Sheep and Shepherds

Photo taken by me, in Scotland (2017)

The Fifty Days of Easter continue to unfold. Sunday, April 25 will be the Fourth Sunday of Easter, also sometimes called Good Shepherd Sunday. I am not preaching, but these are some notes and reflections that may be helpful to those who are preaching and perhaps also for those who will be listening to preaching.

The metaphor of Christ as “good shepherd” presents some challenges to those of us who live in a technological society. Very few of the people in most of our congregations know any real shepherds. If we aren’t careful we can sentimentalize that language. As a farmer/theologian/priest friend of mine used to say, "sheep smell and when Jesus said we were like sheep, it was not a compliment."  

Shepherds were not revered in the Middle Eastern world that shaped the Bible. They were considered dirty and poor. It was hard work, and doing it didn’t get you into many society events. The fact that King David had been a shepherd simply suggested that God could take a lowly kid from the sticks and make him a king. It also suggested the kind of king that God longs for: someone who can identify with ordinary people’s needs and longings. But the fact that David had been a shepherd didn't change the fact that it was hardly considered to be a noble profession. 

The staff (or crozier) that bishops carry is, of course, a symbol of the shepherd’s work. By choosing that symbol, the Church invites us to think of the pastoral ministry of bishops (and priests) as shepherding. That shepherd’s crook was used for beating off wolves that tried to hurt the sheep. (Scarier still are wolves in sheep’s clothing, but that's another post.) That staff was also used for poking the sheep when they needed it, a reminder that pastoral ministry isn’t always about making people feel comfortable, but sometimes requires pushing them out of their “comfort zones.” 

Shepherds didn’t treat the sheep like a pet dog or cat, in spite of that image we probably all carry around in our head of the shepherd carrying that cute little lamb in his arms. The most important thing the shepherd can do is to keep the sheep together, not only for their protection but to make a living. And that isn’t about staying in one place! Sheep need to stay “on the move” toward greener pastures and stiller waters, if they mean to thrive. There is always the danger of one getting lost along the way, in which case the shepherd goes to get it in order to get it back with the others. But no good shepherd is always running to and fro trying to gather them all in! The whole point is to try to keep them together in the first place! (The parable, after all, is about how 99 were together and one got lost.) 

Years ago, I had the opportunity to be at Trinity Church, Wall Street, for the 34^th Annual Trinity Institute. The topic was “Benedictine Spirituality.” One of the speakers was Rowan Williams who was, at the time, serving as Archbishop of Canterbury. He spoke about how the Rule of St. Benedict provides a stable environment, a “workshop” that forms healthy disciples. “Stability,” he said, “provides a framework for the work of mending that needs to be done in all communities.” He used an image in that presentation that has stayed with me. He talked about the “currency” of the community and pointed out that...

...all communities need a medium of exchange, a language that assures their members that they are engaged in the same enterprise. It involves common stories and practices, things that you can expect your neighbour to understand without explanation, ways and styles of doing and saying things.

He went on to tell a story about an English priest who was interested in asking the question about what the “currency” of the university is. So he spends some time trying to pick up what people there talk about, and how. One day he figures it out: what these people “exchange” with one another are grievances. The currency of that particular university is grievance, he suggests. Williams then says this:

...what is in circulation is much like blood in a body: what you receive is what you give, what you put into the circulation. ‘If you put in grievance, you will get back grievance’  

He contrasts this example with a story about an elderly religious in Yorkshire,  

...unobtrusive and to the untutored eye rather idle; but it is he ‘who sets the currency of goodness and kindness circulating through that community." Without some such input into the ‘circulation’, communities will be at best dry and at worst deadly…what may be put into circulation are unresolved angers and resentments…anxiety or censoriousness…yet the [peace which St. Benedict’s] Rule envisages is more like a habit of stable determination to put into the life of the body something other than grudges.

So what does this all have to do with sheep, and shepherding? When I was a very young priest, part of my work included leading chapel at the pre-school that was a part of the parish I served as Associate Rector. I am not much of a singer, but kids are forgiving. We used to sing a song that went like this: "We are the sheep, and he is the shepherd; his banner over me is love." For sure. 

