Somewhere Between Oops and Mea Culpa

Matthew 26:31-35, 57-58, 69-75

Lent 4

March 22, 2020

William G. Carter

Then Jesus said to them, “You will all become deserters because of me this night; for it is written, ‘I will strike the shepherd, and the sheep of the flock will be scattered.’ But after I am raised up, I will go ahead of you to Galilee.” Peter said to him, “Though all become deserters because of you, I will never desert you.” Jesus said to him, “Truly I tell you, this very night, before the cock crows, you will deny me three times.” Peter said to him, “Even though I must die with you, I will not deny you.” And so said all the disciples.

... Those who had arrested Jesus took him to Caiaphas the high priest, in whose house the scribes and the elders had gathered. But Peter was following him at a distance, as far as the courtyard of the high priest; and going inside, he sat with the guards in order to see how this would end.

Now Peter was sitting outside in the courtyard. A servant-girl came to him and said, “You also were with Jesus the Galilean.” But he denied it before all of them, saying, “I do not know what you are talking about.” When he went out to the porch, another servant-girl saw him, and she said to the bystanders, “This man was with Jesus of Nazareth.” Again he denied it with an oath, “I do not know the man.” After a little while the bystanders came up and said to Peter, “Certainly you are also one of them, for your accent betrays you.” Then he began to curse, and he swore an oath, “I do not know the man!” At that moment the cock crowed. Then Peter remembered what Jesus had said: “Before the cock crows, you will deny me three times.” And he went out and wept bitterly.

One of the hardest moments for our children is when they discover how quickly a friend can let you down. Oh, the assurances were there. I will be your friend always. I will defend you when others accuse you. I will stick with you through thick and thin. And then the crisis comes and the friend is not there.

·   The third-grade birthday party: I invited her, but when it was her turn, she didn’t invite me.

·   The playground game: I picked him for my team, but he didn’t choose me.

·    The dating game: I asked her out on a date. She said she was busy… and I found it she was out on a date with the guy I thought was my best friend.

These things can happen when we are young. They prepare us for later disappointments, for the bigger games when there is more at stake.

Two good friends said, “Let’s go into business together.” They shared common values. They had complimentary skills. They trusted one another. It worked for a while. It worked well. Then one discovered what the other was doing with the money. That when the differences emerged. They talked, they tried to hold it together, but the whole thing came unraveled. Now they don’t even speak to one another.

Friends can let you down. Surely Jesus knew this. He was raised on the psalms. He knew the 55^th Psalm. The poet of the psalms laments a world coming apart.

“It is not enemies who taunt me,” says the Poet, “I could bear that;

it is not adversaries who deal insolently with me - I could hide from them.

But it is you, my equal, my companion, my familiar friend, with whom I kept pleasant company…”

We used to get along, he says. We walked together into the temple of God and sing the hymns. Once we ate together at the same table and enjoyed sweet conversation. But now there has been a breach, and the tragedy is that it comes from the one that I thought I could trust. The betrayal comes

“… with speech smoother than butter, but with a heart set on war;

with words that were softer than oil, but in fact were drawn swords.”

We know the story, so our thoughts run to Judas Iscariot. He knew the place, he led the mob, he came with a kiss of peace…smoother than butter. Certainly Judas had his issues, whatever they were.

But what of Simon Peter, who stood closest to Jesus, his Lord? Jesus said, “All of you will run away because of me,’ and Peter said, “No, not me, I will never desert you, Lord.”

And Jesus said, “Really, Peter? Are you sure about that?” Peter replied, “I’m sure. I will never run away from you.”

“But Peter,” said Jesus, “I know you are going to deny me three times before the rooster crows tomorrow morning.” Peter replied, “No, Lord, I would give my life for you. I would give my life with you. I will never deny you. Never!” And you and I know how that turned out. We know the story.

The scene is often staged dramatically. In any of those Jesus movies from Hollywood, Peter is played by some barrel-chested fisherman full of bluster and bravado. He opens his mouth before he engages his brain. He’s always the first one to speak and he’s always saying the wrong thing. “No, Lord, no cross for you! No, Lord, I will never run away from you. No, Lord, I will never deny you.”

