Maundy Thursday 2020

Maundy Thursday 2020 April 9, 2020 This past week, Mary Margaret and I started watching a tv show that several people had recommended. It’s called Zoe’s Extraordinary Playlist. It’s about a young woman who experiences an accident while she is listening to music in the middle of an MRI, and as a result, she discovers that she can hear people’s deepest longings as if they are singing to her. She’ll be in the middle of a meeting or standing in line for coffee, and suddenly a person or a whole group of people break out into song. She learns that in order to stop hearing the song, she needs to talk to the person or people and help them reconcile with their longing or work to solve their problems. It has been an interesting thing for me to think about: what if we could hear the songs of the deepest longings of the people around us? How would that change us and how would that change our relationships with them? There are songs of longings woven through our readings for tonight. In Exodus, we see the institution of the Passover, which was originally a meal for people who were longing for deliverance. The children of Israel were oppressed and enslaved under the tyrant Pharaoh, and they longing for rescue from a God who proved to be stronger even than Pharaoh’s might. In First Corinthians, we see the apostle Paul writing to a divided and arguing community in Corinth, and he is longing to remind them of their unity in Christ, in the unity that is found in the Eucharist and in their common proclamation—proclaiming the Lord’s death until he comes. And in the reading from Luke, we see Jesus’s heart-song of longing to be with his disciples one last time, commemorating the feast of the Lord’s deliverance; one last meal; one last moment of normalcy. And we see the disciples, in their arguing about who is the greatest, longing for meaning, longing for understanding in the midst of Jesus’s unexplainable grief and the confusing and frightening events that have already begun unfolding around them. I have seen glimpses of your longing, too. Many of you wrote me last week asking for me to try to find a way for us to have Eucharist in some form or fashion for Easter, longing to be fed, to be united in this season of fragmentation. And I get it. I hunger and thirst, I long for the Eucharist, too. I grieve that we cannot break bread together on this holy night, or on our happiest and holiest of days this Easter Sunday. And I’ve realized that my hunger and thirst, my longing for the Eucharist is so much more than wanting the bread and the wine, the assurance of belonging to the Body of Christ, the infusion by the Holy Spirit of Christ into my very heart and body and soul. My longing for Eucharist is all of that. And it is also a longing for you, the beloved of God and the other members of Christ Body to which I belong. One of our parishioners told me this week that she misses church and that she especially misses the hugs from people. This made me think more specifically about my longing, and about the different ways that we make Eucharist, or thanksgiving, when we are together and when we are separate. And it is in and through reflecting on my longing that I can also find gratitude for the gifts of this life together. I miss the energy that you bring into this space when we are all together. I miss your smiles, your active listening. I miss your hands, held out for the bread and wine; hands that are small and large; hands that have known many years and hands that have known only a few. I miss your faces—some shining brightly up at me with glimmers of hope and longing held there and some bowed humbly before the mystery God lays before you. I miss all the ages—those of you who move slowly as you make your way carefully to the altar and those of you who, having received what you desire, leap down from the kneeler and race back to your pew, and I miss seeing the way you older folks cherish our younger ones. I miss seeing those things that are unique about each one of you and the gifts that you bring to all of us: Rick, clasping his rosary in his hand; Mary Hardee and Mary Hill’s floral arrangements; the Quaile family, filling a whole pew with people of all ages. I miss Giovanni calling for his sister across the altar rail and then offering me one of his goldfish when I give him communion. I miss teasing Bobby Minis in the announcements, and how he’s always such a good sport about it. I miss the line that forms when you leave communion and stop to light prayer candles; the married couples who walk down the aisle holding hands to receive an anniversary blessing. I miss making bad jokes during the announcements and the kindness of your laughter. I miss the holy handshake line, the hugs, the music we make together. On this Maundy Thursday, it is worth remembering and reflecting on what Maundy Thursday means. It comes from the Latin Mandatum Novum which means “new commandment,” and it refers to the instructions that Jesus gives his disciples in John 13:34-35: “A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another. By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you love one another.” It occurs to me that the greatest act of love and service that we can do for each other right now is to fast; to fast from gathering; to fast from Eucharist. It is our love for one another that is the cause of our longing; and it is our love for one another that gives our fast, our hunger and our thirst meaning. One of my favorite poets, Mary Oliver, has a poem titled Thirst (from a book of poetry from the same name). I’ve been reflecting on that poem as I have dwelled with my longing, so I’ll share it with you in closing and offer a question for you to ponder. Thirst by Mary Oliver Another morning and I wake with thirst for the goodness I do not have. I walk out to the pond and all the way God has given us such beautiful lessons. Oh Lord, I was never a quick scholar but sulked and hunched over my books past the hour and the bell; grant me, in your mercy, a little more time. Love for the earth and love for you are having such a long conversation in my heart. Who knows what will finally happen or where I will be sent, yet already I have given a great many things away, expecting to be told to pack nothing, except the prayers which, with this thirst, I am slowly learning. What does this thirst, this longing for Eucharist and this longing for gathering have to teach us about ourselves, about our gratitude, about God, and about the church?