Maundy Thursday

It is the night before the crucifixion. Jesus is in the upper room with his disciples, in intimate conversation. In preparation for Passover, Jerusalem is thronged with people. Jesus has gone to Bethany to raise his friend Lazarus from the dead, an act which will precipitate the plot for his own death. The chief priests put word out on the street to look for him so they can arrest him, not knowing that Jesus would ride into town in a Palm Sunday parade. No one takes his life; he lays it down for all.

This Passover, Jesus and the Twelve withdraw to the upper room, away from the crowds and commotion on the street. Jesus will preside over the seder meal as head of the table. At the beginning of the meal he lifts the matzah bread to heaven and pronounces the traditional Hebrew blessing: "Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth bread from the earth." But then he does something new. As he breaks the bread and begins to give it to his disciples, he says, "This is my body, which is given for you. Eat this in remembrance of me."

Lifted up, blessed, broken, and given for all.

Later in the meal when the third cup of wine, the Cup of Redemption, is filled, he lifts it up and likewise gives thanks in the traditional manner: "Blessed art thou, O Lord our God, King of the universe, who brings forth the fruit of the vine." And once again he does something new: "This cup is the New Covenant in my blood. Drink from it, all of you. Do this in remembrance of me."

Salvation. Deliverance. Community. Sacrifice. New and everlasting life.

We celebrate Holy Communion often and regularly at our church, but the celebration on this night in Holy Week is perhaps the most special. A few years ago something happend that shed a whole new light on it for me.

It was a Sunday night afer I had taught my Sunday night class. It was late and everyone had gone home. It had been a long Sunday but a very good day. I walked through the building as I usually do at the end of a day, turning down thermostats, turning out lights and making sure all the doors were locked. As I walked in the sanctuary I noticed that the little glass cups from the morning's Communion were still there, standing up along the chancel rail as if in formation. Our people had been a little sloppy that morning, and some of the juice had been spattered about. There were little drops along the wooden rail like blood on the doorposts of the Hebrews. In the bottom of each little cup was a crimson spot where the last dregs of the precious liquid lay. Since I didn't want that grape juice to stay in the cups overnight, I decided to take them into the kitchen and wash them.

I didn't mind. I felt I would enjoy the quiet time in the kitchen: No phone ringing, no TV blaring.

As I spread out the cups to wash them I thought of putting them in the dishasher but decided against it. It seemed to me the best way to wash them was one by one, picking up each one individually and washing it, then turning it over to dry.

As I got started I began to think about the medieval monk named Brother Lawrence. Brother Lawrence was a very godly man, a person who had given it all to go and live in a monastery and serve God fulltime all his days. He took his vows, made his commitment, got his training and when he finally was assigned a monastery he landed in the kitchen. Now the kitchen was the last place Brother Lawrence wanted to be. He must have said, "Oh I could be so much more useful for God than in this kitchen, peeling potatoes and washing dishes and cutting cabbage and boiling onions! Why me? Why here?"

We all want to be great for God and sometimes we think we ought to choose our place of service. But we forget that even Jesus showed his greatness not in conquest but on a cross; not by ruling but by serving; not by commanding armies but by washing the disciples' feet; not by lording over others but by giving his life for others. Brother Lawrence learned to practice the presence of God wherever God put him, and he found God in the kitchen. Years later St. Teresa would tell us that she, too, found God "among the pots and pans." Likewise, that night I found God unexpectedly among the dozens of tiny shot glasses stained with grape juice.

What happened was this: as I picked them up and began to wash them one by one, I counted them. There were about 110. I thought there ought to be more, and I was a little disappointed in the number. But as I continued to wash them and place them on the towel to dry, the total number became less and less important. Gradually the cups began to look different to me, and as I handled them individually I began to look closely at each little cup. It dawned on me that each and every cup represented a life, a person, a human being, someone I know, someone for whom Christ died. Suddenly the total number didn't seem to matter that much. What mattered the most at that moment was each individual little cup.

We've all heard it said that sometimes we can't see the forest for the trees. But the reverse is also true: sometimes we can't see the trees for the forest! We see the numbers and the whole but we overlook the precious individuals that it contains.

I'm glad now that we have the little cups, and that we serve Holy Communion individually, one by one. Christ died not just for the world or for the Church but for each life, each soul, saying to each one, "This is my body, given for YOU!" There is a cup of salvation with your name on it. Thanks be to God!

Blessings,
Rev