Holy Week

This is a homily I gave on Holy Wednesday. It comes out of a story by Carol Howard Merritt on Christian Century (or really on www.christiancentury.org) . You can access that story here: http://www.christiancentury.org/blogs/archive/2012-03/love-and-lent. The text that I used for this particular homily was John 13:1-20.

Carol Merritt was 15 years old. It’s that age where you’re old enough to know that something is going on, but not old enough that anyone would ever consider telling you what it is. But there was definitely something going on. 

Carol hadn’t been in church that morning, but she knew that people at church were very upset. Her mother was on the phone all afternoon. She heard snippets of conversation, and slowly began to piece together what had happened. “I think he wanted to get caught” she overheard her mother say on the phone. 
“I saw him in the parking lot with her the other day.”
“What are we going to do?”
“He said in the sermon that he wants to “move on” 
“There’s a meeting tonight, elders and leaders. No, I won’t be there. But my husband will.”
Slowly, Carol began to piece together the story. Their pastor had had an affair, and confessed it in his sermon that morning. He said that he’d succumbed to “temptation,” as if it were just another obstacle in his path, instead of the reality, that he’d thrown his family and his church family into chaos. He said that he was ready to move on, but the congregation was only learning what had happened. They wanted facts, details, explanations. The scandal would not soon be over.

Carol wrote about this experience in the Christian Century magazine a few weeks ago. She talks about how her mother paced around the kitchen that Sunday, after her Dad had gone to the elder’s meeting. And then, she says, her mother picks up a big basin, and puts some of the family’s plushest towels in it. And she shouts. “Car-o! Let’s go!” And piles the kids into the car.

The parsonage is about 30 minutes away. Her mother let herself in. Margaret was sitting in the living room. She’s sitting quietly in the dark room, breathing deeply. Carol’s mother silently goes into the kitchen and fills the basin full of water. She sets it down beside Margaret, and takes off Margaret’s slippers, placing them gently on the floor beside her. Without a word, her mother takes Margarets feet, slips them into the warm water, and begins to wash.

The tears begin to flow immediately. They all know what will happen tomorrow. Being the spouse of a pastor involves living in a spotlight that you never asked for, accepting attention and expectations that you never sought. Working through a spouse’s unfaithfulness is a daunting assignment. But when it happens publicly, in a spotlight you never wanted, the betrayal is much greater.

People would talk about Margaret tomorrow. The most intimate aspects of the affair would be public. People would wonder what was wrong in the relationship. They would declare themselves too smart for this to happen to them. They would imply that Margaret was too cold or uninteresting to keep the attentions of her husband. They would say that she was weak for staying, or cruel for leaving. Tomorrow. In the midst of a painful family drama played out for the whole world to see, Margaret would have to evaluate everything. His lies, her reputation, his job, her financial situation, her children, even who were her friends. Tomorrow.

But tonight, Carol’s mother took Margaret’s feet, lifted them out of the water and dried them of water and tears, then placed them on plush towels. Tonight, she wanted Margaret to know that she was loved, even in the midst of painful betrayal, cherished to the ends of her toes.

    On the night that Jesus died, he gathered a big basin and tied a towel around himself. He knelt down before each of his disciples, even the one who was to betray him, and washed their feet. This was a common practice in the Mediterranean world, where sandals were the most common form of foot protection, and the dust from roads and streets would cling to people’s feet. But it was for servants, or slaves to do, not teachers. The master of the house did not wash the feet of the slave, nor the teacher his students. But Jesus did. Though he was their master and teacher, he knelt down before them as a servant, and he taught them to do the same. Peter fought it, he argued  with Jesus, and I think we understand him. One of the hardest things to do in life is sit back, and let yourself be loved. And so Jesus washed his disciples feet. He knew what would happen tomorrow. The wounds, the suffering, and worse, the betrayal. But that night in the Upper Room he declared that they were loved, cherished to the ends of their toes.

Friends, we’ve seen what people can do to one another, even in church. We’ve seen people get hurt in the church, or be hurt by the church. In fact, I’d hazard a guess that most of us, at some point or another in our lives have been on both sides of it. We’ve been hurt, and we’ve hurt others. And if not, we’ve heard stories about it,
 “So-and-so doesn’t go to church anymore since they said that about her son” or
“We appreciate the suggestion but you know after what happened we can’t put those two on a committee together.”
And even more often you don’t hear about it, people bear their wounds silently, slowly drifting away from the community, until eventually their gone.

Why do we do this to each other?  I don’t know. The Calvinist in me says that it’s because we’re inherently broken. That as humans, we’re selfish, and we behave carelessly with each other’s feelings because in our limited human nature it’s hard to see beyond our own troubles to understand another’s. Or perhaps it’s that the world is just so dirty and messy, that we can’t help but track some mud into our churches. And perhaps, just as Mom would make my brother and I take our shoes off before coming into her house, Jesus is telling us to take off our sandals, and wash each other’s feet, because we are standing on holy ground.

There is an intensity and a power to what Jesus did in the Upper Room that night. He takes on the role of a servant, and tells us that we should follow his example. That we should wash one another’s feet. He does so not only for his favorite disciples, or the most righteous, but each and every one, including the one who was to betray him. Jesus tells us that in the midst of pain, in the midst of suffering, we are to wash each other’s feet. We are to serve each other, to love one another as Christ has loved us, even to the ends of our toes. If we do so, perhaps we can find it within ourselves to see past our own hurts to the incredible mercy of Christ’s saving grace.

There is an intensity and a power about the way Carol’s mother goes to Margaret’s house when the rest of the congregation is going to a meeting at the church. While others clamor to figure out what has happened, to piece together details into a story, to assign blame and judgment, she goes to where the wound cut deepest, where it hurt the most, bringing nothing but love, a big basin, and soft towels.

It’s a reminder, of what Jesus did for his disciples on his final night, of how we are called to minister to those who need it the most, to go where others do not think to go, to be reminders that no matter what happens tomorrow, you are cherished, down to the ends of your toes.

Carol says her faith was formed that night, a fifteen year-old-girl watching her mother wash Margaret’s feet. Not by sinfulness and accusation, but by the love between two sisters in Christ, and the reminder that no matter what happens tomorrow, you are loved to the ends of your toes. So let us also be formed by what has happened, in Margaret’s sitting room and in that Upper Room. As Paul says, “Do not be conformed to this world but transformed by the renewing of your minds, so that you may discern what is the will of God—what is good and acceptable and perfect.

No matter what happens tomorrow, let us serve one another as ministers of Christ’s grace to each other. Let us love, even in the midst of betrayal. Let us go to where the wounds cut deepest, tending the wounded in our church and in our world. Let us let each other know, through our actions today and every single day, that as God’s children we are cherished, even to the ends of our toes.