Immediately that’s what he does. Just then, off in the distance, you hear “cockle-doodle-do,” as the dawn breaks on Peter and he descends into tears of regret and remorse. If the scene is staged that way, it looks like a dramatic moment, a colossal failure of nerve. He doesn’t speak up when he should. He doesn’t tell the truth. He denies the very relationship that gave him life. Peter comes across as a bumbling incompetent.

But what could he do? What would you have done? Matthew says he was outside in the courtyard of the high priest, sitting among the guards, wondering how it will all unfold. He ran away like the others, yes, but then he turned around and followed his Lord.

And then what could he have done? Raise his voice and say, “Hey, let that man go. He’s innocent.” Well, they all knew he was innocent. Everybody knew Jesus was innocent.  Innocence was not the issue.

Could he have leaned closer to one of the guards, stolen the soldier’s sword, start hollering and swinging, and staging a distraction - if not an insurrection? Well, that already happened, in Gethsemane, when one of the disciples did just that. Matthew is too polite to tell us which one, although the Gospel of John says it was indeed Simon Peter (John 18). Yet the words of Jesus still burned in his heart, “Put that weapon away. Those who live by weapons will die by weapons.” So Peter sits and he waits.

One of the servants asks, “Weren’t you with him?” All the heads turn, and Peter says, “No, not me.” Their eyes follow as he got up and moved to the porch.

Another servant spots him and points, “This man was with Jesus.” More heads turn toward him. Peter says, “No, I don’t know the man.” He’s getting in deeper and he knows it.

A few minutes later, somebody else says, “You have a north country, Galilean Yankee accent. It betrays you. Certainly you were one of them.” With this, Peter curses like a fisherman and says, “I don’t know the man.”

430 years later, the Christians built a church on that very spot. It’s been torn down, rebuilt, and rebuilt again. They call it the “Church of St. Peter of the Cock-Crow.” There is a rooster on the top of the spire. When I was in Jerusalem years ago, somebody said, “We have some free time. Want to visit that place?” No, no, why would we ever want to go there? Why would we ever need a perpetual reminder of someone’s cowardice, someone’s weakness, someone’s lies in order to save their own skin?”

Today, I think the answer is simply this: because we need the reminder. The reminder is a healthy dose of the truth about all of us. Our concern is not merely with how other people have let us down, done us dirt, or put us out to dry. It’s also important that we acknowledge and confess when we have “done unto others” as we might accuse them for doing unto us.

The Bible gives us two descriptions of what it means to be human. Together they form an honest paradox. The first is a theology of friendship. All of us have the capacity for building relationships. It is possible to live with one another. We can overcome differences. We can find common ground.

The Bible tells of David and Jonathan, so deeply bound that their hearts were as one. We hear of Ruth and Naomi, each relying on the other, neither willing to be left behind. This is the promise of what the Greeks called “Philadelphia,” literally brotherly and sisterly love. We can protect one another, feed one another, look out for one another.

Recall a few of the proverbs we have heard today:

• A friend loves at all times, and kinsfolk are born to share adversity.
• A true friend sticks closer than one’s nearest kin.
• Better is a neighbor who is nearby than kindred who are far away.

This is the promise of human community. We are created to share our lives. We were given this life to be there for one another.

And yet, the paradox is created by the second description of what it means to be human, and what we hear in today’s text. One Bible scholar calls it “the doctrine of human undependability.” We are created good, with the capacity for deep relationships, yet “all we have gone astray” (Isaiah 53:6).

The evidence is around us every day. The husband stops off to buy lottery tickets which he keeps hidden, and his wife says, “Why didn’t you bring home the milk?” The daughter promises to visit Mom in the nursing facility and never shows up. The boss says to the employees, “You always have a home with our company,” then lays them off and gives himself a bonus. The political candidate says, “I will take care of you,” but primarily wants to get re-elected.

And Simon Peter, the closest friend that Jesus ever had – and it really was a tremendous friendship – he says, “I will never abandon you. I will stand by your side. I will never lie about how much you mean to me.” In memory of him, the church built a sanctuary and called it “The Church of the Cock-Crow.” Let us tell the truth about human unreliability.

