Maundy Thursday

Be present, be present, O Jesus, our great High Priest, as you were present with your disciples, and be known to us in the breaking of bread; who live and reign with the Father and the Holy Spirit, now and for ever. Amen.

Have you ever heard of how, in the middle of a boxing match, a hockey game broke out? Well in the middle of God raining down plagues on those nasty Egyptians and their Pharaoh, a liturgy broke out. There's that word again, "liturgy." We see it every Sunday. It's the principal means of communicating the news of this Parish. But what does it mean? We Episcopalians are "people of the Book" – The Bible and the Book of Common Prayer. We read from both every Sunday. And I expect that most, if not all, understand that "liturgy" refers to our worship, which is centered on the Book of Common Prayer. From the words of the prayer book, we go to the words with which we communicate with each other. And thus we have the weekly "Liturgy."

But "Liturgy" is so much more than a set of words. A hockey game has rules that at least in theory, keep it from becoming a boxing match. Those rules give an order to what would otherwise be an undisciplined boxing match, and make it into a liturgy of sorts. As a community of disciples of Jesus Christ, we are no different. We need rules to help us order our common life of service to God and each other. On this Holy Thursday, this Maundy Thursday, we hear our Lord and Savior set out the basic rules of our Liturgy. This Liturgy is our life, and we are called to make our life this Liturgy.

Remember that great Easter tradition, Cecil B. DeMille's, "The Ten Commandments?" Remember that scene where this black cloud is seeping through the land of Egypt, sucking the breath of life out of all the firstborn, expect for the children of Israel, with the blood of the lambs on their doors. We see inside the house where Moses and his family are eating the Passover meal according to the strict instructions we read this evening from Exodus. Occasionally a cantor breaks out into a solemn chant from the Psalms. A boy asks the question that children throughout the centuries have asked, "Why is this night different from all the others?" Outside that door, people occasionally cry out and chariots crash. But inside is a different reality. Outside in the world is terror and death. Inside the door is faith and new life. Inside the door is liturgy.

There is a strange disconnect between what's going on in the world and what is happening inside the homes of the Israelites. That same disconnect is found in the Book of Exodus from which we just read. God has just threatened to bring on the last plague upon the Egyptians for the hard-heartedness of their Pharaoh. But instead of taking us right to the next logical scene, we get this interruption, this 12th chapter, this long set of instructions on how the Israelites are to celebrate the Passover, not just for one night, but for all the nights to come. "This day shall be to you one of remembrance: you shall celebrate it as a festival to the LORD throughout the ages; you shall celebrate it as an institution for all time" (Ex. 12:14).

Time become a very fluid thing. In this reading from Holy Scripture, you see the historical Passover, that night when the Lord passed over the houses of the Israelites. But you also read of the liturgy by which the children of Israel would remember that night for all time. As the Lord God passed over the houses of the Israelites, they celebrated that Passover in their Liturgy. And for all time, as the children of Israel celebrate the Passover Liturgy, they become their ancestors: a people who were in bondage to earthly powers, but are now liberated to be God's people. In their Passover liturgy, the past, present and future become one moment in time. The centuries melt away, and the people of Israel, wherever they are, become once more the liberated people, the chosen people.

According to Paul, that is what Jesus did, and does, in the tradition that was handed down to him: "The Lord Jesus on the night when he was betrayed took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it, and said, 'This is my body which is for you. Do this in order to recall me.'" (1 Cor. 11:23-24). That last part didn't sound right, did it? But that is actually the more correct translation. The Greek word translated as "remembrance" is anamnesis, which is much more than a purely mental memory that consists of some electric signals in our brains.

Because the Greeks believed that time went in a cycle, they considered it possible for an event in the past to be present again. They had a separate word for what we normally think of as "remembrance" or memory. But to make an anamnesis was to "recall" an event from the past so that it was no longer in the distant past but present us right now. Think of how governments "recall" an ambassador from another country back home, and you have a sense of what Paul is really saying here. Whenever we come together as a worshiping community and repeat these words of Jesus, we "recall" those events by which our sins are forgiven. We "recall his death, resurrection and ascension." And in that recalling, Jesus Christ the son of God is as present with us he was with his disciples 2,000 years ago. And we are given just enough of a taste of eternal life that we can continue to live as one people of Resurrection and hope.

To be a liturgical people is to be a people who know that when we hear the words, "This is my Body…This is my blood," we are with Jesus in that upper room, as he prepares to die. That hour is approaching. Will we walk with him? Will we, in Paul's words, proclaim his death until he comes in glory? Will we proclaim to a world that reeks of sin and alienation that it doesn’t have to be that way. Will we show forth in the world the unity in Christ that is ours this night? His path is the way to everlasting life, though it first pass through death. That path begins tonight, in our Liturgy. In our Liturgy is our life.