Sermon for April 18, 2019 - Maundy Thursday - The Rev'd Jeffrey W. Mello

Exodus 12:1-4, 11-14; 1 Corinthians 11:23–26; John 13:1–17, 31b–35

We have begun a liturgy together that will last over four hours, spread over three days.

If you look in your bulletin, you will see that our time tonight ends, but the service itself doesn’t have an ending. The same is true for tomorrow. No real beginning and no real ending.  We won’t hear a blessing or dismissal again until the end of the Easter Vigil when our three-day observance of what is called the Paschal Triduum comes to a glorious and joy-filled sending forth on the other side of the empty tomb.

A lot will happen in the next three days.  A meal with friends. A mandate to wash feet. Abandonment. Sentencing. Execution. Despair. Burial.  Earthquake. Transformation. Empty tomb. Rejoicing.

And, as the banner out front says, Spoiler Alert -- Love will win.

Even as we sit anticipating reliving the hardest parts of our walk with Jesus we do so with the confidence that we know how the story ends.

But what if we didn’t know?  What if we weren’t sure? Like a book we are re-reading or a beloved movie we are watching again, can we get lost in the story enough to forget that we know how it ends?

In the theatre, there is a concept that is used to describe what every audience member agrees to bring with them to the performance, even if they are unaware.  It is called the “willingness to suspend disbelief.”

When we are in the theater watching a play that takes place on a beach, we know that we are not at the beach.  But we agree to believe we are.

We know the actors playing Romeo and Juliet don’t actually die at the end, but we agree to believe that they do.

Suspending disbelief is easier for some than it is for others.  Nothing excites me more when, after the curtain comes down and the lights come back up, I am sitting, slack-jawed.  Turning to Paul, I’ll say, “They got me.”

Might we allow ourselves to “be gotten” these next three days?

Can we hear Jesus’ words to his disciples in the upper room as new information given to us as eavesdroppers on their intimate conversation?

Can we forget, when our feet are washed, that we were expecting it, maybe even prepared for it, and let ourselves be shocked and scandalized by the act of an unexpected servant?

As the altar hangings and decorations are removed and the space left stripped bare, can we see not hangings and decorations, but the abandonment, desertion and shaming of Jesus they are meant to represent?

When I get up at the end of tonight and leave you to finish the Psalm on your own, can you imagine that you are somewhere other than the sanctuary of St. Paul’s you know so well?  Can you believe that you are on your own? You are rudderless. You are abandoned.

And can you keep this willingness to suspend disbelief as we gather again at the cross.  Can you stand before the cross as though it will be the first time you will have seen such a brutal instrument of torture and execution?  

Will you believe that your beloved leader, teacher and friend to whom you have pledged your life will be secured to the cross with nails before your very eyes?

And then, on Saturday, will you allow yourself to forget that Easter is coming?  Can you wake on Saturday feeling as though your world no longer makes sense? That hope is nowhere in sight?

And then, at the Vigil, will you come and be drawn to a new fire, a new light that just might be a sign that grand promises made by God have been fulfilled?  Will you come wondering if what you have hoped for has come true?

These next few days ask a lot of us.  A lot of time. A lot of preparation. And a deep willingness to suspend disbelief.  

But our observance of these three days is not meant to be a history lesson.  This is not a past-tense story. This is a story of today. This is a story of now.  This is a story of tomorrow, or next week, next month or a few years from now.

Because these events in Jesus’ life are events we know in our own lives.  Abandonment. Hopelessness. The spectre of death. New life born out deep darkness.  

But in order to recognize them when they happen in our lives, we practice experiencing them together, as a community, as they happened to the one we follow.

If we can suspend our disbelief over these next few days, perhaps we can, when they occur in our everyday lives, know them for what they are.  Signs pointing to new life. New hope.

As followers of Jesus, we dare to believe that leaders can be servants.  We believe that we can run away from God scared and be welcomed back. We believe that we can hurt one another in unimaginable ways and be forgiven.  We believe that new life can come out of the grave itself. And we believe that, spoiler alert, Love will always win.

Welcome to the journey.  Check your disbelief at the door, if you can.  

These next few days, try suspending your disbelief of the facts, that you might come to recognize, to know and to abide in the truth.

To the upper room we go.  Believe it or not.

Amen.

© 2019  The Reverend Jeffrey W. Mello