Dale Bruner, the Bible scholar, says this is one of the great lessons of the Passion story of Jesus. Here in the Gospel of Matthew, chapters 26 and 27, we have one long tale about how the possibility of human love goes awry. Bruner notes,

High and low, big and little – everybody fails except one. There are two of each of the three types (of people) who conspicuously fail: big and little disciples (Peter and Judas); big and little Israel (Sanhedrin and the crowd); and big and little Rome (Pilate and soldiers). Then in the crucifixion scene, almost everyone passes by the hanging Jesus in a review of massive failure. Against this backdrop of human infidelity, Jesus’ faithfulness looms high and lonely, and that is the point: amidst all human failure, there is one who is totally dependable…(The Christbook, p. 993-4)

… and it is Jesus Christ, our Lord. That’s why the honesty of the Bible should never depress us, but point us to the complete faithfulness of God, our savior.

It’s there in our scripture story today, a persistent reminder of what Christ offers over against the empty promises of Simon Peter. Remember how Jesus said, “All of you will run away,” and Peter responds, “Not me, Lord; I will never run away”? In the middle of that interchange, Jesus says something that is easy to skip over.

He says, “But after I am raised up, I will go ahead of you to Galilee” (26:32). It’s a powerful thing for him to say. To paraphrase his words, “after you run away from me, you are going to run into me again.” After you watch the whole world reject me and push me away, you will see me come to you, returning from the dead. After you forsake me, you will discover that’s not so easy, for, lo, “I am with you always, even to the close of the age.”

There is forgiveness here. Can you hear it?  Peter can say, “I don’t know Jesus,” but Jesus knows him.

The one essential ingredient of human relationships is not perfection, but mercy. We know the people around us are not perfect, yet the illusion persists that they ought to be. No friendship, marriage, or relationship can bear the freight of impossible expectations. Even if we love somebody, especially if we love them, we should never be surprised if they are imperfect and unreliable, just as we are. Our Christian response is to be merciful and forgiving, going the second mile by always giving the second chance.

Here is how Dietrich Bonhoeffer put it to the church:

Christians must bear the burden of brothers and sisters . . . God verily bore the burden of all people in the body of Jesus Christ. But God bore them as a mother carries her child, as a shepherd enfolds the lost lamb that has been found. God took all people upon God’s self. They weighted Him to the ground, but God remained with them and they with God. In bearing with the human family God maintained fellowship with them. It was the law of Christ that was fulfilled in the Cross. And Christians must share in this law.[1]

Jesus says to Peter and the others who will run away, “But I will go before you and see you in Galilee.” To translate, “I am not finished with you.” He isn’t finished with any of us. Not yet.

And if it is divinely possible, maybe we shouldn’t be in a hurry to be finished with anybody else.

(c) William G. Carter  All rights reserved.

---

[1] Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Life Together (HarperSanFrancisco, 1972) p. 77

Praying for the Cup to Pass

Matthew 26:36-46

Lent 3

March 15, 2020

William G. Carter

Then Jesus went with them to a place called Gethsemane; and he said to his disciples, “Sit here while I go over there and pray.” He took with him Peter and the two sons of Zebedee, and began to be grieved and agitated. Then he said to them, “I am deeply grieved, even to death; remain here, and stay awake with me.” And going a little farther, he threw himself on the ground and prayed, “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not what I want but what you want.” 

Then he came to the disciples and found them sleeping; and he said to Peter, “So, could you not stay awake with me one hour? Stay awake and pray that you may not come into the time of trial; the spirit indeed is willing, but the flesh is weak.” Again he went away for the second time and prayed, “My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.” Again he came and found them sleeping, for their eyes were heavy. So leaving them again, he went away and prayed for the third time, saying the same words. Then he came to the disciples and said to them, “Are you still sleeping and taking your rest? See, the hour is at hand, and the Son of Man is betrayed into the hands of sinners. Get up, let us be going. See, my betrayer is at hand.”