I would propose that the mission of the Church, now more than ever, is found in the little verse from I John appointed for this Sunday: “little children, let us love, not in word or speech, but in truth and action.” That verse is the key to understanding Good Shepherd Sunday and every Sunday when the community gathers, whether in person or virtually.  

We are meant for love to be the medium of exchange. Sometimes we do exchange grievances in the Church, and I've been to too many church gatherings where, sadly, that happens. But when you put in grievance, you get back grievance. We need to learn and re-learn to put in love and goodness and kindness that leaven the whole loaf in those places where we are called to serve. May we learn as these  fifty days continue to unfold how to live like we believe that, to live as God's own beloved, called to love God back and to love our neighbor as self. May we love in truth and in action. 

Mysteries, Yes

           

              Truly we live with mysteries too marvelous   
                          to be understood
               How grass can be nourishing in the
                          mouths of lambs.      
               How rivers and stones are forever
                          in allegiance with gravity                               
                          while we ourselves dream of rising.           
                How two hands touch and the bonds will                        
                          never be broken,            
                How people come, from delight or the                        
                          scars of damage,            
                          to the comfort of a poem      
                Let me keep my distance, always, from those                         
                          who think they have the answers.            
                Let me keep company always with those who say                       
                          “Look!” and laugh in astonishment                       
                          and bow their heads.

The poem above, entitled "Mysteries, Yes," is one of my favorites from the late Mary Oliver. It is published in a collection of hers called Evidence. 

Poetry has always been important to my life and in my approach to theology, but that has become even more true during the time of this pandemic. I think that preaching and teaching (and even blogging) need to emulate poetry by embracing questions more than answers, by focusing on adaptive challenges more than technical ones, by opening our eyes and ears to the "evidence" of God's presence in our lives and in our world. And by keeping company with those who are trying, at least, to live their "wild and precious lives" by seeking and serving God in the world as they look, laugh, and bow their heads. 

On Easter morning, we heard Mark's testimony that the women who came to the tomb to prepare Jesus’ body for burial found it empty. The angel told them to go and tell the disciples that he had been raised from the dead, but they “said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.” 

In the Gospel reading from Luke that is appointed for the third Sunday of Easter, that fear is also present. The Risen Christ appears in their midst and they are "startled and terrified" because they think that they are seeing a ghost. Eventually, though, Jesus convinces them that he is not a ghost, and their fear yields to joy.

That does not mean that they don’t still have questions. “While in their joy they were disbelieving and still wondering…Jesus asks them for something to eat.” What is it about broiled fish and resurrection anyway? The theological point here is to insist that everybody knows that ghosts don’t eat, and therefore since Jesus eats the fish he is not a ghost. He is not a disembodied spirit, but a risen, resurrected body.

Yet even as fear gives way to joy, there remain lingering doubts and new questions. Believing in the resurrection (even when Jesus is right there with you and eating broiled fish) is still difficult. I think it’s helpful to notice that the New Testament is filled with questions and struggles around resurrection. We, therefore, should not try to make it easier or more dogmatic (or even prosaic) than the gospels themselves do. But we do well to notice that the insistence that Jesus eats some broiled fish here (and in John’s gospel) and the wounds in Jesus’ hands and feet that Thomas touched last weekend are there to counter the notion that the risen Christ is a disembodied spirit.

I don’t know what experience you have with ghosts, friendly or otherwise. But whether you believe in them or not or have had a direct encounter with a ghost or not, most of us can at least fathom this idea that there is something left of a person after their body dies. We say that there is more to us than our bodies and we call that “more” a soul, or our spirit; that part of us that we hope lives on after our hearts stop beating and our bodies stop working. That part of a person we love and sometimes glimpse when we gaze into their eyes. Perhaps some of us have even had some experience of feeling the presence of someone we loved after they die: a light or a sensation or warmth that makes us aware that in death, life is changed, not ended.

