Mark 14:12-26
It won’t happen again. It will never happen again like this. Jesus says so himself. They’ll never recline around another table. They’ll never break another loaf of bread. They will never drink wine again – not like this. This will be the very last time that it happens just as he had told them. We get very comfortable explaining the rest of the story when we claim this assumption, that it all happened just as he had told them. But what if no one knows? What if no one knows what will happen next? What if Jesus and his friends have no idea that this will be the last time that they will drink wine and break bread? For truly, how do you ever know when it will be the last time?
There was no bread or wine the last time I saw my mother. I suppose someone could have told me that it would be the last time – but I didn’t know it. I’m not convinced that she knew it either. There were no preparations that were made for this visit to the upper room of the hospital. It just happened. It just happened that her lunch tray was sitting there when we arrived.
The moment we got there my father urged my brother and I to hug her, but we didn’t want to get close. We didn’t want to recline by her side. She didn’t look like she once looked. She looked like someone that was dying – but like the disciples, I didn’t know what someone looks like when they’re facing death. I just didn’t know.
She tapped the bed beside her. But I didn’t budge. But eventually I did, though let’s be honest, I moved because I wanted to know what was for lunch. So I gingerly climbed on top of the bed beside the woman that gave me birth trying so hard not to hurt. That’s what I remember most. I was afraid to hurt her. I was afraid she’d break– and I sure didn’t want to be the one that did it.
But I did it. Everything was fine. Perched on the bed beside my dying mother, I lifted the lid over the lunch tray. It looked… like hospital food. That is, until I discovered the chocolate ice cream. “Mom,” I squealed. “You’ve got to eat your ice cream!” And so, I started to feed her. At the time, I couldn’t understand why the nurse was standing in the doorway crying. I was more puzzled by the fact that my mother wasn’t gobbling up the chocolate goodness. Now, I know. The nurse standing in that doorway was crying as anyone might when a child insists upon life – no matter what the odds.
I haven’t outgrown this faith. It’s the assertion that I bring into this story where Jesus sends his friends to prepare for this meal in a guest room upstairs. Whatever preparations may have been made, whatever expectations may have been set, whatever hopes floated around that table, I don’t think that Jesus or any of the disciples could have known what would come next. I’m not even convinced that they actually understood what was happening in this moment. Instead, I tend to think that it’s more than likely that one of those disciples squealed, “Jesus! You’ve got to have some this wine!”
It’s innocent and delightful – because this poor guy is obviously clueless. But, what if no one knows what is about to happen? What if these friends have simply gathered in this guest room upstairs to share in a ritual that they do every single year? What if their purpose is not to prepare for death but simply to remember how good God can be?
It is the first day of the Festival of Unleavened Bread. It is the beginning of the ritual celebration of the Passover where God’s people remember how we were enslaved and set free through God’s protection and love. This is the meal that they are sharing. It is the Passover meal where certain preparations must be made and particular stories are retold. It’s a family event. It’s a time when you gather with those that are closest to you. More than any other meal, this is a meal to share with those that you love. So it makes sense that these friends gather together on this first night of the Festival of Unleavened Bread.
What does not make sense — at least to me — is why we make this particular meal all about the blood of the lamb. You’ll recall that that the lamb is an important part of the Passover story. It’s a lamb’s blood that marks the doors of the Hebrew slaves so that God will pass them over. And when these same slaves set out to leave this place where so much death has occurred, they are instructed to eat a lamb as food for the journey. To me, this is what is more important. This is why God is good. It has nothing to do with slaughter and death. It has everything to do with the fact that we all need food for the journey of this life because we truly have no idea what will come next.
That’s why this a real meal. You’ll notice that this group of friends isn’t sharing a dinky little cup of juice and a perfect cube of bread. This is a real meal with real food. This is the sort of meal that is going to require you to unbutton your pants afterward because you are so stuffed. This is the kind of meal where you didn’t save room for dessert — but ate the chocolate ice cream anyway. This is that kind of meal. Because that’s what mattered to those first people that heard this story in house churches started by Paul and Peter. They needed to know that this was real bread. They needed to know that there would be enough bread for the day. They needed to know that there would be food for the entire journey of their day. They didn’t need to know if anyone was going to die for them — or their sins — they needed to know that they would live to see another day. That is the bread of life.
