Maundy Thursday
April 6, 2023
William G. Carter
Simon Peter wiggled his toes, still stunned by the action.
What was Jesus, his Lord and Master, doing on his hands and knees?
It was beneath his dignity, beneath his station, doing what a house servant would do.
Jesus kneels, cups his hands, lathers the gentle soap, rinses each foot, then wipes them dry.
How could one so exalted come down so low?
Jesus said, “Later you will understand.”
Later, indeed, he might perceive what Jesus had done by coming from the Father,
Starting so high, descending so low. It was the sweep of his entire life.
But in the moment, he could not, did not, understand.
Andrew watched nervously as the Master made his way around the circle,
uncertain if he would accept this invasion of his privacy.
His feet were his feet, all his, carefully guarded, just like his heart.
It was embarrassing to see Jesus caress his brother’s foot,
Rubbing the street dust from between the toes, then rinsing slowly.
Too close, too intimate. He was anxious about anyone encroaching on his heart.
There had been opportunities before, from some of the women of the night.
Virtuously he held them off, pushed them away.
To one, he said, “If I wanted my feet clean, I would stand in the sea.”
Andrew had no intention of allowing Jesus to come that close.
He chose to misunderstand. He needed to refuse, even if Jesus insisted.
Young John scratched his head, then had a glimmer of understanding.
The Master acted like a Servant. Like a servant… Ahh! There’s a lesson in this.
Traveling with Jesus for three years, he saw the Master leaning down frequently.
The crippled beggar, lifted up. The diseased woman, restored.
The blind man, honored and opened to sight. He served those in need by drawing near.
Sometimes it was stunning how Jesus could be so sensitized to so many in need.
He rarely passed by anybody, pausing regularly, giving each one time,
Gifting back their humanity, setting them free, restoring their lives.
No one could do what he did without choosing to be a Servant.
It was inspiring. John wished he could serve as Jesus serves.
“I wish I could be like him,” he thought, if that were what Jesus was modeling for all of them.
Judas Iscariot leaned back into the shadows and shook his head with disgust.
He murmured to nobody in particular, “Here we go again.” Thoughts run though his head.
Just a few nights before, that woman in Bethany had massaged the toes of the Master.
She cracked open that jar of expensive perfume, splashed the whole thing all over his feet,
then let down her long hair and wiped the mess with her dark mane.
It was disgusting, appalling, inappropriate for a banquet.
Judas muses: I knew exactly what she was doing but wouldn’t say it out loud.
So I barked about the cost. Jesus said, “Leave her alone.” It was infuriating.
Now, it’s the Master’s turn to get down on the floor.
One after another, he cups his hands in the basin, spills the water on a fisherman’s toes,
Scrubs and rinses, pats them dry, and then moves on.
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?”
Simon Peter wiggled his toes, still stunned by the action.
What was Jesus, his Lord and Master, doing on his hands and knees?
It was beneath his dignity, beneath his station, doing what a house servant would do.
Jesus kneels, cups his hands, lathers the gentle soap, rinses each foot, then wipes them dry.
How could one so exalted come down so low?
Jesus said, “Later you will understand.”
Later, indeed, he might perceive what Jesus had done by coming from the Father,
Starting so high, descending so low. It was the sweep of his entire life.
But in the moment, he could not, did not, understand.
Andrew watched nervously as the Master made his way around the circle,
uncertain if he would accept this invasion of his privacy.
His feet were his feet, all his, carefully guarded, just like his heart.
It was embarrassing to see Jesus caress his brother’s foot,
Rubbing the street dust from between the toes, then rinsing slowly.
Too close, too intimate. He was anxious about anyone encroaching on his heart.
There had been opportunities before, from some of the women of the night.
Virtuously he held them off, pushed them away.
To one, he said, “If I wanted my feet clean, I would stand in the sea.”
Andrew had no intention of allowing Jesus to come that close.
He chose to misunderstand. He needed to refuse, even if Jesus insisted.
Young John scratched his head, then had a glimmer of understanding.
The Master acted like a Servant. Like a servant… Ahh! There’s a lesson in this.
Traveling with Jesus for three years, he saw the Master leaning down frequently.
