Maundy Thursday - Meals with Meaning

John 13:1-17, 31-35

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples’ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, are you going to wash my feet?” Jesus answered, “You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet.” Jesus answered, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!” Jesus said to him, “One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you.” For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, “Not all of you are clean.”

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, “Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord — and you are right, for that is what I am. So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

When he had gone out, Jesus said, “Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, ‘Where I am going, you cannot come.’ I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”

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As many of you know, we’ve been making our way through these Lenten days by praying the prayers of our ancestors, inspired by prayers and pray-ers, particularly, from the Hebrew Scriptures – David, Abraham, Hannah, Jonah, Solomon, and Jeremiah. We’ve prayed for and about some heavy stuff … forgiveness, discernment, justice, despair, and more. And tonight’s worship is loaded with things to wonder about and pray for, too – this Maundy Thursday where Jesus’ command to love one another is modeled by the washing of feet at the table of his Last Supper.

Jesus unloads all of these symbols and expressions and practices of faith meant to teach and inspire and command his disciples, and us, to do likewise – to eat, drink, serve, love, remember. And it seems odd that there would be foot-washing during dinner, but I think that’s just a sign that we have a lot in common, still, with Jesus and his people. I mean that it seems a timeless and universal Truth that meals are very often literal and spiritual nourishment for God’s people that bolster our connection and that encourage our mission in the world.

See, it was deliberate that those close friends and followers of Jesus met in that upper room to share that Passover meal together, when, where, and how they did. And I like to imagine there was some measure of fun and levity involved, before things got serious. I mean … before Judas sneaked away and before Jesus broke out the wash basin, before all of that praying. I like to imagine they laughed and told stories and made fun of Peter for being late or James for boss-hogging the good seat and that they were glad Martha was in charge of baking the bread this year.

Whatever the case, all of it was to remind them of their history, their heritage, their connection – one to another – and their connection to something bigger than themselves; their connection to the love they were being called to put into action. Because Jesus knew they would need that reminder – powered by all of those special effects – the bread, wine, water, and foot-washing, I mean – as they entered into the days, weeks, and years that followed.

And can’t we all think of a meal – or moments around food and drink – that connect us with others in powerful ways; that recall holy moments; that feed us physically; and that nourish us spiritually; that remind us that we are part of something bigger? Can you think of what I’m getting at, from your own life’s experience? Maybe it was a wedding reception … a retirement party … a simple dinner that turned into a date ... a supper you didn’t know would be someone’s “last,” at the time?

I think about the meals a team shares before a big game, a match, a tournament, the end of a season. Those meals are about comradery and preparation, team spirit, team work, shared goals, and a common mission. (There will be many of those this weekend, downtown, prior to the Final Four, I’m sure.)

I think about Joe McCain’s funeral luncheon last Saturday – and every funeral meal we share in this place, really – which are abundant expressions of love and comfort and friendship and faith, that sometimes only homemade cookies and casseroles can convey.

I think of the meals I’ve shared in Haiti, prepared by hands, in homes, that have so very little, but that share so generously, with the teams of people who have made those trips over the years. (I’ll never forget the 45th birthday party the sisters threw for me there – September 4, 2018 – somehow finding balloons, baking a cake, and toasting with champagne in mis-matched glasses of every size and shape, for the occasion.)

I think about learning how to properly peel, eat and appreciate seafood by way of the heaps of shrimp and crawfish poured out on my Grandma Giraud’s table in New Orleans. And I think about the best rhubarb pie, made by my Grandma Magsig baked for Thanksgiving dinners in Ohio.

I think about the countless pizzas – and even more beers – I’ve shared at a place called Plank’s in Columbus – almost weekly in college, and at my graduation from Capital University, for my wedding rehearsal dinner, my 50th birthday, and where we’ll gather again in a few weeks for my son Jack’s college graduation, too.

I think about the 18 Christmas Eve dinners I’ve rushed through at the Reece’s home every year between the 7:30 and 11 o’clock Christmas Eve worship services.

