A generation or two after Jesus’ life, when the gospel writers wrote down all their memories, the writers recalled this night differently. John remembered Jesus washing the disciples’ feet — a sign of being a servant to them, a nudge to help them serve others. Matthew, as well as Mark and Luke, all remembered a meal.

Both can be true in the heart sense of true, because they call to mind the same thing — Jesus is saying farewell to the people who have been so close to him and giving them a way to remember him. Both memories are all about the things we can see and hold, about the simplest things that get filled with the power of Jesus.

We know that we remember the important things.

Things like what you had for lunch last week, and where you parked the car two weeks ago are probably gone from your mind. We don’t need to know them anymore, and so our brains give us a break and sweep them away.

Other things we’re desperate to remember.

The sound of a loved one’s voice, after they die. The way they smell, once we lose their physical presence. How small a brand new baby is, and what the baby feels like in our hands. We hold onto cell phone messages and old shirts so we can remember. We keep trying to remember, for memory is a big part of who we are. And, when we can’t remember anymore, other people remember for us.

This night Jesus gives us ways to remember him. He’s present with us all the time, of course, but being creatures who live in the tangible world, we need something to hold onto. And so we have this table — the place where Jesus meets us in the bread and cup, and we remember his giving himself for us that we might share in his life. And so we have him washing his friends’ feet, and our chance to wash each other’s hands tonight, so we can remember what it is to serve, to love one another fully.

This night also reminds us of the depths of human emotion. Tonight and tomorrow, we see the worst that people can do. Tomorrow isn’t surprising — we can understand why the authorities want to kill Jesus, why he can’t live any longer, challenging them, turning over tables in the temple, saying because of Jesus their faith is meaningless. We can see why the Romans are worried about an uprising.

But tonight…

…these are the people closest to Jesus. He’s been telling them for  a while now that his death is near. He knows it, and they must know it, too. When people are in crisis, they do more of what they usually do to cope. People who drink, drink more, people who eat, eat more, talkers talk more and more loudly, worriers worry more. It must have been a stressful room to be in, that upper room. These are the people closest to Jesus, and they don’t do any better by him than strangers will tomorrow. This must have been the betrayal that stung the most.

In this night, we see in the disciples what we know is in ourselves… the depth of our fears… our vanity… our need to control the outcome of things… the depth of our doubt… our fickleness of faith when things don’t go well… our inattention… our small thinking.

Jesus sees all of that in his friends, as he sees it in us, and what does he do?

He comes closer.

He doesn’t throw up his hands and give up. He doesn’t run away.

He comes closer.

On this night, he gives his friends — and us — these enduring signs of his presence. In the depths of human emotion, in the worst that we can be, at our least faithful, he comes closer. Everyone is welcome at the table. Everyone is blessed with a final touch of his hands, a final gift of service. No one is left out.

When we come to the communion table tonight, we take this memory into our hands so we can feel and taste the presence of Jesus. Right here. In this night of shadows, may we remember together the dimness that lives in us and in all humanity… and also that we follow a Savior who, in times of pain and emptiness, is there, too.

At the basin, at the table, in our memory, we find him with us.

There he is, coming closer. Amen.