This is a scene often portrayed in stained glass. Jesus is in the center, kneeling with his hands clasped and his eyes looking toward heaven. Around him, and in the foreground, three disciples lie flat on the ground. They are fast asleep with their heads cradled on their arms.

It’s hard to avoid talking about those disciples. Peter, James, and John are the three closest friends of Jesus. He’s taken them everywhere and told them everything. How could they possibly fall asleep on him? Sure, the hour is late. They had just polished off a four-course Passover feast. Their full bellies were probably talking to their eyelids.

Not only that, all of them were in danger and they knew it. It’s a natural human response to sleep when we are afraid. We just want to shut everything out, close our eyes and pretend it isn’t there. If we could, we would take a snooze and hope it was all a bad dream. Such is the situation of Peter, James, and John.

But let’s not be distracted by the three of them, for this is a story about Jesus. He is heartsick, sad, and sorrowful. Matthew describes the Lord’s emotions with the same word he has just used to describe the mood of the disciples at the Last Supper. Jesus said, “One of you will betray me,” and they were “thrown into sorrow,” and “heavy with grief.”

When the Lord told them the truth, he was clear and strong. Now it is his turn to face what is coming. Not openly for the crowds to see. Not with histrionics or blubbering to call attention to himself. No, this was an honest man facing what lay ahead. It is a profound moment, and it’s heavy. Very heavy.

My father was a strong man, not prone to emotional drama. He was rational and scientific, thoroughly in charge of his entire domain. Yet I was there when he was diagnosed with a fatal disease. He broke down and sobbed inconsolably. It was the only time I ever heard my father cry. It was heavy, very heavy.

Jesus is facing his own death. He knows it is coming. He has a good idea how. He’s pretty sure that it will begin with another friend turning him in. His hands will be tied behind his back. They will make fun of him, poke him, and do whatever they can to humiliate him. That’s just the beginning. No doubt he had a fertile imagination, shaped by the cruelty that the Empire wielded every day. He knew the hammer and nails were coming.

So he falls to his knees to pray, “Let this cup pass. O Father, let this cup pass.”

This is one of the implications of the incarnation, of God choosing to come to us as a human being. Jesus set aside the power of create the stars and move the planets in their courses. He came down and took on the limitations of being a person like any of us. We don’t call all the shots in our lives. There’s so much that we cannot control. Jesus took on the same when he pulled on human skin.

This is a great mystery. He worked miracles for others, but he did not – or would not – work a miracle for himself. He healed the sick everywhere else, but in Gethsemane, his own soul is sick. He could shout at a storm in Galilee and say with all authority, “Hush up!” and the wind and waves obeyed him. But now another storm is forming around him, and within him, and he is powerless to stop it.

So he prays a second time, “Father, let this cup pass.”  

Now Jesus knows his destiny. He has already declared his destiny. He told Simon Peter, “I will go to Jerusalem and be killed.” Peter shouted, “No, not you, certainly not you, the powerful Messiah!” Jesus stared him down, called out the devil in him, and said, “Peter, you are embracing human values, not heavenly values.”

For what greater human virtue could there be than saving your own skin? The human inclination is to think only of one’s self. So we hoard all the toilet paper, stockpile all the cleaning supplies, and never take responsibility for our own self-centered neglect.

Yet Jesus knows he must go to Jerusalem. He must. And in Jerusalem, he will be called upon to make the ultimate sacrifice. To drink the cup of suffering. To serve the world by giving his life as a ransom for many. This is what he must do.

So he prays a third time: “My Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; yet not what I want but what you want.”

I hope we can hear the conflict in his words, for it is real. Jesus is not repeating this prayer three times for our benefit, even if it was Simon Peter who this cry in his slumber and later told the Gospel writer. No, Jesus faces a sincere dilemma. One way to frame it might sound like this: “Father, I know what you want, and I know what I want. Could you give me what I want, and let that be what you want?”

We can all hope for that kind of outcome. Like this prayer: “Father, don’t let me get sick, for I know your will for us is good health.” Or this: “Father, flood my fears with your overwhelming joy, for your will is to send light into darkness.” Or how about this one: “Father, do not let me ever become self-centered or isolated, for your will is to create compassion and human community.”

