People of the Water and the Towel
John 13:1-15
Long ago in Russia lived men called “poustiniki”. They were
hermits who lived alone close to a village but not in a village. To
become poustiniki, they left behind everything they owned and in
reality became beggars. In Russia, when a village knew that a hermit
was going to dwell in some abandoned hut, or one that he would beg them
to help build, they were glad. It meant that someone would be praying
for them.
As important as the prayers in the hut were, the presence of the
poustinik included more than prayer. For the poustinik believed
that if I touch God I must touch humanity, for there is really no
distinction. Christ incarnated himself and became man, so I must,
like Christ, be a person of the water and the towel. I cannot pray if I
don’t serve my brother and my sister. It is all one.
What this meant was that sometimes a poustinik might spend a month or
more at a time helping the villagers with their needs. He would
never think during this time that he should be in his hut or poustinia
reading his Bible or praying because he was in the poustinia of his
heart always, especially when he was serving others. If he had any
food, he was to offer to share it. His mandate was: Pray without
ceasing; be a servant of the water and the towel.
Tonight is the night we remember that we are people of the water and
the towel. It is the night we remember when and how we were given
this mandate. Let us listen to the story once again…
They had been together for three years — these thirteen Jewish people.
That was obvious from the snippets of conversation between them as they
greeted each other. “Peace be with you,” they said. And the
person they were greeting responded, “And also with you.” But there
wasn’t peace in Jerusalem that week. Huge crowds had gathered there for
the annual Jewish Passover remembrance — a celebration recalling Jewish
freedom and liberation. The Roman military presence was everywhere — in
anticipation of unrest and civil disobedience.
Some in that room with Jesus that night were old; most seemed very
young. They were a rag-tag bunch — dusty-footed, poorly dressed
and curiously quiet. Their leader was considered to be a subversive, a
disturber of the peace — not by them but by the powers that be.
He wasn’t well known except to a small band of followers but after his
triumphant entrance into Jerusalem on the previous Sunday, he was no
longer off the radar screen.
It was easy to identify him that night in the group of thirteen. His
presence was that of a host and a leader. And yet there was a sadness
about him too.
Looking from the host to the guests to the table, one would have
expected to see a feast. If this was a Passover meal, it certainly
wasn’t a banquet. Only the bare necessities of rough bread and wine
graced this table. The cheapest candles lit the scene. Even
the second-floor room in this nondescript house was a bit shabby.
After the thirteen greeted each other as custom required, they gathered
at the table with this Jesus in the middle. He took the loaf of
peasant bread, gave thanks, broke it and gave some to each of
them. Then he gave thanks for the wine and passed it for all of
them to drink. It seemed at first like a very ordinary
meal. But then the strangest thing happened.
Right in the middle of the meal, Jesus got up, took off his outer
garment and tied a towel around his waist. He got a basin of
water and began washing the feet of the other twelve and drying them
with the towel — as if he were a servant and not the host at this
meal! The looks on their faces ranged from embarrassment, to
shame, to guilt. None of them seemed at all comfortable with this foot
washing by their leader. That was something women and servants did!
They looked everywhere but at him.
Then the big one — his name was Simon Peter — said in no uncertain
terms, “You will never wash my feet!” Jesus just looked at him and then
he said, very quietly, “Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.”
Well, Peter laughed — it was a nervous laugh — and then he suggested
that Jesus should wash his hands and head, too! “If a little is
good, more is better”, he seemed to be thinking. I want a big
share!” All twelve faces turned expectantly to Jesus. “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.”
You could have heard a pin drop in that room. Every single person
present knew Jesus wasn’t talking about clean bodies. Eyes focused on
the ceiling—or on the floor. No one looked at anyone else. But if
anyone had looked, they would have seen guilt written on every single
one of those twelve faces. Their color ranged from chalk white to beet
red. Abruptly Jesus put on his robe and returned to his place at
the table. They sat in complete silence for a few minutes. Then Jesus
looked into the eyes of everyone at the table before he asked, “Do you know what I have done to you?” No one answered. It was obvious they didn’t have a clue and they were afraid to speculate.
Jesus continued. “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.” It was going to take a
while for that to sink in — they looked puzzled and anxious. When
the meal ended, they removed the cups and bread plates, stripped the
table and extinguished the candles. The evening ended in total
darkness. Of course we can’t read their minds, but as each of the
twelve left the room, what were they thinking? “I would
never betray him!” “How have I betrayed him?” “How will I
betray him?”
As we gather on this Holy night—Maundy Thursday—to hear the story
again, to wash each other’s feet, to come and eat together at this
table and then to strip it and leave in darkness, we know that in the
midst of love and servanthood, betrayal also lurks. In a thousand
little ways, we betray ourselves, each other and our Lord. And
yet, on that evening so long ago, Jesus shared the bread and the wine;
and washed the feet of all twelve — not just eleven of them —
regardless of their betrayal in small and large ways. And by his
words and his example, he gave us a new commandment — a new mandate: “Love one another as I have loved you.”
Our Lord comes to us this night in the person who washes our
feet. Our Lord comes to us this night — to you and to me — as we
kneel and wash the feet of someone else. Our Lord comes to us as
we visit nursing homes to share our faith in words and song. Our
Lord comes to us as we drive someone to church or share a meal.
Our Lord comes to us as we make a phone call to a lonely person or send
a card or deliver an Easter basket. He also comes to us
when we give someone the benefit of the doubt and when we refrain from
minding little stings or giving them. He comes to us when we
forgive those who betray us. Our Lord comes to us again whenever we
love one another as he loves us.
And perhaps the most amazing of all, he continues to love us even when
we fall short of loving our neighbor as our Lord loves us.
Eucharistic Prayer C says it so well:
“We turned against you and betrayed your trust;
and we turned against one another. Again and again, you called us
to return.”
We are forgiven for those things done and left undone.
We are forgiven for our betrayals. He will love us to the end.
As we leave this church tonight, the candles will be extinguished
and the altar will be stripped. But as we leave in darkness, our feet
have been washed; we have been fed and our betrayals have been
forgiven. Let us go forth, we people of the water and the towel,
and do likewise.
Amen.
The Rev. Betsy Porter
Maundy Thursday
March 20, 2007
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