a-Lenten-prayer-a-day, day 40 and final, Holy Saturday, April 15, 2017

Note: As a personal, spiritual discipline, I write a prayer for each of the forty days of Lent; each petition focusing on a theme, truly, relating to a care or concern weighing on my mind and heart, at times, vexing my soul and spirit…

On Holy Saturday: O Jesus, on this day, dead, Your Body lay in the tomb.[1] I pray You, by Your Spirit, fortify my faith, granting unto me peace with my death, whene’er and howe’er it is to come; and, as God, Your God, my God, raised You from the dead, also give unto me the sureness of trust of my rising to Life with You in Your eternal Presence of Love. Amen.

 

Illustration: The Dead Christ, Philippe de Champaigne (1602-1674)

Footnote:

[1] See John 19.38-42: Joseph of Arimathea, who was a disciple of Jesus…asked Pilate to let him take away the body of Jesus. Pilate gave him permission; so he came and removed his body. Nicodemus, who had at first come to Jesus by night, also came, bringing a mixture of myrrh and aloes, weighing about a hundred pounds. They took the body of Jesus and wrapped it with the spices in linen cloths, according to the burial custom of the Jews. Now there was a garden in the place where he was crucified, and in the garden there was a new tomb in which no one had ever been laid. And so, because it was the Jewish day of Preparation, and the tomb was nearby, they laid Jesus there.

a Good Friday faith

a sermon, based on John 18.1-19.37, preached with the people of Epiphany Episcopal Church, Laurens, SC, on Good Friday, April 14, 2017

Jesus, according to John the evangelist, was not a prophet, preacher, healer, rabbi, even miracle worker. Jesus was the divine logos, the divine word. The creative, animating power of the universe. The cosmic intelligent designer incarnate. Jesus was the human enfleshment of all that is holy; all that is greater, other than everything else. Jesus was God’s son, verily, God.[1]

Words fail us, as they failed John, in attempting to articulate this mystery (not a riddle to resolve by reason, but a reality beyond the reach of fullest comprehension) of a God who creates, who is life and who dies a death that we, this Good Friday, gather to contemplate.

I wonder. As Jesus was God’s Son (if he was only a prophet, preacher, healer, rabbi, or miracle worker, I wouldn’t wonder!), why did he have to die?

Why didn’t legions of angels come and rescue him? Satan, during the wilderness temptations, posed the possibility; suggesting to Jesus that God’s angels wouldn’t allow any harm to come to him, thereby proving he was God’s Son.[2] Jesus refused to put God to the test.[3]

So, if not that, why didn’t Jesus supernaturally, triumphantly dislodge the nails in his hands and feet and come down from the cross; astounding the soldiers, electrifying the crowds, gladdening the hearts of his mother and disciples? If Jesus, with a cosmic flourish, had leapt from the cross that would have been a story worth remembering and retelling, rivaling the church’s two millennia-old proclamation of Jesus’ crucifixion, death, and resurrection!

Imagine! What if that had happened? What if, in response to the contemptuous catcalls of the crowd (“He saved others, but he can’t save himself. Let him come down from the cross, so we may see and believe”[4]), he had come down? There would be no ambiguity or uncertainty, no doubt about his identity. Therefore, no need for faith.

Ah, that’s precisely the point. The need, our need for faith.

Jesus’ death was an act of faith. His faith in God expressed, enfleshed in his life and ministry of seeking the outcast and oppressed, siding with the least and last as first in the heart of God. His faith that inevitably led him into conflict with secular and religious authorities, whose insatiable political appetites for the mutual appeasement of quid pro quo and the maintenance of the status quo could not tolerate Jesus’ radically revolutionary message. His faith that compelled him to follow the course of his chosen destiny all the way to the end: Death. No half steps, back steps, or side steps. No cheap, even spectacular theatrics like coming down from the cross. No. Death. Only death.