But here is the thing: all four gospels insist that resurrection is not about those kinds of spiritual experiences. In fact, they are adamant about this, as was the early church. In all of the post-Easter encounters the disciples have with Jesus, he has a body. He walks and talks and eats broiled fish. In the second century, Ignatius warned Christians to flee any who denied the reality of Christ’s resurrected Body in favor of a purely spiritual Christ. In the third century the Alexandrian theologian, Origen, quotes from the apocryphal teaching of Peter where the risen Christ says, “I am not an incorporeal spirit.” Ultimately the earliest creed of the Church would codify this claim of historic Christian faith in the Apostles’ Creed: “we believe in the resurrection of the body and the life everlasting.”

I don’t know what to make of that other than to tell you this: Easter faith does lead me from fear to joy and it also leaves me with many unanswered questions. I don’t think resurrection can be explained in fifty days or even over fifty years. But it can be experienced, and from time to time I get a glimpse of it. It’s a mystery, not a doctrine to be dissected. But there is evidence to go on. 

Now I realize that saying "it's a mystery" can sometimes be a copout that clergy (and sometimes parents) can too easily resort to. Why is the sky blue or the grass green? It’s a mystery, shut up and eat your peas! But this is where we need the poets and in this case, Mary Oliver, who reminds us of the much deeper meaning of embracing mystery. Yes!

The temptation for preachers to try to explain the resurrection is high in a culture that wants proof, not evidence and that wants answers, not mysteries. All I can tell you is why this broiled fish matters to the faith we share as Christians. It matters because matter matters to us as Christians. We believe with Jews that in the work of creation God took some clay from the earth and breathed life into that earth-creature and called them good. Adam from adamah—human from humus. When we Christians celebrate Earth Day we should have no problem with a bumper sticker that shows the earth and says “Love your Mother.” The second chapter of Genesis makes that very same claim: that we are made of dust and to dust we shall return. But that dust is holy and good and we are stewards of those elements from whence we have come.

Yet our bodies—no matter how much we care for them and exercise them—will not last forever. That doesn’t mean we shouldn’t care for these clay temples that are homes for the Holy Spirit. But they do break down, something we realize more and more the older we get. We are mortal; not immortal. Jesus, the Church insists, really did live and really did die as one of us. The Incarnation isn’t a Halloween trick or disguise: the Word did truly become flesh. Jesus’ body sweated and bled and ultimately he did take his last breath. And then God raised him from the dead...

On the third Sunday of the fifty-day season of Easter we keep pondering this mystery, even in the midst of our disbelief and wondering and even perhaps in the midst of our continued feeling of terror. Easter isn’t a formula or a mathematical proof that rids us of the questions. Rather, it invites us into a community of companions (literally, those we break bread with) who notice with us the evidence that is all around us of new life and to ponder this great mystery.

The Church proclaims (and we try to believe, with God's help) that Jesus was raised on the third day; that his body was resurrected. Not just his spirit. And if Jesus’ body is raised, then our mortal bodies will be raised as well. When we gather to re-member Christ’s body, we bring our whole selves ("our souls and bodies") and offer them as living members of a living Body, to be agents of reconciliation and healing for the sake of the world. We leave worship not only with prayers for the homeless, but a desire to build actual homes for real people. And not just with prayers for the hungry, but with instructions to feed the hungry. We leave worship not just with prayers for peace in our hearts, but as people called to become instruments of that peace, on earth as in heaven, at our dinner tables and among the nations.

So I think that there is a lot going on as Jesus eats that broiled fish because it points us to a world in need and to the work that Easter compels us to participate in. Easter leads us from fear to joy. I suspect as long as we are alive we’ll have questions and doubts and we’ll wonder what it all means. But the work of Easter compels us to a set of practices that draw us more deeply into this broken and beautiful world with purpose and gratitude. 

Trust

Easter is not just a day; it's a fifty-day season. It begins at the empty tomb. But that is not "proof" beyond a shadow of doubt that God raised Jesus from the dead. There are clearly other possibilities for a missing corpse. Rather, the empty tomb marks a new beginning of a long journey that goes way beyond these fifty days. We walk by faith. But as we do that, along the way there is evidence to go on that the corpse was not stolen, but that Christ is alive and meeting us in the midst of life. The readings for the Second Sunday of Easter can be found here. The gospel appointed comes from the twentieth chapter of John.