The crippled beggar, lifted up. The diseased woman, restored.
The blind man, honored and opened to sight. He served those in need by drawing near.
Sometimes it was stunning how Jesus could be so sensitized to so many in need.
He rarely passed by anybody, pausing regularly, giving each one time,
Gifting back their humanity, setting them free, restoring their lives.
No one could do what he did without choosing to be a Servant.
It was inspiring. John wished he could serve as Jesus serves.
“I wish I could be like him,” he thought, if that were what Jesus was modeling for all of them.
Judas Iscariot leaned back into the shadows and shook his head with disgust.
He murmured to nobody in particular, “Here we go again.” Thoughts run though his head.
Just a few nights before, that woman in Bethany had massaged the toes of the Master.
She cracked open that jar of expensive perfume, splashed the whole thing all over his feet,
then let down her long hair and wiped the mess with her dark mane.
It was disgusting, appalling, inappropriate for a banquet.
Judas muses: I knew exactly what she was doing but wouldn’t say it out loud.
So I barked about the cost. Jesus said, “Leave her alone.” It was infuriating.
Now, it’s the Master’s turn to get down on the floor.
One after another, he cups his hands in the basin, spills the water on a fisherman’s toes,
Scrubs and rinses, pats them dry, and then moves on.
Simon Peter pushes back. Andrew looks nervous. John’s got that stupid beatific smile.
Enough of this, thought Judas, it’s time to force his hand. Time to push him into real action.
And Jesus says, “Do you know what I have done to you?” The same action prompts many replies: you’ve descended into servanthood, encroached upon our personal space, inspired us to be like you, all of which is true. But there’s one act at the heart of it all, one thing Jesus has done and continues to do, one gift he has offered that we never anticipated: Jesus has cleansed those who were willing to be cleansed.
Notice this if you notice nothing else: Jesus never asks permission to scrub them clean. He just does it. That’s so typical in the Gospel of John.
In this Gospel’s language, as Moses once lifted the bronze serpent to lift away the poison harming his people, the Son of Man is lifted up to give us life.[3] Or to dwell with the language of this evening, Jesus has washed us thoroughly, inside and out. This is God’s doing, initiated through him.
The only qualifying condition is whether we really want to be cleansed. As Jesus says to Simon Peter, “If you merely wish to be washed, take a bath. If you want to be cleansed, let me do it for you.”
In the Gospel of John, the scandal of Judas Iscariot is not that Jesus washed his feet, too, but that he refused to be cleansed. Immediately after the foot washing, he slips out the door to make his deal and turn Jesus in. For whatever reason, he cannot let the Christ come that close to his soul. We can only hope that Jesus will find another opportunity to chase him down in the shadows.
Years ago, there was a tradition at Elm Park church in Scranton as the season of Lent began. All the men of Lackawanna County were invited to a communion service in the sanctuary. Some of us remember the event at its peak, full sanctuary, hundreds of voices belting out, “Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah, pilgrim in this barren land.” Before the tradition faded into the sunset, the organizers invited Tony Campolo, the great Baptist preacher, preach a sermon about prayer. He said yes, I lined up a sub for that Sunday so I could hear him, and I’ve never forgotten that sermon.
He didn’t talk about prayer in general. He talked about his prayers, specifically his morning prayer and his evening prayer. “In the morning,” he said, “I shut up and don’t say anything. I empty my mind of the hundred and one things that are spinning in my head. Then, focusing on Jesus, I let him love me. I wait to feel enveloped by his presence. I silently yield to being saturated by his Spirit. I say nothing, usually hear nothing. That’s my morning prayer.”
“At the end of each day, I number all the good things that I tried to do during the day. I thank God for the moments when I could be an instrument of love and peace. Only then, am I prepared to review my day a second time. This time, I recall every moment I fell short. I try to remember every hurtful word that came out of my mouth, every occasion when I fouled up the grace of God. And I ask not only for God’s forgiveness, but also for God’s cleansing. I ask Christ to reach out from Calvary, across time and space, and absorb out of me the sin and darkness that accumulated within me during the day. And whenever I ask him to do it, Jesus always shows up.”[4]
This is the Jesus who dwells with us tonight as we share the bread and cup, the Christ who is with us as we retell the story. He is the One who washes feet and asks, “Do you know what I have done to you?”
