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Oh, the Love.

We are in Jerusalem for the Passover. It’s usually a festive time of remembering our Story and being with family, but this year—it’s been…different. About ten days ago Jesus insisted on coming back across the Jordan—from where we felt relatively safe–to come toward Jerusalem; toward those who consider him—and probably us, too—to be dangerous. And these days, if somebody in authority thinks you’re dangerous, then that means you’re in danger yourself.  So when Jesus said he wanted to go to Bethany, just a couple of miles outside the city, Thomas said, “Let us also go, that we may die with him.” Say what you want about Thomas; he always speaks his mind. 

So we went to Bethany, where Jesus raised Lazarus from the dead. You must have heard about it; word spread instantly, like wildfire. We didn’t know whether to be excited or terrified. Probably both.

And now, here we are. In Jerusalem. Along with pretty much everybody else from all around. I’ve never seen so many people.

And the whole city is on edge. The Chief Priests are watching. Pilate is watching. We are not safe tonight. These days, is anyone safe? 

It’s been like whiplash. Just a few days ago there was so much hope. The crowd hailed Jesus as Messiah—with hosannas so loud we couldn’t hear ourselves think, and palm branches so thick on the ground that the donkey’s feet never touched the dirt. (A donkey; what king rides a donkey) It was thrilling. But now everything is eerily quiet and tense, and all that remains of the carpet of palms are a few dried up fronds littering the roadside. Every day Jesus does something to rile up the authorities; arguing, flipping over tables in the Temple…  There are rumors of insurrection. Fear of reprisals. Considering how the week started, it’s pretty discouraging, and that’s putting it mildly.

Anyway, Jesus told us to prepare for the Passover meal, which is usually busy and exciting, but we had to sneak around so no one would know where Jesus was going to be. We feel like criminals. 

We’re not safe tonight. 

So, our Passover meal. It was—strange? Confusing? Amazing? We’re still trying to take it all in.

To begin with, honestly, it felt like a wake instead of a party. Even Jesus seemed kind of anxious, which isn’t really like him. He’s usually so focused, so wise, so– in charge. 

It’s not easy to follow him. 

He asks a lot of us. But we trust him. We don’t always understand him, but we trust him. Mostly. It’s hard to trust when you’re scared. 

So many times Jesus has told us not to be afraid; not to be anxious. He’s tried really hard to get us to understand what he’s about, but I guess you could say we’re a work in progress. But that’s the thing about Jesus; he’s never stopped trying to get through to us. 

Like tonight. 

He was preoccupied at dinner. You could tell something was eating at him.

And then suddenly he gets up, takes a basin of water and a towel, and kneels in front of Andrew. We stop eating and just stare as he pours water over Andrew’s feet and then dries them. Okay, we think he’s done, but then he moves to Philip, same thing. And then Judas, then Nathanael. Then Peter. 

Count on Peter to create a fuss.

He’s shocked, and says so. What kind of a Messiah does this? What kind of a king stoops to serve in such a menial way? But Jesus persists—says that unless Peter lets Jesus wash his feet, he can have no part of him. So, Peter finally gives in, like I knew he would. Jesus washes his feet and dries them. And doesn’t stop until he’s done it for all of us. 

He tells us that this is what we should do for one another. Kneel. Serve. Wash. Love. And in turn offer our care-worn, callused, and broken selves to be washed—to be comforted and healed; giving and receiving in a constant flow of care, one to another. He says this is what love looks like. This is who we are, and how people will know that we are his followers. Do this, he says. Because I love you.

He said he loves us. And he wants us to love each other. Even though we argue and compete and are sometimes clueless and stupid, we need to get past it and love each other because…

…he loves us.

It was a lot to take in, but there was something about the washing. The outrageous uncomfortable intimacy and vulnerability of it. Is this what a real king does? Serve? Love? Can anyone imagine Herod being willing to give up power—to stoop to servanthood?

Is this what Jesus means by the Kingdom of God being within us?

No wonder he’s in danger.

So we returned to our dinner. But Jesus was still on edge. Looking back, it felt like he thought he was running out of time. Maybe we could feel it too. He took the bread, and then blessed and broke it, like we usually do, but then he said something…new. 

This is my body, given for you. 

What? 

And then he pours and blesses the wine. 

He passes it around, sharing with each of us. 

This is my blood shed for you.

Do this.

Remember me.

Do this.

Love. Because I love you.

He said earlier that we may not know now what he was doing, but later we will understand.

I hope so. At least a little bit. 

Because something is happening in us. And between us. We all felt it, deep in our hearts. We looked into his eyes, and even though we are scared and worried—even though he sometimes seems scared and worried—what comes through more than anything is that he loves us. 

More than anything. 

Anything.

Dinner is over. We need to leave now. It’s dangerous out there. Things will get worse before they get better, I think. But we have the memory–of the water and the towel, the bread and the wine.

And the love. Oh, the love.

We need to leave now for Gethsemane. Has anyone seen Judas?…