It was still Easter Sunday—later that same night. The disciples were together and the doors  were locked, because they were afraid of the religious authorities. 

Jesus came, and stood among them. “Shalom be with you,” he said. And then he showed them his hands, and his side. The disciples were overjoyed when they saw him. He said again: “Shalom be with you! As my Abba sent me, so I now send you.”  And with that, he breathed on them, saying: “Receive the Holy Spirit. If you forgive another person's sins, they are forgiven. If you hold onto another person's sins, they are held fast.”

Now one of the twelve, Thomas, (the one called Didymus which means the twin) was not with them when Jesus came. And the others kept telling him, “we’ve seen the Lord!” But he said to them: “unless I examine the marks of the nails on his hands, and put my finger into the place where the nails were, and my hand in his side, I will not trust you.” 

A week later they were in the house again. This time, Thomas was with them. Again, the doors were locked, and again, Jesus came and stood among them, saying: “Shalom be with you!” Then he turned to Thomas, and said: “put your finger here, and look at my hands. Reach your hand here, and put it into my side. Let go of your mistrust; only trust!” 

Then Thomas answered him: “My Lord and my God!” Jesus said: “have you trusted because you have seen me? Happy are those who trust without seeing me!” 

Jesus performed many other signs in the presence of the disciples that are not recorded in this book. These are written down so that you may trust that Jesus is the messiah, the Son of God—so that trusting him, you may have life in his name.

You will not find the translation above on-line; it is my own. To be perfectly honest, it's more like a paraphrase than a literal translation; my own attempt to channel my inner Eugene Peterson. The paraphrase depends, however, on a quite literal translation of the Greek word, pistis. It is offered here primarily to be very clear that pistis and apistis (which appear six times) are not about belief and doubt in an intellectual way. Rather, they are about trust and a lack of trust. 

Getting clear on this distinction changes the whole tenor of what preachers might say this coming Sunday, which is not about a disciple who "doubts" his faith in an intellectual way, but is rather about a disciple who is learning to trust again, with God's help. Questions (and articulating what we need) reveal a path forward toward trust, which is a crucial (and maybe the crucial) first step in the journey of faith. 

Unfortunately too many of the lessons drawn from this gospel reading in Bible studies and sermons about “doubting Thomas” are not very helpful and can even be dangerous to your spiritual health! The root of the problem has to do with how we understand “belief” and “doubt.” From the time of Descartes, the Enlightenment has had a huge influence on western Christianity. Whether we grew up Catholic, Protestant, or somewhere in the middle, many of us have been taught to think about belief in terms of the content of our faith. In this way of seeing the world, “faith” became a synonym for either our acceptance or rejection of various Church doctrines: the Creed for example, or what the Church teaches about the Trinity, or the Resurrection, or the Virgin Birth, or moral questions.  Sometimes we have gotten the message from this story (whether it is explicit or implicit) that we should not be “doubting Thomases…but should only believe.” I think that's just wrong.

What has happened is that over many decades and even centuries, what we think of as the “traditional” reading of this story about “doubting Thomas” can lead us to conclude that the Church isn’t a place for “doubters” or their questions. The problem with that goes deeper than simply excluding inquisitive types from the Church. If we teach people that “faith” is about “right belief” (and then when people aren’t sure about what they believe on every matter of doctrine we tell them “don’t doubt, just believe”) we end up with, at best, passive Christians. Worse still, compartmentalized ones who can't figure out how to connect what they know about science and history and literature with their faith. Worst of all, members of the Church Alumni Association. 

I think that’s a subtle (and sometimes not-so-subtle) form of manipulation and coercion that has very little to do with authentic Christian faith, however. I’d go even further. I think from the perspective of Biblical faith, it is a form of idolatry that leaves us more golden calves than we know what to do with. So I want to challenge that so-called "traditional" reading of the story and suggest that the deeper and truer meaning lies within the story itself, waiting for us to rediscover it and to hear it with fresh ears each year. And that as we journey through our second Easter Season in a time of pandemic, unlocking this meaning is even more important than ever. 