But, as Jesus reminds us, this bread is broken because we all are. For each and everyone of us, gathered around that table and this one, there is something within us that is broken. There is something inside of each of us that longs to be whole. This isn’t celebrating that fact. It’s recognizing it. You are broken. I am broken. We are broken.
Years ago, a friend of mine was getting married. She was faithfully preparing to honor all of the customs of a Jewish wedding (as she is Jewish) — but there was one tradition that she refused to include in her ceremony. In the conclusion of a traditional Jewish wedding, after the vows have been said, the groom is supposed to break a glass under his foot. My dear friend refused. As she told me, “There is too much that is broken in the world.” That’s the line that echoes in my head each and every time I break the bread. Indeed, there is so much that is broken in the world. You are broken. I am broken. We are broken. But by participating in this meal, we’re not turning away from that hard truth. We break the bread of life to admit it. To say it out loud. To turn toward it. To even squeal, “Jesus! You’ve got to see what a mess we are!”
And then, please pass the olives. Because this is a meal. This is something that we are sharing as much as those friends did so long ago. Those aren’t spirits or abstract forms gathered around that table in a guest room upstairs. Those are people with bodies — with arms and legs and ears and eyes. Those are people whose blood is pumping. Those are people that hunger and thirst for righteousness sake. Those are people with stories as complicated as mine and yours. Those are people who are completely and totally flawed. They are broken. They are human — like you and like me.
You might not want to include Jesus in that humanity — but I do. It does nothing for me to have some super-powered guy who knows everything in this story or in my story. I can certainly understand how it could comfort you to believe that Jesus knew exactly what he was doing and exactly what trouble he was getting into. I can even go there a little bit. I can understand the risk that is required for justice. If there is going to be enough food for everyone to survive another day, you’ve got to be willing to do a little more than donate $10 to a good cause by text message. But, I don’t need Jesus’ blood for that. That’s where you lose me. Because I don’t think that’s what Jesus intends. I don’t believe that’s what God wants. So, I can’t follow through with you if you think that Jesus took the bread and the cup in this way to explain his death or some other future event.
It’s why I don’t talk about the blood or the forgiveness of sins when I lift the chalice to share in the ritual of communion. On that first night of the Festival of Unleavened Bread or any other night, I don’t think that Jesus thought to say such things. These ideas appear much later when our church fathers and mothers were trying to understand Jesus. But it really isn’t in the Bible. You could say that it is just as he had told them in the gospel attributed to Matthew — but that’s only one reference and the only other time something like that appears is in a very strange passage in the Letter to the Hebrews. (Mind you, Hebrews is not a very reliable source for anything as we don’t know who wrote it or who read it.)
However, it does not mean that these words are not important. It doesn’t mean that we can throw them out just because we don’t like them — as you may think I am doing right now. No. That’s not it at all. The problem is that we’re not being honest. There’s something that we’re just not talking about — something that makes us uncomfortable, something that we’re not sure how to fit with the ways we talk about God. Because something has happened to you that made you that uncomfortable. The question is: what was it?
It’s not just that blood grosses you out. It’s because you saw some amount of blood somewhere in your life that you can’t imagine why Jesus would need to shed anymore. That’s what happened to me when I saw those tubes floating around my mother’s head. It’s what happened when I became aware of that same stuff pumping in my own veins. It’s what happened when I wanted more than anything to tell my dead mother that there was a stain in my underwear. It’s not just that it’s gross. It’s something happened to you. It’s something that happened to me because blood is so full of life — and isn’t that what our faith is all about? We’re not trying to contort ourselves into whatever it might be just has he told them. We are trying to live in such a way that God flows into our lives. It might be messy. It might be a little gross but it’s really what we want, isn’t it? We want God to bless our whole lives as much as God might bless a loaf of bread or a cup of wine. This is how good God is. This is indeed how good God is.