Holy Thursday -Triduum: Three Days, One Love: Poured Out, Laid Down, Raised UpPart IIIHoly Thursday: Where Water, Bread, and Betrayal Meet

We do not play at history; we celebrate a mystery!

The Triduum— the Great Three Days—are Thursday night until Friday

night, Friday night until Saturday night, Saturday night until Sunday night.

Three Great days, one Paschal Mystery!

It is called paschal because it is a “Passover” from death into life. It is

called a mystery because it is a truth so deep that you cannot see the end

of it.

The Entrance Antiphon for Holy Thursday says and sings it all: “Let our

glory be in the cross of our Lord Jesus Christ; in him we have salvation, life

and resurrection; through him we are rescued and set free” (Galatians 6).

Note that on Holy Thursday we do not start with some hymn about the

Eucharist or about the presbyterate. No, we start with the mystery that we

will celebrate for these three days -- the dying and rising of the Lord.

We remember the Mandatum. Service. We remember and celebrate here

and now that the One enwrapped in glory, wrapped a towel about his waist;

the Master whom raging seas obeyed poured water into a basin,

the One on whom angels waited, knelt down to lift his disciples up,

washing their feet. Yes, Jesus took some water and washed some feet and

told us to do likewise. We remember that we are called to that same type of

service, but let us be very concerned about the temperature of that water.

Let me break it down for you. Some of us come to serve with boiling hot

water. We are so angry, so upset, so distracted by something that has

happened in the past—and so mad about it— that we come to the other

and say, “Here, stick your feet in here!” Our sisters and brothers do not

want their feet washed with boiling water.

Some of us go to the other extreme and come with ice cold water. We are

so righteous, so holier-than-thou, so above it all. We come with this frigid,

freezing water and want to wash people’s feet. Our sisters and brothers do

not want to have their feet washed with ice water.

Some of us are really extreme and come with no water at all! We try to dry

clean people’s feet with a “piece of our mind,” just scrubbing away harshly.

What we say may be true, but there is no water of love, nothing to wash the

dirt gently away, but only a rigid insistence on scraping away every

imperfection and the skin along with it!

No, our washing is to be done in the cool, cleansing water of love and

compassion.

We remember this night with many names:

Feria quinta in Cena Domini,

Thursday of the Supper of the Lord,

Holy Thursday,

Mass of the Lord’s Supper,

Maundy Thursday—all names given to this night.

But for Saint Paul in his First Letter to the Corinthians:

“the night he was betrayed.”

This is how St Paul names this night

and it is a phrase repeated

in each and every Eucharistic Prayer of the Church.

I want to thank a dear Jesuit friend

and brother in the Lord for reminding me that

this is the night of bitter betrayal,

the night of menacing non-recognition,

the night of searing abandonment by the disciples.

This is that night.

And on this strange night of betrayal

Jesus gives us the gift of the Eucharist,

his everlasting covenant of fidelity and love.

“On the night he was betrayed,”

on the night when the covenant with his friends is broken,

Jesus celebrates the new and eternal covenant.

The Eucharist was given as gift on this night

not because it was the last night before his arrest,

but because it was the night when Jesus experienced

exactly what we human beings are capable of:

betrayal, denial, and abandonment,

hurt and harm,

violence and venom,

wicked willfulness,

alienation and exclusion in the extreme

even to this day.

Just look around at our culture,

just turn on the TV.

Matthew, Mark and Luke

are careful to recount to us the liturgical details of what Jesus did

“on the night he was betrayed.”

They tell us of bread and wine, of blessing and breaking,

of giving thanks and sharing.

But John in recounting for us the events

“on the night he was betrayed” tells us

nothing of bread and wine.

For instead of telling us what Jesus did,

John tells us what it means.

John tells us what it means.

“On the night he was betrayed”

Jesus was aware of everything.

He knew that the end was near.

He knew that not only Judas,

but also Peter and Andrew, James and Matthew

would betray him.

They all would abandon him.

They would, by their actions, deny him.

And so Jesus would have had to approach this hour

broken hearted,

with a heaviness of heart that he had never known before.

And at that moment when most of us, any one of us,

would have given ourselves over to anger and despair—

when most of us would be so unforgiving

for the hurt and betrayal that was at hand—

Jesus did the unthinkable.

The Lord enwrapped in glory,

wrapped a towel about his waist;

the Master whom raging seas obeyed

poured water into a basin,

the One on whom angels waited,

knelt down to lift his disciples up,

washing their feet.

He poured out the water not only of service

but also of forgiveness.

He cleansed and kissed their feet with the love of God

that is so profound that even to this night

it cuts through all our pettiness,

all our prejudice, all our anger,

all our hurts and all our resentments and fears

when and if we give ourselves over

to this same, simple service.

Tonight,

and every munificent and mundane Thursday hereafter,

we are invited,

no,

mandated actually

to pick up a towel and basin,

go down on bended knee

(metaphorically, given our varying modes of mobility)

and wash feet—

to serve.

And perhaps it’s more important than ever,

given the world in which we live.

How would that look?

How would our argumentative and political world change

if we washed one another’s feet, not literally,

but figuratively?

