Covenant in a Cup

Mark 14:17-25
Maundy Thursday
April 1, 2021
William G. Carter

When it was evening, Jesus came with the twelve. And when they had taken their places and were eating, Jesus said, “Truly I tell you, one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me.” They began to be distressed and to say to him one after another, “Surely, not I?” He said to them, “It is one of the twelve, one who is dipping bread into the bowl with me. For 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.”

 

While they were eating, he took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to them, and said, “Take; this is my body.” Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, and all of them drank from it. He said to them, “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many. Truly I tell you, I will never again drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God.”

 

 

All through the long season of Lent, we’ve been talking about “covenant.” As the Bible reports on God’s long relationship with people, covenant is the recurring theme. Covenant comes up again and again in the pages of scripture. So we may find it curious that the only time Jesus speaks of covenant is right here, as he points to a cup.

 

We have turned the moment into a sacrament. The Last Supper has become the Lord’s Supper. We observe it in the darkness of Maundy Thursday. We celebrate it in the daylight of Easter morning. Many Christian fellowships practice the sacrament more frequently than we do, some of them every week, some of them every day.

 

All Christian people have leaned in on the words, “Take, this is my body. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many.” Despite the good attempts by theologians to explain what happens when we eat this bread and drink this cup, most of us will settle for this sacrament as a mystery. Tonight we are reminded that the mystery is not in the cup, or what happens in the cup. The magic is in the relationship.

That's what a covenant is: a relationship. However else it is defined, covenant is the living connection between two parties. Sometimes the connection is close. Sometimes the connection is distant. But as long as there is a connection, the covenant is still alive.

Some would reduce covenant to a contract, merely a legal documentation of the relationship. The party of the first part hereby agrees to the party of the second part, and so on. People like this reduce a marriage to a prenuptial agreement. Here’s what is mine and what remains mine, and that is yours. There is no love in a contract. Agreement, yes. Expectation, certainly. But no love. Merely specified obligations.

The prophet Jeremiah dreamed of a covenant with God inscribed upon on the heart. That is a worthwhile vision. But the sad reality about religion comes when it is reduced to a list of rules. The context of everything holy is the relationship. “Take, this is my body. This is my blood of the covenant, poured out for many.”

A dozen Jewish men recline around the banquet table with Jesus. They, and those with them, remember Passover. They remember how God said, “I brought you out of slavery in Egypt.” And here is Jesus at the head of the table, declaring in essence, “I bring you out of slavery to yourselves.” That is the essence of sin. It leads only to death. And Jesus points to the cup and offers them a way out, a new Exodus from the worst kind of slavery.

This is the magic. This is the mystery. At the heart of it is a paradox. What sets us free from the sin that leads to death is drinking the cup of death. Jesus says, “This is my blood of the covenant.”

According to Mark’s book, Jesus says this after they drink. After all of them drink. I never noticed that before. I suppose he does that because, if he had mentioned they were drinking blood, they might have passed on the cup. These men were Jews. They know blood is the very life within a living creature. That is what the ancient kosher laws proclaim.

They remember what was written on the ancient scrolls of Leviticus. “For the life of the flesh is in the blood; and I have given it to you for making atonement for your lives on the altar; for, as life, it is the blood that makes atonement.” (Leviticus 17:11)

Here is the gracious mystery. “This cup is the blood of my covenant.” Drink my life. Drink all of it. Take in every drop. Let it work its magic and set you free. This is what Jesus offers to his friends. This is what he continues to offer to us. And he waits to see if we participate in the mystery by taking his life into our life. 

That continues to be an open question. For while he makes this life-giving offer, he also predicts how those closest to him will fall always short. That is the story that follows our sacrament. It’s not only Judas Iscariot who stumbles and sells out. It’s Simon Peter, too, full of bravado until the moment of testing. Or James and John, nicknamed the “Thunder Sons,” who fall asleep in the Garden when he asks them to watch and pray. In the end, it is every one of them, scurrying away in the dark to save their own skins when he has offered to save their souls.

That is precisely why Jesus offers them the mystery, the abiding relationship. “This cup is the blood of my covenant… for you, and for many.” He doesn’t offer the covenant in a cup because his people are perfect. He offers it because he loves them, because he wants to keep working in them, because he wants to free them from the tyranny of their own willfulness and fill them with life. His life.

So we gather again at his invitation. Not because we are spiritual aces. Not because we have figured out all of life’s mysteries. Not because we have unblemished records. We gather because we belong to him. And we welcome his cleansing grace and his liberating love.

After we drink his cup, this time we choose to watch with him through the night. We will abide with him for he always abides with us. And we will live for him when the new day dawns.

 

© William G. Carter. All rights reserved.