By the Ven. Margaret M. Grayden
On this Maundy Thursday, we find ourselves in an in-between time. In contrast to a year ago, when we experienced our first “Holy Week at Home,” we know a lot more about who is most vulnerable to the ravages of Covid-19 and how to protect them. Increasing numbers of people have been vaccinated, case rates in our area have dropped significantly since the winter surge, and some restrictions on activities have been loosened.
Yet, it is also true that the season of “Coronatide” has extended well beyond what we imagined nearly a year ago when we gathered for our first online Maundy Thursday. It is still not safe for us all to gather in person in our sanctuary to sing beloved hymns, to wash one another’s feet, and to break bread together. I want to name that loss—it’s real, and it hurts. But as Christians, we live in hope, recognizing that there are hidden graces even in the midst of loss. One of those hidden graces is that the necessity of doing footwashing differently this year invites us to reflect on what it really means for us as people following The Way of Love.
I was not raised as a Christian, so I did not grow up observing “Maundy Thursday.” When I found my way to the Episcopal Church as a young adult, I wondered why the Thursday before Easter was called “Maundy” Thursday. It turns out that “Maundy” comes from the Latin word mandatum, which means mandate or command. This is “Commandment Thursday,” because on this day we commemorate the “new commandment” that Jesus gave His disciples: to love one another. Strictly speaking, the command to love one another is not new. It appears in Leviticus and is echoed in Jesus’s teachings well before the Last Supper. What is new is the radical way in which Jesus embodies that commandment by washing the feet of His disciples.
To understand what was so radical about that, you need to understand something about life in First-Century Palestine. Feet were the primary means of transportation. Roads were dirty and dusty. Footwashing was an essential task and a menial one, usually done by a slave. In the absence of a slave, a host would present a guest with a bowl of water and a towel and the guest would wash his own feet. It was unheard of for a host to wash his guests’ feet.
So that’s the first thing that’s remarkable about John’s account. Here’s the second thing that’s remarkable: Jesus washes the feet of all of the disciples, including the one who betrays him (Judas) and the one who denies him (Peter). Now John makes it clear that Jesus knew who would betray Him and who would deny Him. And yet, knowing those things, Jesus loved them and washed their dirty, dusty feet with the same love with which He washed the other disciples’ feet. That’s love. It’s not a sentimental or romantic love. It is a sacrificial love, the kind of humble, vulnerable, self-giving love that Alex preached about so powerfully on Palm Sunday. That’s what we are enacting when we wash feet (or hands) on Maundy Thursday.
In my own experience, what’s been hard is not washing someone else’s feet. That’s always powerful and moving. After all, I’m a deacon, called to be an icon of servant ministry. No, the hard part has been allowing someone to wash my feet—my hard-working, less than perfect feet. It’s the vulnerability of showing parts of myself about which I’m self-conscious to another person and allowing that person to tend to those parts with love. It is so much harder for me to receive than to give.
Perhaps that resonates for some of you as well. St. Martin’s is a very generous congregation, both in terms of its direct service (feeding the hungry, welcoming the stranger, visiting the sick) and in terms of its financial support to nonprofits through our Matthew 25 grants and special offerings. Davis Community Meals & Housing, the Families Together project, STEAC, the Interfaith Rotating Winter Shelter, the Yolo Interfaith Immigration Network—these are just a few of the ministries in which we serve. But when it comes to asking for help and accepting help when offered, I see a different pattern. I’m guilty of it myself. How many times have I been asked, “How are you?” and replied “I’m good” when I really wasn’t. How many times have people offered to help me and I’ve said—“that’s so kind, but really, I’m fine.”
What is it about accepting help that is so hard? John has something to say about that. I’ve always been struck by Peter’s revulsion at having his feet washed by Jesus—“You will never wash my feet”—and by Jesus’s response to Peter—“Unless I wash you, you have no share with me….If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet.” Because Jesus had been the recipient of abundant, humble love (remember his friend Mary anointing His feet with costly perfume?), He was able to give that same kind of love to His disciples. The point is that we cannot give what we have not ourselves received. The mutuality of service that Jesus models for us on Maundy Thursday flows from an eternal and unbroken circle of love: the love of God for God’s Son, the love of God’s Son for us, and our love of God and God’s Son. But love in the abstract is just a word; it needs to be embodied to have meaning. As theologian Debra Mumford puts it, “Having love, according to Jesus, doesn’t just mean knowing what love is intellectually. Having love means allowing love to make its way from our minds to our hearts and finally to our bodies, so that we act on it for the sake of others.”
In the midst of a global pandemic, what does acting on sacrificial love look like? Sometimes it involves giving, and sometimes it involves receiving. In terms of giving, if it is safe for you given your health and vaccination status, feed the hungry by volunteering with Davis Community Meals and Housing, STEAC, or the Yolo Food Bank. Make masks—we will all need them for some time to come. Help someone who is having difficulty navigating the online vaccination appointment system. Wear a mask, wash your hands, and follow physical distancing guidelines even after being vaccinated. Limit gatherings to limit community spread. When you do become eligible for vaccination, get the jab.
In terms of receiving, remember that staying at home if you are unvaccinated is a gift not only to yourself but to others, as it helps reduce the load on our community hospitals. And if you find that you have come to this point in the pandemic feeling just plain weary, feeling like you don’t have anything left to give, give the gift of asking for and receiving help, recognizing there is a season for giving and a season for receiving. It’s all part of that unending circle of love. Hymn 581 from The Hymnal 1982—a setting of Ubi Caritas, the Latin text so appropriate for this day—sums it up perfectly: “Where charity and love prevail there God is ever found; brought here together by Christ’s love by love are we thus bound.”
AMEN
