Love Made Flesh, Love Made Food
Ressourcement in the Age of Trump, Part Three (Liturgy)
This is the third installment in my attempts at engaging in ressourcement—turning to Scripture, patristics, and the liturgy, in order to find resources for meeting the contemporary challenge of Trumpist fascism. It is borne from a desire to offer whatever I can by way of resistance to the evil encroachments of the Trump regime, and out of a recognition that my theological heroes: the French Jesuit nouveaux théologiens (particularly Henri de Lubac) devoted themselves to resisting nazism in their day, even as they pioneered the idea of ressourcement.
Part one turned to Scripture and considered how the infamously problematic first chapter of the Letter to the Romans rather accurately and presciently describes the consequences of MAGA. The second part appealed to Augustine of Hippo’s metaphysics of the good to insist that while it is evil to support Trump and his policies (no exceptions), nevertheless, no thing is evil, meaning I cannot simply dismiss Trump supporters as irredeemably evil.
Now, I turn to the liturgy, and do so in a slightly different genre, by presenting here the homily I am preaching for Maundy Thursday this year at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, where I am a licensed lay preacher. It serves as a turn to liturgy in three ways: its native environment is the Mass; it is situated amid the most concentrated portion of the church’s liturgical year: the Sacred Triduum; and because Maundy Thursday recalls Christ’s institution of the Eucharist, it also considers the implications of this holy sacrament for Christian existence and fidelity.
The texts appointed to be read on Maundy Thursday are: Exodus 12:1–14a; Psalm 116:1,10-17; 1 Corinthians 11:23-26; and John 13:1-17,31b-35. And now, without further ado…
Love Made Flesh
“By this everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.
On this night, with less than twenty-four hours left to live, Jesus shares his dying wish with his friends: that they love each other. Love is at the heart of this night, at the heart of the three Holy Days of the Easter Triduum that begins with the Last Supper, travels the via dolorosa—the painful way—to Calvary’s desolation and the cold stillness of the grave, only to end in resurrected triumph. The paschal mystery of Christ’s death, resurrection, and gift of the Holy Spirit reveals to us that love lies at the heart of all things, because God, the Trinity is Love. This message of love could not be simpler. But it also could not be more challenging.
Throughout the years, Jesus’s followers have struggled with and stumbled over this command. We are told that the world will know we belong to him by our love. But, while the Christian church is known for many things, love doesn’t rank especially near the top of the list. To be sure, we talk a big game about love—ours and God’s—but our profound failures have given rise to a saying that has stuck with me for years, “There’s no hate like Christian ‘love.’” All too often, our message of love comes with an asterisk. God loves you, and so do we (terms and conditions apply): From the queer kids who wonder if there’s a place for them in this world, but who meet rejection by their own families, leading to terrifyingly high rates of suicidality and homelessness; to the children dying in Gaza due to conditions created in part by the United States government with significant Christian support, to the evils of Christian antisemitism, to women dying from miscarriages due to Christian-led “pro-life” legislation, to immigrants and refugees (many of them themselves Christians) being vilified, hunted down, and turned away or even sent to concentration camps at the behest of a US government that was voted in by 56% of voting Christians—not just Evangelical Christians, but all Christians. Yes, it’s safe to say we struggle with love. But lest those of us at comfortably blue St. Luke’s in our reliably liberal Episcopal Church think that this is a problem with “those other” Christians, we must also reckon with our own failures to love. So if you were nodding along to my litany of left-coded commitments, don’t worry, the rest of this homily will have plenty to make you uncomfortable too. To begin with, we can note that Jesus tells us it is our love, our love for even these fellow Christians whose views and actions may horrify us, that will mark us out as belonging to him.
And he puts his proverbial money where his mouth is. Knowing all that is about to happen to him, Jesus gets up, humbles himself, and washes the feet of his disciples. And not just the good ones: even Peter, who is plagued with a chronic case of missing the point, even Judas, whose greed will soon betray the Lord. Knowing all this, knowing he has maybe eighteen hours left to live, Jesus gets on his knees and tenderly washes his betrayer’s feet. I don’t know what I’d do if I knew this was my last day, but it’s probably not that. But Jesus loves these, his friends, so intensely, that as the final hours of his life tick by, there’s nothing he’d rather do than serve them in this manner. Love is a challenge, a stumbling block. And yet it’s our only hope. Only love can save us. And so, Love has saved us.
“Having loved his own who were in the world, he loved them to the end.” This is the key to all that will unfold as Jesus makes his journey back to his Father by way of the cross. For all the arcane theories by which Christians have attempted to explain the meaning of the cross, in the end, it’s simply a matter of Jesus’s relentless love. He came into the world to embrace us in love and no matter what obstacles stood in the way, even death, he simply refused to release his loving hold on us. And if not even death could separate us from his love, we can be confident that nothing whatsoever will. He is Love made Flesh, and has claimed us for his own.
