Maundy Thursday 2021

 Maundy Thursday • 1 April 2021

Almighty Father, whose dear Son, on the night before he suffered, instituted the Sacrament of his Body and Blood: Mercifully grant that we may receive it thankfully in remembrance of Jesus Christ our Lord, who in these holy mysteries gives us a pledge of eternal life; and who now lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

Exodus 12.1-14a; Psalm 78.14-20, 23-25; 1 Corinthians 11.23-32; John 13.1-15; Luke 22.14-20

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Maundy Thursday solidifies the turning-point that we noted yesterday. There is no looking back, only going forward deeper and deeper into the journey to the cross and Easter Resurrection. We move from the betrayal of Jesus by Judas into the further confusion of the disciples, who are frantically trying to understand what is happening to them.

he readings and collect for this liturgy complicate matters because they focus on both foundational actions that become part of the church’s story: foot-washing with the new commandment to love one another (John) and the institution of the Lord’s Supper (1 Corinthians and Luke). The collect, when added to the reading from 1 Corinthians, would make the listener think the major focus of Maundy Thursday is the sacrament of Holy Eucharist. But then there is the gospel from John, that relates how Jesus washes the disciples’ feet, gives them the example of the teacher humbling himself before his disciples, prior to Judas’ betrayal, and teaches them the Great Commandment to love. The person preaching and the person preparing the liturgy always have to decide which reading to choose—the norm is the reading from John with the footwashing.

No wonder the Maundy Thursday liturgy itself has gotten so complicated over time. Which narrative do we emphasise? How do we enter into the three most holy days of the year, the Triduum, Maundy Thursday, Good Friday and Holy Saturday? How do we convey that once we start the liturgy on Maundy Thursday, it does not end until Easter? There are no blessings, the liturgies flow one to the next until, finally, we gather after sunset Saturday night or before dawn Easter morning for the Great Vigil and the first Eucharist of Easter.

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For most of us, today is the second year in a row where we are unable physically to gather and do all the rituals associated with this night. Accordingly, we have had to do a lot of rethinking about the physicality of the actions commemorated this evening, particularly the Holy Eucharist.

Last year, we had barely entered the pandemic with all its restrictions. In my neck of the woods, the bishop had already ordered the buildings closed, even to the clergy, so we did not have access to the usual symbols and spaces associated with Holy Week. Where I was serving, we did not even try for Communion on Easter; we just read Morning Prayer, the way it used to be back in the 1960s, before Communion became the norm for Sundays.
This year, we find ourselves still in a time of pandemic, Coronatide 54 and, in Vermont at least, is still worshipping remotely. All those actions of this night—foot washing, celebrating Holy Eucharist for the last time until Easter (only three days off but an eternity spiritually), reserving blessed bread and wine, Christ’s Body and Blood, that are lovingly placed in a separate space for an overnight vigil, in preparation for Good Friday; reading Psalm 22 while the congregation removes everything from the altar area, strips the altar and washes the altar with crosses of wine on the corners and in the middle and then cleans it with water—all these familiar actions once again won’t happen and all we are left with are words.

People are champing at the bit to get back into the buildings, back to having weekly communion, but it still is not safe to do so. Others have tied themselves up in theological knots over the expectation that on Good Friday, whatever bread and wine still remain, must be consumed so that there is no Jesus anywhere until the first Eucharist of Easter. Yet yesterday I picked up two tiny little plastic containers that hold wine and a minute piece of bread, which were blessed on Palm Sunday. I have placed them in a secure place and they shall wait for us to consume on Easter along with a remote congregation. There will be Jesus in my house tomorrow and Saturday morning and it will be OK. We adapt as we go along.

Weekly communion, which used to be the breath of my life, my being, now seems like a distant memory. Since last March, I have had communion just once, on Christmas Eve, in the same fashion. The next time I will be able to receive will be on Pentecost, off in May. Even though I could celebrate at home, I do not, as part of my vow to obey my bishop and remain in solidarity with my sister and brother priests who, likewise, have abstained from celebrating at home or privately. We fast. We wait. And we sometimes whine.

Nor can we wash each other’s feet this year. That, too, remains an impossibility, given the restrictions of the pandemic.

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So, again, we are back to the memories and the words. Like the people of Israel in exile, we remain in exile in this Holy Week. Maybe next year, we can return to some of these familiar actions, though I imagine after two years of virtual Holy Week, we may reimagine much of what we do. Some of our rituals may become sweet memories, no longer necessary for our worship.

On this Maundy Thursday, while still in exile, while still unable to celebrate the Lord’s Supper and wash people’s feet, while not yet able to imagine a future with physical worship, my heart turns to Psalm 126:

When the LORD restored the fortunes of Zion,
then were we like those who dream.
Then was our mouth filled with laughter,
and our tongue with shouts of joy.

Then they said among the nations,
‘The LORD has done great things for them.’
The LORD has done great things for us,
and we are glad indeed.

Restore our fortunes, O LORD,
like the water courses of the Negev.
Those who sowed with tears
will reap with songs of joy.

Those who go out weeping, carrying the seed,

will come again with joy, shouldering their sheaves.

Whether we gather together physically or remotely, God is with us. And where God is, there is love. And where love is, there is God. That fundamentally is the message of tonight. Ubi caritas, Deus ibi est. May you carry this hope in your heart through the next three days.