Those are very different prayers than the general prayer, “Holy God, give me what I want!” Or this prayer from a television evangelist, “Lord, I would like a private jet, funded by the suckers who put their tithes in my offering plate.” Or Shel Silverstein’s “Prayer of the Selfish Child” –

Now I lay me down to sleep, I pray the Lord my soul to keep.

And if I die before I wake, I pray the Lord my toys to break,

So none of the other kids can use ‘em.[1]

How different these prayers are from the prayer of Jesus in Gethsemane. He asks for deliverance, but not out of greed. He sets his wishes within the greater intentions of God, and says, “Nevertheless, not my will, but your will be done.” Prayer is kneeling before the God who is bigger, holier, and far more just than we are

Now, I know there are those other verses. You know the ones. Jesus says, “Ask whatever you wish, and the Father will give it to you.” So somebody prays, Lord, I need a set of new luggage. Lord, I want a new boyfriend. Lord, I want you to keep me well even if everybody else gets sick. If we pray apart from pursuing the will of God, we put ourselves in spiritual danger.

As it is, we are already infected by an American myth that everything turns out well, that life will land on the bright side, that we will be blessed in ways that others will not. That kind of thinking feeds into false privilege and over-consumption. Even worse, it is the self-centered seedbed for human destruction.

So how does Jesus pray? How does Jesus teach us to pray? Four words: "Thy will be done." Let God's will be done on earth, because it is surely done around the throne of heaven. Let life on earth be shaped to resemble the life that is already in heaven.

If there be any question about this, Jesus already teaches the will of God, for heaven and for earth:

• that the broken be mended,
• that those who mourn will be comforted,
• that mercy will be met with mercy,
• that those hungry and thirsty for righteousness will taste it,
• that the meek would inherit the world God created for them,
• that the peacemakers and the healers would be adopted as God’s own kin,
• that the hungry would be fed, and the naked clothed, and the prisoners visited rather than abandoned, and that the wretched of the earth will treated as God’s own royalty.

And here’s one thing more: that all sin would be cancelled and forgiven, and all those disrupted by sin would set free from all the damage. That, in particular, is the will of God to be embodied by Jesus, who goes to Jerusalem to pay the ransom and set free all who can live in that freedom.

Today we overhear the prayer of Jesus, in his moment of extremity: “O Father, if it is possible, let this cup pass from me; nevertheless, not what I want but what you want.” If we hear the Gospel, we hear what God wants. And ultimately, sooner or later, one way or another, this is what God will achieve, for God always wins.

The miracle is that we can be part of that heavenly intention for earth: the mending, comforting, showing mercy, tasting righteousness, and all the rest. We choose it by choosing the will of God over our own will. And we live it first by praying it.

A lot of people talk about having a “personal relationship with God.” Let me tell it to you straight: that “personal relationship” is a life of prayer. Spoken prayer, silent prayer, still prayer, and (don’t forget it) active prayer. It’s the kind of prayer, like Jesus, that acknowledges what it on our hearts – but in all things, pursues the will of God and submits to it when it is discerned.

It is the prayer that asks, “Lord, what do you want for the world and how can I be a part of it?” If we ask those words, really ask, the promise is that that prayer will be answered.

Last month, some of our church folks met every week to learn more about Howard Thurman, the wise teacher from the last generation who knew God face to face. At one point, Thurman said something very deep: true prayer has very little to do with bringing something external to pass; rather, it has to do with the relationship between God and those who pray.

Here is what he said, “The essence of prayer is that God answers the pray-er (the one praying), which is far more important than answering a thousand prayers.” And God’s answer is this: “I see you. I love you. I am with you. No matter what.”

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

---

[1] Shel Silverstein, A Light in the Attic (New York: Harper Collins, 1981) 15.

