Sermon:
April 1, 1999
Maundy Thursday

Scripture:
John 14 (selected portions)

Let me script a number of scenarios ... slices of life, really ... the better that you might place yourself within them, or feel yourself inside them.

You are a child. Perhaps an only child. Perhaps one of a number of children. But you are not old enough to be an independent child ... meaning that you are not old enough to stay on your own. Along about 5:00 p.m., you see the first telltale sign. Having seen it before, you know exactly what it means. Your mother takes a shower, does her hair, reaches for the "serious" makeup rather than the "anything to make myself presentable" makeup, even to the point of spraying perfume from the fancy bottle (the one she told your father was much too expensive to wear, but never quite returned for a refund). Or, the sign could include similarly preparatory acts on the part of your father. Or even the appearance of the delivery kid from Dominos, impatiently knocking on your front door.

Instantly you knew. They were going out. And you were staying home. Which, if you were like me, gave birth to all kinds of feelings. And all kinds of questions. Like:

Are you going out?

(And if you wanted to press the guilt button extra hard, you added the word "again" to the end of the question.)

Am I staying home?

Where are you going?

Why can't I go, too?

When are you coming home?

Can I stay up `til you get here?

Followed by the inevitable:

Who's gonna stay with me?

And wise is the parent who knows that there had better be some answer to questions 1-6, but a very good answer to question 7.

Or you are a mother. An older mother. A very much older mother. A very much older, widowed mother. Who lives in a retirement home ... which is something of a down payment on a nursing home ... which (perish the thought) is something of a down payment on a funeral home. But the retirement home is comfortable. And your son is near. Your only son ... who is married to your only daughter-in-law ... and is the father of your only grandchildren (anywhere on the face of the earth). So how do you feel when the employer of this up-and-coming son ... who thinks every bit as much of him as you do ... tells him that she has created a new vice presidency, just for him. In Rio de Janeiro. For at least three years.

Who's gonna stay with me?

Or you are a couple, new to a town. You look high and low for a church ... the right church ... which (when you find it) you know by "feel" rather than by "label." And a big part of the "feel" is the preacher ... who (even though you hate to admit it) is the real reason you decided to join. We're talking about the same preacher who asks for a moment of personal privilege on the Sunday after you join, and says: "This is a bittersweet day for me. For I must tell you that, just last Friday, I accepted a call to be the minister of First Church, Fairtown." And among the audible murmurs of surprise from the people around you, you hear the half-formed voice of your subconscious saying:

Who's gonna stay with us?

Or you are a partner in a firm that felt good ... paid good ... did good ... until the day you realized that one of the reasons you were "making out like bandits," is that some of your partners were making out like bandits. Not with guns or masks, but with computers and erasers. Since you weren't in the candy business, you knew that the words "fudge factor" didn't have anything to do with your product line. So, over time, you gathered the right facts ... asked the right questions ... drew the right conclusions ... and stood the right ground. You did so quietly, setting up a decidedly non-showy showdown. But, in the end, nothing happened to your partners. Instead, you and your family were the ones who went from being marginalized to ostracized. And did you not inquire:

Is anybody gonna stay with us?

I could paint half a dozen more pictures ... not of what it means to leave ... but of how it feels to be left. By whomever. For whatever. Whether it be a spouse who goes ... kids who go ... friends who go ... parishioners who go ... God who goes ("Why hast thou forsaken me?") ... it hurts to be the one who hears the message about the going, but doesn't get to do the going. Even when people die on us (which would seem to be a legitimate reason to go, if ever there was one), there is often an anger that smolders quietly ... for who would dare express it ... an anger that says: "Damn you for leaving me."

Who's gonna stay with us?

* * * * *

Oh, we strive to become self-sufficient and comfortable with our solitude. But few of us ever graduate with advanced degrees in either self-sufficiency or solitude. Which is why we cannot understand Henry David Thoreau, when he acclaimed but he had but three chairs in his house: "One for solitude, two for company, and three for society." No, it is for us that George Orwell wrote (in his essay, "Pleasure Spots"):

The lights must never go out

The music must always play

Lest we should see where we are,

Lost in a haunted wood.

You know where this is going, don't you? Of course you do. That's why I like preaching to you. Because, even in the dark, lights come on faster in your heads than almost anywhere else. Which means that you're way ahead of me, here. You've already figured out that I'm taking you downtown (to old Jerusalem) and upstairs (to that borrowed second story dining room). And don't you wish you knew how they managed to find a caterer ... on short notice ... at Passover ... in a strange city. But I digress. Back to the table.

Where he said to his friends: "I'm going away, to a place where you can't go. At least not yet." When suddenly it hit them ... what it all meant ... all this talk about how "the Son of Man must suffer and die." To which Peter had (earlier) said: "Lord, this will never happen to you ... at least not while I'm around." But now it was going to happen to him, in spite of the fact that Peter was around.

What it all boiled down to ... up there ... for them ... was that Jesus was going to die his way out of their lives. And, at that point, they couldn't have cared less about the reason, the purpose, or any potential benefit that might be derived from his passing. Whatever else the disciples may have said in the Upper Room, not one of them voiced an opinion on the Atonement ... or stood up on a chair to demonstrate that he had memorized John 3:16.

No, they were scared stiff. They were frightened. "Let not your hearts be troubled," he said ... for which the proper translation is: "Let not your hearts tremble and shake." Which he wouldn't have said if they weren't ... trembling and shaking, that is.

So what came out of their mouths in the midst of it all? If we believe John 14, they said a couple of quotable things like:

Thomas: "We don't know the way. How can we know the way?"

Philip: "Just show us the Father and we shall be satisfied."

But I think they said some less quotable things that weren't written down. Like:

Are you going out?

Are we staying home?

Where are you going?

Why can't we go, too?

How long before you'll be back?

Can we stay in Bartholomew's room until you get here?

Followed by the inevitable:

Who's gonna stay with us?

How do I know that? Not because I was there. But because I've been there. And because Jesus addressed that question, head on. "I will not leave you desolate," he said. Which has also been translated: "I will not leave you comfortless." But the very best translation reads: "I will not leave you orphaned." Which is when he tells them that the Spirit will come. And it does. To them. To us. At all kinds of times. And at all kinds of places. But always to supper.

When I was a little boy, I went with my mother to church one Maundy Thursday. We sat near the back ... in the candlelight. Which meant the big, old church was lovely. But very dark. And Holy Communion in that church was at the rail ... by rows. One row at a time. But Holy Communion was not for little boys. At least at that time. So when the usher came to call my row, he somehow indicated I should stay. Which I did. Alone. It wasn't my mother's fault. She didn't know the "drill" any better than I did. But there I was, the soul remaining occupant of my pew. And when the row behind me followed, I felt even more alone. Because my row hadn't come back yet, don't you see? I didn't know what any of this was about ... and why everyone else had gone. And I cried. Because nobody stayed with me.

But now I am a bigger boy ... one who's not only been to church, but been to supper. Where I've heard the Lord. And felt the Spirit. And every day ... and most nights ... that's been enough. Yes, that's been enough.