sprite of a daughter, who was about five years old.  I felt some anxiety when I saw it, for it meant that as we went around the circle, with each person washing the feet of the person next to them, Lara would wash Kenny’s feet.  I worried for them both.  Would she refuse to wash Kenny’s feet?  That would be completely understandable, but potentially humiliating for Kenny.  Would he refuse to have his feet washed?  That had happened so often I could almost anticipate it, but Lara would probably misunderstand it.

But when it was Lara’s turn, she knelt down at Kenny’s feet as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  She lifted Kenny’s feet into the basin of warm water, put soap on her hands, and washed his feet.  Kenny laughed nervously and then began to cry.  Then everyone began to cry, except Lara, who continued her work in a businesslike manner with deliberate movements.  She spread lotion on his feet with interest and attention, as if painting with finger paints.²
What we are talking about here is nothing less than Incarnation, about God himself entering into some human situation we think He wants nothing to do with.  And usually, when we talk about Incarnation, we are talking about God entering this world in the form of a baby, a baby born in Bethlehem named Jesus.
But heaven also comes to earth every time we reach out in His Name — in love — to someone else, whether we think they are worthy of our love or not.  In those moments, God is no l ess present in our midst than He was in that manger in Bethlehem.
I bid you all a Holy Week.
Amen.
¹ William F. Brosend   Pastoral Perspective for Holy Thursday John 13:–17, 31b–35 Feasting on the Word; Year A, vol. 2 David L. Bartlett and Barbara Brown Taylor, general editors (Westminster John Knox Press, Lexington, KY; 2010) p. 272.

² Amy Frykholm, as quoted in “The Strange, Humbling Ritual of Footwashing”  1 The Christian Century March 18, 2020.
 
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