It is more than a little ironic to me that in so many sermons on Thomas he is disparaged, because that clearly isn’t what the text says. Jesus does not disparage or ridicule Thomas. Look again at the text - and don't trust my paraphrase! Jesus meets Thomas where he is and invites him to do what he needs to do to come to a deeper understanding of the resurrection. I think we are invited to hear this text anew on this Second Sunday of Easter and not to disparage Thomas but to see his example by way of encouragement. Like all the saints, Thomas is an example for us to follow "in all virtuous and godly living." Like the other resurrection stories, this one reveals the way toward Easter-faith. That is not about the removal of all doubt. It is about learning to put our whole trust in the living God. 

This key to this alternative reading becomes possible when we remember that the Greek word pistis is really about trust. And again, you don't need to trust me on this. I'm not really arguing with the translators who decided on faith; rather I'm suggesting that our truncation of "faith" as antithetical to doubt is the heart of the problem here. To say it another way, the opposite of faith is not doubt, but fear. 

So notice that is precisely what is going on in this story: when it begins the disciples are locked away in fear. They are afraid that the powers-that-be are going to come and do the same thing to them as was done to Jesus: arrest them and beat them and execute them. They are afraid that they will die at the hands of Roman imperial power as their leader has. Yet at the end of the story, faith (that is trust) has cast out fear, allowing the disciples (including Thomas) to be empowered by the Spirit to continue the work that Jesus began. 

Pistis is about trust and even more specifically about where we place our trust. Do we trust Caesar or God? Are we yet able to trust one another in the community that bears Jesus’ name? Do we trust that we are made in the image of God and that in the resurrection that imago dei is restored, freeing us to trust our own best selves again? Jesus’ words to Thomas use both the negative and the positive form of pistis, that is: “Thomas, do not be untrusting; but learn to trust.” And I think that’s a word of good news for us.

Christian educators and psychologists of religion tell us that the first and most basic stage of faith development, foundational for all the rest, is to navigate trust issues. If a child learns to trust her parents, then she will move on to other challenges. And if that trust is violated or abused or lacking, then almost certainly the child will get stuck—perhaps even well into adulthood—until she can find ways to move beyond this impasse. It will leave a mark. That’s why all forms of abuse, especially in the Church, are so sinful and destructive. Not just sexual abuse, but all abuse of power. When clergy and Christian educators think they are infallible and squelch questions, they are involved in a process of indoctrination; not faith development. Ultimately when we speak about "safe church" in The Episcopal Church we are talking about more than avoiding clergy misconduct. We are trying to create safe spaces where our children and our children’s children can learn trust rather than fear: trust in God, trust in community, trust in self.

If Christian faith is in any way akin to being “born again” or “born from above” (I mean this in the Johannine sense) then it is the same way in Christian community: after birth comes growth. But the first stage of Easter faith is about learning to trust and from that fertile soil we can begin to grow into “the full stature of Christ.”

To be clear, I am not suggesting that doctrine doesn’t matter. What I am saying is that imposing our doctrines onto this text distorts it's deeper meaning. Faith here is not about believing a particular church doctrine. It really, really is, about trust. What I am saying is that I think St. Anselm had it exactly right: faith seeks understanding. Faith (that is, trust) comes first, just as it does in this story. It isn't the last word but it is the first word. Faith is about putting our trust in this Jesus whom death could not destroy. As we grow within a loving Christian community and listen together to Holy Scripture, and to the breadth and depth of the catholic tradition, and to our own wisdom and the wisdom of others that grows out of our experience and in our walk with Christ, we clarify our beliefs, which are always subject to modification and change as we continue to grow.  

At best, our beliefs point us toward God. But we should never confuse our beliefs about God with the true living, inscrutable God. When we do that, we are in danger of allowing our beliefs to become more important to us than God. The Bible has a word for that:  idolatry. A Church that insists on “right belief” as the requisite to life in Christ (and there are versions on the "left" as well as on the “right”) falls short of the mark. A Church that lists seventeen things you need to believe in order to walk through the doors and then labels some as “orthodox” and others as “revisionist” if someone questions numbers six, eleven, and thirteen is, quite frankly, not a Church that I have any interest in being a part of.  

