Thank you, Mark :-)
I always look forward to the washing of feet. If you've never done it (maybe you've never heard of it, either?), the experience is truly humbling. To serve and be served in this intimate way is touching. The ceremony is a precious reminder that we are to seek and serve Christ in all people. It reminds me that I am called to love my neighbor. [I simply have to give a little shout-out to CS Lewis here. In _Mere Christianity_, he points out that we are not called to like our neighbors, but to love them. The very breath of God exists in all of us. We may not agree with the candidate our neighbor votes for; we may not like the way our neighbor treats other people; we may detest the cologne our neighbor seemingly bathes in -- I could go on and on, obviously. We don't have to like anything about our neighbor. It is the breath of God that is buried deep within that deserves to be loved.]
Then there's the stripping of the altar. To talk or write about it with mere words doesn't do it any justice, really. Frankly, it's a disarming experience. Psalm 22 is chanted, and once it's over, there is only silence, save for the noises made by the priests and servers and LEMs. The lights get dimmer and dimmer. Virtually anything not nailed to the floor is taken out of the chancel -- altar linens, altar books, chalices, candles, banners...even the sanctuary lamp is extinguished and taken out (and this makes me so sad, since the sanctuary lamp signifies the very presence of Christ). All these things are done carefully, deliberately, meditatively. It is a symbol of Christ being stripped of his power and glory. The congregation is left kneeling in darkness and shadows. Confession: no matter how much older and hopefully (dare I say it?) wiser I get, churches at night with the lights off scare the dickens out of me. Like I said -- the experience is disarming.
Yet I adore this service. Maundy Thursday (as well as -- and along with -- Good Friday and the entire forty days and nights of Lent) brings me to my knees, both literally and figuratively. It reminds me that all of my troubles put together are nothing compared to what Jesus endured, that I have much to be happy about and thankful for, and also that I have some things I need to work on within myself. Seeing and hearing others kneeling in the dark with me lets me know that I am not alone in these things, and that is a great comfort. We spend much of the liturgical year in love and praise of God, but it is this time of year where we acknowledge the mystery of him (and I do so love a good mystery).
Holy Week and the preceding weeks during Lent represent a bleak and somber time. That doesn't sound appealing to some. But it is through the bleak and the somber and the reflection and the examination and the mystery that the absolute joy of Easter truly comes to me. But that's a whole other blog...
