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| Stanley Spencer, The Last Supper, 1920 |
It was a great privilege to be invited to preach for the Pascal Triduum at St George’s Bloomsbury in April 2023. The first time I have preached at all three services and the first time I have spoken in front of so many people at once. I drew on my experience visiting the Holy Land last year and based each sermon loosely around part of a prayer attributed to St Teresa of Avila ‘Christ has no body now on earth but yours’ and the theme of connection, disconnection and reconnection. On Thursday the focus was ‘Feet which walk to do good’ and connections to the embodied love of Jesus through the symbolic washing of feet and the sharing of the Last Supper. On Friday the focus was ‘Hands which bless the world’ and our disconnection from the embodied love of Jesus when he died on the cross. On Sunday the focus was ‘Eyes which see life anew’ and our re-connection to the love of Jesus through Mary Magdalene’s vision in the garden at dawn. The sermon on Sunday drew each reflection together to encourage us to choose to live life as pilgrims – not tourists. To embody the love of God we have now received through the Spirit of the risen Christ.
A sermon given at the Choral Eucharist on Maundy Thursday, April 6th 2023 at St George’s Bloomsbury. (Year A) based on John 13.1-17, 31b-35.
A prayer attributed to St
Teresa of Avila.
Christ has no body but
yours,
No hands, no feet on earth
but yours,
Yours are the eyes with which He looks
Compassion on this world,
Yours are the feet with which He walks to do good,
Yours are the hands, with which He blesses all the
world.
Yours are the hands, yours are the feet,
Yours are the eyes, you are His body.
Last summer I travelled to
the Holy Land to follow in the footsteps of Jesus.
I visited what is thought
to be the ‘Upper Room’ where the new commandment - the mandate which gives
Maundy Thursday its name - was first heard.
“that you love one
another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another. “
The definition of
discipleship.
The foundation of our
faith.
As you hear the sound of
sandal-clad feet tapping on the stone steps that wind around the outside of the
building, you can imagine the flurry of activity inside; bowls of olives,
dates, unleavened bread and jugs of wine being prepared and set down on a low
table.
Unlike Leonardo Da Vinci’s
famous painting - that image of the Last Supper imprinted on our mind’s eye -
the disciples probably sat on the floor to eat, resting on cushions. For Jesus
to wash their feet from this position would involve considerable physical
gymnastics. Grasping and untangling their legs. Perhaps a hasty rearrangement
of robes. Taking each foot firmly in one hand while bathing it with the other.
Hands which had gestured - ‘come and follow me.’ Feet which had obeyed. Albeit
gingerly on occasion. From the burning heat of the roads around Jericho to the
cool nights of Jerusalem, their feet had followed his. At least until now.
This is a place drenched
in meaning - in meaningful relationships. Below, a site venerated as the burial
place of the warrior King David. Above, as we reach the top of the stone
staircase, we turn back for a glimpse across the modern day city, looking down
from the vantage point of the Western Hill; Mount Zion. Jerusalem would have
been full to bursting with people coming to the Temple for the feast of
Passover. The rooftop of every building used as temporary accommodation. Extra
space found by moving belongings from their usual place and stacking them
elsewhere.
There was always a sense
of transience - of impermanence - mixed in with the excitement of the festival.
But this time, after the triumphal entry of Jesus on the back of a donkey
amidst the cries of “Hosanna to the Son of David,” Jerusalem - the world -
seemed on the cusp of a paradigm shift. As they gathered to remember Israel’s
deliverance from slavery and the start of the long journey to the promised
land, could this new ‘King of Israel’ be about to free them from oppression
once again?
Their journey together
this past three years had meant walking with Jesus from the shore of the Sea of
Galilee to the heights of Caesarēa Philippi and everywhere in between. The
emotional ups and downs no less dramatic.
They had begun to change
as a result of what they had heard, seen and felt - but they were unprepared to
navigate the journey to come.
What happened next was
certainly not the act of the sort of King they were expecting.
The first disciples that
Jesus approached weren’t sitting ready to offer their feet to him - like the
customers of a shoe shiner.
There was no muscle memory
for a situation like this. No memory at all.
Sure, they’d seen Mary
anoint the feet of Jesus with expensive oil. Judas had complained about the
waste. But never had a respected Rabbi or teacher - in fact no-one in any
position of authority in the ancient world - had ever bent down to wash feet
like this before. A task performed by a servant or slave.
This act - and the gospel
account which recorded it - remains unique in the historical record.
Just as the one who
performed it is unique.
Jesus Christ. The Son of
God. The Word made flesh. Fully human and fully divine. Who, on the night
before he died took off his outer robe, wrapped a towel around himself and
washed the feet of his friends. Even the one who was to betray him.
Jesus shows us what love
looks like - in a language we can all understand. And he commands all who are
made in his image and call ourselves his disciples - to follow his example. To
love one another as he love us.
By tradition, as well as
the place where Jesus washed the disciples’ feet and where the Last Supper was
shared, the Upper Room - about half the size of this one and half as high - is
said to have been the setting for the descent of the Holy Spirit on the
disciples at Pentecost.
It might be thought of as
the first church.
Nothing remains of it now
- architecturally speaking that is - the space later became a mosque. But today
the Upper Room is full of people. Groups from across the world. Some led by
tour guides, others by priests. Monks praying silently, others singing or chanting.
The body of Christ in all
its glorious diversity.
Pilgrims drawn here in
remembrance.
Like each of us.
Someone once said that the
difference between tourists and pilgrims is that tourists change their
environment while pilgrims allow their environment to change them.
The Christian life is
described as a continual pilgrimage.
But how many of us walk
through life - how many of us walk up to the altar - as tourists? Oblivious or
resistant to being changed?
Like Peter, at first, when
Jesus came before him, bowl in hand. “You will never wash my feet” he cries.
Feeling vulnerable. Confused.
But he relents.
And as Jesus gently washes
his feet, his body senses that something new is happening. New connections are
being made. With each touch Peter is being changed. Connected to love of God
embodied in his Son, Jesus Christ. Grounding our faith.
As we walk with Christ
tonight to the garden of Gethsemane, waiting with him in his agony, we sing;
“Of the glorious body
telling.”
As we wait in the garden
perhaps we might ask how our bodies have been telling of the glory that Christ
has revealed?
Christ has no body but
yours,
No hands, no feet on earth
but yours,
Yours are the feet with which He walks to do good,
Christ has no body now on
earth but yours.
Image : Stanley Spencer,
The Last Supper, 1920
Acknowledgements : I am very grateful to Fr David Peebles at St George’s Bloomsbury for allowing a novice like me to preach at such important services. I am indebted to Rodney Aist and all at St George’s College Jerusalem for their wisdom on the spirituality of pilgrimage and their hospitality in Jerusalem last year and to Dr Gena St David of the Seminary of the Southwest in Austin, Texas for her excellent lecture at St Augustine’s College helping us to view scripture and theology through the lens of neuroscience.
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