from our MAUNDY THURSDAY service...

Sunset to sunrise changes now
For God doth make His world anew:
On the Redeemer's thorn-crowned brow
The wonders of that dawn we view.

E’en though the sun withholds its light,
Lo! A more heavenly lamp shines here —
And from the cross on Calvary’s height
Gleams of eternity appear.

Here in o'erwhelming final strife
The Lord of Life hath victory;
And sin is slain, and death brings life,
And sons of earth hold heaven in fee.

This is a 19th-century re-working of a 2nd-century hymn credited to Clement of Alexandria, which we sing to a tune called Kedron from the Sacred Harp. To me there is something so powerful in the thought that it has been sung at this time of year for so many centuries... I was already in tears by the time we reached the end of it, and then came the prayer of confession:

Our sins are too heavy to carry, too real to hide, and too deep to undo. Forgive what our lips tremble to name, what our hearts can no longer bear, and what has become for us a consuming fire of judgment. Set us free from a past that we cannot change; open us to a future in which we can be changed; and grant us grace to grow more and more in your likeness and image; through Jesus Christ, the light of the world. Amen.

I was sobbing, but I think quietly enough not to attract attention, except from the choir, who were all looking straight in my direction, whether or not they were looking at me. Communion coming up. My Partner-in-Crime sat slumped over, her head in her hands resting on back of the pew in front, ; her estranged husband came in and sat not beside, but behind her. Was it a declaration of solidarity? was he there to let her know he was with her after all? Or was it something more sinister? was he saying he would always track her down and that even here she would find no refuge from him...?

I looked down the bulletin through my tears and suddenly saw that, aside from the opening verses of John 1 to close the service, I was down to read the story of the foot-washing. Because of my wife, we are a foot-washing church. OK, I said, I can do this. I can walk down the aisle to take communion, I can continue up onto the dais and I can breathe deeply and slowly until I have to read. Easy to say... Bach's music lifted me up and carried me and my tear-stained face down the aisle; I somehow managed to make it up onto the podium and even check where the reading stopped in my verseless prose version against the chancel Bible... the pastors stood by the organist to offer her communion when she finished...

Now before the festival of the Passover, Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world and go to the Father. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end. The devil had already put it into the heart of Judas son of Simon Iscariot to betray him. And during supper Jesus, knowing that the Father had given all things into his hands, and that he had come from God and was going to God, 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 wipe them with the towel that was tied around him.

Here the catch in my voice suddenly won out. I have always identified with Peter: the short-tempered, impulsive bastard who promises everything and can do nothing. When violence can achieve nothing, he cuts off someone's ear. When courage might give his Lord support, he fails to summon it; he does exactly what he swore he would never do, and I expect he always had. Here, he humbles himself falsely and then immediately claims the crown, leaving it to his master to insist on sense and proportion. How many times have I read this passage aloud over the years? And every time it seizes on my heart with new power: this is you, your weakness, your pride even in your attempts at humility...

He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, "Lord, are you going to wash my feet?" Jesus answered, "You do not know now what I am doing, but later you will understand." Peter said to him, "You will never wash my feet." Jesus answered, "Unless I wash you, you have no share with me." Simon Peter said to him, "Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!" Jesus said to him, "One who has bathed does not need to wash, except for the feet, but is entirely clean. And you are clean, though not all of you." For he knew who was to betray him; for this reason he said, "Not all of you are clean."

And then the incredible coda, though by now I had some control back, and it could not stop me.

After he had washed their feet, had put on his robe, and had returned to the table, he said to them, "Do you know what I have done to you? You call me Teacher and Lord, and you are right, for that is what I am. So 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."

How did I make it to the back of the church again? Ah, who knows? Perhaps I knew that there was no way I could maintain anything resembling composure if I either washed feet or was washed. Perhaps I just found solace in being all the way in the back alone. The most vulnerable members of our congregation found the strength to walk up the aisle to wash and be washed; it was a strength I did not share, and could not even wish for. For a while I sobbed openly. Then I sat there , doing the temporary-sexton thing, turning out the lights one by one as the readings progressed, and thinking of the dark in which I would as usual fumble for the switch of my flashlight to read:

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.

What greater claim can be made for the unity of word and deed, of truth and action in community? What daring to declare that the author of the light would enter a container not even of clay but of flesh, a container so tellingly described by Luther as a "sack of maggots".

There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world. He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him.

Ah, here again: the terror of our constant failure to understand, our inability to accept that the One who was and is will be unrecognizable to us in Him who is to come, as He was to his own when he came to them. And yet how can we hope to succeed where all others have failed before us?

He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.

Year after year I am given the readings ending at verse 13, and year after year I find myself incapable of stopping, and plow on to read:

And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father's only son, full of grace and truth.

Well, we are a church which in its infinite wisdom has decided to cast off the F-word and the S-word, and perhaps this is my not-so-silent protest at the wisdom of this particular little world, of which not Jesus but another is proclaimed prince.

I miss my Partner-in-Crime in the silent emptying of the sanctuary, and head to the front to load up the towels and basins and pitchers... pulling things together in the hallway in back, I turn, and suddenly the P-in-C comes out of the sanctuary after all, headed for the door where I stand with my lumber, which I hurriedly unload onto the stair rail to give her a hug. Whatever thrust her head against the pew in front is a force with which I know she struggles every day, and goes home to every night...
and this is all I have to give.

Dinner at home is a rather easier affair than the night before, although we suddenly find ourselves talking about subjects long taboo: to whom am I attracted and why -- what is it like? and a sudden dawn floods my mind. There may be a way to find a life together on the other side of this. How long it has seemed impossible... How long this possibility will seem to have life, I cannot tell. But I drove her to the staging point for the trip south this morning, and in ten days I will see her again. Why, we are told the whole world was created in seven...
So we may live in hope -- "all men, I hope, live so".
Pray for me.
Stay with me.
The night is long.