The Church’s mission is to proclaim the good news of God’s love to all the world, and then to share with Christ in the ministry of reconciliation. That is what the collect for the Second Sunday of Easter makes so clear: 

Almighty and everlasting God, who in the Paschal mystery established the new covenant of reconciliation: Grant that all who have been reborn into the fellowship of Christ's Body may show forth in their lives what they profess by their faith; through Jesus Christ our Lord, who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen.

So here is the “good news” that I want to proclaim from the twentieth chapter of John’s Gospel on the second Sunday of Easter, after more than a year of being huddled away in our homes and feeling the isolation of a pandemic: we can work on trust issues, together. If you’ve ever been on a ropes courses, you know it is possible. In community, with companions who will support you and cheer you on, you can learn to do things you did not previously think you had within you. You might even risk falling from high places into outstretched arms that you trust will catch you. 

That, I believe, is the direction that this text means to point us toward. We must not be afraid to take risks in order to grow together. I love the story that some of the rabbis tell about the Exodus: that God did indeed part the Red Sea with Pharaoh’s army in hot pursuit, but only after the first Hebrew slave put her foot out and committed herself to that path. Like the Abraham story that is foundational for all Biblical faith, what is required on our side of the covenant is trust.

You may recall that in the fourteenth chapter of John’s Gospel, Jesus is talking about how he will go to prepare a place for them, and he says to the disciples that they know the way to that place. Thomas is the one who dares to speak up: “Lord, excuse me…we don’t know where you are going, so how can we possibly know the way.” Jesus’ response to Thomas in that moment is not a weapon to be foisted on seekers, but a reminder to those who do put their trust in Jesus: “I am the way, the truth, and the life.” Keep your eyes on me, Jesus says, and you will get where you need to be.

So, too, in this post-Easter resurrection account from the twentieth chapter of John’s Gospel. Again, it is Thomas’ who is willing to express his uncertainty and to give voice to his confusion. And maybe to ours as well. Viewed in this way, Thomas is a person who calls us to live more fully into the meaning of our Baptismal Covenant by inviting us “to put our whole trust in Christ’s grace and love.”  Viewed in this way, faith is not passive acceptance, but active engagement. Thomas is not the doubter, but the truster who is not afraid to ask the tough questions in order to get where he needs to be.

In a larger sense, it seems to me that as we go through these fifty days of Easter, the goal is not about removing all doubt about what resurrection of the body means, for Jesus and for us, but rather about getting back on track and following on “the Way” with this Jesus, who is not dead in an empty tomb, but among the living in the world. 

Notice where the story ends: Thomas proclaims of Jesus, this crucified rabbi from Nazareth whom God has raised from the dead: “My Lord and my God.” That is a powerful witness of abiding trust. Not doubt. And one more thing. Notice where John's own theological reflection on this text takes us.

Jesus did lots of other stuff in the presence of the disciples that have not been recorded in any book. These are written down so that you may have trust—that you may trust that Jesus is the Christ, the Son of God—and that trusting him, you may have life in his name.

Intimacy

Today is all about the foot-washing. And yes, I know that the image above is from a different text than the one for this day. The one above is an "icon" of Luke 7:36-50, when Jesus is having dinner at the home of a Pharisee and a "sinful woman" (Luke's words) washes Jesus' feet and rubs them with oil. 

The text for this day is from John's Gospel, and can be found here. But I think both texts are connected because they are both about intimacy. And I think we do well to remember this earlier story on this day because Jesus is willing to be on both sides of the basin. 

The first time I preached on a Maundy Thursday, I was a young associate rector in Westport, CT and former United Methodist pastor / ecumenical campus minister. We didn't wash feet in the Methodist Church; we offered a Tenebrae Service instead. In fact my first Triduum was two-thirds brand new, because I'd never before celebrated The Great Vigil, either. 

I was the preacher on Maundy Thursday, however, and I found what I thought was a really brilliant metaphor for preaching on this day. I recalled the scene in Ghandi when he tells his wife that it is their turn to clean the latrines and she doesn't want to, because it is the work of untouchables. Ghandi tells her: "here there are no untouchables." My point was that servanthood leadership is similar: doing the work of a servant even though called "master" was similar. 