On this Good Friday, as we contemplate Jesus’ death, let us read his story as our own. As Jesus needed faith, so do we. There is much in life beyond our control. We need faith. There is much around life’s proverbial corner, in the next day, hour, moment that we don’t, can’t see. We need faith. There is much about ourselves we don’t, can’t know. We, as the Apostle Paul reminds us, “look into a mirror dimly.”[5] We cannot always, perhaps ever be sure of who it is we see. We need faith in something, Someone greater than we.

Still, we do know that we are creatures with a consciousness of our mortality. Like Jesus, our lives, our journeys to Jerusalem, include a Golgotha – that moment of our dying. Thus, though we gather this day to reflect on the death of Jesus, let us contemplate our own. For our awareness of the inevitability of death means that dying always is present in our living. As such, what difference can, does that make in how we live?

If our consciousness of our dying can be more than an occasional haunting reflection, more than a sudden, unbidden and unwanted flash of recognition, more than a momentary reminder that life in this world is an inherently terminal reality…

If our awareness that each passing moment brings us nearer to our dying is a sign of our acceptance that we share in the universal experience of all humankind…

Then perhaps we can live with greater, more faithful purpose. Like Jesus. Less selfishly and more selflessly. Less for ourselves and more for others. Then we can reach our life’s end like Jesus, saying, “It is finished.”[6]

If that is so, then I believe that our “Fridays”, our dying days, will be good.

 

Illustration: Crucifixion (1880), Thomas Cowperthwait Eakins (1844-1916)

Footnotes:

[1] See John 1.1-5, 10-14, 16-18: In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it…He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God… And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth. From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The law indeed was given through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ. No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.

[2] Matthew 4.6; Luke 4.9-11

[3] Matthew 4.7; Luke 4.12

[4] Mark 15.31-32

[5] 1 Corinthians 13.12

[6] John 19.30

a-Lenten-prayer-a-day, day 39, Good Friday, April 14, 2017

Note: As a personal, spiritual discipline, I write a prayer for each of the forty days of Lent; each petition focusing on a theme, truly, relating to a care or concern weighing on my mind and heart, at times, vexing my soul and spirit…

On Good Friday: O Jesus, through Your life and ministry, especially with the disenfranchised and dispossessed, the least and the last, all whom You claimed as first in the sight of Your Abba, Father, You confronted and convicted the status quo of power and privilege held in the hands of the few and lorded over the many.

For this, You, Love and Justice incarnate, by fear and hatred were condemned and crucified.

For this, You, Who welcomed all, were deceived by one of Your own with a betraying kiss from bitter lips, despised by those into whose hands You were led, denied and deserted by Your followers and, as You, from the Cross of Your suffering and dying, dared to cry out, by God.[1]

As the prophesied sword of anguish pierced the soul of the watching, weeping Blessed Mary, Your mother,[2] by the power of Your Spirit, erect and establish Your cross at the heart of my living, that I, dying to my selfish-self, never abandon You in the disenfranchised and dispossessed, the last and the least, the still constantly crucified of this world. Amen.

 

Illustrations:

Crucifixion (1894), Nikolai Nikolaevich Ge (1831-1894)

Pieta (c.1560), Luis de Morales (1512-1586)

Footnotes:

[1] See Matthew 27.46 and Mark 15.34: And about three o’clock Jesus cried with a loud voice, “Eli, Eli, lema sabachthani?” that is, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Amidst his sorrow, sensing his abandonment by God, I take great heart that Jesus did not abandon, forsake, or otherwise forswear God. For Jesus, relying on scripture (Psalm 22.1; my emphasis), cried, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” His abiding address to God as “my” I interpret as his bounden belief in and continued call upon the One in whom he placed his ultimate trust.

