Today, I’m preaching a sermon that was raffled off last fall at our Awesome Auction. The sermon requested seemed especially appropriate for Mother’s Day, because the person asked for a sermon on anger. (!)

The thing is, anger is very closely related to love. The people we love can hurt us most. When the things we care intimately about are violated, we get angry – whether it’s people we love, our beliefs or values, our bodies, our religion, our homeland. And anger is a surge of energy that gives us the power to do something about it. Anger gives us power.

The Bible warns us about the dangers of anger, but the Bible also has many windows onto something called “righteous anger”:  anger that defends the vulnerable, anger on behalf of a greater good, anger that God’s purpose of love and wholeness isn’t being served. Jesus got angry; he debated the Pharisees, he confronted a dangerous group of men ready to stone a woman to death for adultery. (He saved her.)

Anger can be a powerful force for change and justice.  In 1980, Candy Lightner’s teenage daughter was walking to a carnival and got hit and killed by a drunk driver.  When Candy found out that the driver probably wouldn’t serve even a day in jail for killing her daughter, her fury drove her to found Mothers Against Drunk Driving, or MADD. (Even the name proves the point.)

Anger can be constructive. Paul says, “Let no evil talk come out of your mouths, but only what is useful for building up … so that your words may give grace to those who hear.” That’s what Candy Lightner did with her anger.

But anger can also be destructive. Not many people use their anger to make a positive change, or even to directly address what they’re angry about. It’s easier to vent our anger, so that we take it out on other people, whether in a big way or in an indirect, subtle way. Or we turn our anger inward, against ourselves, which can lead to depression or make us physically sick.  Paul wrote, “Be angry, but do not sin.”  Anger is ok, it’s what we do with it that makes the difference.  The thing is, we’re not really taught how to deal with anger in a healthy way.  Paul says, “Do not let the sun go down on your anger,” but what exactly are we supposed to do? (Especially when I find it usually helps to sleep on my anger.)

Sure. There’s exercise, there’s writing angry letters you never mail, there’s venting to a friend… But as Christians, isn’t there a more transformative option?  If our model and savior is a man who died on a cross, who God raised again, shouldn’t our ideals be a little higher?

I have two Christian methods for transforming anger to offer you. (These methods aren’t for anger about serious abuse or trauma; that requires some more complex and nuanced navigation, probably with a professional counselor.) I could probably write three or four sermons on anger, but with just a few minutes, here are a few thoughts I offer.

One Christian method for transforming anger is humility. Saying to myself: I’m not the center of the universe. Or the Judge of the Universe. God didn’t create me to keep track of all the wrongs around me. I am created in God’s image, yes, but with a certain past and certain personality that means certain things are going to make me angry. The more I know about those things, and why those things make me angry, the more I can stay calm and grounded.

Humility means I take responsibility for my feelings, for my response to anger (whether I get aggressive or passive aggressive when I’m angry), and for taking care of myself, whether I’m really under threat, or… not really. Real power is not anger, but wisdom: being the master and caretaker of yourself, instead of trying to be the master of your environment; it’s the power of Jesus, instead of the power of Pontius Pilate.

The second Christian method for transforming anger is love, or empathy.  I’m going to tell you a story instead of try to explain this, a story written by a woman whose writes a terrific blog called “The Momastery.” It’s a story about anger between people who love each other, which can be the most dangerous anger of all. She writes, perhaps autobiographically, a post called “Unwind,” here.

Somebody’s got to decide to choose empathy instead of anger or fear. And somebody’s got to decide to respond with humility and love. Whether you pour a glass of wine (or iced tea, for that matter) or try to imagine walking a mile in someone’s shoes, or remember that you’re no angel or superhero yourself. And in the end, empathy, love, and compassion make for a better way of life (!) than anger or fear or “looking out for yourself.”

Even though that’s a story about a married couple, you can choose empathy over anger at any time, with any person. Not while you’re still steaming – perhaps the third and fourth Christian methods for transforming anger should be “Sleep on it” and “Breathe.” You have to let the physical power of anger dissipate before you can act with integrity. But once you’ve cooled down, you can show empathy to anyone.

Not because “it’s the right thing to do,” but because your life will be better if you do. Compassion is more life-giving than anger.  Caring feels good.  Rage? Not so much.  And I mean caring for yourself and the other person.  The couple in the story figured out that by taking care of the other person, they were also taking care of themselves.