For Many

Matthew 26:17-29

Lent 2

March 8, 2020

William G. Carter

On the first day of Unleavened Bread the disciples came to Jesus, saying, “Where do you want us to make the preparations for you to eat the Passover?” He said, “Go into the city to a certain man, and say to him, ‘The Teacher says, My time is near; I will keep the Passover at your house with my disciples.’” So the disciples did as Jesus had directed them, and they prepared the Passover meal. When it was evening, he took his place with the twelve; and while they were eating, he said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me.” And they became greatly distressed and began to say to him one after another, “Surely not I, Lord?” He answered, “The one who has dipped his hand into the bowl with me will betray me. The Son of Man goes as it is written of him, but woe to that one by whom the Son of Man is betrayed! It would have been better for that one not to have been born.” Judas, who betrayed him, said, “Surely not I, Rabbi?” He replied, “You have said so.”

While they were eating, Jesus took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.” Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you; for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, I will never again drink of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.”

She paused when the bread was handed to her. The elder expected her to take the silver tray and pass it down the pew. Her hesitation caught him by surprise. But he stood patiently and then caught her eye. She took the tray and then handed it to the next person beside her.

“Is something wrong?” he asked quietly. She responded by putting her hand out flat, as if to say, “Not now, this is not the time.” And when he returned a few minutes later with a tray full of communion cups, she had slipped out the door.

Have you ever seen such a thing? Perhaps you have. The elders here keep track of how many people receive the Lord’s Supper. They pencil in the number on a chart inside a cabinet in the church kitchen. Sometimes, instead of counting, one of the elders may say, “Let’s just use the attendance number and write that in.”

“No,” comes the reply. “Not all the people who came for worship actually take communion.”

For some of us, this may seem a curious thing. If you think about it, there may be children whose parents haven’t yet allowed them to partake. Or we may be hosting people whose membership is in another church, and they are not sure if they are welcome; perhaps their own congregation is more selective than this one. Or it could be that there are people here whose faith is wavering or whose convictions have changed.

But it could be that it’s somebody who is taking our Bible text very seriously.

Today, we hear the account of the Last Supper. Jesus gathers his friends for the Passover feast. These are good Jews who have kept the Passover all their lives. They are in Jerusalem and Jesus has arranged the location. It would normally be an evening of quiet dignity, a solemn tradition that celebrates God’s redemption of the people of Israel.

But this night is different from all other nights. After Jesus rode into the city in triumph, he proceeded to chase the merchants and moneychangers out of the Temple. The religious leaders pushed back, coming at him with challenges which Jesus counters masterfully. He responded offering a prophetic denunciation of their hypocrisy and arrogance. He calls them fools. He curses them as whitewashed tombstones. Then he declares the whole Temple will come smashing down because of their spiritual incompetence.

And while he arranges to celebrate the Passover with his friends, these so-called spiritual leaders are plotting his death. “Just don’t do it during the Passover,” they murmur, “or else the crowds might turn against us.”

So it’s Passover. The storm clouds are swirling when Jesus interrupts the feast. “One of you is going to turn me in,” he says. “One of you is going to betray me.” And the most striking detail is that every last one of his friends thinks he may be talking about them. To a person, each one says, “It isn’t me, is it? Is it me?”

Now before we rush ahead and point to Judas Iscariot, and say, “No, Lord, it’s him,” let’s pause and give this a little bit of time. Peter, James, John – the inner circle – they want to know what evil he sees in them. “You’re not talking to me, are you?” They wonder, “Is he talking about me?”

How about Matthew the tax-collector? He knew how to cut a deal with the Romans, so he could surely conspire with the rulers of the Temple. Or what about Simon the Cananaean? He was murky enough from spending time in the shadows and kept a dagger beneath his cloak. The other disciples themselves do not single out Judas, for each one of them knows he has the capacity to turn his back on Jesus. “It isn’t me, is it?”

Years ago, a good friend told me about a Maundy Thursday service in his church. They had communion in the beginning of the service. Then the ushers dimmed the lights and the preacher stood in the pulpit. He had large tin bowl and a sack of silver coins. He began to slowly name one way after another that we fail to speak up for Christ, or how we fail to love the people he loves, or how we mistreat others contrary to how he teaches us to treat them.

Every time he named another human failure, he tossed one more coin into the tin bowl. Clink…clink… clink… My friend said, “About twenty silver coins in, I was about ready to confess: it’s me, I’m the one, I’m so sorry, please forgive me, Lord.”  

