Who Cleaned The Dishes?

Many years ago, when I was teaching school, a teacher came to work on Good Friday dressed as the Easter Bunny. I’ll never forget how upset one of my good friends was at the time. She explained to me that the mood of Good Friday should not be one of festivity, not just because we, as Christians, remember Jesus’ death, but because we, as Christians, are living in the present while Jesus and the disciples are living in the past while God and the unknown are living in the future. All time, she said, is occurring simultaneously. God, she said, is a God who transcends time. Jesus, she said, was suffering again while our colleague was hopping around like the Easter Bunny.

I thought about that conversation as I cleaned the kitchen tonight. I have since lost touch with both the Easter Bunny teacher and the friend who shared her mind-boggling theological view with me. I thought losing touch—how some relationships fade naturally and some are jolted to an end by hurt and betrayal. I thought about Judas and Jesus—the times they shared together, the laughter, the tears, the meals. And I thought about that last meal—the one whose remembrance I was missing because I’ve been home sick today.

I’ve spent the majority of this Maundy Thursday asleep. I woke up to eat lunch. I read a little bit. I went back to sleep. I woke up to eat supper. I took my mom to church. I cleaned the kitchen. I washed the dishes with the purple Palmolive to which the above-mentioned friend introduced me. And then I thought:

Who cleaned up after that Last Supper?

After Jesus and his disciples ate, sang a hymn, and went to the Garden of Gethsemane, there was an empty room. And in that empty room, there were some empty dishes—or at least partially empty, dirty dishes. I think of the song lyric from Les Mis, “Empty chairs at empty tables,” and I wonder what the empty chairs and empty tables looked like in that room that night [although I realize that there may not have been any chairs at all because of cultural differences]. I wonder what the room felt like after the energy, excitement, confusion, shock, sadness, and heaviness of the persons in the room walked out. And then I wonder who came behind and cleaned up what was left.

Was it a man? A woman? A child? A friend? An enemy? A stranger?

Did he/she walk into the room and feel that something special had occurred there? Did he/she walk into the room and just begin to clean?

Did he/she think about the persons who had been in the room? Did he/she have other things from Passover week on his/her mind?

I know that these questions will never be answered. I know that in the scheme of life it really doesn’t matter. Yet. Somehow. Tonight. It matters to me. The person who comes behind matters. The person who cleans up matters. The person who cleans his plate matters. The person who leaves food on her plate matters. The teacher who dresses like the Easter Bunny matters. The friend whose theology makes my brain hurt matters. The person who sticks close matters. The person who betrays matters. The person whose story is written in history matters. The person whose memory isn’t really considered matters.

I, sick and unable to attend community worship, matter.

You, reading this now, matter.

And the next time you clean up your kitchen, or someone else’s, remember that fact, okay?

PS. Because I couldn't break bread with a faith community tonight, I broke bread by myself as I cleaned...and the bread that I broke was a fresh loaf made by a dear friend. The experience was actually quite holy.