That’s Paul’s recommendation, too: “Put away from you all bitterness and wrath and anger and wrangling and slander, … and be kind to one another… forgiving one another, as God in Christ has forgiven you.”

Love makes a better life. Pour that first glass of wine (or iced tea).

Know yourself (know yourself!) and have compassion for yourself. Because if you can’t show compassion for yourself, you can’t really do it for anyone else.

And have compassion for others, especially the ones you love most.

Happy Mother’s Day. Amen.

“The Christian hope of eternal life is not a matter of majority opinion, not one of wishing-it-were-so, nor is it a vague imitation of immortality.
Eternal life is true life beyond death given to us by God through the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ. The gift is at the heart of the Christian faith:because it is from God, it is assured to us.
The reality of eternal life is not something for which we need to apologize. If Christians do not proclaim it forthrightly, we are of all people most to be pitied. “

Even though it was the part of Jordan’s statement, about proclaiming the ultimate gift forthrightly that interrupted my own self-satisfied diatribe, it was the other two-thirds of that quote, one that I kept on my bulletin board in college and in my memory ever since, that really got me going.
So, what are we talking about here? As Jordan said, it’s not a vague imitation of immortality. When you were a kid, what did eternal life mean to you? I remember that when I was young, the only way I could imagine it was the life we know here in this world, just up on clouds and going on forever and ever. While I did not have a difficult life; my parents always made sure we had everything we needed and a fair amount of what we wanted, I know that I was scared by and also not really looking forward to an ongoing extension of my small world then. Even now, I don’t relish just going on and on and on in e way we do now. Seriously, dealing with the other drivers on the road to work, handling the same type of issues day in and day out and then dealing with the same idiots on the way home, going through the nightly routine and then getting some sleep so we can do it all over again? Even with the blessings I have been given and how much I love my husband and family and friends, do I want to do the same things forever? But that’s not what we’re dealing with here.
I came to realize that Eternal Life does not ONLY mean “heaven” or the existence that we have after our corporeal bodies have died. I found this quote that expresses how I feel perfectly. “Eternal LIFE does not only talk about unending time but the quality of life possessed by God. This quality of life can only be found in KNOWING GOD the Father and Son.” But HOW do you find that Heaven-on-earth quality to your life, or rather, create it? I believe the place to start can be found in The Epistle today. “Beloved, let us love another, because love is from God; everyone who loves is born of God and knows God.” Wow, loving others will bring us closer to God? The simple answer is yes. But the real answer is so much more complicated, and so much more profound.
Just loving your family and friends is a good way to start. It is natural, and what God wants us to do. He loves us, after all. But in fact He loves us so much that he tries to save us from our own selves, as seen time and again in the stories found in the Bible.
But we are being called to love as He does, and as his Son does. Not just loving the folks who are nice to us, or are related to us. Yes, being surrounded by the pleasant people whom we choose to love is heavenly, but I don’t think it is the way to create the quality of life when possessed by God. The kind of loving Christ invites us to can be much more difficult for us mere humans, but not impossible for mere humans who ask for the Lord’s help in creating their own heavenly existence before they reach their mortal end. Whether it’s loving enough to forgive, loving those who don’t love me or loving others even when I don’t love what they do, I know I will fail sometimes. No, a lot of times. But just trying to love as God entreats us to do is to step into the quality of life possessed by God, the life that just begins to reflect what is assured to us through the death and resurrection of Christ.
Further into the epistle, we read, “There is no fear in love, but perfect love casts out fear; for fear has to do with punishment , and whoever fears has not reached perfection in love. We love because He first loved us. “ I am as guilty as the next person at not letting go of fear. I am probably plagued by fear more than many others. Yes, there is a place for fear. Our bodies are hardwired for it. And attending to the sense of fear that hits when walking through the open front door and seeing the furniture upended is a good thing. That’s a primal safety response. I would actually consider that a gift from God, too. But what about the fears that get in the way of the things we should be doing. Maybe it’s something we should be doing for someone else, maybe it’s something we need to do for ourselves. Whatever it is, it scares us.
Perhaps we are afraid of a known or expected result. Fireman must experience fear when they enter a burning building to save someone inside. But they get the maximum amount of training and the best equipment so that on those occasions when they must do what they fear, they optimize their chances of escaping safely and helping others get out alive and minimally injured. So I don’t think this is the type of fear the Epistle writer was warning us about, either. I tend to fear the unknown most. “If I got out of this destructive relationship, what would I be left with?” “What could happen if I applied to that program?” And in most cases, those questions can be answered using the common sense the good Lord gave me. As in, “I wouldn’t have my boyfriend anymore but I would regain my self respect” or “I risk bruising my pride if I don’t get accepted but it’s the graduate program I want and it’s in a great location!” Fear that gets in the way of something God wants for us, a better outcome for one of his beloved children, is what I believe I must guard against every day.
About 11 years ago, I was living in a beautiful condo in one of the most beautiful areas of this country. I had a stable job where I was respected and considered an asset to the program. I had found a church I loved, where I was helping out via service on the vestry and other committees. I had a small but solid group of friends. But in the course of one month, I got the feeling God wanted me to do something different. Maybe if I had gotten the new job I had applied for, I would have stayed there in Seattle. Maybe if the guy I liked had returned the romantic feelings I would still be there. My sister’s children could definitely have grown up as well as they are, only knowing their Aunt Sarah as that lady who sends them cool cards. I certainly could have continued on in a safe and certain life there.
But I faced the unknown, trusted that God was telling me he had more blessings in store for me. And I put my condo on the market. I gave my notice to the non-profit agency I worked for. Without having a job back here. Without a permanent place to live. But I let go of my fears and came back to Chicago. Where I lived with my sister and her husband and son for three months, helping out with my nephew while Megan protected the baby girl growing inside her and my brother-in-law went off to fly for United, a job that wasn’t be as safe it used to be. I secured a job in my field, one that challenged me and stretched my abilities. I built a new life in Oak Park, full of activities and commitments at church and in the community, and got together with my new small but solid group of friends. I developed a closer relationship with my parents. The children of my sister knew me very well and that I take my role as aunt and godmother very seriously. I took a chance and met the most wonderful person. The one I truly believe was worth waiting for. The life we built involved more chances, facing more of my fears. But every time I do so with the faith that the Lord loves me and wants this mortal life to be a reflection of the wonderful but unknowable life to come, I come out better for it. That is what I think Jordan was talking about, and what is meant by the quality of life when possessed by God.

