You've got to theme me all wrong. He's not avoiding
anything. He is laying it down, his life. That's
the point. You can feel it in the room tonight,
the weight of a table where hands still smell
like bread and wine, where the sound of water
in a basin echoes louder than any sermon. He's
already told them what's coming and they don't
understand it. Not yet. One will betray, one
will deny, all will scatter. And still he kneels.
Still he breaks the bread. Still he says, this
is for you. Now, before we step any further into
that night, let me say this. We didn't have Wednesday
night Bible study in... dinner this week. Gigi
and Jan and Joyce and Marsha held it down in
the kitchen and reminded us that one fellowship
meal a week, especially with Easter coming and
hams waiting, is plenty. And truth be told, they're
right. But we did gather for dinner before Maundy
Thursday service, and now we've come upstairs
into the sanctuary to remember. Hey, join us
in the pews, and I'll see you on the other side.
As we begin, let's pause for a moment. Let's
enter into an attitude prayer as we begin this
Maundy Thursday observation. So if you would,
please join me in prayer. Almighty and everlasting
God, who in the humility of your Son, stop to
wash the feet of those who scatter. and gave
his body and blood for the life of a world that
did not yet understand. Grant us grace to receive
what we did not deserve and to give what we'd
rather withhold. Bend our pride low enough to
kneel, our hearts soft enough to love one another,
our lives open enough to be poured out in remembrance
of him who loved us to the end. Jesus Christ,
our Lord, who lives and reigns with you in the
Holy Spirit, one God, now and forever. Amen.
Well, here we find ourselves once again, church,
gathered here for our Maundy Thursday observance.
And the room that we're going to in our minds,
it smells like lamb. and sweat, and the last
normal meal they will ever share. It's Thursday.
The sun is setting over Jerusalem. The streets
are thick with Passover pilgrims who have no
idea what they're walking through. And somewhere
in this city, arrangements are being made. A
detail of temple guards, bag of silver, kiss
rehearsed in the back of someone's throat. But
in this room right now, it's just supper. Bread
on the table, wine poured, 13 men, climbing the
way you do when the day has been long and dinner
is finally ready. And the man at the center of
the table stands up. John tells it with a precision
that should slow us down. Jesus, knowing that
the Father had given all things into his hands
and that he came from God and was going to God,
arose from supper, laid aside his outer garments,
took a towel and wrapped it around his waist.
that he poured water into the basin and began
to wash the disciples' feet and to wipe them
with the towel wrapped around him. And church,
we have been walking this entire Lenten season.
We stood at a burning bush and took our sandals
off because the ground was holy and we needed
to stop long enough to hear God call our name.
We ate. that we could not store up and learned
to name it with a question mark. We looked up
at a bronze serpent and discovered the remedy
looks just like the wound. And we watched a man
with his face like a flint edge turn towards
a city that he knew was going to kill him. And
not because he was fearless. but because there
was nowhere else, smelled like life. And we stood
the tomb in Bethany and heard him say, roll away
the stone. We laid our cloaks on a road outside
Jerusalem and made a prediction that we did not
yet understand. Sandals off to hear, sandals
on to obey. That rhythm has ungirded. Every step
of this Lenten road. And now it's Thursday. And
the sandals, they're coming off one last time.
Friends, tune your ears to the reading of Holy
Scripture. Tonight our passage comes to us from
the Gospel account according to John the Revelator.
John chapter 13, beginning verse 6. Then he came
to Simon Peter, and he said to him, Lord, do
you wash my feet? Jesus answered him, You don't
know what I am doing now, but you will understand
later. And Peter said to him, You will never
wash my feet. Jesus answered him, If I don't
wash your feet, you have no part in me. Simon
Peter said to him, Lord, not my feet only, but
also my hands and my head. Thus ends reading
of the Holy Word this evening. Peter resists.
The man who jumped out of a boat and began walking
on the water. The one who will draw a sword in
a garden before this night is over. Looks at
God kneeling on a floor with a basin and says,
never. Not, not yet. Not, I'm not ready. Never.
A man telling God, you will not see that part
of me. And I need to be honest with you tonight.
I have preached from this pulpit for 12 years.
I have preached bread and cup more times than
I could even possibly count. Which is right.
Because we are disciples and the table is where
we live. But I have never once preached foot
washing. And the reason is not why you would
expect. It's not theology. It's vanity. Because
I have, and I say this, with all the pastoral
dignity I can muster, the ugliest feet God has
ever put on a man. These are not feet that belong
in public. These are feet that have earned their
privacy. If someone knelt with a basin and said,
let me wash those, my first instinct would not
be Peter's theological objection. It would be
pure, unholy embarrassment. And I tell you this
because I think it's closer to what's actually
happening in that room than we would rather admit.
We read Peter's refusal as theology, and it is.
But it's also something far more human. The refusal
to be seen. Not your best self. Not your Sunday
self. Part of you that has been walking dusty
roads for three years. Bears the calluses, the
cracks, ground in dirt to prove it. Toenails
that require a grinding wheel. At the burning
bush, Moses removed his own sandals. He controlled
the moment. He. Chose to approach. He chose to
remove them. This is different. This is someone
else removing your sandals. Someone else seeing
what lies beneath. Someone else touching that
part of you that you would rather just keep hidden.
