Maundy Thursday

April 9, 2009

The passage just read is, of course, the story of “The Last Supper.”  Whenever we hear this lesson, the visual image that often comes to our mind is Leonardo Da Vinci’s mural masterpiece.  We picture the great wooden table covered by white linen, weighed down by Italian Renaissance food, served on Italian Renaissance dishes as four groups of three disciples, dressed in Italian Renaissance garb stand behind the table and lean into one another.  Jesus, the single, center figure anchors the painting.  Da Vinci’s work is powerful and compelling, but it captures just one moment in that memorable meal.  The artist painted the immediate reaction to Jesus’ news that one of the twelve would betray him.  There is energy and anxiety in their faces.  Their bodies tense and they gesture in surprise.  Jesus alone remains serene.  This response by his closest friends is natural and what we would expect.  What is not expressed in the mural, what happens in the next minutes is what leaves us both touched and troubled.

All four gospel accounts tell us clearly that the night before he was crucified, Jesus knew well what was going to happen to him.  The evening they gathered in an upper room of a stranger’s house, Jesus knew this would be his last night on earth with his friends.  He knew soldiers would soon come for him.  He knew they would take him away from his friends and the safety of his followers.  He knew the chief priests and the Sanhedrin would make a persuasive case against him and that Pilate, intimidated by Caesar’s temper and fearful of riots in his territory, would give into mob pressure.  Jesus knew he was going to be tortured and executed.  He knew he was going to die – soon.  The night of the last supper is the night before his greatest trial.

As human beings, we all know something of this experience.  We know what it is to have a huge ordeal in front of us, hours away, coming at us, but not yet here.  For every person who’s taken the bar exam or defended his dissertation, or sat for the medical boards or the general ordination exams or had a serious court date or faced a review committee or a scheduled operation, or received orders for an attack, the night before is grim.  Worry, doubt, and real fear grip our minds.  We can’t stop the racing, negative thoughts.  We can’t locate lasting confidence.  Every painful scenario plays itself over and over and we wonder if we will be strong enough to come through the event.  Will we survive?  Will we embarrass ourselves?  If we fail, what will we do next?  Are we prepared enough?  Are we strong enough, smart enough, good enough?  Will God be with us?  The night before is grim and about all we can do is fret and pace and pray.

But in his “night before,” Jesus doesn’t have this option.  He cannot do the natural human thing.  He can’t draw into himself, go to that quiet place and worry on his own.  He can’t be naturally, reasonably self-centered.  He can’t look to his own wellbeing and spend his energy comforting himself.  In his darkest, loneliest, most worrisome hours, Jesus doesn’t get to drink his favorite tea out of his favorite cup or put on his favorite pajamas and crank his headphones up really, really loud.  He doesn’t get to jump on his bed and scream or run till sweat is pouring off of him and his muscles tremble.  He can’t do any of the things we do to make ourselves feel better when we are terribly tired and scared.

Instead, Jesus has to stay in the center.  He has to anchor the others.  Jesus must lead and direct and guide.  He’s still the one in charge.  He’s still the one with lessons to teach.  And, so in spite of his sad, worried heart, and his scared, troubled mind, Jesus pushes through and gives his final instruction.  Fully, fully aware that this is the last time they will be together, able to connect mind to mind, hand to hand, Jesus tells the chosen companions the most important point of his entire ministry.  He does not use this moment to speak of worship or adoration.  He does not speak of respect or responsibility, of obeying laws or ordering priorities.  He doesn’t speak of programs or fundraising, building monuments to God or leading crusades.  In his last free moments, in his parting discourse, Jesus states the hardest, most obvious truth.  Peter, James, John, Philip, Thomas, Andrew, Simon Bartholomew, Matthew, James and Judah, you will be responsible for seeing that my message lives on.  You will be the storytellers, you are the next generation of teachers and preachers.  And the final lesson, the critical lesson, the only lesson that really matters is this: To know what God is really like, remember me.  Remember what I said.  Remember how I acted.  Then go and do likewise. 

And my dearest friends, you, who God and I brought together, here is an image to hold on, to keep close, to pull out whenever you are discouraged or unsure, when you are unclear about what to teach or how to express the essence of the father.  See what I do now.  And he washed their feet and he told them why. 

The new commandment, “love one another as I have loved you” are the last and the most important words Jesus spoke to his disciples.  In the most anxious moments of his life, fearing for his very existence, fearing the pain, fearing failure, fearing loss of resolve, he stays centered.  And Jesus gives the disciples and us this riveting picture to hold onto.

The words, the action, the timing tell us that before, behind, below, above all else, this is Christ’s central message: Love, deep, abiding, humble, self-sacrificing love, is the defining attribute of God’s faithful people. 

So tonight, we remember and make real the image Christ left us. Amen.