I think about the “Dinners with the Pastors” we’ve hosted over the years as part of our Silent Auction. I think of Mardi Gras and Oktoberfest.

These moments and memories are the kind of thing Jesus was after, I believe, when he broke that bread, passed that wine around, washed all of those feet, and then made his way to the cross.

He was connecting a moment in time with a movement of the Spirit.

He was connecting an expression of love with a command to share it.

He was connecting our physical senses with our spiritual sense of call.

He was filling his people with food and purpose and sending them out to fill the world with the kind of love with which he, himself, was filled to overflowing.

Jesus knew exactly what he was doing and it’s why he asks us to do the same. Eat this bread. Drink this wine. Do this in remembrance of me. And wash these feet – and those feet – and even and especially those feet – just as I’ve shown you to do. Love one another, the way I’ve already … and always … loved you, first.

I hope these young people who’ve learned a new thing or two about Holy Communion, will hold the memory of this night in a way that will find them and fill them for the rest of their lives. I hope the taste and smell of the bread and wine, the familiarity of the words, the sound of the hymns, the sense of the love that surrounds and supports them, and the power of Jesus’ prayer to do this in remembrance of him will be a connection and an encouragement for them in all the days to come for their walk of life and faith in the world.

And I hope the same is true for each of us, too. That we’ll always taste and see something new … and familiar … and life-giving … as we do all of this together – and in remembrance – of the grace we know in Jesus.

Amen

Jonah: Prayer of Despair

Jonah 2:1-9

Then Jonah prayed to the Lord his God from the belly of the fish, saying, “I called to the Lord out of my distress, and he answered me; out of the belly of Sheol I cried, and you heard my voice. You cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas, and the flood surrounded me; all your waves and your billows passed over me. Then I said, ‘I am driven away from your sight; how shall I look again upon your holy temple?’ The waters closed in over me; the deep surrounded me; weeds were wrapped around my head at the roots of the mountains. I went down to the land whose bars closed upon me forever; yet you brought up my life from the Pit, O Lord my God. As my life was ebbing away, I remembered the Lord; and my prayer came to you, into your holy temple. Those who worship vain idols forsake their true loyalty. But I with the voice of thanksgiving will sacrifice to you; what I have vowed I will pay. Deliverance belongs to the Lord!”

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First of all, it’s meaningful to see Jonah’s prayer as one about thanksgiving as much as it is about despair. Oddly enough, Jonah sees his place in the belly of that fish as a sign of God’s deliverance. What most of us would imagine as a great source of despair – being swallowed by a large fish and living in its gut for three days – was ultimately seen as a sign of his rescue, for Jonah.

His real fear … the great despair … to which he refers in the prayer we just heard, actually took place on the ship and in the storm that landed him in the sea in the first place. I’ve talked before about what a source of fear and punishment the sea was for ancient people – and for those in Jesus’ day, too. The sea and its depths were as unknown as outer space is – or has been – for us. Without means to deep sea dive, snorkel, or see beyond the depths to which even the best swimmer might swim on a single breath’s worth of air, what lived and moved beneath the surface of the sea was left to the imagination – and that was terrifying. (I’d still much rather swim in a pool than a pond, to be honest.)

And not only that, Jonah was under the impression that it was his own disobedience that caused the storm and upset the crew of the ship on which he had stowed away, and that got him tossed overboard into the deadly waters that closed over him, that surrounded him with weeds and darkness, until his life ebbed away with the waves that engulfed and threatened him.

In those moments Jonah sounds as desperate as Jesus on the Cross. He talks about being removed from the home and presence of God – the Temple in Jerusalem – where God was believed to live and move and breathe. He laments the prospect of never getting back there. And Jonah wails about the Sea, he bemoans the Pit, and he cries over Sheol – all expressions of utter lostness, insurmountable distance from the Divine, despair upon despair upon despair.

It reminds me of Jesus, dying on the cross, when he cries, “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me.” The separation, the distance and the lostness sound familiar. And I’m always struck by the way Walt Wangerin describes that moment, which we’ll hear again on Good Friday. He calls it “obliteration,” says, “not even God was there,” imagines that Jesus had been “blotted out of the book of life,” and that “the universe was silenced” by Christ’s cry of despair.

