Thursday, March 28, 2024 - Questions

This sermon was preached for Maundy Thursday, March 28, 2024. The texts for this sermon were: Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14, 1 Corinthians 11:23-26, John 13:1-17, 31b-35, and Psalm 116:1, 10-17.

You know when people say “there’s no such thing as a dumb question?” I think that saying works for some people to encourage them to ask what they need to ask. What always helps me more, though, is being reminded that in all likelihood someone else in the room is wondering the exact same question you are, too. Then I’d stop worrying about whether my question was dumb or not and instead think about how revealing my confusion or doubt could actually be helpful to someone else, too. 

Here’s an example of a question you might have that others might, too: why do we skip some verses here? What happens in between?

This Gospel passage is part of John’s retelling of Jesus’ last supper with his disciples. We read John’s version on Maundy Thursday because it is the only Gospel that includes Jesus washing the disciples feet. But we cut out a chunk of verses here, verses 18-31. They fall in between the last two paragraphs here. Some of us actually read that missing chunk together on Wednesday at our noon Eucharist because it turns out it’s a whole passage about Judas, and Judas’ betrayal of Jesus. Basically, Jesus tells the disciples that one of them will betray him - the one who he gives the piece of bread dipped in wine to - and sends Judas out to do his thing. It’s excluded here, I think, because Maundy Thursday is supposed to focus on the foot washing and Jesus’ commandment to us to love and serve one another. 

But when I read this passage specifically looking for our theme of loneliness - that’s where I found it. In the verses we skipped, in Judas Iscariot’s story. Judas the betrayer is such a lonely figure. There are lots of theories about why Judas betrayed Jesus - theories that go beyond “the devil made him do it” and simple greed for thirty coins of silver. One historically grounded theory is that Judas was profoundly disappointed in Jesus as a Messianic figure. You may remember that at that time Jerusalem - and the whole of the Jewish colony of Rome of Syria Palaestina - was boiling over with political unrest. Historians record a whole series of Jewish uprisings against the foreign occupiers and their puppet kings throughout the first and second centuries. There were many who believed then that the Messiah would be the successful leader of a political revolution in the here and now: a Son of David that would overturn the current political regime and ascend King David’s ancient throne to reestablish a united Jewish kingdom. But the kingdom Jesus spoke of was very different, his version of kingship was itself revolutionary - characterized not by military might and political power, but by humble service and self-sacrificing love. If we take this view, then, Judas Iscariot was a disillusioned follower - angry that Jesus would not act, would not lead the cheering crowds on Palm Sunday to victory in the streets. 

How lonely it must have been for Judas to be harboring unsettling thoughts about his friend’s real identity, surrounded by his closest friends who are all in on Jesus. I imagine Judas felt had no one to confide in about his doubts and disappointments, nowhere to ask his burning questions or share his resentments. 

One of the weirdest parts about being a priest is that people come to you utterly convinced that they are the only ones who feel the way they do. The only one to be disappointed in God, or angry at life, the only one struggling with a particular depth of brokenness or a certain kind of grief or a secret form of doubt. Of course, you can’t really turn to them and say, “You know, your friend there in the pew with you had pretty much the same conversation with me last week,” you can’t break the isolation yourself, not without betraying confidence. So all you can do is preach sermons that say over and over: you are not as alone as you feel. All you can do is get these beloved, hurting people in a room together and say: share, please, together. In all likelihood, someone else in the room is holding onto that same deep, dark, and painful disappointment, doubt, or question, too.

What would it have been like if Judas had confided in one of the other disciples? Could they have dissuaded him from what he was about to do? Could they have satisfied his doubts and assuaged his disappointment? Would they have admitted that they, too, were sometimes befuddled by their teacher and impatient at his inaction? Could they have shared why they stayed anyway, what was getting them through? Could they have helped him, could they have kept him connected, if only he had asked?

But Judas doesn’t ask his questions. He doesn’t share his disappointments with his fellow disciples, or at the very least, we know he doesn’t share his plans. He accepts the bread from Jesus’ hand, gets up from the table and he leaves. And since he does, Judas Iscariot misses hearing Jesus’ great commandment of reconnection: “love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.”

And how does Jesus love? By kneeling down and taking each disciple’s dirty, grimy, stinky feet into his hands and gently washing them, the way a servant would a master, the way a mother would a child. And so we do that, too, here, tonight. 

Foot-washing is one of the most vulnerable and intimate liturgical expressions of faith we do here in the Episcopal Church. I think hand-washing can be a great modern equivalent as well, because feet in the first century were much grimier and more world-worn than ours end up being in shoes all day. Regardless, when we allow another person to wash our hands or feet, we are trusting them with our exhaustion, our less-than-perfect, the accumulated muck of our day-to-day. We do more than just ask them to witness it. We let them help. We show them a part of our body we keep hidden most of the time, and we let them care for it.  

There’s a new trend now that’s going viral around the mom networks of the various social media sites called “nesting parties.” Nesting parties replace the classic baby shower. You’re probably familiar with traditional baby showers - ones where everyone gets dressed up in pastel colors and nibbles on cucumber sandwiches watching the dolled-up mom-to-be open cute little baby clothes - the kind of party that takes decorations and planning and catering and mountains of thank you notes and clean-up. At a nesting party, on the other hand, friends and family of the expecting mother descend on her house in sweatpants to join in with her on all the nitty-gritty work that goes into preparing a home for a baby. They scrub her tub and fold hand-me-downs, they screw together cribs, they sanitize baby bottles and vacuum nursery rugs. They enter into the messiness of her life as it is and help lift some of the burden off her shoulders. They meet her wherever she is, as she is and help get her where she needs to be - no judgment, no abandonment - just service. 

It takes a certain kind of strength to let even friends into a messy house at the stage of life when you’re so pregnant you can’t even tie your own shoes. It’s a type of strength Jesus asks of us. Love and be loved as I have loved you.

Love by letting each other in. Love by letting each other help. 

In a moment, I’m going to invite you to wash each other’s feet as Jesus commanded. For some of you touching someone else’s feet will be the hardest part of this, for many of you it will be allowing someone else to touch yours. If feet are too much for you, I encourage you to try washing someone’s hand and letting someone else wash yours. 

Whichever you choose, I pray that this act tonight doesn’t stand on its own as a weird thing you do once a year. I pray that it stands as a symbol for your intention to allow others in - into your questions, your disappointments, your mess. I guarantee you’ll find you are not alone in any of it. Amen.