"The Living Reminder"

John 13:1-17,31b-35

Memory walks close to death. A moment after the hospital monitors fall silent, even as the pallor of death spreads across a loved ones face, memory's tongue is already loosened. The important things, as well as the incidentals, flood over us like a tidal wave. We are compelled by some inner, unknown force to share with the other survivors what we recall. It is that remembrance, that recollection, that brings us to realize the full extent of our loss - and which makes the tears finally fall.

This weekend, we remember our Lord's death. That is why we have gathered here, tonight. To remember. On Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, we recount the events of his death in almost morbid detail: the last dinner he had with those whom he loved; his betrayal - not only by Judas, but also by his friends; the cruel gibes of the soldiers, the weight of the beam digging into his shoulders, the pain of nails tearing his flesh, the agony of crucifixion, the wracking pain, the loneliness, the death on a lonely garbage dump outside the city. Jesus, our Lord, dies horribly, tortuously, then is hastily buried in a convenient tomb. We are the survivors. Yet, perhaps, our hope, too, is buried in that tomb. Many Christians tend to skip Maundy Thursday and Good Friday, anxious to get to Easter. We also quickly put him in a convenient tomb, waiting another day to be dealt with properly. So when Easter comes, it is only memory that is left to us - his body is still in the grave, our fears are still there with him, our grief unresolved.

Tonight we have gathered to remember - not just the nice things, but also those things that are painful to us. We gather with his mother, Mary, with John the beloved disciple, with heart-sick Peter and loving Mary Magdalene. We gather with those who have been faithful, as well as those who have not, to begin the deathwatch.

Maundy Thursday is a night of remembrance. His command to us is, "do this in remembrance of me."

What shall we remember?

A dreamer, who spoke of a kingdom open to the child in each of us, who taught us that love is stronger than death, who claimed a Father's embrace that, he said, surrounds us as gently as the breeze does a falling sparrow?

Do we, perhaps, remember him as a healer - one whose touch could change a life - who perhaps has even touched and changed us? One who was present among us with such power that it seemed like the fresh, cool breeze of the Spirit was carried on his every word?

Do we remember his fresh innocence? The way he loved so freely, the way he laughed so genuinely, the way he accepted so easily?

Jesus: the dreamer, the teacher, the healer, the innocent victim, tonight is betrayed, given into the hands of evil men, given up to die.

But yet for one more moment he remains with us. This is still Maundy Thursday – Good Friday has not arrived quite yet. Tonight we still have time to remember, not only his death, but also his presence: to laugh with him again, to love with him again, to commune with him, to eat and drink his presence - to gain enough nourishment in this meal to last us until Easter morning. Tonight, we experience in his presence the love of his Father and ours, tonight as we eat and drink, as we hear the words and remember, the Father strengthens us for the road ahead. Tonight, as we gather together - his disciples, his family, who daily betray him, who daily disappoint him, but who also love him - we hear afresh the echo of his words: "This is for you ... for you."

Only loving memory releases tears. Tonight we remember what we are more inclined to forget: God's dream that we may all be one, gathered together at the table of our Lord. We remember that we are his church - his body – called by him to live in peace and unity. We remember his longing to heal our wounds and bring us wholeness of life - of body, mind and spirit. We remember his desire to restore to us our lost innocence by taking upon himself the pain of innocent suffering, taking upon himself the agony of those who have fallen victim of failed human love. Tonight, as we hear the words, as we gather at the table - we remember.

And in remembering, we make that love of his our own. We remember that he will be with us again. We remember that he is with us always. In the breaking of the bread, and in the drinking of the wine. In the body and in the blood. In the promise he has given us: "This is my body. This is my blood." "I am here with you, among you, within you - in body and in blood." As we remember tonight, may we be strengthened; may we be healed; may we be restored to innocence; may we live in his love.

Amen.