Maundy Thursday.

Today was the day. He was accused and rejected and sentanced today. He was beaten and flogged and brought before Pilate and Harod and Pilate again. And the constant fluxation of condemnation formed a long-awaited alliance between the two rulers. Cruel irony, if you ask me.

But first our King washed the fisherman's feet.

What did that feel like? What did it look like to have your feel washed by the cleansing Man Himself?

We've cleaned it up, this mysterious washing. We reenact it like a ceremony with silver basins and white linen towels. We wash the feet of spouses and pastors and new believers and we're very clean and orderly about it. I say "we" because I am part of the cliche and stationalized ritual we use to recount this Maundy-Thursday.

But I bet it was dirtier than we know. I bet Jesus had to get down low, stoop over their feet, hold their ankles and scrub the dirt caked to their feet. I bet it was more like getting a seven-year-old to wash his hands after eating a rice crispy treat; more soap was necessary than was available and the skin required more contact than was expected. And He did this twelve times over. As the water grew dirtier and dirtier with each washing, His Spirit grew heavier and heavier with the weight of looming goodbyes.

I don't know how to celebrate this Jesus. Give me the One on Easter morning and I will say "amen" and "hosanna" with the best of them. But this Jesus, this rejected King, servant Master, Holy giver, abused Rabbi, rejected Messiah I don't know what to do with. Because today He endured for me.

I'd like to think that Easter is more about His accomplishment than my sin. It's kinda like Jesus' debut, you know? It's the day He proved to the world that He was right, like that one-liner in the movie the ex always says at just the right time. It is like holy pay-back. But today I can't say the same. Today His suffering was much about me. Much about my sin. Much about a longing He has to be united with Him.

Rejection.

Today I want to celebrate this rejected King by rejecting what He came to do away with. I wan to reject the bitter look in the mirror, the harsh word to a friend, the gossiping one to a neighbor, the swelling of inner ego. I want to commemorate ... no, celebrate His rejection by rejecting that which caused Him to be rejected.

Do I know how? Not really. But I'll try because I need a manner, a means to communicate this message of love in response to His.

Oh, Jesus. Your love always did come first.