“One Simple Question”

Maundy Thursday Service

Thursday, March 20, 2008

Exodus 12: 1-4, 11-14

Psalm 116: 1-2, 12-19

1 Corinthians 11: 23-26

John 13: 1-17, 31b-35

Hear the meditation

It all came down to one simple question.

And the question was this --“do you want cream with that?”

But I am getting far ahead of myself.

Tonight is Maundy Thursday.

It is the night upon which we read about the events that took place on the night before Jesus was betrayed, judged, abandoned, condemned, beaten, and crucified.

As we all know so well, his last night was spent with his friends. In three of the four Gospel accounts, their last night together was spent at that famous meal during which he took a loaf of bread and broke it; and took a cup of wine, and shared it – and asked his friends, when they gathered to eat and drink together, simply to remember him and what he was doing for them. All these many centuries later, we continue to remember that meal; it is one of the most important and central celebrations of our faith.

In the Gospel of John, however, the activities during that last meal with his disciples were quite different. Rather than focusing on the bread and the wine, the author of the Gospel of John focuses, instead, on Jesus’ act of washing his disciples’ feet. In many traditions – and perhaps in another year in this congregation -- the ritual of footwashing is a central action in the celebrations of Maundy Thursday. It is interesting to contemplate the fact that if we only had the Gospel of John, washing people’s feet would be as synonymous with the Christian faith as are the symbols of bread and wine.

The story of the footwashing is a fascinating passage to contemplate. Jesus, the soon-to-be crucified Messiah – whose arrival into Jerusalem had been heralded by the crowds, and whose presence in the city had caused such an excited and controversial reaction – was undoubtedly a powerful man. Everyone – his friends, his followers, the gathered crowds, even the religious authorities – was paying a great deal of attention to his words and actions. His powerful teachings, his actions in the Temple, the attention that he was attracting even from the Greek visitors in Jerusalem -- all offered clear and tangible evidence that he was a man of charisma and of power who had the ability to arouse very significant passions in the hearts and minds of those who encountered him.

And yet, in one simple act, Jesus completely overturned the dynamics of power. In one simple act, the king became the slave, the master became the servant -- and those who had been the servants were lifted into positions of honour. The One whose friends had named him their Lord and Messiah lowered himself, and, in so doing, not only elevated those who had been his followers, but challenged them to embrace a similarly humbling, upside-down, countercultural approach to the understandings of power.

And how did he effect this transformation in the dynamics of power?

Jesus got up from the table, removed his cloak, got down on his hands and feet, and washed the feet of his friends. Without a doubt, many must have been dumbfounded – but when he got to Peter, the incomprehension – and the resistance -- was finally verbalized. “You will never wash my feet,” said Peter.

You will never wash my feet. I am the servant, Lord; you are the One who is to be served. I am the humble servant, here, Jesus – but if I allow you to serve me, then I am no longer sure who I am. You will never wash my feet.

We can all understand the sentiment that underlies Peter’s words. This was Jesus; this was his Lord; how could he let Jesus wash his feet? Peter wanted to serve Christ; but there was Christ, stooping to serve Peter.

It was uncomfortable, for Peter, to be served by One who he thought that he was supposed to be serving. It upset his understandings of the dynamics of power.

And we are not that much different from Peter.

So often, we speak of Christ in highly exalted terms; we call him Lord; we call him Master; we call him our King, our Head, our Sovereign. But how many of us would truly be willing to allow Christ to serve us? If Christ were to walk in here, right now, most of us would bow down, stoop in his presence, fall on our knees before him. But how many of us would be willing to allow him to stoop down before us, and use his own clothes to wash our feet? How many of us would squirm in discomfort? How many of us would be too proud to let Christ perform such a simple and humble act?

The reason why we would be uncomfortable in allowing him to do this is because we still have not fully embraced the strange dynamics of power in the kingdom of God – that kingdom where the lowly are lifted up, and the proud are humbled. It is still far more empowering to perceive oneself as having something to give than to perceive oneself as being in need of help. After all, as long as we have something to give, we have power.

But to humble oneself to the point of being willing to receive is a prerequisite for our acceptance of the salvation that Christ offers to us. With our self-perceptions of importance and power, most of us are still trying to work out our own security, our own status – even our own salvation – rather than being willing to allow Christ to do for us what only he can do for us.

At some point, every one of us has to let go. We have to let go of our constant desire to be good enough, holy enough, loving enough, humble enough. We have to let go of our constant desire to be the self-giving, compassionate servant. We need to accept that we are not as powerful as we think that we are, but broken; we are not as clean as we think that we are, but in need of his cleansing touch; we are not as selfless as we think that we are, but in need of his call to selflessness; we are not able to save ourselves – and so, we must have the courage, and the humility, to let Christ do, for us, what we cannot do for ourselves. We need to let him wash us, and forgive us, and save us.

But in order for us to realize what we need, we need to let go of our understandings of power. We need to realize that in the kingdom of God, we not only need the willingness to serve, but also the humility to allow ourselves to be served. If we are going to see the kingdom of God, there are times when we, like Peter, need to allow ourselves to be served – sometimes even by those who we think we are supposed to be serving.

For me, these complexities of the dynamics of power and of servanthood came alive, in this very building, many years ago. At the time, I was a seminary student, and was able to rearrange my school schedule in such a way that I could avoid Tuesday morning classes and thereby free myself to help with the midnight to six am shift at the Out of the Cold. Although I think that it was helpful, I also have to admit that I was quite proud of myself for having found the opportunity to arrange my schedule in that way.

Late one night in the dead of winter – or, perhaps to be more exact, very early one morning in the middle of winter, before the sun rose – there was a relatively young guy who had been having trouble getting to sleep, so we ended up sitting in the glassed-in vestibule by the Simcoe Street doors and talking for a good part of the night. We discussed many things – where we each had grown up, what was going on in the news, what I was studying at Knox College, what it was like to live on the street. He told me about the most successful places that he had found to panhandle, and what he hoped to do when he got off of the street. I was quite convinced that I was doing a really great thing by being such a wonderful listening ear to this bedraggled child of God.

But then things changed. There was a period of time, in the night, when the evening’s coffee was finished but the percolators were not yet turned on in preparation for the morning breakfast. I must have yawned, because my companion mentioned that he knew of a 24 hour coffee shop that was not too far from the church. He asked me if he could go and buy me a cup of coffee.

At first, I did not really know what to say. There I was, so proud of the greatness of my compassionate service. And there he was, offering me a cup of coffee. At first, I saw some humour in the situation – after all, I was wondering how worn out and weary that I must have been looking to inspire a panhandler to ask me if he could buy me a cup of coffee.

My first reaction was to protest; how could I allow him to do such a thing for me?

And then I realized the enormity of what that question could mean for my understanding of the dynamics of power – and of who was serving whom. There I was, convinced that I was the one who was offering a great and noble service -- and there he was, humbly and generously offering to go out into a cold winter night to get me a cup of coffee.

And so, I responded in the only way that I could.

“Sure, that would be great,” I said.

“Do you want cream with that?”