Love Made Food
Yet the path taken by his love shows us that love is no generic or sentimental thing. It is targeted, specific, costly, and dangerous. As our first reading reminds us, tonight’s drama unfolds against the backdrop of a story already long in progress, a story that continues even into our own day. The Passover is instituted for an oppressed people, living on foreign soil, amid hostility from the imperial power controlling the nation in which they dwelt. The Israelites are about to undertake a journey, a migration, seeking freedom and a better life. Amid their plight, God demonstrates a bedrock principle of the Christian church’s social teaching: the preferential option for the poor and oppressed. God takes sides, and he sides not with the rich and powerful, but with the despised and powerless. God will intervene, bringing liberty to the captives and working judgment against their oppressors. And he gives them a meal to explain the salvation they are about to receive.
Tonight’s action also occurs just before a journey, the time has come for Jesus to depart this world and return to the Father. He has already been living the life of a migrant—coming down from heaven into the far country to live as a human being. But again, he does so with specificity. He does not just come as any old human being, but as one living under Roman imperial oppression. He chooses to align himself with the lowly and despised. Even his actions this night—taking upon himself a task reserved for slaves—demonstrate this. He places himself alongside and in the place of those who are oppressed and endangered by a callous, controlling government. And he does so to the fullest extent, by sharing the fate of countless others who have suffered imperial oppression. He will be hunted down, mocked, denied due process, and, ultimately eliminated. While most migrants have no choice but to be caught up in the mechanisms of empire, Jesus does so deliberately, knowing full well the risk, knowing full well where this will take him. As he does so, he demonstrates to us the demands of love, even as he commands us to do the same.
This is a hard calling, even in the best of times. And friends, we are not living in the best of times. Faithfulness to this command may come at a cost. To place ourselves alongside the oppressed: to speak out on behalf of immigrants, the victims of genocide, of trans people, of political prisoners could cost us our freedom, our livelihood, our institution’s funding. We may be hated, reviled, abused, imprisoned, labeled enemies of the state, victims of the “woke mind virus,” and, while we’re not there yet, we may indeed come to the point where it could cost us our lives. This is a burden too great for us to bear.
And that is why Jesus has already done it. And he has done it in a singularly unique, unrepeatable manner. “Where I am going, you cannot come.” He alone as the God-Human can bear the weight of the world’s salvation. He does not need our help. He does not need us to finish his undone work. Spoiler alert: tomorrow, from the cross, he will say “It is finished.” He alone is the savior of the world. Full stop.
And yet, while he has done this in an utterly unique and unrepeatable way, he has also done it in an exemplary way, meaning we are to imitate him and do the same. This is why, though he says, “Where I am going, you cannot come,” he also, in the very next verse after tonight’s Gospel reading, says, “Where I am going, you cannot follow me now, but you will follow afterward.” He does this because he has saved the world by love, meaning that he does not simply destroy the enemies of humanity—because the enemies of humanity are humanity—but rather converts them to love. And so the world’s salvation is only advanced through the spread of love. Only as hatred and division are replaced by solidarity and a love that does justice does salvation take root and spread.
And this is why at this Passover, just as at the first, he gives to his followers a meal that explains the salvation we are about to receive. “This is my body, given for you…this is my blood.” Here Jesus gives himself fully, freely, and without reserve. Here Jesus explains that what will happen to him the next day is not simply an unfortunate occurrence, but rather a deliberate act on his part: a giving of himself for us. He gives himself as food because food nourishes, strengthens, and gives life. He gives himself so that we can have life. He is Love made flesh, and in the Eucharist, he is Love made food.
As we gather at this table, we receive the love of Jesus into ourselves. And just as we metabolize food, incorporating it, through our eating and drinking, we now carry Jesus about within us as he metabolizes us into his own body. The burden of love, the burden of the world’s salvation is too great for us to bear. But now, whenever we shoulder a portion of that burden, it is Jesus, living in us, who truly bears it.
“Whenever you eat this break and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death, until he comes.” By our sharing of the Eucharist, we keep alive the memory of Jesus’s salvation. But it is a dangerous memory. It cost Jesus his life. And if we are faithful to the meaning of that salvation, it could cost us dearly too. It is for this reason that Eucharistic Prayer C in the Book of Common Prayer concludes:
Lord God of our Fathers: God of Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob; God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ: Open our eyes to see your hand at work in the world about us. Deliver us from the presumption of coming to this Table for solace only, and not for strength; for pardon only, and not for renewal. Let the grace of this Holy Communion make us one body, one spirit in Christ, that we may worthily serve the world in his name.
“What can we do to repay all the Lord has done for us?,” wonders the psalmist. And the answer provided is this: offer the sacrifice of thanksgiving. Be transformed into gratitude and love. A risky love that takes action. A love that Jesus has already defined. A love of which he himself is the definition.
In these three Holy Days of the Triduum we wait, we watch, we witness. “Where I go, you cannot come.” Today, tomorrow, and in the Easter Vigil, we watch as he redeems the world. We do so knowing that we will follow. Perhaps this following will take us to our own Calvaries along the way. But it will also, at length bring us into the fullness of his risen life. Tonight, though, receive the gift of Love made flesh, the gift of Love made food. Take heart and rejoice, knowing that while in this world we will have trouble, he has overcome the world through love. Amen.