Maundy Thursday Quotes

Maundy Thursday is so called because that night, the night before he was betrayed, Jesus gave the command, the mandatum, that we should love one another. Not necessarily with the love of our desiring, but with a demanding love, even a demeaning love—as in washing the feet of faithless friends who will run away and leave you naked to your enemies.

Holidays: Imagine if the great holidays and seasons of the Christian year were redesigned to emphasize love. Advent would be the season of preparing our hearts to receive God’s love. Epiphany would train us to keep our eyes open for expressions of compassion in our daily lives. Lent would be an honest self-examination of our maturity in love and a renewal of our commitment to grow in it. Instead of giving up chocolate or coffee for Lent, we would stop criticizing or gossiping about or interrupting others. Maundy Thursday would refocus us on the great and new commandment; Good Friday would present the suffering of crucifixion as the suffering of love; Holy Saturday would allow us to lament and grieve the lack of love in our lives and world; and Easter would celebrate the revolutionary power of death-defying love. Pentecost could be an “altar call” to be filled with the Spirit of love, and “ordinary time” could be “extraordinary time” if it involved challenges to celebrate and express love in new ways—to new people, to ourselves, to the earth, and to God—including time to tell stories about our experiences of doing so.

Wanting to get at this idea that God meets us first under the oak tree, when our feet are dirty, not just after we have managed to clean them up, House for All Sinners and Saints has the practice of  both foot washing and bleach kit assembly on Maundy Thursday. We sing “Take, O, Take Me As I Am” as we assemble bleach, tourniquets, and condoms into kits for outreach workers, through an underground needle exchange program, to hand to IV drug users on the streets of  Denver. This is not a quaint “service project.” It is a radical statement that we believe in grace.

Between the brown hands of a server-lad The silver cross was offered to be kissed. The men came up, lugubrious, but not sad, And knelt reluctantly, half-prejudiced. (And kissing, kissed the emblem of a creed.) Then mourning women knelt; meek mouths they had, (And kissed the Body of the Christ indeed.) Young children came, with eager lips and glad. (These kissed a silver doll, immensely bright.) Then I, too, knelt before that acolyte. Above the crucifix I bent my head: The Christ was thin, and cold, and very dead: And yet I bowed, yea, kissed - my lips did cling. (I kissed the warm live hand that held the thing.)

They went to a place which was called Gethsemane; and he said to his disciples, “Sit here, while I pray.” —Mark 14:32 (RSV) MAUNDY THURSDAY: LEARNING TO SAY YES I’m sitting in a car in the rain with my friend Linda, looking out over the Pacific Ocean, eating chicken satay. This will be our last meal forever, at least on this earth. Actually, I’m the only one eating. Linda is—as discreetly as possible—using a paper bag to, um, unload some of the chemotherapy from her stomach. When we arranged this trip—my flying in from Pennsylvania to California—we didn’t know it was the good-bye tour. Check that: I suspected but said nothing. Linda had been declining for two years. By the time I arrived, it was obvious this would be it. Ordinarily, I'm not an obedient servant nor a fully engaged human being. I am scattered, sarcastic, selfish, and way too proud. But for two days now I have answered her every wish the same way: Yes. I agree to even strange requests, like tossing back chicken satay while she tosses her cookies. Part of me can’t think of anything more tragic; another part of me realizes every moment of this visit is fully lived, fully engaged, and will be fully remembered for the rest of my life. Long ago, in centuries far away, another Last Supper took place among friends. I won’t pretend to know what that Passover meal felt like, but I can tell you it was fully lived and fully remembered. I can tell you that Someone said yes to what was asked that night, a sacrifice beyond sacrifice. But that’s what loved ones do for each other, something that redeems even the most scattered and selfish and proud among us sinners. Lord, help me to say yes more often—to You and to others. —Mark Collins Digging Deeper: Is 53:5; 2 Cor 5:21; Heb 10:1–14

Maundy Thursday

This leads me to the last question raised by this saying: What does it mean to forgive? The word in Greek is aphiēmi, with the basic meaning of “to send away.” The word occurs often in Greek commercial papyrus fragments of the time with the idea of “to release from legal or moral obligation or consequence, cancel, remit, pardon.”[1] The word was used in legal documents to describe releasing a person from an office, severing a marriage obligation, or cancelling a debt that was owed.[2] In the Lord’s Prayer Jesus uses the verb aphiēmi in the context of debt: “And forgive us our debts, as we forgive our debtors.” (Matthew 6:12) He

But what Ejnar said next startled us. “We fought for Denmark’s glory,” he repeated. “But we found only disgrace. We willingly risked life and limb, and showed undaunted courage, to save the honor of our country. But thanks to a lousy leader, we lost it. I’ll never forget how those cannonballs hailed down on us on Maundy Thursday. How we fought and fell and died in smoke and flames, and how that evening we were carted off to Eckernförde like slaves and locked up in God’s house. How we lay there on the straw, exhausted and dazed. I won’t forget how the Christian the Eighth was blown up and how so many poor souls died; how on Good Friday we were marched to Rendsburg, to another church, and how again we had to sleep on straw and eat stale bread for our Easter lunch. How the house of God became a cage for slaves, full of degradation and blasphemy, and how our captivity was a stretch of dark, miserable days. I’ll never forget any of that, as long as I live.