WE, TOO, ARE HIS DISCIPLES

Maundy Thursday

For three years, the Lord Jesus lived with His disciples. Today was the last of those days—though none of them knew it. He’d warned them time and again and done all He could to prepare them for what was coming, but when the day finally arrived, they were as uncomprehending as ever. His last few hours with them and that which gives today its name—maunde—“commandment”—the New Commandment to “Do This in Remembrance”—“to love one another as He had loved”—were, in their view, little different than all the other days which preceded it. Don’t judge those fellows too harshly. Even with the much-vaunted benefit of hindsight, we, His disciples too, remain almost equally uncomprehending after 2000 years.

The disciples were like teen-agers—quintessential “sophomores”—one of the most fun words in our language. Remember its derivation? A “sophomore” is from Greek: sophos—“wise” (sophisticated) and moros—“fool” (moron). The classic sophomore is the know-it-all much more impressed by himself than anyone else could ever be.

On the night in which one of His friends would betray Him, our Lord drew them close around Him. While all the Evangelists give us an account of that night, none is so rich as that of St John. St John devotes five chapters of his Gospel—five out of twenty-one—to the words and events surrounding the Last Supper, and every time he mentions the disciples in those pages, St John depicts them as hearing but not understanding, seeing but not comprehending, what’s going on around them. He wraps Himself in a towel and washes their feet. Most submit dumbly to this, but Peter bombastically refuses. “Lord, I will never allow You to wash my feet!” he exclaims, no doubt pulling back. Jesus has to stop what He’s doing and explain Himself before He can finish. Even when Judas skulks away from the Table to arrange for the Lord’s arrest, the others had no idea about where He was going or what he was doing. At the most solemn moment of the Supper, when He took Bread and broke it and passed among them the cup brimming with His Blood, they must have eaten and sipped in silent curiosity.

We contrast ourselves, perhaps unconsciously, to them. How could they have failed to understand?

But we are at least at blind as they, knowing what happened to them and believing the Lord to be Who He Is. Even more heart-rending for the Lord Jesus than Judas scurrying off must have been Peter’s brash promise: “Even if all the rest of them forsake You, You can count on me. I will never leave you!” Within a few hours, Peter would repeatedly deny that he even knew who Jesus was. We shake our heads, but how many times have we done the same? How often have we followed others in doing things we know are contrary to what the Lord Christ would have us do? Every one of the Lord’s disciples, from the first twelve to the most recent, has fallen short of our calling. We have no more right to judge each other than we do to judge them. We’ve all failed Him. How many times have we knelt before His altar, His Sacrament fresh in our mouths, when our hearts and even our minds were elsewhere? What room do I have to judge anybody else, when I’m guilty?

Tonight, as we gather to celebrate the Mass of the Lord’s Supper, the church will be decked in its finest hangings, resplendent with its best vestments, clouded (I hope) with so much incense you won’t be certain who’s next to you in the pew. The music will be among the best musicians have ever written since musicians have been writing music and even the sermon should be succinct and to the point. We offer the Mass in thanksgiving and celebration of the Mass itself. Bells will be rung and we’ll sing the Gloria in Excelsis one last time before Easter. We will taste how gracious the Lord is—and then watch His altar be stripped and His church denuded. The cantor will intone Psalm 22: “My God, My God, look upon Me: why hast Thou forsaken Me?” This is a night when joy is turned on its head. When we leave the church, it’s stripped bare, left dark, empty and silent as a tomb: not unlike the uncomprehending disciples—and not too much unlike us.

But there’s this: somewhere, off in a small corner of the church, a Light still shines. At the Altar of Repose, even through this dark night, candles glow before the Presence of the Lord Who’s yet to leave His disciples—then or now. Regardless of how often we fail Him, how often His words fall on our deaf ears, how often we pretend we don’t know Who He Is—He’s with us.

Tonight, after the incense has cleared and all the other lights are out, spend a few minutes with Him. Tonight, in the silence, don’t ask Him for anything. Be with Him. Tell him that you, too, are His disciple—and you’re grateful.

May He grant you a most blessed night.