It amazes me still the story from Exodus (a few chapters on from the passage we’ve heard this evening), the story about the elders of Israel, there on the mountain with Moses and Aaron: that mystical moment, that meal, when they ate and drank and saw God. They didn’t die, the sacred text says; they should’ve died, but they didn’t. After the words and ordinances of the Lord were proclaimed, after the bloody sacrifice, the sprinkled blood, God drew close them, the story goes, and in eating and drinking they saw him, gazed upon him.[1] That’s what amazes me still, this moment—seeing God. It’s hard to take its measure.

Christians, of course, (the biblically literate at least) think of Luke’s Gospel when they think of this mystical story from Exodus. On the mountain, elders ate and drank and saw God; at the table, disciples “recognized him.” “[H]e took bread, said the blessing, broke it, and gave it to them…[and] their eyes were opened and they recognized him,” Luke writes.[2] This too happened after the sacrifice, the shedding of blood. This evening, in a little while, I’ll hold up to you the Host and the Chalice, and I’ll say, “Behold.”[3] Look, I’ll say in essence. The mountain, the table, this altar: it’s all the same miracle. Again, it’s hard to take its measure.

Faith is required. Only the faithful see it; only the faithful who beg faithfully to see it will see it; the scoffers, the flippant, will only ridicule—eternally. But, of course, there weren’t that many in the desert, fewer on the mountain, even fewer gathered around the Lord. That’s just the way it is. As Augustine said, not all who share in the sacraments will share in the “eternal destiny of the saints.”[4] Holy things are for the holy. Faith is required, begging for faith. Tonight, what do you see? Are you here a mystical beggar or a consumer? Is this sacramental gift yours by right? Or, do you admit your unworthiness that the Lord should ever enter under your roof? The grace of it’s revealed only to faithful beggars. Anyway, I’m talking about seeing the mystery; some see it, some don’t. You can see it if you want. I hope you do.

Because what’s at stake is your liberation, your freedom. This is another thing we learn tonight about this mystery: it’s not just about seeing God; it’s about freedom. God liberates us by this mystery, by this food. That’s what, very simply, the story of the Passover is about. The Hebrews were instructed to “eat like those who are in flight.”[5] A little while after that, Moses on the shore of the Red Sea, would say to them, “These Egyptians…you will never see again.”[6] That’s the repeated grace, the way God rescues his people—food and Passover and flight into promised land. This is a figure, a symbol for your salvation from whatever your Egypt is. In the dark valley, whatever your dark valley is, the Lord can set a table before you before your enemies and you can fear no evil.[7] Because you have seen God; because he’s drawn close to you in this food, and you have seen him; and because he’s liberated you. It’s all the same miracle. Listen for it, this is what it means tonight in the Eucharistic Prayer, a little before the words of institution, when I’ll say, “that is today.” “On the day before he was to suffer…that is today.”[8] The grace, you see, is repeated; it’s the same miracle; their liberation is ours; their God is ours; hope is not lost for us either; you will not die; you will enter the Promised Land.

Which is the weird thing. Weird because we’re here to remember the betrayal, to begin to watch the death, the defeat of Christ. Tonight, Jesus is betrayed and not just by Judas. Tonight, Jesus is left alone and not just by the Twelve. What we do tonight and tomorrow shows what we really think of him. For God so loved the world, but that world’s something wicked; it’s never really loved God back. But yet, still, tonight God loves us; unrequited, he still gives us this gift to see him, to be free. In the desert once, the Hebrews hated God; they called him, in substance, genocidal: they accused God of leading them out into the desert only to die. But then, the story of the quail and the manna—God fed his people even though they raged against him, ungrateful, unfaithful.[9] And again, the miracle’s the same. “For Christ…died at the appointed time for the ungodly,” Paul said.[10] God feeds us tonight even though we often murmur and complain and rage and rant just the same, weak just the same. God still sets a table before us. Which, as I said, is the weird thing—that weirdness being his mercy—that God should still feed us even after all that. Because God is love and truth.

But, of course, there is a tradeoff. The gift is free; but then again, it isn’t. It’ll cost you. That’s the point of this story about washing feet. It’s a sign of Jesus’s humility; not even a slave could be compelled to wash his enslaver’s feet, but Jesus washes his disciples’ feet. But it’s also a sign of Jesus’s death, of that final act of love. “Unless I wash you, you will have no inheritance with me,” Jesus tells Peter.[11] Jesus must die for us; that’s what that means. But then he goes on to say, “I have given you a model, so that as I have done for you, you should also do.”[12] We must die for others; that’s what that means. And that’s the tradeoff; that’s what it’ll cost you, this merciful gift of freedom, of seeing God. It’ll cost you your life; it’ll demand your sacrifice. “Whoever does not carry his own cross and come after me cannot be my disciple.”[13] That’s what that means: that grace should make us gracious, like God; that it should free us to love and suffer for others, even enemies, like he does. For God so loved the wicked world.

Which is perhaps why Judas left when he did, not buying one word of it—this mystery, this love, this sacrifice. Which, of course, leaves each of us with an unsettling question: What do I make of it all? What do you make of it? John tells us “it was night” when Judas left.[14] It’s night now; what will you do? There is no other Christianity than this, no other faith than that which inspires sacrifice, the laying down of your life, the loving of your enemies. Tonight, Jesus was betrayed and not just by Judas. That’s the question, unsettling as I said. What do you make of it, this love that gives and demands so much? When you walk out of here tonight, who will you be? Amen.

[1] Exodus 24:1-11

[2] Luke 24:30-31

[3] The Roman Missal

[4] Augustine, City of God 1.35

[5] Exodus 12:11

[6] Exodus 14:13

[7] Psalm 23:4-5

[8] The Roman Missal

[9] Exodus 16:1-36

[10] Romans 5:6

[11] John 13:8

[12] John 13:15

[13] Luke 14:27

[14] John 13:30

© 2023 Rev. Joshua J. Whitfield