Our Constant Light

 

SERMON

Maundy Thursday - March 28, 2024

Several weeks ago, I preached on the gift of the good news proclaimed by Jesus. Good news that points us to the light of Christ. The light of Christ; a light that frees us from the exile of darkness. A light which makes possible our entrance into the kingdom of God’s love, forgiveness, and salvation.

Tonight, I preach about the disappearance of the light. The return to the exile of darkness that engulfs us as we anticipate the crucifixion of Christ. Tonight, the light of Christ will be extinguished. Seemingly eclipsed from our lives. Gone.

I first experienced this devastating eclipse of Christ’s light while visiting one of the largest Episcopal cathedrals in the United States, a massive gothic structure with a sanctuary that accommodated six choir stalls designed to seat 32 singers, chairs for 10 clergy, a 62 rank Austin organ, and a large free-standing altar covered by an intricately designed red and gold silk brocade Jacobean frontal.

The altar cushions displayed brilliant needlepoint designs. Lustrous silver candlesticks and candelabra held golden beeswax candles. Beautifully embroidered linens and multiple light-catching silver flagons and chalices added to the brilliance that surrounded this exquisite space.

The wall behind the altar was dominated by three stained glass panels that soared upward into the vaulted ceiling. These incredible pieces were placed above marble images of Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John and were framed by intricate stone carvings of assorted designs.

The entire area was bathed in glorious light. The light of Christ.

Throughout the service the incredible voices of the choir and the thrilling music made possible through the various ranks of such a versatile organ transported the entire congregation into a spiritual place well beyond our day-to-day realities.

As the Eucharist drew to a close the many lanterns scattered around the church were dimmed and the candles extinguished. Ever so slowly the priests, deacons, chalice bearers and acolytes began to “strip” the altar and the choir began to chant Psalm 22:

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? And are so far from my cry and my words of distress.

O my God, I cry out in the daytime, but you do not answer; by night as well, but I find no rest.

Chalices and all of the other eucharistic vessels were reverently handed to Altar Guild members waiting at a small door that opened onto the sanctuary. The Fair Linen was carefully folded and gently handed to an acolyte. Then the candelabra, the frontal, the cushions, the Altar Book, the prayer books, and the hymnals quietly disappeared, one by one. The ceremony proceeded slowly, gracefully, and tragically. All the while the choir chanted Psalm 22 ever so quietly.

“My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? And are so far from my cry and my words of distress.” 

And then, the chanting drew to a close. The lights dimmed to near blackout. The priest slowly removed the purple veil from the processional cross and then gently, reverently re-veiled the cross in black. At that point the church fell into total darkness and with the processional cross leading, the choir, the clergy, the chalice bearers, and the acolytes solemnly and ever so quietly processed out in silence. As the last in this long line of mourners passed by each row then joined the somber procession.

Out into the darkness went the cross; out into the darkness went the clergy; out into the darkness went the congregation – out into the darkness we all went, following Jesus to the Garden of Gethsemane.

No words, no music; no light. The light of Christ extinguished.

I was not alone as I shed tears and felt a painful emptiness in my heart; an emptiness that I had never experienced before. I was not alone when I thought, “Christ is gone; there is no Christ – what will I do?”

In the dark sorrow of the Maundy Thursday stripping of the altar I believe that we, each in our own way, experience a sense of doom and desolation. Jesus has been betrayed; he will be scorned; he will be tortured; he will suffer excruciating pain; he will be nailed to a cross, crucified; he will die an agonizing death.

Tonight, the light of Christ will be extinguished. Darkness will fall upon us. Darkness will invade our hearts and souls. We will experience deep sadness and despair. The Light will have disappeared.

But when that moment of sadness and despair comes upon us, let us remember the words of Genesis 1, “… God said, let there be light; and there was light. And God saw that the light was good; and God separated the light from the darkness.” (Gen 1:3-4).

Then let us remember John’s words when he spoke of the arrival of Jesus as God’s agent in the world, “What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” (John 1:4-5)

And finally, let us remember Christ’s words when he so wisely proclaimed, “No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.” (Matt 5:15-16)

Christ’s light is God’s light, and God’s light is our light. An eternal light given to us at the beginning of time. An eternal light that pleases God. An eternal light passed on to us by Christ. An eternal light that as a beloved child of God, no matter what the circumstance, we shall carry with us always, in our hearts, in our minds, and in our souls. A light that we are called to shed on others.

This evening, Jesus’ time among us will come to an end. In a few short hours Jesus will ascend and once again be one with the Father. And we, if we have heard his message; have received him into our hearts; have been truly baptized by his Spirit, will follow him on this last journey into the darkness of the garden, through the agony of the crucifixion, and beyond.

In just a few short hours we, you and I, will be the bearers of God’s eternal light. We will be the lamp that gives light to the whole house.

And what then? How do we carry out this enormous responsibility cast upon us not only by Jesus, but also God, the Father. What is our job to be?

In tonight’s gospel Jesus tells his disciples, “Whoever serves me must follow me, and where I am, there will be my servant also. Whoever serves me, the Father will honor.”

Our responsibility, our salvation, Jesus tells us, is made manifest through being the good servant; through moving in and through and with God as we go about our day-to-day lives. Our words and deeds are to be embedded with the compassion, love, and forgiveness shown us so beautifully by Christ tonight as he washes our feet and feeds us with this last meal. A meal destined to become a sacred remembrance of our lives together.

We are destined to serve the world by pouring forth into the world Christ’s compassion, love, and forgiveness. Compassion, love, and forgiveness generated by the light of Christ that burns deeply and eternally in our hearts.

If, in some small way, we can accomplish this task of serving one another with compassion, love, and forgiveness as Jesus loved, served, and forgave us, I assure you we will be bathed in the light of Christ, God’s light given to us at the beginning of time. We will come to know the peace that passes all understanding; we will understand the meaning of our salvation; we will be true participants in the glory of the Easter resurrection.

Tonight, we follow Jesus on the first steps towards his death – and believe it or not, the star that lights the way, shines more brightly than ever,

I close with a prayer of the Kikuyu  in Kenya - I Have No Words To Thank You

O my Father, Great Elder, I have no words to thank you, but with your deep wisdom I am sure that you can see how I value your glorious gifts.

O my Father, when I look upon your greatness, I am confounded with awe. O Great Elder, Ruler of all things earthly and heavenly, I am your warrior, ready to act in accordance with your will.