Maundy Thursday
For I received from the
Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night when he was
betrayed took a loaf of bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it
and said, “This is my body that is for you. Do this in remembrance of me.” In
the same way he took the cup also, after supper, saying, “This cup is the new
covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of
me.” For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup, you proclaim
the Lord’s death until he comes.
Back in the Presbyterian schoolhouse, the professor told students like me to memorize the communion service. That’s what I did. “Memorizing will maximize eye contact,” he said. It will facilitate not only heavenly communion but earthly connection. So, I learned the whole thing. I learned it good. When I began my work as a pastor, I was ready to show the fruit of my hard work.
I think it was my first Maundy Thursday in a pulpit robe. It was a night like this. The lights were low. The gloom was thick. The congregation sat in the shadows as I stood to lead us in the Lord’s Supper. “This is the joyful feast,” I intoned, not too cheerful, not too glum. “They will come from east and west, north and south,” I said with my arms extended. That congregation was not prone to smiling, but perhaps a head nodded in agreement.
Then, to the words of institution. “These words matter the most,” our professor had declared. So, I picked up a load of bread, previously sawed in half by a zealous deacon. I held it high to say, “This is my body that is for you.” I was making maximum eye contact as the loaf split in my hands. Each half was extended toward a congregation hungry for grace.
After putting the bread on the silver plate, I leaned over to pick up the pitcher and chalice. Still gazing at my beloved church, with maximum eye contact, I said, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood.” And I poured the grape juice all over my right hand.
It was dark. Maybe nobody would see what I did. I was wrong. There was a gasp in the third row, over here. The organist started to giggle and almost fell off his bench. One of the altos in the choir exclaimed not so quietly, “He ruined a perfectly good tablecloth.” I had a sudden pang of guilt. What if I had ruined the sacrament as well?
It turns out that matter was settled in the Fourth Century, with something called the Donatist Controversy. The short version went like this: if the sacrament is presided over by a clergy person who is a sinner or a fool, does that sacrament still count? The answer is yes. Because the sacrament is not about the one who breaks the bread. It’s not about the one who pours grape juice all over his hand. The sacrament is about Jesus Christ. He is the host of the Table and the one who truly presides.
The words that he has passed on somehow to the Apostle Paul are not magic words. They do not presume to turn bread into flesh nor wine into blood. They are Tradition Words. They provide continuity between the original meal and the meal that we celebrate tonight. These are the words that carry us into the presence of Christ. The bread broken is the same bread broken and blessed by Jesus. He names it as his “body,” which means his body infuses our bodies. His life is welcomed into our lives.
And that cup, poured out so lavishly for us, is the cancellation of our sin, of all sin. Paul says the bread and the cup form a public announcement of the cross. Our human sin is crucified as Christ is crucified. Killing him is about the worst thing people have ever done – and he forgives us. There is no punishment, though deeply deserved. No, the sin is cancelled. Its power is broken.
Do people still sin, even after the Supper? Well, listen to the story unfold this evening. Judas will slip out and cut a deal to turn in his Lord. Simon Peter will lie three times that he knows Christ. The religious leaders will act in ungodly ways. An indifferent government will dismiss Jesus as a troublemaker. Oh, yes, the sins go on.
Yet we keep returning to this Table because this is the place where we are reminded how Christ sets us free. His cross cancels the power of our rebellion. We come to the Table again and again to receive his forgiveness and hear his invitation to begin again. This is the Table of Jesus, once crucified, now risen. He continues with us, and we make this Table available to all as he first made it available to us.
Keep this in mind as we hear the Gospel of Mark. It is an ugly story of how people turn on one another. Some of the characters are scared. Others are anxious enough to say foolish things. Some act irresponsibly, others are violent. Many are indifferent. Yet standing at the center of the drama is this wondrous and mysterious Galilean. He knows what lurks in human hearts, and willingly gives his life to pay the ransom and set us free.
This is what we have received. The living tradition comes from Christ to Paul, from Paul to us, through us to the neighborhood. Grace is what we have received. Forgiveness is what we share. And this is the true story of a God who loves us, proclaimed in broken bread and poured-out wine.
Someone asked a question once. She seemed embarrassed, but it was an excellent question. She said, “What should I do while communion is going on?” What should you do? She said, “You know, during the silence, while others are receiving the bread and the cup. Is there something I should do?”
I replied, “Well, you could pray.” “Right,” she said, “but what do I pray? What kind of prayer?”
I thought for a minute. What do we pray while the people of
God receive the bread of life and the cup of salvation? Then I said it: “Say
thank you.” Just say thank you.
(c) William G. Carter. All rights reserved.
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