One of the ways I want to celebrate St. Benedict being a place of prayer in 2012 – our 40^th year as a congregation – is to put together a special prayer book.  I know that we have our Book of Common Prayer (BCP), that outlines our faith and contains many of our most-beloved and frequently recited prayers, but I also believe that we, as a community, have and use many prayers that aren’t contained in our Episcopal BCP.

Any prayers – daily or special occasion – that’d you’d like to have included in our St. Benedict Prayer Book – can be sent to me, Margaret Bauman, in a number of ways: 1) via email at ”mbauman10″ at “gmail dot com” – subject line “prayer for our book”, 2) via regular mail to Church of St. Benedict, 909 Lily Cache Lane, Bolingbrook, IL 60440, or 3) via a note in the Sunday offering plate, indicating “prayer for our book”.

That the Episcopal Church of St. Benedict in Bolingbrook is a place of prayer is well-known by many.  This “many” includes, but is not limited to: those who ask for intercessory prayers for themselves and their loved-ones, those who come to be anointed for healing after they’ve taken communion, those who come for individual healing prayer, and those who click on the “Prayer Request” button on our website.  It’s understood about us that prayer is how we’re grounded in God and His love for us.

St. Benedict is special and prayer is only one of the reasons why.  A St. Benedict Prayer Book will help affirm for us, and the greater community, why we’re special and why we’re a growing, vibrant part of the Church in the world.

On a personal note, I want you to know that prayer is an important part of my life.  I’m a member of our Healing Prayer Team – we’re the ones who do the anointing during communion on Sunday mornings, as well as offering individual prayer for healing after Sunday services.  We also visit the hospitalized and home-bound at request. Please contact the church office, and our secretary will put you in touch with Esther Simonson or Rev. Heidi, if you’re in need of individual healing prayer in a setting apart from what we’re able to offer after a Sunday service in the sanctuary.

St. Benedict’s also offers prayers through our Intercessory Prayer Team, ASK (“And So we Kneel”).  Please contact the church office, and our secretary will put you in touch with Ruan Wright or Joel Wegman, who lead this Team; they would be pleased and grateful to offer prayers to God for anything you’d like them to pray about.

