Maundy Thursday

The boys make fun of this strange word and call today "Monday Thursday," telling me how mixed up I am. I try to explain the meaning of the word - from the Latin mandare, to mandate, as in how Jesus told his disciples to serve as he was serving, the example at the time being by washing their feet. To perform acts of kindness and care for the poor, sick, and needy.

The boys are not interested. Its OK. I look forward to the evening service even if they are not going. I do lots of stuff they don't. I enter the sanctuary and the pastor is taking care of last minute details. Choir members are scattered about asking about wearing robes (no) and whether we will sit on the platform (no). It is more informal that our normal Sunday services. The usual pre-service stuff.

There is a handful gathered and we finally settle in to share the Passion of Christ. I sit on the far right, second row back, so unusual not to be "on duty." Tonight I am observer with only one small duty, to direct the anthem "O Sacred Head Now Wounded." The words reach into my heart. Together we reflect on the events of so long ago, of what Jesus must have felt. Did he know this would be his last supper on earth? Was he aware of the events in motion?

Pastor talks about servant leadership, and I hear her, but my mind is on another aspect of Jesus' passion. His physical suffering. How painfully aware I become of the excruciating ordeal he endured. Kiel and Drew tell me that the pain of crucifixion was so horrible that they had to make up the word 'excruciating' to describe it - meaning out of the cross.

The story is familiar, but I never tire of it. I have heard it for years, seen it vividly portrayed in movies, wept over the agony before. But this year it is more poignant. More understandable. I, too, have been through a year of pain and suffering. Nothing as severe as what Jesus endured in a few short days. No, but as I think about it, mine has lingered for six long years, coming and going without announcement, threatening my life, teasing with a hint of going away, then coming back en force.


My suffering has been addressed, defused, tampered with, somewhat ameliorated by drugs and defiance, but the toll has been taken. I have some sense of what it is like to see something unpleasant coming, knowing it is unavoidable. I have experienced the endurance of pain and discomfort, of keeping my eyes riveted on the end, the goal, the plan. I know this plot a bit more intimately than I care to.


We are invited to come forward for either a foot washing or a hand washing if that is more comfortable. I had thought Pastor was going to ask us to wash each others' feet, but she does not ask us to care for each other this year. She has a helper. I intend to go forward. The front bench is full. I wait, but rather than rising for the second round, I find myself overcome by the tender touch of my Lord.

It is almost as if he is looking into my eyes, holding my hand, and acknowledging my suffering. Yes, he knows. He cares. He will wash away my pain. He himself will wash my feet tonight, wash my soul with understanding, with compassion, with relief, with healing, with love. I am surrounded by such a strong sense of his caring that I am undone. Tears flow, but, Lord help me, these are not just tears.

Roiling up within me are great gut wrenching sobs, huge, breath-taking wails of sorrow. Have I been holding that in all this time? Surely I cannot let them out now, not here in front of everyone. They will call the paddy wagon. I close my eyes and fight an overwhelming urge to run to the front, bury my face in the pastor's shoulder and sob until the storm abates. I argue with myself - this is ridiculous.


My shoulders are shaking with the anguish. I fear the person sitting next to me will be rattled. Bad enough the massive amounts of water flowing down my cheeks. I do not even bother to wipe the tears away. I couldn't keep up if I wanted to. I bow my head lower, and stop thinking about what is happening around me. Too bad if someone is offended. I recognize that Christ has come to me for some reason, and now is the time, and I will take his comfort regardless.

I do not know how long I sat there immersed in the love of God. I only know that I let the storm rage and rage and rage, stunned that it was there, astounded by the violence of it all. It will out. God has released it. I let go of it. Outwardly, I recognize that the only sign are the copious tears. Inwardly, it feels as if a huge vacuum is sucking up dirt and hurt that I had not realized was lurking. Six years of battle gone in a blink. Washed away. Wounds soothed with the oil of compassion.

When it was over and I rejoined the service in progress, communion was being offered. Some demanding work has been accomplished. God with his perfect surgeon hands repairing damage, making new; I lying still and accepting his ministrations. Now it is time to be refreshed. Come to His table. Not with the fear and sorrow of Jesus last supper, as I have always experienced it in past years, but with the redemptive power of his victory now in place.

I dry my tears. I walk forward with the others. I hold out my hands. The body and blood of Christ, given for you. Thanks be to God. Amen.