Holy Thursday; Wholly Present

Today is Holy Thursday, the day the disciples reclined around the Passover Table with Jesus – leaned with their whole selves and listened to the words, “This is my body . . . this is my blood . . . eat and drink in remembrance of me.”  This is the day Jesus took off his garments and washed the feet of the disciples.  This was a humble gesture, Jesus making himself a servant and cleansing the dust trodden feet.  A symbol mercy and forgiveness and instructions to do the same for one another. 

I try and picture myself in this story.  What would I do?  How would I react?  What would I do with the words I heard?  I find it easy to wash the feet of strangers.  As a nurse, I have patients come in soiled and dirty and I find it a privilege to help clean each person up in their time of need.  They are vulnerable and helpless, and I can help.  We have homeless come into the hospital with dirty, calloused feet and mud-caked bodies and for a moment I can be a source of tenderness.  I consider it an honor to be in this position.  In my previous career as a therapist, I had clients come in with their “soiled souls.”  They laid their shames, fears, and hopes out in the sacred space of the counseling office.  What great risks these clients took.  What great hope they had that in this space they would find healing and tenderness and not judgment and condemnation. 

In a physical and mental sense, it costs me very little to be the giver.  I risk little cleaning someone’s body.  At most it costs me physical energy that is easily replenished with a good night sleep, a quiet walk in the woods, and if needed, a massage.  I risk little listening to another’s story.  My job is to be a mirror and reflect their pain and grief and help them process their emotions.  I risk little if I stay in my intellect or use my physical strength.

I just finished a little read, The Way of the Heart by Henri Nouwen.  The book laid out the wisdom of the Desert Fathers and the paths of solitude, silence, and prayer.  Solitude – getting to that place where we can face our great struggle and encounter God apart from distractions.  Silence – the space that sends us on a pilgrimage to hear God and where we guard this mystery and not lose it with superfluous babble.  And finally, Prayer of the Heart – opening our soul to the truth of God and ourselves; where we hide nothing from God.  Nouwen states, “The word heart in the Jewish-Christian tradition refers to the source of all physical, emotional, intellectual, volitional, and moral energies.” 

The greatest commandment is to love the Lord with all our heart, soul, strength, and mind and to love our neighbor as ourselves.  In other words, love with our entire being.  Open our entire selves to God and to one another.  I can love with my body – I love doing things for other people.  My favorite summer to date is the summer I spent building houses in the outskirts of Tijuana, Mexico.  Mixing concrete, hammering nails, providing shelter – I loved my tired, sweaty body at the end of the day and the 2.5 gallons of non-potable water I had to “shower” with.  I can love with my mind – I love thinking, reading, and learning.  I love sharing the knowledge and insights I have gained.  When it comes to the heart and soul, this is where the struggle gets real.  I am confident and feel a sense of control with my mind and body.  My heart and soul are vulnerable, and I spend a great deal of energy guarding it from what comes in and what comes out.

At the Last Supper, St. Peter initially refuses to have his feet washed.  If I put myself there, I imagine that Peter understood that this was more than a physical act of cleaning.  He was being asked to open his heart, soul, mind, and body to the tenderness of Jesus.  I imagine a light bulb going off in Peter’s head – he understood and then asked for his entire body to be cleaned.  This is big.  This is vulnerable.  The invitation to be open and then offer this openness to one another.

These past few days I have mediated on one line from Psalm 23, “The Lord is my Shepherd.”  When I think of a Shepherd – the protector, leader, guide, I feel the door to my heart and soul wanting to close.  I do not want to rely on someone.  I do not want to risk disappointment.  And I see this as really old fears.  I see myself as the lost sheep backed into a dark cave surrounded by wolves with no Shepherd to protect me.  There was a time when I was alone and terrified.  With my mind and body, I fought my way out of the wolf cave, but I left my heart and soul lagging behind.  I do not have answers as to why bad things happen – why bad things happened to me or anyone else.  My mind knows about free will and therefore people are free to choose to be either sheep or wolves, lovers or haters, nurturers or destroyers.  And if I am honest, I know I can and have been both a sheep and a wolf.   But knowing about freedom to choose does not erase the damage done to the person.

I cannot change the past.  I cannot undo what has been done.  What I can do is make a choice with what I will do at the table now.  Will I lean in to the heart of Jesus, the Shepherd, and hear with my heart and not just my intellect?  Will I approach the Table to receive the Body and Blood with my soul open to the tenderness or will I approach out of moral duty and theological understanding?  Will I be like Peter and offer my whole self to be touched and cleansed?  Will I risk offering my whole self to others?