I’m looking forward to hearing from you about the prayers you “always” pray and from learning from you about how God is answering those prayers and working in your life.

I remain, your Sister in Christ – Margaret Bauman

And

It’s a useful psalm to have in your back pocket, especially if you have trouble falling asleep at night or if you wake up at night, worrying.  Personally, I tend to fall right asleep but then, when I’m in a worrying state of mind, I wake up at 3 or 4 or 5am.  Or sometimes at all those times.  Sometimes I fall back asleep, and sometimes I don’t.

I probably should open my prayer book or bible and read Psalm 4. But I think I imagine that, if I turn on the light to read, the chances that I’ll fall back asleep are even more slim. So, I usually just lie there and fret.  And then my mind ranges all over the place, finding all kinds of other things to worry about.  It doesn’t happen to me every night.  But it does happen. Maybe it does to you, too?

We have so many gifts and blessings – why do we worry? There are so many other places in the world where people have so much more to worry about than we do. But first world folks like us, statistics show, tend to suffer from many more anxiety disorders.

I think we worry because we have so much to lose. When you have nothing, you don’t have much to be afraid of. But all of us here, no matter your income or resources, have built lives for ourselves, and probably don’t want them to fall apart. Also, we’ve been taught that we’re responsible for our own success, our own happiness, and our own livelihood. That provides a wonderful opportunity for innovation and independence, but it’s also fertile ground for absolute terror: that we’re going to do it wrong, or mess something up, and there’s not going to be anyone to help us fix it.  We’ve been taught that when you make good, responsible choices, good things happen to you.  That if we only do all the right things, the people we love will be ok, we’ll be successful, and we’ll be happy.

But of course, that’s not actually true.  Good, responsible choices can’t ensure a secure, good, and happy life. In part, because there’s no such thing as a totally secure, good, and happy life. Even for the friends of God. And we will never sleep through a night without worry because we’ve finally done enough, worked hard enough, or done everything we’re supposed to. There will always be something else to worry about. There will always be something else that could go wrong.

Craig Barnes, a professor and pastor, has a theory about this that comes out of the parable of the Prodigal Son. He says this burden of anxiety is the trademark sin of the elder brother in the story. The prodigal runs away and makes a mess of himself, then comes back home in shame but is welcomed by his father, who throws a party for him. But the elder brother, who’s always done everything right, doesn’t understand what’s happened. Doesn’t understand God’s grace is for both him and his brother. That he doesn’t earn his father’s love, because it’s freely given.

We can’t earn God’s love. God may have great delight in our good choices, in our hard work, in the use of our gifts and talents, in our loyalty, in our care for other people. God celebrates all these things. But in the end, we can’t earn God’s love in that way… because we already have it.

So often, I hear people who’ve been to third world countries say things like, “The people there are so happy! They have so much joy. Even though they are so poor.”  That’s because they understand this. “We lie down in safety,” as the psalm says, not because God puts a magic force field around us to protect us from bodily harm, but because we belong to God’s love. The first letter of John says, “See what love the Father has given us, that we should be called children of God; and that is what we are.”  We lie down in that safety whether we lie down in the streets of Syria or make a bed in a cave in Afghanistan.  We already have everything we need because we are children of God. We live in God’s house. As the father in the parable of the Prodigal Son says to his elder son: “You are always with me and everything I have is yours” (Luke 15:31).

We, too, are afraid of losing life the way we imagined it. We worry, even though we have so much. We worry, because we have so much. As Psalm 4 says, we run after false gods of security, ambition, comforts, and maybe even happiness.  We wish for “better times,” even though the times and places we live in here in the United States, despite any hype you hear, are probably more secure, stable, and well-resourced than any other place in the world, or any other time in human history!

True security is not to be afraid of anything but God. True peace is to know that nothing is secure but God’s love.

Does this mean I’ll never wake up at 3am again?  Probably not.  But I hope it means I’ll try to turn on the light next time and read Psalm 4. That I’ll remember that I can’t choose a perfect or secure life. That there is nothing I can do to keep myself or my loved ones totally safe. That Christ is my stability. That only God is my safety. And that that can be wonderfully, blessedly, enough.

Amen.

That doesn’t seem very inspiring, for a gospel story.  Which is why some monk, way back when, added a few extra paragraphs (as you can see in almost any bible) to end the story with more confidence. I can just hear him saying, “Well, that fixes that!”