Something as simple as giving a compliment

to another;

sitting at a table not our own;

paying for a stranger’s lunch;

listening to that same old well worn, boring story again,

or listening to that same old well worn,

boring story again—

can change our little corner of the world.

It can also be something as difficult

as not responding to someone who’s criticizing you;

something as difficult as

reaching out to an estranged family member

or the guy or gal you just find weird.

Acts of kindness done out of humility and respect

for another person are our examples of foot washing

here and now,

in our dowager dwelling of delirium,

our flat of frailty and falls,

our watershed of wisdom, humor,

power, prayer, and edification

make manifest God’s love

cleansing our world of hatred and prejudice,

of fear and resentment,

of a coldness of heart.

Honestly,

images of our literally washing each other’s feet

look a little strange and startling

because it’s not part of our modern-day customs.

But there’s also something beautiful and profound

in each image, in each example I just gave, I hope.

Each example mirrors

the thought of the great pastor and preacher Paul

in his letter to the Philippians

which we will hear tomorrow,

appealing to them to live with humility

using the example of Jesus’s incarnation and death:

Do nothing from selfishness or empty conceit,

but with humility consider one another

as more important than yourselves;

do not merely look out for your own personal interests,

but also for the interests of others.

Have this attitude in yourselves which was also in Christ Jesus, who,

as he already existed in the form of God,

did not consider equality with God something to be grasped,

but emptied himself by taking the form of a bond-servant

and being born in the likeness of men.

And being found in appearance as a man,

he humbled himself by becoming obedient to the point of death:

death on a cross.

Just as Jesus (God himself ) “on the night he was betrayed”

was willing to humble himself by becoming one like us,

to serve by washing the feet of the disciples

and to die on a cross for our sake,

we as his followers hope—and hope a lot—

to put aside

our selfish ambitions and desires,

our betrayal, denial, and abandonment,

hurt and harm

and seek the benefit of others—

all to the lifting up of one another—

all to the building up of this house,

our home,

remembering well that true humility isn’t about thinking

less of ourselves,

but thinking of ourselves less often,

so that feet may be washed,

so that we may have closer union with the One who washes our feet

and with Saint Rischard of Chichester pray:

“most merciful redeemer, friend and brother,

may I know thee more clearly,

love thee more dearly,

and follow thee more nearly, day by day.”

Ain’t-a That Good News!

But there is more Good News!

On the day before he was to suffer,

at that supper with those whom he called

apostles, disciples, friends . . .

with those whom he loved . . .

with those he desired with desire to dine

(so says the Greek)—

he knew he had to go

and he felt he wanted to stay.

He knew he had to go

and he felt he wanted to stay.

Herein lay a problem.

His solution:

he will go,

and he will stay;

he will leave us,

and he will remain with us.

He will take from his disciples, from us,

the passibility of his physical presence.

No longer will his friends hear

the music and thunder of his voice,

sense the fascination of his smile,

or be touched by his tears.

He will go

and he will stay—

will leave with us the reality,

the truth, of that palpable presence.

How?

We know how.

He took bread and wine

gave thanks

invited those present to divide, eat, and drink.

And added:

“keeping do this in remembrance of me”

(so says the Greek)

So say Matthew, Mark, and Luke.

He will go

and he will stay—

What do we recall, remember, and recount

this night?

That that was then and now!

The Jesus who told those given into his care:

“This is my body which is given for you,”

told the same that they must wash one another’s feet.

That self-same Jesus gives you and me his Body and Blood,

soul and divinity,

and insists that we be women and men in service to others,

loving as he loves.

Yes! Communion and compassion go together,

not only on this night,

but every minute of every hour of every day.

Our Communion with the Lord,

leads to our compassionate communion with one another.

Happily, you and I are witnesses to that.

He left and he stayed;

giving us Communion and modeling compassion.

Ain’t-a That Good News!

And on this night there is some final Good News.

Tonight, at the conclusion of this first day of the Triduum, this liturgy draws

us from the Table to Tabernacle—the place of repose. And here something

very simple—and very profound—happens.

We carry the Eucharist. We move in procession. We follow the Lord we

have just received. This rite reminds us that adoration is not separate from

the Eucharist we have celebrated; it extends it.

What we have received so sacramentally, we are now invited to savor quite

contemplatively.

In short, the liturgy does not end at the altar tonight. It lingers. It deepens. It

asks us to remain. We go, in a sense, with Christ into the garden—to keep

watch, to stay awake, to be present to him in the quiet hour.

And this movement is not accidental. It is bound up with the manifest

mandates we have just heard and seen. “Do this in memory of me.” “Love

one another as I have loved you.”

The Eucharist we carry is the same Christ who kneels to wash feet, who

gives his body for the life of the world, who asks not simply for adoring

admiration, but for intimate imitation. To adore him is to remain with him. To

remain with him is to begin to love as he loves.

In the stillness of this night, what we have celebrated begins to take root.

The gift becomes a deathless presence, and the deathless presence

becomes a way of life. So now we follow him—not to conclude, but to

continue. What we have received, we now behold. What we behold, we are

called to become—the Bread that breathes, the Wine that bleeds—broken

and poured out for the life of the world.

Ain’t-a That Good News!

Justin Mercy