On the occasion of a campus shooting at Florida State University.
St. John’s Episcopal Church
Tallahassee, FL
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
We come together tonight
on a night that has always been heavy with meaning,
but is now also heavy with grief.
Just one mile from here
at Florida State University—
a place we cherish
and live,
and work,
and study,
and play,
and learn—
our community has been shaken to its core.
Sirens have pierced the air.
Lives have been lost and put at risk.
And hearts—across this community and in this room—
are aching with fear and anger, sorrow and uncertainty.
We may not have answers to much,
but we know enough to know
that something is broken.
And that we are hurting.
So tonight, here we are, filled with a heavy grief
partially because of what has happened today,
and partially because it is yet another confirmation
of a world that so often fails
to be the one God intended for us.
But the raw and honest truth of it all
is that it was into this kind of world
that Jesus chose to come,
and it was on a night much like tonight
that the first Maundy Thursday unfolded.
Because, truth be told, the first Maundy Thursday
was not a peaceful evening either.
That room was not calm.
It was thick with tension.
Jesus knew Judas was about to leave.
He knew Peter would falter.
He knew the soldiers were drawing near.
He knew the pain that lay ahead.
The first Last Supper was not a peaceful, holy dinner
with candles and smiles and quiet hymns.
Instead, it a room full of people
who did not understand what was happening,
who were confused,
who were anxious,
who were already afraid
and grieving something
they could not name.
That is the room
in which Jesus knelt
with the pitcher and bowl.
That is the table
at which Jesus took bread.
That is the night
in which he lifted the cup.
He did not wait for the world to settle down.
He did not wait for everything to be okay.
On this night 2000 years ago,
with all the world falling in on itself,
he washed them anyway.
He fed them anyway.
He held their dirty, broken feet in his hands,
pouring the soothing balm of clear, clean water on them
as though they were the most precious things on earth.
He gave them bread and wine
and held them close.
And then he said:
“Do this, too.
Do it again, and again, and again.
Wash one another.
Feed one another.
Love one another.”
Not someday.
Not when it’s safe.
Not when the world finally makes sense.
But now.
And that, honestly, is the mystery at the heart
of a day like today
and a night light tonight.
Jesus gives us the Eucharist
in a room full of confusion.
He gives us footwashing
in a world full of violence.
He gives us love
in a moment full of grief.
He does not explain our pain.
He does not erase our fear.
He simply kneels in the midst of it all
and gives us himself.
So tonight,
come as you are.
Come with whatever weight is on your heart.
Come shaken.
Come tired.
Come angry.
Come numb.
Come with your hands trembling
and your soul undone.
And let him hold you.
Let him feed you.
Let him wash you with water that is gentle
and a love that is stronger than death.
Because he is here.
Not in theory.
Not in symbol.
He’s here.
He is here.
He’s here in this place.
He’s here at the university.
He’s here in our town.
He’s here in our hearts.
He is here at your feet.
He is here at the table.
He is here in your grief.
And he is not about to let you go.
Amen.