Maundy Thursday watching-for-an-hour vigil after the foot washing and Eucharist. The city hums outside. Railway locomotives rumble with ringing bells. A child's voice pipes up the stairs from the GX Dance break dancers. They know we're here. But nobody else does. People are in the pubs and restaurants; eating and drinking, hooking up, just as they must have been when Jesus sweated those great drops like blood at Gethsemane and was hammered to the cross. Life went on all around as His poured out; so many oblivious to the desperate battle for souls going on and the dark transaction taking place.
I don't feel desperation like Jesus. My life is not in danger. But I want to honour Him. To remember. Give him back an hour. He would have washed my feet had I been there and one of them. Amazing thought. No wonder Peter balked at the prospect.
All I've got to do is miss a few meals tomorrow, lead a few services—small it is, in this poor sort, for such as Him.
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