Sermon on John 13.1-17, 31b-35 | by Richard O. Johnson |

John 13.1-17, 31b-35

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples‘ feet and to wipe them with the towel that was tied around him. He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, „Lord, are you going to wash my feet?“ Jesus answered, „You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand.“ Peter said to him, „You will never wash my feet.“ Jesus answered, „Unless I wash you, you have no share with me.“ Simon Peter said to him, „Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!“ Jesus said to him, „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.“ For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, „Not all of you are clean.“

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, „Do you know what I have done to you? 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. Very truly, I tell you, servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them. If you know these things, you are blessed if you do them.

„Now the Son of Man has been glorified, and God has been glorified in him. If God has been glorified in him, God will also glorify him in himself and will glorify him at once. Little children, I am with you only a little longer. You will look for me; and as I said to the Jews so now I say to you, `Where I am going, you cannot come.‘ I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.“

My daughter was about four or five years old. She was coming out of our Maundy Thursday service, the church now in darkness after the stripping of the altar. She looked up at me with very big eyes and said, “Pastor, that was incredible!”

And she was right. The Maundy Thursday service is incredible. There is so much going on, in the lessons and the actions. The powerful recollection of the Passover and the judgment of God on the Egyptians; the intimacy of the institution of the Eucharist at the Last Supper; the humility of Jesus washing the disciples’ feet; the desolation expressed by the stripping of the altar. It is incredible.

It has always been my favorite of all the Holy Week liturgies. It was at a Maundy Thursday service that I received my first communion as a young boy. Maundy Thursday service in the congregation in which I grew up is my most vivid memory of worship from my teenage years. All of that makes this night, this Maundy Thursday, so very painful for me this year. I think of the line from Psalm 137: “How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a foreign land?” How shall we observe this night when we are kept from the Eucharist? How shall we keep this night when we are banned from washing the feet of our brothers and sisters and kneeling at the Lord’s Table with them?

What was it like?

So I have to reframe this for myself—something I’ve been doing a lot of lately! Perhaps it helps to think about how our experience of this night echoes that of the disciples. Consider what it was like for them. I don’t know how things were in Jerusalem that night, but I suspect fear was in the air, especially for the disciples, as the authorities ramped up their conspiracy against Jesus. As Galilean country folks, perhaps even just being in the city is new for them, new and scary. It is disorienting. You know that feeling of being in a place you’ve never been before. You don’t know the geography. You don’t know which way you’re supposed to go. It becomes even worse if you’re in a foreign place, where no one seems to speak your language. And now, in addition to all this disorientation and fear, the disciples are hunkered down, locked in a room.

In the midst of this, they gather together to share a meal. Biblical scholars debate whether this was the Passover meal, as Matthew, Mark and Luke suggest, or if it was the night before the Passover, as John would have it. But no matter. They are gathering—these twelve friends and their Master, perhaps others—gathering to share a meal as they have done many times before. It is a note of familiarity, an anchor, in a world that seems to be spinning out of control.

And then the twist. Jesus gets up from the table, takes off his outer robe, ties a towel around himself, pours water into a basin, and begins to wash the disciples’ feet. His actions are calm, deliberate, but completely unanticipated. They did not expect this. Oh, it was common, in that place and time where roads were dusty and people wore sandals, to be given water for washing your feet when you entered a house. Usually you washed your own; if your host was wealthy enough to have servants, perhaps one of them would do it for you. But that was when you first came in, not in the middle of dinner. And that was the unpleasant task of a servant, not your host. Certainly not your Teacher, your Master, your Lord.

So they did not expect it. It shakes them out of their own thoughts—shakes those who, Luke tells us, are talking again about who was the greatest; shakes Peter, who always seems to be thinking about himself and his role; shakes Judas, who has already decided to betray Jesus. Suddenly here is Jesus, kneeling before each of them, serving them, demonstrating his love for them, showing them that real love means humility.

And for us?

And now here we are, hunkered down, afraid to go out—and there’s more than just fear in the air, or at least that’s how we feel. It certainly seems like we are in an unfamiliar place, a foreign land, a city with frightening noises and shadows and unseen dangers. We cannot understand the voices around us—not because they speak a different language, but because we seem to hear so much contradictory information, or rapidly changing advice. We cannot be with those we love—or maybe we are with those who are closest to us, but there are others we long to see whom we cannot. Some of us are completely alone. All of us are lost in thoughts we never thought we’d have to think.

And in the midst of this, Jesus does something surprising. He calmly, deliberately, takes a basin of water and begins to wash our feet. For us this night, in this time, that can be only a metaphor. But for us hunkered down ones, for us who feel lost in a foreign place, it is our souls that are dusty and tired, our spirits that are weary from what already seems like too long a journey. And that is what Jesus washes, our spirits, our souls. It is unexpected, but it is real.

Notice that he does it calmly, for us as for the disciples. The world outside is in turmoil—maybe not literally right here where we live, at least for now, thanks to be to God—but the chaos invades our hearts and our lives daily, and we know we are not immune. But in the midst of it: this calm. I wonder if the disciples thought back to when Jesus calmed the storm on the sea? I wonder if his deliberate and gentle demeanor now stilled the storm in their hearts, their roiling fears about what was to come?

And his words! I suspect the disciples were relieved when he also said, “You do not know now what I am doing.” Indeed they didn’t know, they didn’t get it. But his words were all too clear: “If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. . . . I give you a new commandment, that you love one another.” The words, together with the gesture, say that love is about humility and service.

Love in the time of Covid-19

And so it is for us, my dear sisters and brothers. The love of Christ, the love that washes over our weary souls, is shown in humility and service. It is always so. I’ve been thinking lately about a best-selling novel of a few years back, Gabriel Garcia-Marquez’s Love in the Time of Cholera. I haven’t read it, I have no idea even what it’s about, but I’ve always been captivated by the title: Love in the Time of Cholera. What is love in the time of Covid-19? Well, it is just what love always is, for the disciples of Jesus. It is humility and service: humility, in that we cannot know what the Lord is doing or what it means for us; service, in that caring for one another is still our mandate. That will look different for each of us. Perhaps it means making masks for the hospital. Perhaps it means, if you are able, helping out at the food bank or homeless shelter. Perhaps it means checking on a neighbor, or telephoning someone you know is alone or frightened. Certainly it means praying, lots of praying for all manner of people in the midst of this crisis. But in all these things, it means turning your eyes away from your own fears and concerns; it means looking toward Christ, who so calmly washes our feet and our spirits and our hearts; and it means looking toward others whom Christ loves, serving them, loving them, as best we can. It is being mindful, but not fearful.

There is a prayer ascribed, I believe, to the English philosopher James Martineau—not really an orthodox Christian, but an eloquent writer, and this prayer contains a line that has always stirred me: “Since we know not what a day may bring forth, but only that the hour for serving Thee is always present, may we wake to the instant claims of Thy holy will, not waiting for tomorrow but yielding today.” May we, in other words, serve one another in humility as Christ serves us, love one another as Christ loves us. That is our mandate on this Maundy Thursday. That is Christ’s commandment, and Christ’s promise.

Yes, it is an incredible night, this Maundy Thursday, unlike any other. It is in some way a desolate night as we sit alone, the altars of our normal existence stripped until there seems to be nothing left. But though we cannot be together, though we cannot wash one another’s feet, though we cannot gather at the Table to receive the gracious gift of his Body and Blood, still he is with us even in our desolation. Still he brings that sense of calm and peace. Still he loves us, loves us to the end. Still he teaches us to love one another, as he has loved us. And for us right now, that is enough.

Richard O. Johnson

Grass Valley, CA

roj@nccn.net