And it's not just anyone. One John says knew
that the Father had given all things into his
hands. The one who came from God and is going
to God. The one who kneels on the floor with
a towel over his arm, reaching for your feet.
God of the burning bush declared the ground holy.
God of the upper room makes the ground holy by
kneeling on it. And Peter can't bear it. Not
because he doesn't love Jesus, but because he
does. And Jesus rebukes him. If I don't wash
you, you have no part in me. And that's not a
threat. It's the terms of the relationship. You
cannot walk where I'm going unless you let me
touch the thing you're hiding. And the feet he
washes tonight will not stand with him in the
garden. And the word for what Jesus does, the
word behind laid down his garments, the theme,
the theme, it's Greek. It's the same word Jesus
uses in. John chapter 10 and 15 when he says,
I lay down my life for the sheep. John is not
being subtle. He wants you to see the cross before
anyone names it. The garments Jesus removes at
the table is the same life he will lay down on
the cross. In John's world, Thursday night is
just Friday in miniature. Look at the imagery
John uses. The basin is the tomb. The towel is
the burial cloth. And the posture on his knees
beneath the people he loves is the posture of
the cross before they've ever put the wood together.
And then he tells them why in John 13 and 15.
For I have given you an example that you also
should do as I have done to you. He's saying,
sandals back on. Now it's your turn. Not to die
on a cross, but to kneel. To reach for what others
keep hidden. To handle another person's dirt
as if it were holy ground. Because it is. Because
every cracked heel, every calloused toe belongs
to someone, the God of the universe, knelt to
touch. A new commandment I give you, that you
love one another just as I loved you, you also
are to love one another. And in a few minutes,
will come to this table, bread and cup, the meal
he gave us in that same room on the same night,
after the water had dried and the towel had been
folded. And the manna finally has a name. It's
not what is it. It was always him. And after
we eat, after the bread is broken, the cup is
shared and the prayer is spoken, the story, The
story does not end. He walks out the door. Jesus
sings a hymn with his friends and steps into
the dark, down the hill, across the Kidron Valley,
into a garden of olive trees where the olive
press does what presses do. Sandals back on for
one last time. Not to serve a neighbor, but to
teach a lesson. To sweat blood in the dark while
his friends fall asleep ten yards away. And I'm
not going to take you to the cross tonight. That's
tomorrow's work. But I leave you here tonight.
In the garden. In the dark. The smell of crushed
olives in the air. Sound of your own breathing.
The faint glow of torches you can start to see
through the trees. He's still kneeling. He knelt
at that basin an hour ago. Now he kneels in the
dirt. Same posture. Same love. Same man who touched
your feet and called them were watching. Friends.
Torches. Those torches are getting closer. So
come to the table. Let the bread do what the
bread does break, so that you may be fed. Let
the cup do what the cup does pour, so that you
may be filled. And when you leave this room tonight,
leave as they did, with your sandals on, taste
the bread still on your tongue. the echo of Him
behind you, and the darkness opening up ahead.
May the God who knelt to wash your feet walk
you into whatever the garden awaits, despite
what may be coming. Amen. Amen. Friends, open
your hearts to the gospel according to 1 Corinthians,
where I receive from the Lord what I also deliver
to you. that the Lord Jesus on the night in which
he was betrayed took bread. When he had given
thanks, he broke it and said, This is my body,
which is broken for you. Do this in memory of
me. In the same way, he also took the cup after
supper, saying, This cup is the new covenant
in my blood. Do this as often as you drink it
in memory of me. For as long as you eat of this
bread and you drink of this cup, you proclaim
the Lord's death till he comes. On the night
he was betrayed, not after they got it right,
not after they proved themselves, but on that
night he took bread. And after giving thanks,
he broke it and he gave it to them, saying, Take,
eat, this is my body given for you. And after
that supper he took the cup. The cup is the new
covenant in my blood poured out for you for the
forgiveness of sins. As often as you eat of this
bread and you drink of this cup, you are not.
Friends, remembering some distant story you are
stepping directly into. Table is set. Gifts of
God for the people of God. Friends, all are welcome
and all will be fed. Hey, maybe tonight didn't
resolve anything for you. And maybe that's the
point. This is the night where love kneels lower
than it should have to. Where grace is given
before it's understood. Where the table is set
for people who are about to get it wrong. And
if something in you felt both comforted and exposed,
you are not off track. Because that's what it
feels like to sit close to Jesus on a night just
like this. He doesn't wait for your clarity.
He gives himself right in the middle of your
confusion. Now listen, if something tonight caught
you off guard, if you heard something you'd never
considered before or something you've heard a
hundred times but it finally settled in different,
go ahead. Throw that old like in the offering
plate just like we did down at church. No pressure.
It's just a quiet way of saying I was here and
it mattered. And if you want to keep walking
with us all the way to Easter Sunday, go ahead
and tithe your subscribe. That way you'll know
when we are meeting again. And until then, friend,
be blessed.