Brilliant, right? Well, I was probably a little bit right, in the technical sense. And I think a lot of people speak in the same way. I've heard people say that that this work of washing feet is "gross." Like cleaning toilets, right? A necessary thing but not fun. (Actually not even always necessary, as I've learned how few congregations in our diocese actually do it.)

A priest-mentor/friend who was in the congregation that night at Christ and Holy Trinity did not hold back, however. (He rarely did or does!)  He told me that I was telling people their feet were gross and that I was faithful enough to wash them anyway and that in so doing I had missed the point entirely and made it all about me. It was a hard critique to hear on the first day of the Triduum. But he was right. 

Years later, I had a priest friend tell me that she went and got a pedicure before the foot-washing service. I suggested that she was willing to pay someone to do what we were offering to do for free. (I don't think she appreciated it.) She didn't want her feet to be perceived as "gross" in church, I think; they needed to look pretty. But I felt this was a version of wearing our "Sunday best" and of not being willing to bring our whole, true selves to church.  

It's a complicated liturgy and it's difficult to get to the heart of the matter. Until you start actually washing feet. Then, over years of that practice, it begins to form you and you realize that it is not gross at all, but quite beautiful. As a priest, if you ask me what I miss the most during this pandemic, there is a "right answer." I am supposed to say I miss the gathered community and the singing and the Holy Eucharist and the passing of the peace. And I do miss all of those things, to be sure. But what I miss the most is the second Maundy Thursday in a row without being able to wash real feet.

Priests who work in diocesan ministry are not asked to do much during Holy Week but in the six years previous to these last two, I would make it known that I'd be more than happy to come and wash feet with a colleague and preach if they wished. Of course I love the Good Friday Liturgy, but I can pray that on my own. Of course, I love the Great Vigil of Easter but I'll admit I have "opinions" about how to do it right and my judgy side kicks in pretty quickly when it's not done that way. making it harder to worship. 

What I really do miss most of all is Maundy Thursday. What I learned from my friend all those years ago and remember every year since is that foot-washing is about intimacy. And intimacy requires vulnerability. Intimacy is a very delicate thing to talk about in church, because we often use the word "intimacy" with sexual overtones and the Church has sometimes been a place where boundaries have been violated around issues of intimacy. This is therefore dangerous stuff. 

But the sexual aspects of intimacy are only part of the meaning. Intimacy is the opposite of isolation,  something we know too well from the past thirteen months. We can gather in an "intimate" setting. We can lean in over a cup of coffee with an "intimate" friend who knows our heart. Intimacy is about closeness and warmth and love and bonds of affection. It's about feeling safe. 

Over the years, my work as a parish priest almost always required that I wash the feet of at least one person to whom I did not feel particularly close. Sometimes it was a person who had hurt me and other times they were just annoying. In such moments I prayed, truly, for the person whose feet I was washing. There was nothing "gross" about. it. It was, however, scary; because intimacy is scary and vulnerability is scary. I felt then and I feel now in the absence of this liturgical practice that it is indeed the key to building authentic community and becoming the Body of Christ. 

Yes, it's about power and authority and Jesus comes among us as one who serves. In the Body of Christ, there are no untouchables. In the Body of Christ we do not "lord it over one another." But that's only a part of the story of this day. The real power of this day is that love wins. We are given a novum maundatum on this day, a new commandment. Love one another. Just. Love. One. Another. Everybody. And love requires vulnerability and intimacy, by definition.  

Each year on this day I try to imagine someone who has hurt me (or whom I have hurt) coming to have their feet washed by me, or me allowing them to wash mine. Sometimes it happens in real life and it happened more often when I was serving a parish. But to be honest, as Canon to the Ordinary, while I can be at the receiving end of angry emails, my hurts are no longer happening at a vestry meeting in a fight over money or music, or in the sacristy. In parish communities people get hurt but then we still come together on Sunday morning, to share the bread and cup and pass the peace. Sometimes the wounds go deeper, and it's good when that happens that we have an invitation to wash feet, and a commandment to love one another...