What wondrous love is this, that caused the Lord of bliss,
to lay aside his crowd for my soul, for my soul,
to lay aside his crowd for our souls.
This past Sunday we told stories of two processions – one was Jesus’ entrance into Jerusalem, our Palm Sunday celebration, an entrance to shouts of hosanna, and coats and palm branches strewn in the road, masses of people ready to welcome a Messiah who would save them from the Empire. He was riding a donkey and scandalizing the religious authorities.
The second procession was Jesus’ walk to his crucifixion – the Passion Sunday side of our liturgy – an event that in this Holy Week timeline will take place tomorrow, Good Friday. A procession with masses of people waiting and following, to witness the death they demanded from the empire, frustrated by and afraid of a man who didn’t wield the kind of power they were hoping for.
Tonight, this holy night, we mark a sort of doorway between the two, the night when Jesus says goodbye to his friends – for now – when he faces his God and his execution, allows himself to be arrested and tried and convicted in what was in no way due process.
And before the arrest, before the trial, Jesus once again turns expectations inside out, kneeling at the feet of his friends and his disciples, washing away the dirt and the sweat of the road. He breaks bread, he pours wine, he serves them, illustrating the last advice he gives, his last commandment – simple, significant, the heart of their ministry – to love one another. To be with one another. Jesus’ choice, on his final night on earth, before his death and resurrection, is to be with the people he loves, to be with his friends and fellow travelers, his students and fellow ministers, to be in community and in communion. Love one another, he says. That is all. And that is everything. That is what we are doing here tonight. Jesus is a different kind of savior. Love is a different kind of power.
But talking about love, talking about that kind of power – raising up, demonstrating, embodying that kind of power – is dangerous. The powers that be see it as dangerous to the social hierarchy and the delicate balance between the Jewish people and the Roman monarchs. And even more so – love, this kind of power, becomes dangerous to Jesus and his followers. Because power, to that empire, was not this, was not love. Power, to the empire, was conquest. Power is exercised through armies and enforced by terror. Power is held by those who are the strongest and wealthiest and most privileged. The language of power, for the empire, is the language of hate and discrimination; the tools of power are money and politics.
Empire, across the ages, demonstrates its power in military strikes, and censorship, and workplace raids. Power, wielded by empire, dehumanizes, divides and destroys – histories, families, and human lives. Power, to the empire, is power over, not power together.
Tonight, Jesus shows his loved ones a different kind of power – a power that lies in quiet strength, a power that was in and with him from the beginning of time, that will carry all of them together through this Maundy Thursday night, through the horror of Good Friday and the grief of Holy Saturday, from garden to palace to Golgotha to tomb, and all the way to the Resurrection – and beyond.
The power Jesus points to is the power of love. The power of service to one another, of making oneself vulnerable to one’s friends – and to one’s enemies – washing the feet of the ones he loves, including the one who betrayed him – standing defenseless in front of those who would sentence him – the power of sacrifice for the greater good. For Jesus, power lies in giving up himself, in refusing to save himself, for the love of the whole world. Power, in the language of God’s kingdom, is not about who is stronger or has a bigger army – power lies in setting aside fear and ego and finding that strength lies in community and communion, in working and being together, in sharing what we have, whether it is bread and wine or land and resources – power exists in loving, beyond Greek or Jew, male or female, servant or free. “…servants are not greater than their master, nor are messengers greater than the one who sent them.”
And on this night, the power of community is strongest even in, especially in, the darkest and most desolate moments. Love is present at this table. Love is present in the pitchers of water. Love is present in this sacrament. Jesus chose to break bread, to be with his friends around the table, on this particular night, knowing what would come next. The conversation of friends, the pouring of clean water, the sound of it splashing, the washing of feet after the weary road, the comfort of the drying towel, the nourishment of these simple, common foods – bread and wine – transformations of fruit, grain, salt, water – the gifts of God’s earth – this is where strength lies. This is where goodness lies. This meal, that we celebrate every Eucharist, this breaking of bread, sanctified by the Holy Spirit, in which we are once again in the presence of and in communion with Jesus, teacher, rabbi, brother, friend – this is where power lies.
The body of Christ, that in a few brief hours will be broken for you. The blood of Christ, that in a few brief hours will be poured out for you. Take, eat. And carry it into the world, in the faithful, eternal, quiet, outrageous, world-upending, Empire-breaking, community-making power of the Holy Spirit.
And that is the power of love.
Amen.
