It had been a very
meaningful Maundy Thursday service and now it was late and everyone had gone
home. I walked through the now-empty building as I usually do at the end of the
day, readjusting thermostats and turning off lights and making sure all the
doors were locked. As I walked back into the sanctuary, I noticed that the
little glass cups from the Communion service were still there, standing up along
the chancel rail as if in formation. Our people had gotten a little sloppy that
evening, and the juice had spattered here and there, with little drops spilled
along the wooden rail like the blood on the doorposts of the Israelites. 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 emails
to answer, no one demanding my attention. Just me and God in the kitchen. A
nice mid-Holy Week respite.
As I spread out
the cups to wash them, I thought of putting them in the dishwasher but decided
against it. It seemed to me the best way to wash them was one by one, picking
up each cup individually, washing it out, then turning it over to dry.
After I got
started, I began to think about the medieval monk known as Brother Lawrence of
the Resurrection. Brother Lawrence was a very godly man, a person who had given
it all to go and live in the monastery and serve God all his days. He took his
vows, made his commitment, and got his initial training in the kitchen. Now the
kitchen was the last place Brother Lawrence wanted to be! He reportedly said to
himself something like, “Oh, I could be so much more useful to God anywhere
other 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 think we should get to choose our places of
service. But we forget that even Jesus showed his greatness by washing the
disciples’ feet and 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. Likewise, that night in that church kitchen 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, and I was a little disappointed in the number. But continuing
to wash them and place them on the towel to dry, the total number became less
important to me. Gradually the cups began to look different, 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 as much. What mattered the most at that moment was each individual little
cup and the beloved child of God who had partaken of its contents.
You’ve heard it
said that sometimes we can’t see the forest for the trees. True, but the reverse
is also true: sometimes we can’t see the trees for the forest! We see the
numbers and the unified whole but we overlook the precious individuals that it
contains.
I’m glad to be
reminded that we have all the little cups that make the sacrament possible even
in the pandemic, and that we serve and partake of Holy Communion individually,
one by one. Christ died not just for the church but for each life, each soul,
saying, “This is my body, given for you.” There is a cup with your name on it.
Thanks be to God.