Yes, Lord, we know. You are here to scrub us free of our sin. And we are grateful.
Enough of this, thought Judas, it’s time to force his hand. Time to push him into real action.
And Jesus says, “Do you know what I have done to you?” The same action prompts many replies: you’ve descended into servanthood, encroached upon our personal space, inspired us to be like you, all of which is true. But there’s one act at the heart of it all, one thing Jesus has done and continues to do, one gift he has offered that we never anticipated: Jesus has cleansed those who were willing to be cleansed.
Notice this if you notice nothing else: Jesus never asks permission to scrub them clean. He just does it. That’s so typical in the Gospel of John.
- He steps up to feed thousands of people, never says, “Anybody want something to eat?”
- He approaches the beggar with the useless legs, never asks, “Is it OK if I give you something more than a donation?”
- He muddies up his thumbs, puts them on the blind man’s eyes, and never says, “Do you mind if I disrupt your life by giving you sight?”
- He stands outside of a beloved friend’s tomb, fully aware of what might happen, and yells inside, “Lazarus, it’s time to live again.”
- Now, he intrudes upon the twelve, pours water into a basin, and scrubs clean those whose hearts are filthy and whose heads are confused. He needs no permission. This is his work. This is what he was sent to do.
In this Gospel’s language, as Moses once lifted the bronze serpent to lift away the poison harming his people, the Son of Man is lifted up to give us life.[3] Or to dwell with the language of this evening, Jesus has washed us thoroughly, inside and out. This is God’s doing, initiated through him.
The only qualifying condition is whether we really want to be cleansed. As Jesus says to Simon Peter, “If you merely wish to be washed, take a bath. If you want to be cleansed, let me do it for you.”
In the Gospel of John, the scandal of Judas Iscariot is not that Jesus washed his feet, too, but that he refused to be cleansed. Immediately after the foot washing, he slips out the door to make his deal and turn Jesus in. For whatever reason, he cannot let the Christ come that close to his soul. We can only hope that Jesus will find another opportunity to chase him down in the shadows.
Years ago, there was a tradition at Elm Park church in Scranton as the season of Lent began. All the men of Lackawanna County were invited to a communion service in the sanctuary. Some of us remember the event at its peak, full sanctuary, hundreds of voices belting out, “Guide Me, O Thou Great Jehovah, pilgrim in this barren land.” Before the tradition faded into the sunset, the organizers invited Tony Campolo, the great Baptist preacher, preach a sermon about prayer. He said yes, I lined up a sub for that Sunday so I could hear him, and I’ve never forgotten that sermon.
He didn’t talk about prayer in general. He talked about his prayers, specifically his morning prayer and his evening prayer. “In the morning,” he said, “I shut up and don’t say anything. I empty my mind of the hundred and one things that are spinning in my head. Then, focusing on Jesus, I let him love me. I wait to feel enveloped by his presence. I silently yield to being saturated by his Spirit. I say nothing, usually hear nothing. That’s my morning prayer.”
“At the end of each day, I number all the good things that I tried to do during the day. I thank God for the moments when I could be an instrument of love and peace. Only then, am I prepared to review my day a second time. This time, I recall every moment I fell short. I try to remember every hurtful word that came out of my mouth, every occasion when I fouled up the grace of God. And I ask not only for God’s forgiveness, but also for God’s cleansing. I ask Christ to reach out from Calvary, across time and space, and absorb out of me the sin and darkness that accumulated within me during the day. And whenever I ask him to do it, Jesus always shows up.”[4]
This is the Jesus who dwells with us tonight as we share the bread and cup, the Christ who is with us as we retell the story. He is the One who washes feet and asks, “Do you know what I have done to you?”
Yes, Lord, we know. You are here to scrub us free of our sin. And we are grateful.
(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
[1] John 1:29
[2] Psalm 103:12
[3] John 3:14-15.
[4] Tony likes to reuse his material.
He writes about his prayers in the July 2009 edition of Sojourners, in “Let
Jesus Love You,” online at https://sojo.net/magazine/july-2009/what-sustains-me
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