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| The altar at the conclusion of the Maundy Thursday service at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles. |
© 2024 The Rev. Seth Olson
This sermon was preached at the Episcopal Church of the Holy Apostles in Hoover, AL. A video of it may be found here.
Holy God, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.
This is a Nintendo 64. In the US, it was released in the fall of 1996. I know this because my buddy Jeremy Drummond received one—together we played on that console for endless hours conquering Super Mario 64, James Bond: Goldeneye, Starfox, Mario Kart, and Super Smash Bros. The reason I show you this video gaming system though is not for the sake of nostalgia, nor to describe my misspent youth, nor even to humbly brag about my gaming prowess. Rather, it is to tell you a hard truth about the human brain—our own computing system so to speak.
Despite all the amazing technological advancements that we have collectively accomplished as a human species, our minds have not evolved much—if at all—since the days of Jesus of Nazareth. In truth, our conscious minds are not even equivalent to 64-bit gaming system like this one. Consciously, we can only process about 40 to 50 bits of information a second. Sure, we can easily recall a seven-digit phone number, but what about throwing in a funky area code? Of course, we can keep three details in our brains, except what happens when someone throws in another question on top of that? Everything is fine while checking off chores in the kitchen, and yet our minds often go blank as to why we walked into the living room to do something else. The heartening thing is that we are not simply our conscious mind.
Our minds work to make sense with logic and reason—very good things! We in the Episcopal Church often state that reason is among the most important principles of our shared Faith along with Scripture and Tradition.
Still, we are not only a floating singularity or a disembodied brain that floats through time and space. Recalling another mid-1990s cultural reference (yes, I like to keep it fresh with sermon illustrations), we are not the tiny alien from the movie Men In Black, which controlled a human suit. There is more to us than simply what we think. Our beings are not confined to the neurons firing along synapses. And, while our conscious mind is like an outdated gaming console, our subconscious—our hearts and souls—are like a vast bank of servers powering a more sophisticated and mysterious computing network.
To this end—understanding our conscious mind and our subconscious awareness—let’s do a couple of things. First, what is your mind focusing on tonight? Right now, what are you thinking? You might be thinking about what I am saying right now. If so, thank you. Maybe you are thinking of what awaits you at home, at work tomorrow, or on your never-ending to-do list. If you are a worship leader, maybe you are thinking of your next part in the service.
Constantly though our minds are generating thought after thought, and if you are anything like me, you might get distracted by any one of them.
The supercomputers that are our subconscious though can pick up on things that our conscious mind does not easily hold. Even though you probably are not thinking about it, some part of you knows what the seat underneath you feels like. Pertaining to air temperature, if you feel comfortable in here you probably aren’t thinking that it’s too warm or too cold, but that’s data we are taking in all the time. Are you aware of your breath rate or how loudly your neighbor is breathing? Maybe not until I said something. You see our conscious mind is only the tip of the iceberg of who we are and how we engage with the world around us.
Now I’d like to try something else. It’s a bit different, but I figure if you are willing to come to a service with foot washing, maybe you are the adventurous type. Stick out your hand and raise a finger—not the middle one, as that might give us the wrong idea—lift up your index finger. Slow down your breathing and concentrate on your finger for ten seconds. Keep breathing, now look past your finger for ten seconds. Again, focus on your finger. And, now past it again.
This is vergence brain spotting—a mindfulness technique my therapist taught me. It’s designed to bring your whole self back into the room. So now that we are back in the room, let us go back into the upper room on that night long ago.
In that room, there was a lot that was happening. Surely the disciples could not hold all of it with their video game brains—their conscious minds had to be flooded with so much. In three Gospel accounts (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), Jesus instituted the Holy Eucharist during (what we call) the Last Supper. We heard those words in our Second Lesson filtered through a letter Paul wrote to the Corinthians. Throughout John’s telling of the Good News, Jesus was revealed as the Bread of heaven, so the institution of Holy Communion is missing. Instead, the holy ritual on that night was something wholly different—the teacher Jesus washed his students’ feet.
Did the disciples focus on “Do this in remembrance of me” or “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another”? Were they thinking of all the details of the Passover feast or were they concerned about Jesus’ increased anxiety, as he had been warning that he must undergo suffering? Were they keyed in on the practical, the spiritual, both or neither? What about us? Our minds, like theirs, may hone in on a specific detail, but our supercomputing souls are taking in terabytes of data.
What is the sensation of having water poured over your foot? And, how does it make you feel emotionally—anxious, uncomfortable, sad, confused, excited? What do the bread and wine smell like, how do they taste, is there a specific sensation you feel when consuming them? Are there emotions that are provoked when devouring these elements? What do the hymns sound like in your ears? How do they make your heart sing or sigh, laugh or cry? When the light fades, when the night comes, when the darkness encroaches—what then? There is more happening here than what our minds can hold.
Every year when we walk this way with Christ more and more layers of meaning are added onto this three-day-long service known as the Triduum. We can simplify things though. We can narrow our focus. For our tasks—given to us by Jesus on this night—are to remember and to love. More fully stated—we are to do this, so we may remember and we are to love as he loved. He did not say, “Do this to understand me,” nor did he offer a manipulative eye for an eye relationship. He was not interested in doing this to exclude anyone, nor was his focus on a giddy feeling we denote as “love.” Instead, we are to remember him and to love like him. We are to remember and to love.
We are to remember the things, which happened throughout those three days long ago—Jesus’ betrayal, Passion, and death. These events necessitate us to remember Christ because people just like us tore him apart. We are called to re-member him, to put Christ back together, as we acknowledge our part in continuing to tear apart Christ’s Body any time we injure, maim, or sever a member of the human family.
And we are to love. We are called to love like Jesus did. In the verses omitted (by the formers of our Lectionary) from John 13 in the middle of tonight’s Gospel lesson, we discover that Jesus knew his betrayer Judas was in his presence. Jesus still chose to love Judas by washing his feet. This was not cheap love, this was not an empty gesture, nor was this only a feeling. When Jesus said, “love like me” it was costly, it was a choice, and it was a sacrifice. We are to love and to remember, to remember Christ and to love like Jesus.
Our minds might try to make this a simple task of thinking about Jesus’ betrayal, Passion, and death during the Triduum, these next three days, or even throughout our lives, but there’s more. Our minds might even make this a feat for our bodies to undergo—having our feet washed or consuming the bread and the wine, the Body and the Blood, but there’s more still. It is the very purpose of our lives and the highest aim of our souls to be here, to remember, and to experience the love of Christ, then to share that love abundantly.
The love of Christ will not fully be revealed tonight. Certainly, we will not hold its breadth and depth only in our minds. Like missing verses in our lives, we won’t comprehend the self-sacrificing love of this night, of the cross, and of Christ on this side of the grave. As Paul wrote elsewhere to the Corinthians, now we only see dimly, like in a cloudy reflection. What is clear though, is that Jesus loved his betrayer fully knowing that he would be betrayed. He loved his disciples knowing fully they would abandon him. He loves us too knowing fully we will let him down. Though each of us will betray and abandon God by not seeing Christ in each other and in ourselves, God in Christ loves us still, loves us anyway, loves us always.
Tonight, remember Christ as we collectively constitute the Body—receiving Christ’s Body in Holy Eucharist. Tonight, experience with your heart, soul, strength, and yes your mind the love of Christ—taking on the new commandment to love, like Jesus did. Tonight, through these holy days, and throughout our lives, may we not only think about Jesus—His betrayal, Passion, and death—but may we also re-member the Body of Christ, as we follow Jesus’ commandment to love like Him.
