1 Corinthians 11. 23 – 36
John 13. 1 – 17, 31b – 35
Maundy Thursday
Fr Alex
I remember reading a review once of a book called ‘Confessions of a Chiropodist.’ The writer reveals an interesting fact, which she insists is a rule without exception: all her patients, when they first arrive at her practice, ask forgiveness for their feet. For the general state of them, their shape, their relative smallness or largeness. Most people, it seems, are ashamed of their feet.
I thought this was really interesting because it sheds some light on that Last Supper that we are commemorating tonight, all those many years ago.
I suspect it was a similar story back then, even without the same self-consciousness we feel about our bodies today. They would’ve had more to apologise for: walking everywhere in no more than sandals, on rough roads slick with mud and the dirt of animals.
It’s still considered offensive in parts of the Middle East today to show the bottom of your shoes or the soles of your feet to someone. Throwing your shoe at them is the gravest insult. It is the dirtiest part of yourself, in contact with the dirt of the road, and the insult implies you think of that person in the same way.
It’s a very ancient insult. You might’ve heard it in the psalms: “Moab is my wash-pot; over Edom will I cast out my shoe.”
I remember seeing footage of statues of Sadam Hussein being toppled in Iraq, and people taking off their shoes and smacking them against the fallen statue as a sign of disrespect – and perhaps also of loyalty to the new regime.
All of this goes some way to explaining Peter’s absolute incredulity in our Gospel reading, when Jesus begins to wash his feet. “Lord, are you going to wash my feet? You will never wash my feet!”
This isn’t just a nice thing he’s doing for his friends; it is absolutely the humblest task he could perform for them, the lowest servant’s role.
And wouldn’t we say the same as Peter? How many of us, invited to a meal with our Lord and Saviour, would be comfortable if Jesus started washing our feet? Or, if we suspected he might do something amazing like that, we’d make sure we washed our feet first, trimmed our nails and polished them up.
But in a sense, isn’t that what we do all the time in our faith? We think that we have to do something to make ourselves worthy of what Jesus offers us.
On this night, all those years ago, Jesus called his friends to share a meal. And he didn’t ask them to clean themselves up or prepare themselves in any way. Instead he washed their filthy feet. He gathered them and said in this act of loving service, “I know you as you are; I love you as you are. Now go and do the same.”
And he invites us to that same meal, all these years later, in every Eucharist. He makes the same invitation: “Come as you are; I love you as you are.” And he gives us the same commandment: “Now go and do the same.”
But how often do we think that we need to do something to earn this incredible gift? That we need to have extra strong faith, or make ourselves very pure; or even worse, end up rejecting it, because we think we could never be worthy of it?
It is true, there is nothing that we can do of ourselves to be worthy enough to receive what Jesus offers us on this night: the gift of his very self, his saving presence with us. But that is the whole point of this night. Jesus gives all that is needful; all we have to do is come to the feast.
George Herbert captures this most powerfully in his sonnet, which I’ve printed along with your order of service. He paints an image of the soul called in and made welcome to the feast, as we are tonight; but hesitating, held back by a sense of unworthiness to be there.
Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked any thing.
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
Whatever we might think about ourselves, whatever excuses we may come up with, the Lord still calls us in. Even when we run out of excuses and simply cry out, like Peter, “My dear, then I will serve!” – the Lord still calls us in, and serves us.
The wonder of this night is the truth that, with Jesus, all is gift, and all is grace. It is right that we do what we can to live well, to repent of our failings and follow the way that Jesus taught us, certainly. But that new way of living is the joyful response of people who have already received the gift. We learn the value of that gift, only by receiving it, again and again, by heeding Love’s call and taking our place at the feast.
We do not have to earn our own salvation. It is not the most holy, the most pure, or the most fervent believer who can win the prize of eternal life; the bread, the wine, the presence—the life—is offered to all, as a free gift, on this night; and tomorrow, on the cross.
May we truly open ourselves to receive that gift with joy, over these three days and beyond. To rejoice in it by loving and serving one another, as those who know themselves to be loved and served by our Saviour. Amen.