But all the earliest copies we have of Mark (which is actually probably the first gospel to be written down) have this very short ending – like a cliffhanger:

So they went out and fled from the tomb, for terror and amazement had seized them; and they said nothing to anyone, for they were afraid.

(That’s it. The whole gospel just ends there.)

I like Mark’s ending because it helps me feel as though whatever my response is to the Resurrection, God still welcomes me to “come and see.” Mark takes the Resurrection, and he gives the ending to his listeners. There isn’t an ending because the story is “to be continued.” And because Jesus is now “out there,” waiting to meet us.

See, the women were expecting to come to the tomb and to find Jesus there (dead, but still waiting for them there). But there wasn’t a body. There was just a strange man.

It might be like coming into church this morning, and finding no one here… actually finding nothing here – no flowers, no furniture, no brunch: just a big empty shell of a building.  And a young man, sitting in the empty space, saying to you: “Do not be alarmed – were you looking for Jesus of Nazareth? He’s been raised – he’s not here.”

A friend of mine is a priest in Des Plaines, and one of his most active members, who’s 89 years old, told him that the church is her image of heaven.

St. Benedict may or may not be your image of heaven. But so often, we assume that church is the place where God lives. That if we want to see Jesus, we go to church. Now, that’s not untrue. Church should be a place where every week we get a taste of the kingdom of God. Where we gather to say together every week: “God’s love wins.”  “Sin and death aren’t the end of the story.” “There is fullness of life in Christ.”

But what the Resurrection also teaches us, is that we can’t contain this story or our experience of Jesus in one place. The tomb is empty! Easter Sunday is just the beginning! Church is just the first day of the week. Were you looking for Jesus? He has been raised; he is not here. But he is going ahead of you – to meet you, just as he told you.

We’re going to baptize A.S. this morning. (A baptism is always a glimpse of the kingdom of heaven.) And we’ll join together in the Baptismal Covenant, and one of the questions we’ll answer is: Will you seek and serve Christ in all persons, loving your neighbor as yourself?  I’ve always thought an interesting thing about that question is that we’re asked to seek Christ; that Christ won’t necessarily just be obvious. That we need to look for him. But that he’s also out there, looking for us – looking to meet us.

The gospel says, “he is going ahead of you to Galilee.”  Galilee was the place the disciples, the men and the women, first met Jesus. Just an ordinary town. Like Bolingbrook, or Aurora, or Peoria. (“He is going ahead of you, to Peoria”?) It was a long way from Jerusalem, where he died. A long way from the empty tomb. But it’s out there, in our lives. Galilee is us – at work, with our families, in hospitals and nursing homes, in the streets, in the schools, with your neighbors… “Galilee” means that Jesus is out there.

Here at church, we can have a taste of heaven, but “out there” is where we’re called to seek him. And so, the rest of the story is in our hands.

The ending of Mark’s gospel is actually a beginning.  You get to choose your own ending.  How will you respond to the Resurrection?  Where will you look for Jesus?  How will you choose to be part of the kingdom of heaven God is inviting us to be part of, not just in church, but out there?

Christ is risen. He has gone before us, and we will see him, just as he told us.

Alleluia, alleluia! Amen!

I’m not sure, really, that the way Jesus died is something we need to focus on. In the gospel of Mark, there’s just a brief sentence: “And they crucified him.” In the Sunday Seminars this Lent, one person asked, “Why do we focus so much on Jesus’ death when so many people die terrible deaths?”  “Is his death really more terrible than anyone else’s?”

I don’t think it is.

Many other people were crucified, most more cruelly than Jesus was. Roman soldiers, apparently, like to come up with creative positions to crucify people in, to amuse themselves. And plenty of other human beings have died terrible deaths – from ancient history to, I imagine, just today.

I shy away from Christian devotion that focuses on Jesus’ death as an object of worship in and of itself. I’m not sure God meant for us to worship Jesus’ death, or the cross, or his blood, or his pain.

Christ on the cross isn’t meant to be the Supreme Example of pain and suffering; Christ on the cross is God entering into pain and death out of love for us, out of a desire to be with us. At Christmas, we sing the carol, “O Come O Come Emmanuel,” and in the book of Matthew, the angel Gabriel tells Joseph that his son will be called Emmanuel, “God with us.”