Now, this can be overdone. I’ve seen that, and maybe you have, too. One memorable Good Friday service in another town, a preacher that I would readily describe as unstable screamed at the congregation and handed out roofing nails from a bag she carried down the aisle. I thought, “Who needs to prepare a sermon? Just scream at the people and bring some props.”

She came to the lady next to me and thrust a nail toward her. The lady shook her head, clenched her arms, and said no. “Take it,” yelled the preacher, “it’s your nail.” The lady stared in return and quietly said, “Where’s yours?” Wow, I never saw a gas bag deflate so fast.

Notice: Jesus isn’t wagging his finger at anybody. He’s not rubbing anybody’s noses in anything. He simply states the truth: “one of you.” And every honest person is invited to ask, “Is it me?”

When he comments on the Bible passage, teacher Dale Bruner reminds us that communion is a sacrament ripe for self-examination. Baptism claims us as the children of God; the Lord’s Supper is when each participant asks, “Am I living as one who is faithful to the Lord Jesus Christ?” Bruner says Jesus was willing to ruin a perfectly good Passover meal, in order that all future meals with him would be observed with an honest heart and a recognition of our own vulnerability and spiritual need.[1]

It is a Passover, after all, a recognition that all of us are potentially enslaved to something that makes us less than human, and only the grace and power of God can set us free. The freedom is a gift. It comes at great cost. And it must never be taken lightly. This is not a scrap of bread and a sip of wine. It is Christ offering his body and blood to free us and renew us. It costs him everything. Shouldn’t it cost us something, as well?

So I think of the lady whose story we heard at the outset. She wasn’t quite ready to receive the bread and the cup. Nobody can force this on her. She must ready. She must be receptive.

But ready and receptive for what? Forgiveness. That’s the gift, the liberating gift. And if we haven’t spent any time or energy naming the broken shards of our lives that we wish could be mended, it’s a gift that we are not ready to receive.

“Communion is not ceremony for the self-satisfied,” writes Dale Bruner. “And if I’m honest, my most frequent feeling on Sunday mornings is spiritual numbness – feeling neither good nor bad about myself. Should I take Communion? If I ask for forgiveness for this numbness, this spiritual void, yes indeed. In such a state I need all of Christ I can get.”[2]

Then he quotes John Calvin, “Let us remember that his sacred feast is medicine for the sick, solace for the sinner, alms to the poor.” This is what Christ is saying, “Do this, remembering me.” Remembering everything that he provides, everything he has carried us through, everything he points us toward, we remember him. We keep him firmly in view.

So Matthew’s story of the Last Supper is a call to self-examination. We join each of those closest to Jesus in asking, “Is it I? Could it be me?” We return again and again to the Table, acknowledging our deepest need.

And the amazing gift is that Christ meets us there and invites us to take what he hands to us. He is the one who offers. He is the one who gives. His generosity does not depend on how good we are; rather it flows from how good he is. Even as his enemies are plotting to take his life, it is God’s intention for Jesus to give his life. Even as Judas and his conspirators are caught in a web of destructive evil, Jesus will destroy the power of that evil through his death, his resurrection, and ultimately, his forgiveness. 

So there is plenty for everybody. “Take, eat,” he says. “Drink of it, all of you!” There’s enough mercy for all. Even Judas. He hasn’t left yet. The bread and the cup are offered to him, too. We cannot deny what Jesus provides for him.

The tragedy is that, for Judas, his self-examination won’t happen until later. He will wake up from the nightmare and discover what he has done. It’s then that he comes to his senses. It is then, says Matthew, that he repents. And the astonishing truth of the Gospel is that the very worst thing that Judas ever did – handing Jesus over to be crucified - is the very thing that God used to redeem the world.

This is the great mystery of grace. “Drink from this cup,” Jesus declares, “for my blood is poured out for many, for the forgiveness for sins.” His forgiveness is here, right here, freely offered, and ready to be received … whenever you are ready.

(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.

---

[1] F. Dale Bruner, The Churchbook: Matthew 13-28 (Waco: Word, 1991) p. 951.

[2] Ibid, 959.