They were at supper. And then Jesus washed their feet.

They were at supper. And then Jesus had this odd conversation with Judas and he left.

They were at supper. And then Jesus offered this strangely familiar, strangely new moment with the bread and the wine.

They were out in the garden, as they had been all week. And then they fell asleep and Jesus got upset a bit.

And then the cops showed up, after all the times they could have and didn’t.

We are so familiar with the elements of the story of Thursday evening that we may forget that they were once new. They were once novel. They were once terrifying.

I think the disciples were used to Jesus doing and saying odd and unexpected things. It was who he was. But on this night, every little bit of the night was weighted with meaning, which didn’t make sense until later, at least according to John.

Some of us make a practice of trying to replicate the solemnity of the evening, with the deepening darkness and sadness of a Tenebrae service, for example. I wonder whether another practice might be to gather for a meal on a Thursday with laughter and prayer and familiarity, even with people who annoy us.

These days, I’m struggling a bit with our desire to measure up in emotional responses or ways we’ve added all manner of expectations reading these stories. As I read the words of Jesus, I think of how this person told the story, or how that preacher added to it, or how the other political action group took it and made some litmus test. So many opinions.

I fear all the voices we’ve heard keep us from hearing the voices of disciples disrupted, devastated, and then devoted.