Maundy Thursday

Hundreds of people are huddled indoors. Prisoners in their own homes. They have been prisoners for years. Generations have been born into captivity and slave labour. Children who have never known freedom. This is a Concentration Camp thousands of years before the atrocities of World War II came to light, before Aushwitz and Birkenhau became synonymous with evil.

The prisoners have been busy – in secret. A meal has been prepared according to strict guidelines. The recipe is set out, portion control is in place, there is no resting or reclining, no meandering through the meal, no time to savour the moment. They are to eat this meal standing, ready for the off, with packed bags, ready for a journey, with sandals on their feet and staff in their hand.

There is silence.

There is danger too. And there is tension. Soon there is a silent exodus of people as families leave their homes, one by one, and slip out into the night, acknowledging one another with a nod of the head or some other silent gesture. There is hope in their eyes. But there is fear too. The moon is high in the sky, a full moon, their only light.

There is silence.

Death hangs in the air. Their unsuspecting Captors will wake in the morning to find that death has touched their households. There will be mourning and crying coming from every house, as one by one the Captors are picked off. Their first-born are dead. And they will wake, too, to find their Captives’ homes empty.

Filled with anger and panic they will make the chase.

This is the Great Escape, and it is dangerous and deadly. There can be no room for mistakes, no backing out at the last minute, no panic. Just follow the plans that have been made. And so with fluttering stomachs, quickly beating hearts, missed breaths they make their escape.

This is the Passover of the Lord.

It is this Passover of the Lord that has coloured the lives of the Jewish People ever since, defining them, making them who they are: a pivotal event in their history, an essential event to remember. The Passover Festival, celebrated year after year, is the freedom meal of the Jews: God rescues them, leads them out from slavery to a land flowing with milk and honey. This is a day of festival for ever.

And so when Jesus keeps the Passover - as he does year in year out - it is filled with emotion and meaning, filled with tenderness and tearfulness and a corporate memory of all that God has done for his people in leading them to freedom. And there is much joy.

The writer of the gospel of John changes things a bit. He places this last meal of Jesus and his death on the cross in the days before the Passover, the day on which the Passover Lamb was slaughtered. It is a fine and fanciful twisting of the story to bring out another meaning.

Jesus is the one who hands himself over, gives himself up, places himself at the heart of the Passover. He is the one who feeds and nourishes, the one who gives himself up, the one who is sacrificed. As the blood above the doors offered a sign of salvation to the Jewish people, so it is Jesus’ blood which brings freedom from death and allows us to journey to the promised land, to be free: free to love, free to be loved.

At this meal, a meal that defines who we are and what we are, Jesus gives us himself.

He rises from table, takes a towel, ties it round his waist and stoops down to wash his disciples’ feet. His disciples are disturbed. Deeply disturbed. The tables have been turned. What is he doing, squandering at their feet? They are embarrassed: embarrassed by the smell of their feet? Embarrassed above all that Jesus is waiting on them. He is their Master and Teacher, their Lord and their Leader and yet here he is messing with the mundane. Everything is being turned on its head, as their lives are, once again, turned upside down. They aren’t sure of anything any more. All they know is that they are confused. Jesus’ talk of death is too much for them to take. Even his talk of love is disturbing them. Yes, they are disturbed by Love.

And here we are, huddled together. The food is prepared, and we are ready for a journey, the journey to the cross and beyond. We are filled with many different emotions, and each of us brings so much to the table. We bring to the table different gifts and grievances, weaknesses and worries, failures and fragilities, questions and concerns. We bring them all to the table. Indeed, we bring our whole lives to the table: to be transformed, to be comforted, challenged, humbled and raised. And we bring so much joy, so much love, so much need of love, and so much need to love.

This Eucharist defines us. It has defined the church ever since Jesus said, ‘Do this in remembrance of me.’ Ever since the church began to grow and gather together they broke bread to proclaim the Lord’s death. Yes, the Eucharist, this Supper, this meal, this Mass defines who we are. It is pivotal and essential. It is our freedom food. Our food for the journey. Our food of Salvation.

