As an ecclesiastical observance, the Thursday of Holy Week has a long-standing identity crisis.
In the English church, and most often in our own, it is called "Maundy Thursday," a name derived from the Latin word "mandatum," meaning "commandment" and referring to Jesus' words heard near the end of our gospel reading: "I give you a new commandment, that you love one another."
But that's only the beginning.
Today is also known as Holy Thursday, and in the Eastern Orthodox tradition "Great and Holy Thursday." Under that name, tonight we celebrate Jesus' gift of the Eucharistic meal - the meal described in our reading from Corinthians. That is the focus which gives our liturgy the tradition of white hangings and vestments, white for celebration - a celebration of the gift of Eucharist.
Still another less-well-known English tradition called this day "Shere Thursday" from an Old English word which meant "clean" or "clear." In places where that name was used, this day was the traditional time of the annual church spring-cleaning, when all the closets turned out and all the dust bunnies chased from under the pews. We perhaps have some vestige of that cleaning in our liturgical stripping of the chancel and sanctuary, which takes place at the end of tonight's service.
Finally, in addition to all of this, we have the long-standing tradition of foot-washing, which comes from our reading in the Gospel of John. That reading became the standard gospel appointed for Holy Thursday sometime in the fourth century and has remained so ever since. Many customs have emerged from it across the years, including that of the pope washing the feet of beggars culled from the streets of Rome. Modern Episcopalians have drifted away from engaging in this particular liturgy. It is mentioned only in a brief rubric in the Prayer Book, and the Book of Occasional Services offers a single prayer which might be said IF one wanted to do such a thing. I think the official Episcopal message is that foot-washing is a great idea, but liturgically it's rather complicated and thus difficult to pull off decently and in good order
Other observances connected with the Thursday before Easter include ways of remembering Jesus' prayer in the Garden of Gethsemane and Judas' betrayal of Jesus in that same Garden. In some places, an Altar of Repose is created in a chapel or place apart from the main sanctuary. At the end of the Holy Thursday liturgy, the remaining consecrated elements are carried there, and a vigil is kept through the dark hours of the night. Sometimes this altar is covered with flowers, made into a literal garden, although the ones I've seen are more reminiscent of an English countryside than of the olive trees and barren land at Gethsemane.
Judas' betrayal is demonstrated liturgically at the end of our worship. After the chancel and sanctuary have been stripped bare - and in some places after the altar has been washed with water and a clean white cloth - then the lights are extinguished. Silence is kept. The congregation leaves in the dark, in silence, remembering the darkness that descended when Judas greeted him with a kiss, the darkness that remained when all his disciples fled in fear, the darkness that covered the whole earth when Jesus died on the cross.
So many themes! So many powerful symbols to grab our attention! It is not surprising that, in the centuries following the Protestant Reformation, most Protestant faith communities simply dropped Thursday of Holy Week from their calendar altogether.
But I believe the Thursday before Easter is an important day. I think the reason this day has so many identities is that it is a day of transition. After five weeks of Lenten discipline, we have established a routine. Our daily lives and our faith journeys have come to some sort of compromise. We have managed to squeeze in a little extra prayer, an additional worship service or two, a devotional book read - all while continuing our lives of work and play, our connections with family and friends, our interactions within the community and the world at large.
But tomorrow, and Saturday and Sunday - for faithful Christians these three coming days are radically different. Within this next 72 hour period, we will focus considerable time and energy on the very heart of the mystery. Through liturgy, prayer, music, and contemplation we will engage the powerful story that gives US identity, the story that makes us who we are.
So tonight, the momentum shifts. The shadows lengthen, and our various personal individual Lenten journeys begin to come together through some very specific and concrete objects: a towel, a bowl of water, a cup of wine, a loaf of bread.
