How Maundy Thursday Hooked Me
A few years ago, leading up to Holy Week, I was about 50/50 on becoming an Anglican. I saw some things I liked, I didn’t understand a handful of other aspects, and I wrestled with leaving a tradition that raised me, and then Holy Week got me. It was all over from there.
Now, I don’t mean to suggest that Anglicans have the market cornered on Holy Week. Though we tend to do more with Holy Week than other Protestants in the USA, these liturgies are something Christ’s whole body shares, including Roman Catholics and Eastern Orthodox.
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Nevertheless, it was my Anglican exposure to Holy Week, and specifically the Maundy Thursday service, that cemented my commitment to the Anglican tradition. On Maundy Thursday, two powerful things happen: the rehearsal of Jesus’ example of sacrificial love through the washing of feet, and the stripping of the altar in anticipation of Good Friday.
Washing Feet
My own insecurity, dysfunction, and macho instincts lead me to be hesitant about crying. I can cry. I have, even if I certainly don’t like to; I like to think I can control it. I’m certainly not an ugly crier. Yet, I sat in a pew, waiting for my priest to wash my feet, corralling the rest of my family, contemplating the course of Jesus, and I lost it.
I was audibly weeping, sniffing, tears streaming down my face. The closest to an “ugly cry” I’ve ever come. I walked forward and sat down on the front pew with my family. “Alex, may I wash your feet?” my friend and priest asked. I felt as if Jesus were asking the same thing. “Never!” I echoed Peter’s thoughts. I can do that myself, thank you. There’s no need, I got it under control. I can handle it. I’m a man, after all, self-sufficient and independent. The icon of Christ grabbed my grubby feet, a wet towel, and he wiped them clean; I was undone.
He came to Simon Peter, who said to him, “Lord, do you wash my feet?” Jesus answered him, “What I am doing you do not understand now, but afterward you will understand.” Peter said to him, “You shall never wash my feet.” Jesus answered him, “If I do not wash you, you have no share with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not my feet only but also my hands and my head!”
John 13:6-9
The Potential Impact of Foot Washing
What could happen if feet washing became a global mandate on Maundy Thursday throughout the Church? What if our pastors must wash our feet once a year? How would that affect those given to “celebrity pastor” ambitions, extravagant expenditures on the backs of their congregations, or abusive lashing out at the first sign of questioning?
How would it impact church conflict? Pastors, take heed: These are Jesus’ sheep. Serve them. Congregations, take heed: a pastor who loves them, kneeling to wash one of their dirtiest body parts. How can I respond to a pastor and a church that sacrificially love me? I know there are failings within the Anglican tradition, conflict, and arrogance. But certainly, this is a gentle, regular reminder at least once a year to check one’s ego at the door.
Stripping the Altar
After this extreme act of humility and service, we strip the altar. The visceral image of Jesus’ mission failing, the disciples abandoning him, and the feeling that God went dark. Hope fades, and dreams expire.
Of course, I knew all this. I’ve heard the story. Here, I saw it, I felt it. I experienced some of the heartache and sorrow on Thursday before Sunday. Here, failure takes on flesh. I was able to enter into both the love and suffering of Christ.
When every Sunday is a re-celebration of Easter, why focus on the days before? We know how it ends. Why focus on this story from Thursday through Saturday? Days devoid of victory, of shredded hopes, of drained goodness. For me, it helped me see that the world’s healing manifests only this way, and in no other way. The weight of the world’s evil—my evil—is set on Thursday, experienced on Friday, crushed on Saturday. Walking the rest of the Triduum prepared me for the joy of Easter Sunday. In some ways, I’ve never looked back from that Holy Week. It cemented me within the Anglican tradition. But in other ways, Holy Week taught me always to look back—entering the days-long story anew each year.
Photo by Edlane De Mattos from Getty Images, courtesy of Canva. Digitally edited by Jacob Davis.
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