Thursday Things #131
A collection of words and songs for Maundy Thursday.
Every other Thursday, I share a handful of good things I'm loving, reading, watching, listening to or just discovered. AKA the random good stuff we’d talk about over coffee or text if we had one another’s phone number. I'm glad you're here!
This time last year, I wrote a piece titled “For the Ones Who Have Been Betrayed” as the Maundy Thursday reflection, part of the daily Holy Week email series. I wrote it through tears, spilling words on a personal story held so close, tucked between Scripture and images from Jerusalem and a place, a dungeon below the high priest’s house, I’ll likely never find adequate words for…
Thursday is the day of the table and the garden, the blazing fire and the deep pit. It’s the day of silver and of charcoal, of betrayal and lament. The Man of Sorrows will weep alone, the disciples will scatter into the shadows, darkness will grow and a rooster will crow and only the rocks will hear His cries.
It doesn’t feel right to link to items or shows (etc) in this week’s Thursday Things. I’ll hold those good things until next time1, in the hope of creating space to be, to still, to reflect, to pause and consider, to lament and remember and give thanks.
A small collection of words and songs. That’s all for today. May something here meet you where you are and then point you to the friend, the lamb, the door, the way, the promise kept, the prophecy fulfilled, the king, the creator, the sacrifice, the One who changed it all.
My Maundy Thursday reflection:
I can tell you this: if this were my last night, washing feet wouldn’t top my priority list. There are so many details that astound me—the significance of Jesus *not* drinking the final Passover cup (yet). The striking symbolism that out of all possible places that night, God went back to a garden. That in His darkest hours, many who knew Him best, who had years of history and inside jokes and memories made, left. (Don’t get me started on the women though. Tears.) That when Judas stabbed Him in the back with a kiss on the cheek, Jesus called him friend. How after being seized, He healed one of the people who came to arrest Him. The turning away and heartbreaking betrayal of one His dearest claiming “I never even knew Him”, mere hours after declaring “Even if everyone else abandons you, I won’t.” That Jesus said “I have prayed for you” and “when you have turned back” to Peter. The kindness given in advance, the assurance Peter must have clung to after denying Him: Jesus knew all along and would welcome him back, loving him no less. The specificity of a charcoal fire blazing as Peter denied once, twice, three times. That it only appears in Scripture one other time—when Jesus cooks breakfast, the relationship is reconciled, and Peter is restored once, twice, three times—and even a unique smell that would likely take him right back is lovingly redeemed.
But today, it’s the washing of dirty, dusty feet that I can’t get over.
God, on the ground, loving us to the very end.
Words.
Ian Simkins is posting a daily Holy Week reflection—each one has me pausing and considering, but in particular: Wednesday + this one on “how to ruin Easter”…
This line from
in the post below: “Tonight, as the hinge creaks on the cusp of everything, may we cradle the unknown with tenderness. No one can see what comes next. But I still want to trust we are held.”Phew. (P.S. She’s one of my fellow (in)courage contributors, and her next piece goes live there tomorrow morning… rumor has it she’s writing a reflection on the women in Holy Week. Learning more about them has been deeply moving to me, so I can’t wait to read!)
This recent post is not specifically about Holy Week, but Rachel offers an honest, beautiful reminder in the middle of her own sorrow (don’t miss slide 9). We can carry both, and God will carry us.
This poem, from
, for the now and not yet:We work, we grieve, we hope, we wait.
Each with the confidence
Of a Savior who knows our pain,
Of a Savior who rose from the grave.
Songs.
Holy Week holds the highest of highs and the lowest of lows. They’re inextricably and eternally tied to one another, a picture and a promise that Easter isn’t just for each of us… it’s for all of us, every part of us. Bring it all, the cross beckons. Our eyes may be clouded with tears, our bodies hurting, hearts broken or hands full of worries, but always we are invited to show up exactly as we are. Jesus won’t run away; He won’t disappear. Instead, He comes close. Then, closer. He meets us in the muchness and promises to turn every grave into a garden.
As Beth Moore has said, “A dead end means nothing to a God of resurrection.”
Hope, broken and buried like a seed.
Hope, alive and breathing and forever keeping His word.
Hope, with us as we wrestle and weep, wonder and watch and wait.
Hope, making every sad thing untrue.
Hope, even now turning every Friday Good.
Emmanuel, God with us.
Here. Now. Always.
Due to travel, the next Thursday Things will land in your inbox on May 15!
And how I adore HIM!