It is not unusual for us to read about Jesus and his friends gathered for a meal. The gospels are full of stories about Jesus eating with people. What's different in tonight's reading is the extraordinary action Jesus took during the meal. Taking a bowl of water and a towel, he went around the room, and washed his disciples' dusty feet. Now if you've ever watched the movie Monty Python and the Holy Grail then you know just how nasty the streets of Jerusalem could be. When people entered a house, feet needed cleaning. Most homes and establishments provided basins and towels near the entrance, so people could wash their own feet. If you visited with someone who was wealthy, there might be a servant handy who would assist you. But never, ever, would the host undertake this task. For the host to touch such ugly, smelliness would be humiliating - for both the host and the guest. Furthermore, it implied a bodily intimacy that was simply "not nice." Perhaps a modern equivalent would be this: you are invited to a dinner party. Your host greets you at the door, takes your wrap, and then advances with a large white handkerchief, applies it to your nose and says, as if to a small child, "Here, let me help you. Now blow!"
In his exchange with Peter, and his subsequent conversation, Jesus is quite clear that this particular act of foot-washing is not about cleanliness but about relationship. It is indeed about intimacy. It is the liturgical foundation of the new commandment which he then gives them: love one another AS I have loved you.
Love each other intimately, unconditionally, giving of self to honor the other, supporting the good in one another, offering healing to each other's wounds.
Well, it's a great idea. But in practice, it turns out that loving one another in this very exalted way is a lot like foot-washing liturgies. The doing of it becomes complicated and difficult to pull off. I can love my neighbor until his dog makes a mess in my flower bed. Then I start getting testy. I can love my relatives until their visits are too long, or their children too obnoxious, or their questions about my life too impertinent. Then I want them to go away.
And just how far does "loving one another" stretch? Well, Jesus' teaching on the subject makes it pretty clear that the kind of love he's talking about ignores all the boundaries we human beings so imaginatively create. Political, ethnic, gender, economic, educational, age - all those lines are erased by this particular kind of love. And the crowning touch is that Jesus says we must also love our enemies - the people who are definitely NOT loving us. Surely that's a stretch too far!
But there they were that night - all of them gathered at the one table, sharing from one loaf of bread, sipping from one cup of wine. The one who would betray Jesus was there. The one who would deny Jesus three times was there. The beloved disciple was there. Before the morning would dawn, every one of them would run like rabbits. Every one of them would run for their lives, and try to forget who they were. They would try to go back to being fishermen, and carpenters and tax collectors - they would try to be anything but followers and friends of this man who was a known enemy of Rome. And the scripture tells us that knowing all of this in his heart, Jesus loved them anyway - loved every one of them to the end.
Sociologists and anthropologists tell us that there are two actions human beings do which both create relationships and also have the power to mend those relationships when they have been broken or compromised. Those two acts are the giving of gifts, and the sharing of a meal.
Surely that is the crux - and I use the word deliberately - surely that is the "crossing point" of our liturgical efforts tonight. Tonight we celebrate gifts - gifts given to us by God: the gift of bread and wine transformed by Jesus' words and presence into an abundance of grace and mercy and love. We celebrate the gift of God's love, love that reached across time and space to become one of us, one so like us that all of us could know and understand. Tonight we celebrate the gift that allows the reclaiming of our own identities - tonight we remember that by the waters of baptism we too are named "beloved."
Tonight we also bring gifts TO God: we bring money - the symbol of our daily life and labor. We bring praise - music, words, beautiful garments, flowers, a gracious building - symbols of the strength of this community that is Holy Trinity. We bring bread and wine - tangible connections to that meal so long ago.
And we bring the most important gift of all: we bring our brokenness. We bring our broken friendships, our broken dreams, our broken promises - both to ourselves and to others. We bring our broken bodies and our broken hearts. Tonight we offer to God the gift of our entire selves - all our bits and pieces gathered up, like crumbs of bread swept into a basket after a feast.
Tonight, gifts are given, and we share a meal. Tonight, relationships are created. Tonight, that which is broken is made whole.
Tonight we become, yet again, the Body of Christ present on earth - in this place, in this time. That is the identity that is most true to our created selves. That is the identity that will allow us to move through the darkness of death to the joy of resurrection and new life.
Key passages:Exodus 12:1-4,11-14; Psalm 116:1, 10-17; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; John 13:1-17, 31b-35