March 20, 2008
(Maundy Thursday)

Blessed is the One

by The Rev. Bryan England, Deacon

Exodus 12:1-4, (5-10), 11-14  •  Psalm 116:1, 10-17  •  1 Corinthians 11:23-26  •  John 13:1-17, 31b-35
(From The Lectionary Page)

Linda and I very rarely argue about anything. That was the way I was going to open this sermon, but I realized that if anyone in the congregation knew us at all, I would have to wait for the laughter to die down before I could proceed, and that seemed to be an inauspicious way to start a sermon during Holy Week. After weighing several different waffles on the truth, I decided to phrase my opening sentence like this, "One of the many things Linda and I argue about is how to hang pictures."

Everyone knows the simple rule of thumb for hanging pictures – you hang them at eye level. The only problem is “eye level “is a very relative term and subjective term. What is eye level to Linda seems to be somewhere around my knees, and when I hang a picture at eye level, Linda has to stand upon a chair to look at it. Since we compromise on everything in our household, all the paintings in our house are hung about a foot and a half above the baseboards.

The rule to hang paintings at eye level explains why you probably haven't heard of Cosimo Rosselli's wonderful fresco, "The Last Supper," unless you are an art major. (See it here at the Vatican Museums website.)  Everyone has heard of Leonardo da Vinci’s "Last Supper" (refresh your memory at Wikipedia), but not the one by Rosselli, and that’s because of where they are hung. As everyone knows, da Vinci's "Last Supper" is a fresco, painted on the wall of the dining room of a monastery. The room is unspectacular, it was actually used as a stable at one point in time, and your eyes are immediately drawn to da Vinci's fresco.

Cosimo Rosselli's 1482 fresco of "Last Supper," was more honored, and received better treatment, which is why you have probably never heard of it. It is painted on a panel, and hung at eye level – in the Sistine Chapel. Unfortunately, everyone visiting the Sistine Chapel is staring at the ceiling – at Michaelangelo's frescoes, and hardly anyone ever notices Rosselli's painting, which is really a shame.

In Rosselli's painting, Jesus and his disciples are seated on one side of a table, which is actually shaped like an arc. That’s an arc with a “c” not a “k”. Jesus is seated in the center, on the outside of the arc, and eleven disciples are sitting to his left and right. You can tell they're the disciples, they all have those early depictions of haloes that look like there's a gold plate nailed to the backs of their heads. All expect one, of course. This disciple is seated on the other side of the table from Jesus and the others. He doesn't have a gold plate nailed to the back of his head, instead, his is kind of grayish. And he has an imp, a small demon, sitting on his shoulder. Guess which disciple he is. I didn't say Rosselli was subtle.

What fascinates me about Rosselli's "Last Supper" is not the depiction of Jesus and the disciples, however. It is the rest of the painting. Behind Jesus and the disciples are three “window” paintings, as they are often described, depicting Jesus' torment in the Garden, Jesus' arrest by the temple guards, and the crucifixion. But these paintings appear to me to be a triptych set on top of a retable, what we would call a reredos, like the one shrouded behind me. In the foreground, on both sides of the painting stand four figures, attendants or pages, dressed, not as Jesus and the disciples, but the tunics and stockings, what to Rosselli would have been modern dress. There are even dogs and cats playing in the foreground, all of which are totally anachronistic in a depiction of the Last Supper. Clearly, the Last Supper in Rosselli's fresco is taking place, not in the Judea of the first century, but in an Italian church of the Renaissance.

I love Rosselli's painting because it is a succinct depiction of what is happening in the Eucharist. In our Epistle lesson, Paul described the tradition that he received from others, that on the night when Jesus was to be betrayed he took bread and broke it, and gave it to his friends with the command to "Do this in remembrance of me." Likewise, he took a cup of wine and shared it with them, again with the words, "Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me." Paul tells us that as often as we do this, we proclaim Christ's death until he comes again.

