Here we are at the culmination of the Great Lent, at least in our church calendar. We all entered Lent with renunciations as usual and then, just after we got started good, the whole world entered a sort of Cosmic Lent! That is where we are…fasting from relationships, starving for them actually, in a desert we could not have foreseen, designed, or imagined. And I need this because all I can think while pondering this mystery, on this high and holy day, is what delicious thing I am going to cook for supper! Strange, isn’t it? And yet, in a desert we are. The desert is a huge metaphor for those places where you meet God. The reason is simple—all you have in a desert is God. He is the food for the journey. So, as I try to refocus my imagination for the task at hand, we enter a profound mystery—Maundy Thursday.
The Thursday of Holy Week is when the Last Supper is commemorated. Maundy is an Anglo-Saxon corruption of the Latin word mandatum, or commandment. On the night before his passion, Jesus gave the commandment to his disciples to “love one another as I have loved you.” (John 15:12) Jesus is giving his disciples his last words, commands, and commission. (I will talk more about this on Easter Morning.)
In many traditions, the Maundy Thursday liturgy includes the washing of feet, usually in the context of a Tenebrae or service of darkness. Since we are creatures that exist and occupy time and space in a physical body, this service begs for embodiment. In our own liturgy at St. Patrick, we typically read through the story of the passion, sing, pray, and extinguish candles to symbolize (or embody) the abandonment of Jesus until he is left alone to suffer and die for the sins of his people. Typically, we celebrate communion in this context because, in a real sense, this is the beginning of this sacrament. Alas, we won’t this year. We have made the decision to fast, like Israel did while in exile, “How can we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?” (Josh wrote eloquently about this in his blog yesterday.)
So yes, this might be the darkest Maundy Thursday I can remember. I am missing so much right now. I miss my staff and the way they all do their own thing as we move easily in and out of conversation. I am mindful daily as I walk the lonely halls of the church that this is where all the great mysteries of life are celebrated. This place is where we gather in joy to celebrate weddings and the possibility of love, where older couples smile in recognition while young couples eye each other with yearning. This place is where we welcome babies and baptize them into their new family. This place is where we mourn the loss of family as well. This place is where we gather weekly to celebrate the Eucharist and be reminded of how fond God must be of his wayward children. Yes, a lot happens here. One thing is for sure as I walk alone in our place of worship—the stones speak to me. And in that, much of my sadness is mitigated and I find hope that very soon this too shall pass.
I didn’t celebrate Maundy Thursday growing up. I grew up in a home that loved Jesus but was non-liturgical and we kind of self-righteously scoffed at all those ashes, candles, written prayers, and special days in the church calendar. Or so we said. (We actually were liturgical in our own way…we did mark Christmas and Easter, along with a host of days Hallmark gave us!) I do remember, however, the first time I did a Maundy Thursday service in my first parish in Greenville, Mississippi. It was powerful! My eyes were opened and it dawned on me the power of liturgy. When you spend an evening walking together through the darkest night of human history, which ends with Jesus symbolically being taken away, it makes the joy of Easter Morning so much more meaningful. It is a joy unspeakable and full of glory to know again—death couldn’t hold Jesus!
For many in our family, you might have grown up like I did and wonder, why all this fuss? Here is why. We mark and commemorate throughout the year the great “events” of the gospel for the same reason we mark birthdays, anniversaries, or other great events that have shaped our lives. We are folk who tend to forget so quickly. We celebrate birthdays of our children, family, and friends, not because we love them fiercely only on this one day of the year, but to be reminded (and to remind them) just how special they are—every day of the year. We forget so quickly with all the responsibilities of life as we hurry from one thing to the next. In the enactment of celebration, whether in joy or sorrow, it is like we are knocked in the head. We are forced to re-calibrate our imagination and thinking. We slow down time so we can ponder and reflect. So, at certain times of the year, things are festooned and gilded. It might be the black of mourning like tonight, or it might be with lilies and bright colors like on Easter Morning. But one thing is for sure—remember we must, if we are to live with eyes wide open so that we can feel the “weightiness” of the really important things.
So, we will gather tonight, in our scattered places and with our own candles, as we walk the “Via Delorosa” with Jesus—scattered but in solidarity as the people of God. It will be a pale reflection of the real thing, but it will be something. Or at least that is my prayer for us as I ponder this Maundy Thursday, the likes of which I could never have imaged in my wildest dreams.
- Jim
