Last Night on Earth

Propers: Maundy Thursday, A.D. 2020 A

Homily:

Lord, we pray for the preacher, for You know his sins are great.

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

What would you do if you knew that you would die tomorrow?

How would you spend your last few hours on this earth? Would you go out in a blaze of glory? Would you call up your loved ones and let them know what all they meant to you? Would you party to the break of dawn? Or would you rage against God for the injustice of it all?

Jesus knew, on this night, that He would be betrayed—that before the cock crowed thrice in the morning, He would find Himself beaten, bound, and abandoned by all those who followed Him, all of His friends. He knew we would nail Him to a Cross. Yet He chose, on this night, the last night of His mortal life, to share a simple meal of bread and of wine with His disciples, and to wash their feet: the feet of those who would flee from Him in the Garden; of Peter, who would deny Him three times; of Judas, who would arrest Him and turn Him over to death with a kiss.

His last night on earth, surrounded by faithless friends, and He loved them to the end. This, more than any act of power, is what makes Him our God.

This was, of course, the night of Passover, the highest of holy days on the Hebrew calendar. This is why Jesus had come to Jerusalem, and why so many pilgrims from around the ancient world were gathered to celebrate under the watchful eye of Rome. We read the story of Passover in the Exodus, a remarkable tale however one tells it. Its origins stretch back to the very beginnings of our race, to Adam and Eve in Eden. When the world fell into sin, we are told, when we abandoned both God and reason to pursue avarice and pride, God set into motion His plan to save us all.

And He did so through the unlikeliest of heroes: through Abraham and through Sarah, a childless elderly couple, who were, we are told, “as good as dead.” I will be your God, the Lord said to Abraham, and you will be My people. I will make of you a family, and of that family a people, and of that people a nation, and that nation shall become for Me a blessing to all the families and peoples of the earth! The Lord chose no emperor, no general, no pharaoh on his throne, but a wandering Aramean centenarian—folks on death’s door, with nothing left to lose save their faith in the promise of God.

And there were twists and turns along the way, mind you. The course of true love never did run smooth. But God brought His promise to fruition. Abraham begat Isaac, who begat Jacob, who begat the Twelve Tribes of Israel. But then history veered off course once again, as the family of Abraham, the people of Israel, found themselves enslaved by the wealthiest empire of their day: Egypt. And here I hope the story is familiar, both from Hollywood and from Scripture.

A baby born a Hebrew slave nevertheless finds himself raised as a prince of Egypt. This contradiction leads to conflict, and so Moses flees the land of his birth to live out his days as a humble shepherd. Yet God will not allow Him to escape his destiny. This slave-prince is sent back to pharaoh as the prophet of the Most High God, the Creator behind and beyond all the gods, the Lord and Ruler even of the ungods of Egypt, of the sun disk and of pharaoh and of the winding River Nile.

And after Ten Plagues, liberation is won, the slaves go free, and they pass through the Red Sea to the inheritance of their ancient Father Abraham. And when pharaoh sends his armies to butcher them in the wilderness, the sea closes back upon their enemies and washes the bloodthirst away, a second cleansing flood. We tell this story every year, not only in churches and synagogues but in films such as The Ten Commandments or The Prince of Egypt. Because that’s what Passover is: it’s the telling of the old, old story of God’s faithfulness and promise; of liberation for the slaves and abundance for Abraham and a blessing for all of God’s world.

At Passover a meal tells the story. Flatbread reminds us that the slaves were freed so quickly that their loaves had not time to rise. Wine recalls the joys of liberation. And mutton remembers the blood of the lamb which marked households as part of God’s people, trusting in God’s promise, whether Hebrew or Egyptian. And this remembrance isn’t simply history, telling a story that happened long ago and far away to generations from whom we’re told we distantly descend. No, this kind of remembrance, in a ritual and religious way, is known as anamnesis—a remembrance that connects us, mystically, spiritually, to the original event.

Thus every Passover meal is a return to the original Passover, the Exodus from Egypt. God did not simply free our umpteenth-great-grandparents, but He frees us, claims us, liberates us today. We enter into the story. It becomes our own. On this night—the night of Jesus’ Last Supper—He gathers with His beloved disciples to celebrate the Passover, to tell the old, old story of the God who champions slaves over emperors, the penniless over the patrician. But Jesus flips the script on us.

First up, He washes the disciples’ feet—He Himself, not John or Peter, who by rights ought to be the ones doing the washing. They are the hosts, after all, the ones sent to prepare and to establish the meal. It’s their job to wipe the dirty feet, not that of the guest of honor. That’s why Peter’s the one who freaks out. But Jesus sets them an example and gives them His final commandment: that we love one another in this way as He has first loved us.

The God who champions slaves as His chosen people, who elects senior citizens over Caesars and sultans, is the same God who now stoops to wash the filthy feet of the men who will betray Him, abandon Him, and deny Him unto death. What wondrous love is this, O my soul?

After this He holds up the flatbread and says that now—now and forever after—this bread is not merely the bread of freedom’s celerity but His own Body, given for you. And this cup is no longer the cup of one people’s joy liberated from slavery but the cup of the New Covenant, of all people liberated from slavery unto sin. And the Blood of the Lamb who takes away the sin of the world is none other than His own Blood poured out for all of us from His riven side on the Cross. And at this His disciples are terrified and bewildered and amazed.

In the climax of the meal—in the way it had been celebrated for more than a thousand years between Moses and the Christ—a psalm was sung, the Great Hallel, and a final cup of wine then shared to close out the ritual, completing the anamnesis. But when His disciples sing the Great Hallel at the Last Supper, Jesus suddenly proclaims, “I shall not taste the fruit of the vine again until I taste it anew in My Father’s Kingdom,” and He abruptly gets up from the table and goes out into the night, into the dark, into the valley of the shadow of death.

For the Meal is not yet complete. The Lamb is not yet slain. This story, tonight, is far from over. It continues tomorrow, along the way of sorrows, to Golgotha, the Place of the Skull. Then down into the tomb, down into hell, down to the dead.

Even so, let us remember that on this night, the night in which He was betrayed, He washed the soiled feet of His betrayers. He shared His bread with His murderers. He humbled Himself and loved us to the last, even knowing what we, in our humanity, were about to do to Him—the lash, the thorns, the nails, the spear.

Let us remember the gentle and lowly love of our God, which conquers death and harrows hell. And in silence, and in awe, let us tremble.

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.