But it's even more wondrous than that. As in Rosselli's fresco, when we gather in the name of Christ, when the priest, or bishop in this case, takes our oblations of wine and bread, and intones the words of the Eucharistic prayer, that event in Jerusalem two thousand years ago happens again, here, and now. Once again, Christ is in the midst of His disciples, and shares His body and His blood with His friends, only this time, they are you and me.

It is as disciples of Christ, as friends of Christ, that we gather this evening in obedience to Our Lord's command. Indeed Maundy Thursday takes its name from a corruption of the Latin Dies Mandati, day of the command. That command is found in tonight's Gospel lesson.

Ironically, on the night we gather to remember the institution of the Lord's Supper, our Gospel lesson deals with something entirely. In fact, John's gospel does not even mention the Eucharistic meal at all! Instead, we are told that during supper Jesus got up from the table, took off his outer robe, and tied a towel around himself. Then he poured water into a basin and began to wash the disciples' feet and to dry them with the towel.

After Jesus finished, he returned to the table and he said, "If I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you."

As we meet tonight to remember Christ's passion in the Eucharistic meal, we also meet to remember His servant-hood by washing one another's feet. And in that remembrance He becomes present with us as surely as He is in the breaking of the bread.

As the Eucharist is a metaphor for Christ's sacrifice of His body and blood for the life of the world, our washing one another's feet is a metaphor of our mission to be Christ's body in the world. In our redeemed brokenness, we are both Christ and sinner, both washer and washed.

Paradoxically, it is often easier to wash than to be washed. There is an axiom that physicians are the worst patients, and it also holds true for ministers, both lay and ordained. It is often hard to sit back and accept the ministry of others. It violates our sense of self-reliance, but it also makes us feel, dare I say it, positively un-humble. We have gotten to the point of taking pride in our humility! Stories abound of Francis of Assisi kissing lepers, but what story have you heard about a leper kissing him? Would that have been as easy for Francis to accept?

Just as sadly, we often refuse to accept the ministry of others because of comparisons to those who have ministered to us before. We all have favorite bishops who inspired us at some point in our lives; priests or ministers we grew up with, either chronologically or spiritually; deacons who visited us when we were hospitalized or overcome with grief; lay ministers who taught us in Sunday School and confirmation class, or brought communion to our loved ones who could no longer attend services. These disciples of Christ have had such a profound impact on us that we sometimes accept their gifts as the only gifts that matter to the church, and we expect all others that come to us in the name of the Lord to be clones of those who have come before.

We often expect those who minister to us to meet our conception of what a minister looks like, and how they should minister. In the past, the church has been wracked with arguments over the race of ordained ministers, or what their marital status is or was, what gender they needed to be, or what sexuality. And it is sad, yet axiomatic, that anytime a parish changes rectors, some old members will leave, and some new members will come.

Once, while my home parish was in a search process, a founding member, and a personal friend, stomped up to me and declared, “If this parish calls a woman, I’m leaving.” My response was out before I even had time to think, “Why wait?” In retrospect, it’s probably not a good response to a coffee-hour question on a general ordination examination, but it had the desired effect. The parishioner had to do a quick reevaluation of her priorities. The parish did call a woman, who was there about ten years, and my friend was soon won over.

In our zeal to ensure that everyone who ministers to us fits our preconception of what a minister should be, we often forget Paul’s words to the church in Corinth. “There are varieties of gifts, but the same Spirit; and there are varieties of services, but the same Lord.” To that same church, Paul wrote, “Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same purpose.”

It is important to remember, that in tonight's gospel lesson, Peter is not rebuked for refusing to wash someone's feet. He is rebuked for refusing to let someone wash his feet, rebuked for refusing to accept ministry. Peter said to Jesus, "You will never wash my feet," and Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me."

We are each commanded to minister to a needing world in the name of Christ, but we are also commanded to accept one another's ministries. We are commanded to wash someone's feet, and also to let someone wash ours. For by rejecting the ministry of a servant, we also reject the one who sent him or her. We accept each other's ministries as we accept the ministry of Christ Himself. Blessed is the one who comes in the name of the Lord!

I wash your feet, and you wash mine, and it is Christ who cleanses us both.