On the first day of Passover week, Jesus led the disciples back to the crest of the Mount of Olives . Looking down on the city he called two of them and said, ‘Go to the village opposite and you’ll find a tethered colt on which no one’s ever sat. Untie it and bring it here. If anyone asks what you’re doing say, ‘The teacher needs it and will send it back at once.’

Just as he said, they found a colt tied to a door outside in the street and they brought it to Jesus, throwing their coats across its back.

Jesus sat on it, rode down the Mount and began the steep climb to the Temple .

Many spread their coats in the road and others spread leafy branches from the fields. The ones in front and those behind cried out “Hosanna! Blessed is the one who comes in the Lord’s name!”

The late novelist, Kurt Vonnegut, author of such contemporary classics as Cat’s Cradle and Slaughterhouse-Five, was once asked to preach on Palm Sunday at St. Clement’s Episcopal Church in Manhattan . It was the custom of that wonderfully funky parish to invite a stranger, once a year, to address the congregation. Doing a little preparation and ground work in advance, Vonnegut asked an Episcopal priest, Carol Anderson, for her definition of the significance and meaning of that day. Carol told him that Palm Sunday was not just the beginning of Holy Week, but a brilliant satire on pomp and circumstance and high honors in this world.

True enough. Perhaps we should call it the Festival of Downward Mobility – a variation of the country singer Garth Brook’s popular song, “I’ve got Friends in Low Places.” It is, after all, the visual interpretation of exalting the humble and making the last, first.

So, we began this week, joining this parade of Downward Mobility. Somewhere along the road, though, the music changed from Ragtime to Requiem, and we hardly even noticed, because we didn’t miss a beat. We never do.

So as evening fell, Jesus came to the room with the twelve. When they had taken their places around the table Jesus put off his shirt, wrapped a towel around himself, poured water into a

 bowl and began to wash the disciples’ feet, drying them with the towel at his waist.

He got to Peter but Peter protested, “Lord, you’ll never wash my feet!”

Jesus said, If I do not wash you, you’ll have no part in me.

Peter said, “Then not just my feet but my hands and head too!” Jesus washed them all, even Judas who was set on his course now.

Mary was a member of our congregation – one who rarely, if ever, missed a church function. She stood in the doorway, the threshold, of security and utter homelessness. She lived alone, dressed shabbily, wearing an old sweater even on the warmest days, she carried a big bag full to the brim of papers and Lord knows what other items she collected from place to place as she moved about town on foot each day. In medieval fashion, she likely bathed only several times a year, and like so many folk on the street, she talked to herself on a regular basis – with an occasional response to an inquiry from another person. She lived in her own world. We were told that her grandfather had been an Episcopal bishop somewhere in the Northeast, and later on, that remarkable fact turned out to be true. She lived on a small income from a family trust – enough to pay rent and what small things might be needed for survival – but certainly not enough for any comfort. She ate at the church most days since we had enough functions and meetings to catch an extra plate or some leftovers in the kitchen to satisfy basic hunger. I never observed a time when Mary didn’t have a few coins to put in the offering plate. She was simply one of God’s peculiar treasures who make their way into sacred space, not to prove anything or to champion a cause, but to remind us that the least in this world will be the greatest in the Kingdom.

It was the morning of Maundy Thursday, and so the liturgical participants gathered for rehearsal in the old historic chapel. We all had our “new” prayer books in hand, having carefully read the liturgy to be introduced to the parish for the first time. Some had argued for simply staying with tradition – stripping the altar – but being a university parish, we perceived ourselves as risk takers, pilgrims living on the cutting edge. We would wash feet. There was a certain delightful fear in thinking about Episcopalians removing their shoes – and no telling what else! – in order to experience what Jesus had done for his own disciples, adding the deepest commandment of all in turning traditional protocol and practice upside down. Turning over the tables in the Temple had been mere prologue – now for the body of the text!

Although we perceived ourselves as risk takers, we decided on prudence, and so the first time around, we would wash only a few feet – about five or six persons, carefully chosen in advance, representing the spectrum of the church, who when the appropriate time came would come forward to the chancel area, sit in one of the folding chairs provided for the event, and as the choir chanted a psalm, allow the ordained clergy to wash their feet. It was to be the first step – no pun intended. Better to place our bets on order than chance any chaos. Besides, the symbolism was what would be important.

That morning, the participants all rehearsed the practice; the liturgy flowed smoothly – everything in place, everyone moving on cue, every “I” dotted and every “T” crossed. We were ready for the evening service, now just a few hours away.

It would be difficult to know just when I had the feeling that what we had rehearsed wouldn’t really be what we would do. It was just one of those premonitions, I guess, but sometimes premonitions morph into fruition. This was one of those times.

When the grand moment arrived for the designated participants to come forward and take their respective places, for some reason Rob, as the say in the West, was a bit slow on the draw. He seemed to be having trouble making his way out of the pew, and so before he could reach the center aisle, along came Mary, moving from back to front, determined to get that last vacant chair, come what may, dragging that big old dirty bag with her every step of the way. It was no contest – she beat Rob to the finish line by several lengths. She sat there proudly, a participant, one of the designated and chosen ones, while the others who had so carefully rehearsed, looked on in amazement. Rob ceremoniously crept back to his pew to assume his position as an observer of now what might be called Plan B.

What to do? The clergy washed feet, including Mary’s feet. The choir chanted. The congregation prayed. We sang the old favorites – “Were You There?” and “Go To Dark Gethsemane”– we received he Eucharistic gifts, we stood in silence as the black veil was placed over the great cross. We left in silence to the tolling of the chapel bell – thirty one in all– it was the year of the Lord. In the stillness of that dark night, I thought I heard rejoicing in heaven. Once again, God had interrupted our plans, so carefully choreographed and ordered, and in sending Mary into our drama, we were both blessed and shamed. For when you have done this for the least of these you have done it to me… I have given you a new commandment; love one another as I have loved you.

Annie Dillard could very well have been thinking about us on that Maundy Thursday – and perhaps on this one as well – when she states: “A high school stage play is more polished than this service we have been rehearsing since the year one. In over two thousand years, we have not worked out the kinks. We positively glorify them. Week after week we witness the same miracle: that God is so mighty that he can stifle his own laughter. Week after week, we witness the same miracle: that God, for reasons unfathomable, refrains from blowing our dancing bear act to smithereens. Week after week, Christ washes the disciples dirty feet, handles their very toes, and repeats, It is all right – believe it or not – to be people.

Who can believe it?” Somehow, on this day, we dare to believe – at least give it our best shot – that in living out the new commandment, washing one another’s feet – for a moment in time, holy kairos, it is all right to be human.

If Palm Sunday is the Festival of Downward Mobility, then what is Maundy Thursday? Might I suggest the Feast of Ordinary Holiness? Someone once said that Holy Communion is making holy that which is common. Today, in imitating Christ, we recognize the holiness of ordinary life – our life – and yet becoming ever greater through the mysterious power of a little water and the Holy Spirit. Who can believe it?

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Resources:

The Holy Bible . The Gospel according to John: Chapter 13.

Dillard, Annie. Teaching a Stone to Talk: ‘An Expedition to the Pole’. Harper. San Francisco. 1983

Price, Reynolds. Theology Today. Volume 51. Number 1. April 1994. “An Apocryphal Gospel.”