Another distinctive characteristic of the church is tied up with this meal, part and parcel of everything it is, for another defining characteristic of the Church is Love. ‘Love one another as I have loved you,’ said Jesus. A commandment, a order, a mandate.

Every Eucharist is a gesture of love, an eloquent expression of how much Jesus loves us. For on this night Jesus gave himself to his disciples and so to us, on this night he gave himself into the hands of his enemies: willingly, but not without pain, all for the sake of love.

And in case we miss the point altogether we are given a further expression of love. He washes his disciples feet. His disciples are disturbed by Love.

Tonight and throughout these Holy Days and beyond, disturbed by love. Be transformed by Love. When you find someone difficult or distasteful be disturbed by love. When you find someone annoying or argumentative be disturbed by love. When you find someone frustrating or when you find the thought of washing someone’s feet an ugly act or when you find the thought of having your own feet washed, be disturbed by love. When you wonder what the church is all about or what God wants from us and from you, be disturbed by love. When faced by atrocity and disaster, when left to wonder what it’s all about, be disturbed by love. When you are scared or uncertain, be disturbed by love.

Tonight, we have an eloquent expression of love, a call to love, a call to be loved: in this Eucharist as Jesus hands himself to us in bread and wine, as he hands himself to his enemies, as he washes our feet, he disturbs the world with his love, he disturbs us with his love.

“I give you a new commandment. Love one another as I have loved you.”

Wednesday of Holy Week

Changing Rooms, DIYSOS, Real Rooms, Housecall, Home Front and other similar TV programmes have all placed DIY Home Improvement back on the map. Over the years, the like of Laurence Llewellyn Bowen have fingered many a fine fabric, and Hand Andy (and other hammer loving men) have drilled many a piece of MDF to the wall of some sad victim’s home – usually whilst they are away on holidays, and who return home to find their house transformed from dependable magnolia to See Breeze Blue, swirling turquoise and fake velvet wall coverings. Taste isn’t always the order of the day but time is. They are working against the clock!

In the gospel reading today we have a case of Changing Rooms. It looks like Jesus has already made some secret preparations. He already has his eye on a suitable room in which he will celebrate the Passover with his friends and followers. Everything has to be prepared and finalised, right down to the last detail. And so he sends his disciples away to some anonymous, unnamed person who has some suitable upstairs accommodation. ‘The Master says, “My time is near. It is at your house that I am keeping Passover with my disciples.”’ There is much to do. The Passover is at hand. They are working against the clock.

Jesus’ time has come – in fact his tie seems up. Judas Iscariot has already done his dirty work. His perilous preparations will take the Passover to a plane that the apostles had never imagined. There is intrigue in the room, and mush distaste, as Jesus predicts the unimaginable. One of his closest friends and followers will betray him. What bad taste! Within this room things are beginning to change. The disciples are distressed: disturbed by the thought that they could be the one to betray Jesus. Time is ticking by. The final moment is almost here.

They spend some time more with Jesus in the comfort - and discomfort - of this room, in this room where they are beginning to change and where their future dreams are changing too. They cannot, do not, stay there. At some stage, after supper, when all the talking is done, when they can stay no longer, they go out into darkness, following Jesus and then, in the confusion and chaos of Gethsemane, they disperse, disappear, scurry away like frightened mice. They cannot set their eyes on the unsightly sight before them. The cross is too much for them to take. But it is to this Changing Room that they return: back to the pots and pans and mess of a Passover Party, to try to pick up the pieces left after Jesus’ death. They are empty, broken, not half the men they used to be. The door is locked. Time stands still.

It is in this room, where so much has happened, where they have experienced so much change, that they will be changed further still, as news begins to reach them that Christ is risen from the dead. Confused even further by this message that slips under the door, they soon discover for themselves the risen presence of Jesus. Locked Doors cannot keep him out. Death does not do him in. His time has come.

Time is ticking by. The Passover is almost here. The holy three days, The Easter Triduum, is almost upon us. The Evening Mass of Maundy Thursday is almost here, as is the staggering, disturbing, ugly image of the cross on Good Friday. How will it change you? Do you dare to be changed? Time is ticking by. It is almost here. Salvation is upon us.