Love to the End

It is a farewell meal. Whether the disciples grasp the enormity of it all, Jesus does. John makes that much clear: “Jesus knew that his hour had come to depart from this world. Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.”

Then Jesus turns words into action and washes the disciples’ feet. His “I love you” also means “goodbye.” And with this act of love, comes words that echo through the ages, words that we hear in a radically new way tonight: Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another.” Words become deeds.

We see great love and sacrifice these days. One doctor in Washington state writes that on the front lines of a pandemic, “I love you” can mean “goodbye.”

As he writes:

I love you,” says a female colleague of mine to her newborn baby after she tests positive for Covid-19 and has to self-isolate at home.
“I love you,” says an emergency room physician to his family before a breathing tube is inserted into his airway and his co-workers descend upon his body, working to save his life — the emotional struggle shattering the aura of invincibility we often feel as health care providers.
“I love you,” says husband to wife, both of them ill from coronavirus, hospitalized in adjacent rooms. Their eyes meet as he is rolled away to the intensive care unit for mechanical ventilation as his condition rapidly worsens. It is possibly the last time they will see each other alive. Their exchange of “I love you” may be the last words they ever say to one another.

Behind the gowns, masks and goggles, he goes on to write, there are no dry eyes among the nurses, respiratory therapists and doctors who have fought so hard to support him as they watch him get wheeled down the hall and out of sight.

He goes on:

An older woman, her lungs filling with pus and inflammation, struggles to say “I love you” to her grandsons via video chat; the virus is too contagious for an in-person goodbye. She’s breathing hard and visibly distressed. Both her daughter, who is a nurse, and I ask her to let us increase the dose of medications that will make her comfortable but sedated. She refuses for now as she wants to have a little more time with her grandsons to ask them about their homework.
I hear the patient’s daughter explaining to her boys that grandma is going to heaven and they won’t see her again. I walk closer to give her a hug, as I have done for many other dying patients, but I stop myself. This simple act of empathy as a health care provider, as a human being, carries too much risk of transmission.

Maundy Thursday is the day our liturgy usually includes the most touch, the most intimate physical contact. Pastors lay hands on the heads of worshipers, announcing forgiveness and reconciliation. We stoop low to wash each other’s feet. We share a handshake, kiss or embrace as a greeting of peace. And then we share a meal of bread and wine, the bread server often touching your hands in a moment of holy intimacy, many then drinking from a common cup as a sign of unity. Yet this year our rituals are curtailed, and we partake via a screen, reflecting on love, servanthood and touch in limited, yet new ways.

In these bizarre days when we are afraid to touch or come near one another, we remember Jesus, who touched those most vulnerable, touched those most marginalized, touched those most contaminated. His bodily touch was a sign of God’ boundless mercy for all who suffer. His very life a picture of the footwashing and acts of service he calls us to embody.

How we long to be together, to share the eucharist, to embrace, to hold a hand. Even as we give thanks for those on the front line, being signs of compassion for those who are sick, those who are dying, those who are isolated and alone. Thanks to technology, priests and pastors are offering rituals for the dying through an iPad or phone, trusting that words of comfort will offer a virtual sign of God’s grace for those who will transition from life to death.

Some call this virus the great equalizer. England’s Prime Minister contracted it. Yet in this city and across the nation there is a disproportionate number of cases and deaths and among African Americans and Latinx. Those whose health is most fragile, those who need to take public transportation, those still working and serving, are those most vulnerable and suffering the most.

During these liturgies of the Three Days, we always are in the midst of death and life, but perhaps for most of us, more so this year than at any time in our lives. We find in Jesus’ life, death and resurrection the sign of divine love and mercy.

I recently learned of a new liturgy made available to Lutherans called “rite of preparing the body for burial.” Close family or friends, and often a pastor, attend to the body of the deceased, washing it and anointing it with lotions and oils. The rite was prepared by Pastor Bekki Lohrmann for a class taught by Holy Trinity member Ben Stewart at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago. Bekki attended Holy Trinity a number of years ago.

In a time when we are afraid of dead bodies and often whisk them off to be cremated, this rite helps us honor the body in death as we do in life. My brother used it following the death of his wife, and found it immensely healing.

I share some of the texts as they hold up the power of touch even when we cannot wash feet together this night, and many people around the world cannot vigil with their loved ones as they die. These powerful texts remind us of the goodness of our bodies and the importance of the body and all our senses in liturgy and in life.

Before the washing there are these words:

When Jesus encountered a man born blind, he sent him to wash in a pool of healing.
When Jesus was preparing for his own death, he knelt down and washed the feet of his disciples and then taught them to wash one another.
On the way to Jerusalem, Mary the sister of Martha anointed Jesus with costly perfume.
For thousands of years, people have been washed in God’s waters of grace and clothed with God’s mercy and forgiveness.

Then there is a blessing and making the cross on the body. Similar to a blessing we use for adults preparing for baptism. How beautifully they remind us of the precious gift of life that we experience day by day, even as give thanks for the life of someone who has died. And after each anointing come the words, “You belong to Christ, in whom you have been baptized.”

Over the eyes the leader prays: All that Susan’s eyes have seen in this life, O God, we commend to you.

Over the ears: All that Robert’s ears have heard in this life, O God, we commend to you.

Over the mouth: All that Sally’s tongue has tasted and all the words that her mouth has spoken in this life, O God, we commend to you.

Over the hands: All the work that Peter’s hands have done in this life, O God, we commend to you.

Over the feet: All the journeys of Sharon’s pilgrimage on this earth, O God, we commend to you.

Over the forehead: This life, baptized into Christ’s death and resurrection, O God, we commend to you.

Jesus loved them to the end. Jesus loves us to the end. And calls us to follow his example of servanthood. Whether or not we wash feet ritually, we recommit ourselves to honoring and caring for bodies—our own and those of others, especially those most vulnerable. For in such acts of love and service, Easter already dawns.