There once was a wise and beloved king who cared greatly for his people and wanted only what was best for them. The people knew the king took personal interest in their affairs and tried to understand how decisions affected their lives. Periodically, he would disguise himself and wander through the streets, trying to see life from their perspective.

One day he disguised himself as a poor villager and went to visit the public baths. Many people were enjoying the fellowship and relaxation. The water for the baths was heated by a furnace in the cellar, where one man was responsible for maintaining the comfort level of the water. The king made his way to the basement to visit the man who tirelessly tended the fire.

The two shared a meal together, and the king befriended the lonely man. Day after day, week in and week out, the king went to visit the fire tender. The man in the cellar soon became close to the strange visitor because he came down to the basement where he was. No one else ever had showed that much caring or concern.

One day the king revealed his true identity to his friend. It was a risky move, for he feared that the man might ask him for special favors or a gift. Instead, the king’s new friend looked into his eyes and said, “You left your comfortable palace to sit with me in this hot and dingy cellar. You ate my meager food and genuinely showed you cared about what happens to me. On other people you might bestow rich gifts, but to me you have given the greatest gift of all. You gave me the gift of yourself.”

Today, as we begin the solemn Easter triduum, our readings present the account of Jesus and his friends on the night before he died. He had left the glory of heaven and began to associate in a special way with the humble and poor. As a matter of fact, he became humble and poor himself, celebrating the Passover with the likes of fishermen, tax collectors, former Zealots, impetuous men like Peter, and even a traitor like Judas. He left them an example of humble service, thinking of the needs of others first, taking care of bodily needs that others might think were below his dignity. But more than that, he gave the gift of himself.

The wondrous thing that we celebrate tonight is that Jesus wanted to continue that self-giving for those who would come after that band of Apostles. The gift was total. It would literally be to the last drop of his blood, the gift of one willing to lay down his life, not just for his intimate friends, but even for his enemies. He gave himself so totally that, on the cross, he would even make excuses for them. “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

And so, we gather for the memorial of that gift of self. As bread that is broken and shared, as wine poured out, so a body broken and bruised, so lifeblood drained. So, Jesus, present among his people, now and forever.

The great Mystery, of course, is that death is no longer permanent, the grave no longer our final destination. One of the things that strikes me is that when Jesus rises from the dead, he still has the wounds. He tells Thomas, the doubter, to put his finger into the nail marks, and his hand into the gash in Jesus’ side. I considered the wounds as somehow illogical. It would be like buying a shiny, brand-new car, and insisting that there be dents in the fenders and a leaky engine.

But the wounds are there, as reminders of a total gift of self. True love is like that. It makes you vulnerable. It means you have to endure, be patient with each other, forgive a million times, overlook faults, be there in the tough times. Real love is not always easy. It takes grit and determination, picking yourself up when you fall, trying to do the right thing, even when you’re not sure what that is.

Earthly rulers can give rich gifts, positions of power or honor, special favors. But tonight we celebrate the gift of self, Jesus to us, and we to one another in his name. And we celebrate real love, tried and true, beaten and weathered, even when it hurts. But especially when it triumphs, even over death.