So, as we gather on this last of our Wednesday worship services inspired by the prayers of our ancestors … with Holy Week on the horizon … as we wonder about what it means to pray while in the throes of despair … we are in good company. Not just that of Jonah, but of Jesus, too.

And, I want our feelings of despair – and our invitation to pray our way with and through that desperation – to serve as an expression of hope and as some inkling of the faith that may seem missing in our most desperate moments... days… seasons… whatever.

When the diagnosis seems like you’ve been plunged into the depths of the sea…

When the grief feels like you’ve been swallowed up and carried far from anything safe, or sure, or like home…

When the pain and suffering literally hurts, burns, and stings like Sheol…

When the fear, frustration, and stubbornness of whatever it is that just won’t give feels as insurmountable as the highest mountain or as deep as the darkest pit...

When the unknown wraps itself around your heart of hearts like so many weeds and refuses to relent…

It may help to know – hard as it is may be to see or celebrate in the moment – what Jonah trusted: that the same sea that caused his despair in the first place was also home to the fish that delivered him to dry land, in the end.

I don’t mean for this to sound like a platitude. I’m not implying that God gives us our troubles as a test of faith. I’m certainly not saying our despair is unfounded or unfaithful, or pretending that we don’t have a right to our desperation when it comes.

In fact, and this may sound harsh – and hard to hear or believe, coming from your Pastor – and I could be wrong. But I kind of think that if you haven’t found reason to despair at certain times in your life – if you haven’t lost or left your faith or felt lost or left by your faith or by our God at some point – maybe you’re just better than the rest of us; maybe you’re not watching the news; or maybe you’re not living in the same reality as so many of the rest of us.

And I’m fairly certain that – no matter how great your faith, how deep your trust – if it hasn’t happened to you yet, despair will find you. And you’ll feel left with nothing but the desire and need to try to pray your way out of it. And sometimes that kind of despair is exactly how, where, and when God shows up for us. In the emptiness. In the void. In the doubt and fear and uncertainty we’re running from or feel so self-righteously indignant about in those moments when we’ve given up, chucked it all, thrown in the towel, felt like our life, our purpose, our hope is ebbing away into oblivion.

And that kind of desperation is sad and scary, for sure. Not sinful, mind you. But sad and scary and lonely, as can be.

So tonight, let’s acknowledge the despair that has found us – or that will one day. Let’s not be afraid to give it a voice, like Jonah did and like Jesus does, too. And let’s be as patient as we are able, as faithful as God allows, and let’s let love hold us, until hope – however great or small – returns by the grace of God.

Because it’s also worth knowing that when Jesus cried “My God, My God, why have you forsaken me?” He was quoting Psalm 22. He knew his scripture, remember. So, in the depths of his despair, he was praying the prayers of his ancestors, much like we’ve been trying to do. And it’s believed Jesus latched onto that particular Psalm because he knew it ended with the kind of hope he was so desperately clinging to – or trying to find.

That Psalm starts with “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”; it begins with words of groaning, mockery, and sneering … it starts with feeling despised and scorned and in need of rescue (just like Jonah) … it points to Jesus feeling poured out like water, bones out of joint, a heart melting in his chest, and being layed out like the dust of death, surrounded by dogs and bulls and evildoers, and more …

But that Psalm – that prayer - ends, in spite of all that, with a request for – with hope that – with belief in – God’s capacity and desire for rescue. Hope for a God who will deliver and be worthy of praise. Trust in a God who does not despise… neglect… ignore… or hide.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” Though I know you won’t forever!

May our prayers be as desperate and despairing; as honest and hopeless; as angry and afraid and as overwhelmed and underwater as we feel more often than we wish was true. And because of that – may they also be tinged with – and leave plenty of room – for God’s rescue to find us, for God’s love to win the day, for God’s grace to lead us to the dry land of our deliverance.

Amen