RE-MEMBERING
Remembering takes many forms. There are those infernal lists
we make — to-do lists, grocery lists, laundry lists, the things we need
to recall at an appropriate time but not clutter our minds until
then. There are the family photos, diaries, mementos and
souvenirs we use to facilitate recall of our life's highlights.
Books are written to help us remember significant times and events,
historical high points. There is a downside to this kind of
remembering however. The Mayan argument against recording their
stories comes from their perhaps well-founded belief that we write
things down so we don't have to remember them. The written word
can easily displace the need to internalize an event and make it part
of who we are, to keep it alive.
It is easy to substitute words for life, thoughts for reality, ideas
for existence. I think the Jews recognized that early in their
history. For over three thousand years, the Hebrews have gathered
at the Passover to recall God's delivering them from slavery and to
answer questions posed by the youngest child – Ma Nishtanah… –
What makes this night different from all other nights?... By
recalling the Passover, the Jew not only remembers but identifies with
the Exodus, reliving the entire history of a people, recreating the
spirit of deliverance anew.
Likewise, Christians have gathered for two thousand years to recall
this special night of the institution of the Eucharist, the call to
serve in love, and to enter into the passion of Christ by recalling the
Lord’s death and resurrection in the breaking of bread and drinking of
wine. We not only remember but we enter into the entire history
of the kingdom of God – the now and not yet.
A misplaced hyphen in a proof I was reading this week jostled my thinking. It mistakenly split “re” and “member” – yet
that is exactly what Jesus tells us to do. We present our lives,
the very members of our body, so the story might live today. When
we “remember” special occasions, we don't just sit back in an
easy-chair and have dreamy thoughts. We gather together with
family or friends or those who share the event and we have a ceremony —
we reenact the event. We don’t remember things if we don't
reenact them and we reenact them as if the event were present.
Jesus did not say “think about this in remembrance of me” to those who want to be saved by their sentiments, or “understand this
in remembrance of me,” to the 16th-century debaters preoccupied about
the nature of the Bread and Wine. He told us to do something
intrinsically human: “do this in remembrance of me.” As someone said, “Christ was not crucified between two candlesticks.”
So tonight, let us remember: What might it have been like in that upper room?
In evening twilight, shadows lengthening, the disciples and Jesus
gather. Street noise begins to quieten as people rush home to
join their families before sunset. Oil lamps throwing dancing
shadows across the walls, warming the sounds of the clink of
pottery being set into place, of wine being poured, of the low chatter
of voices. The smell of sweat mingles with that of roasted lamb
and wine. The atmosphere is charged but what was about to happen,
none of them could have really known. Perhaps Judas alone had an
inkling. Jesus had spoken of grim possibilities, but the
disciples are still in denial about such talk.
As the last one settled into place, light flickering upon their faces,
Jesus would have begun this meal with the words, “Blessed are you, O
Lord our God, King of the universe, who created the fruits of the
vine...Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who made
this bread come forth from the earth.”
Every formal Jewish meal concluded with a cup of blessing. But on
this night Jesus took the cup and said, “This cup is the new Covenant
in my blood, which is shed for you.” It must have caused the
disciples to nearly choke, because the thought of drinking blood was
completely repugnant and forbidden for the Jew. And of the bread
he had broken, he said “This is my body.” Then, if that
weren't enough, he said “One of you will betray me.” That surely
ruined their appetites completely. And these are just some of the
pieces that would fall into place that Thursday night.
Luke’s Gospel records an incident that captures the mood of the
disciples at this point. Jesus has spoken of a betrayer and Luke
tells us that the disciples began to discuss among themselves which of
them might be the betrayer. Who of us is capable? Who of us
is NOT capable? Then Luke indicates that immediately their
discussion slips into an argument as to which of them was to be
regarded as the greatest. What must have gone through Jesus'
mind? Can they have missed the point entirely? Will they
understand if I show them?
Stripping off his outer robe – freely laying down his reputation (as
shortly he would lay down his life) – Jesus shows the disciples by his
actions what they have failed to grasp in his words.
Jesus washes their hard and callused feet with tenderness.
Two of those feet belonged to Judas. I wonder if it caused Judas
any hesitation. There can be no doubt it caused Jesus a great
amount of grief. Not surprisingly, the disciples were confused by
all of this. What is he doing? What is he saying?
In this final act of love for his disciples, an act which would silence
their petty jealousies and demonstrate the radical, revolutionary
meaning of God’s love, Jesus, the Lord and Ruler of the Kingdom,
becomes Jesus, the servant of this ragtag group. Jesus’ command
that they should “love one another” is an emergency directive to a
community about to lose its leader.
Let us say, “Jesus come and wash our feet – our hands – our
hearts. Come and feed us with your precious body and blood.
Fill us with your Presence so the world may know that we have been with
you. For only then can we go with you to Gethsemane. Only
then will we know that you are with us in our own Gethsemane.
Only then will we recognize you when our Gethsemane is ended and you
are kneeling before us with a towel, waiting to wash our feet.”
Thus it is that we come to this night, to recall, to remember, and we
ask, “What makes this night different from all other nights...?”
Each of us contributes to the balance of love in the world. Too
often, for us as for the disciples, we tend to compare ourselves with
each other, to look for our strength in others' weakness, to find our
goodness in others' faults – all the while blind to our own
shortcomings and self-sufficiency. But when someone loves us, we
learn that trust, kindness, charity, honesty, humility, forgiveness,
and acceptance can counteract the evil in the world. For every
good deed, there is one less evil deed. Will we show love or
harshness, will our life have produced more loving or more
hurting? More comfort or pain? More joy or sadness?
Love is found, not in pronouncement from a position of power but in
removing our outer robe, risking our self-image, and kneeling to wash
the tired, aching feet of those we meet along the way. To
re-member means to bring our members, our selves into the story in a
new and living way, to be the eyes which see now, the ears that hear
the cries of the lonely and hurting, the tongues that speak peace and
talk of the kingdom, feet that walk in the world, hands that serve,
wash, touch, comfort, and heal.
May we re-member what makes this night different from all the rest and should we forget, let us remind one another.
Amen.
John Dryden Burton
Maundy Thursday 2010
St. James’
Eureka Springs, AR