God with us, who allowed himself in Jesus to be arrested and executed by our corrupt powers and principalities.

God with us, who didn’t want to put distance between himself and us, but who wanted to be close to human beings and all the ways we suffer.

On the cross, I see God with us – I see Jesus suffering alongside the rebels of Syria and their families, as their government is hunting them in their homes and streets.

I see Jesus suffering with military families and veterans who are struggling with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, whose superiors or fellow troops have discouraged from appearing weak, or admitting that anything’s wrong, or seeking any psychological help.

On the cross, I see Jesus suffering with all the young black men in our country who are in jail or dead, because their skin color marked them as dangerous or no good to our society instead of as individuals, or children of God.

On the cross, I see Jesus suffering with children who are being sexually abused, with people battling cancer, with parents whose children have died, with people facing unemployment or loss of financial security, or with any of us who are held in the grip of suffering or fear or pain.

And Jesus knows what it’s like. And he’s God. He’s the king of kings. But he’s as susceptible to human cruelty, carelessness, and violence as we are. Because he loves us.

When a woman gives birth to a baby, she experiences incredible pain – her whole body is contorted and stretched – and yet, that pain in the end, is about love.

Friends of mine who are young mothers have said that when you have a child, it’s like your heart has jumped out and is now walking around outside of your body. That’s how God feels about us. We are God’s heart, walking around on earth. And so, of course, Jesus goes to his death on the cross – because that’s where we were. Because of God’s longing to be close to us.

Isaiah wrote about a suffering servant, 800 years before Jesus:

He was despised and rejected by others;


a man of suffering and acquainted with infirmity;

and as one from whom others hide their faces
he was despised,

and we held him of no account.

Surely he has borne our infirmities
and carried our diseases;

yet we accounted him stricken,
struck down by God, and afflicted.

But he was wounded for our transgressions,
crushed for our iniquities;

upon him was the punishment that made us whole,
and by his bruises we are healed.

We are healed in Jesus’ death and made whole in his bruises,

because with Jesus, God has come to earth and become Immanuel, “God With Us.”

Through thick and thin. For better or for worse.

But.

The thing is… the crucifixion isn’t the end of the story. And that’s really important. His death isn’t the climax. That’s still to come. Jesus walks through death. God shows that love, with all its weakness and vulnerability, is stronger, stronger, than suffering, cruelty, sin, or death. God is stronger. We don’t worship the death, the cross, the blood, the suffering.

Instead, we look at the cross and see the despair of God and the despair of our world. We witness the cross, and we also see God’s incredible love for us, that God is willing to contort God’s own body in pain and labor to give birth to a new relationship with us.

That we are God’s heart, walking around outside of God’s body.

And that Jesus truly, is Emmanuel, “God With Us.”

O Come, O come Emmanuel. And ransom captive Israel. That mourns in lonely exile here. Until the Son of God appear. Rejoice. Rejoice, Emmanuel shall come to thee, O Israel.

Amen.

But there’s another, much more uncomfortable part of the Last Supper story. Jesus didn’t just eat with his friends, he washed their feet. And you can see from Peter’s reaction, that they were just as uncomfortable with the idea as we are. It’s so intimate and revealing. Part of your very private self is exposed! A sort of stinky, unpleasant part.

Some priests I know get pedicures every Holy Week so that their feet look pretty for tonight.

So what would it be like if what we did every Sunday was to wash each other’s feet, instead of to share bread and wine? To wash each other’s stinky feet, every week. (Maybe we wouldn’t have many people in church!) But to tell each other that God loved us that much, every week? What would that be like? I invite you to talk about this at your tables for a little bit.

Tonight, I invite you to wash one another – to let yourself be vulnerable in this way that Jesus invited us to be. In the sanctuary there are stations both for foot washing and hand washing, so if you can’t do feet, that’s ok – you can have your hands washed. You can have me wash your hands, or you can have a friend or your spouse or your kids share in hand or foot washing with you. You don’t have to say anything. The choir will be singing, so you don’t have to feel awkward.

Jesus loves us in all our vulnerability, all our imperfection, from our hands to our feet.

And Jesus commanded us to love one another – that’s what Maundy means – it comes from the word “Mandate.”  And what was his mandate? To love each other.

I invite you to give it a try. To take the risk, and feel that love of God for you, in this very intimate, very special way.

Amen.