Maundy Thursday: Do We Believe?

A sermon for Maundy Thursday
April 14, 2022

“For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven.” We say these words week after week in the Nicene Creed. My question for us this Triduum, the question that I will ask tonight, tomorrow night, and Saturday night, is this: Do we really believe that? Do we really believe that Christ has come for us and for our salvation? 

At one point in her life, Ann would not have known what to tell you. She was raised in the church, like most everybody else in her hometown. Baptized, confirmed, the whole thing. She went off to college and got off track. She didn’t get off track in any big way. She lived a respectable life, nothing shocking. She would still pop into church occasionally when she visited home. She was married by the Episcopal priest. She had a couple of kids. A happy marriage. An interior designer, she put in hours and hours. Her kids were baptized in the church, like she was, but they rarely went to church. Easter and Christmas mostly. 

It happened one day, a normal day, nothing special about this day. Her kids were now teenagers. She woke up next to her husband, 6:30 am. One of her kids’ alarm clocks had been going off for a solid 10 minutes. She yelled at him to get up–a normal thing. She turned on the coffee pot and watched the coffee drip. Then something hit her. What it was, she couldn’t say. 

There are many words to describe it: a cloud, a veil, a curtain, a void, a sadness, an uncertainty, a falling oblivion, a restlessness, a spiritual malaise, an emptiness. Staring at that coffee pot, all she could think was, “What is this all for?” This life, this routine, this rat race, everyday the same–why? What is meaningful in all of this? 

She had had different answers to that question at one point or another. Success in her career–but she had a thriving interior design company, and there was still an emptiness. Financial security–but they were doing fine, more than fine, and still there was an emptiness. Participating in community causes–she was on several boards, active in everything, but that didn’t take the emptiness away. Making memories with her kids–she loved that more than she could say, but why was there this emptiness gnawing at her? 

There was a hole in her soul. An emptiness. A restlessness. And nothing, no matter how good or praiseworthy or noble or pure or lovely, nothing seemed to fill that void. Ann’s is a common dilemma. It’s the human dilemma. 

Without God, there is no way out of this dilemma. We cannot puzzle our way out on our own. We cannot work our way out of this spiritual malaise. That void in our souls was meant for God, and nothing else, no matter how good or praiseworthy or noble or pure or lovely, nothing in this world can fill that emptiness. It’s the place reserved for God and for God alone. St. Augustine of Hippo said it this way: “You have made us for yourself, O God, and our heart is restless until it rests in you.” 

You likely know where I’m headed with this. Ann found her way back to an Episcopal church. The first Sunday, she settled in a pew. It was not the same church she grew up in. But she knew the words. The prayer book seemed to fit naturally in her hands. The words–words she thought she had long forgotten–bubbled up, almost like natural instinct. And when she went up for Communion, everything was automatic. Her hands unfolded to receive the bread as naturally they ever did. “The Body of Christ, the bread of heaven.” The chalice, as awkward as that exchange can sometimes be, transported her back to receiving Communion with her parents and grandparents. “The Blood of Christ, the cup of salvation.” And in some way, although not all at once, that curtain began to lift. That veil edged up slightly. That emptiness didn’t feel so heavy; the restlessness was not so daunting. 

Each of us has a space in our soul for God. Our hearts yearn for God, they are restless for God. And we try to fill that yearning, that restlessness, in so many ways. Not necessarily in bad ways. We throw ourselves into our good work. We contribute to worthy causes and work hard for our communities. We spend time with our family, make memories with our children. These things are all good and praiseworthy and noble and pure and lovely. But it’s not all there is. There is a space yet reserved for God, and for God alone. 

On Maundy Thursday we remember the Last Supper, that first Eucharist. Christ takes bread: This is my Body. He takes the cup: This is my Blood. Do this in remembrance of me. We read those words tonight in St. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians, written around 50 AD, a mere 20 years after Christ’s death. From the time of the Last Supper, Christians have been gathering weekly with bread and wine, praying the prayers, and taking the Body and Blood of Christ. Here, 2,000 years later, we do the same thing. And just like Christ was there at that Last Supper, he is here tonight. The bread that we break is his Body. The wine that we share is his Blood. He is really here. He has put himself, his presence, his life, on offer for us. And this bread and wine, this Body and Blood, this spiritual food is feeding that part of our souls that only God can reach. 

For us and for our salvation, he came down from heaven. Do we believe that? Do we trust that? Are we willing to take him at his word? He came down from heaven in order to give us himself: this is my Body, this is my Blood. Do this in remembrance of me. And nothing else in this world can take his place. 

In a few moments we will break that bread and share that cup. And Christ will be here. Christ will be present in the bread and wine. Christ will be present at your fingertips and on your lips. Christ will be present in your heart, in that spot in your soul that only God can reach. And like Ann, we will find that we are fed–fed with true food and true drink, with Christ himself, who gives us himself completely and without reservation–for us and for our salvation. Everything our souls need for eternity is at this Altar. Do we believe that?