[2] See Luke 2.25-35 (especially verses 34-35, my emphasis): There was a man in Jerusalem whose name was Simeon; this man was righteous and devout, looking forward to the consolation of Israel, and the Holy Spirit rested on him. It had been revealed to him by the Holy Spirit that he would not see death before he had seen the Lord’s Messiah. Guided by the Spirit, Simeon came into the temple; and when the parents brought in the child Jesus, to do for him what was customary under the law, Simeon took him in his arms and praised God, saying, “Master, now you are dismissing your servant in peace, according to your word; for my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the presence of all peoples, a light for revelation to the Gentiles and for glory to your people Israel.” And the child’s father and mother were amazed at what was being said about him. Then Simeon blessed them and said to his mother Mary, “This child is destined for the falling and the rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be opposed so that the inner thoughts of many will be revealed, and a sword will pierce your own soul too.”

discerning the Body

a sermon, based on 1 Corinthians 11.23-26, preached with the people of Epiphany Episcopal Church, Laurens, SC, on Maundy Thursday, April 13, 2017

“I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you.”

The Apostle Paul speaks of the tradition bestowed by Jesus that the Christian church, ever since, has understood as instituting the Eucharist.

On this Maundy Thursday, I bid that we focus on why Paul wrote as he did.

Looking at the biblical context at Paul’s immediately preceding words,[1] we see that his reference to the received tradition is an admonition to the Corinthians who had forgotten the table hospitality of the common agape or love feast. The Christians of Corinth, during their weekly gatherings for Eucharist, also would partake of a common meal (consider it an ancient potluck supper!), the food and drink brought by the various members. However, the practice, thus, the problem arose when folk ate and drank all of their provisions, leaving nothing to share with late arrivers, often slaves, servants, or laborers, in other words, the poor, who, thus, would be deprived of anything to eat.

Paul’s point about tradition, therefore, isn’t about Eucharistic etiquette. He isn’t instructing us to use the words, “This is my body…This cup is the new covenant in my blood”, over the bread and the wine (though we do!) or that we must use bread and wine (though we do!). And Paul’s point isn’t about Eucharistic theology. He isn’t theorizing about why we do Eucharist in remembrance of Jesus (though we do!). Paul’s point is about love and justice or rather its lack. He challenges the Corinthians’ indifference to the unconditional and universal care for all within the life of the community.

Looking again at the biblical context at Paul’s immediately succeeding words (words that the lectionary framers must have considered too harsh to be read in the polite company of the Christian community gathered for Eucharist!), we see the seriousness, the severity of his challenge to the Corinthians and to us: “All who eat and drink without discerning the body, eat and drink judgment against themselves.”[2]

One meaning of “discerning the body” is to see that the Eucharistic bread is the body, the real presence of Jesus through which he provides us with a physical means for our spiritual consumption of his very nature. Yet I believe that Paul wants us to see the holy presence, the sacred body of Jesus not only in the bread, but also in the gathered community, which is the body of Christ.[3]

Look around you. Behold the body of Jesus in us. Behold the body of Jesus is us.

Therefore, this Maundy Thursday and every time we gather, three things I pray…

That we see Jesus in us…

That we see in the bread and wine spiritual food that we partake to strengthen our souls and spirits to love one another…

That, in that strength, we leave this place to seek, to see, and to love Jesus in every person we meet.

 

Footnotes:

[1] See 1 Corinthians 11.17-22

[2] 1 Corinthians 11.29 (italics added)

[3] See 1 Corinthians 12.27: Now you are the body of Christ and individually members of it.

a-Lenten-prayer-a-day, day 38, Maundy Thursday, April 13, 2017

Note: As a personal, spiritual discipline, I write a prayer for each of the forty days of Lent; each petition focusing on a theme, truly, relating to a care or concern weighing on my mind and heart, at times, vexing my soul and spirit…

On Maundy[1] Thursday: O Jesus, on this day, recalling Your words, “My flesh is true food and My blood is true drink,”[2] I reverence Your institution of Your Supper, the Sacrament of the sacrifice of Your Body and Blood. As I partake of Your precious gift of Your Self, by Your Spirit, renew in me Your promise that “Those who eat My flesh and drink My Blood abide in Me, and I in them.”[3] Amen.

 

Illustration: The Last Supper (La Céne) (1886-1894), James Tissot (1836-1902)

Footnotes:

[1] This day in Holy Week, in some Christian locales and practices, is called Holy Thursday. The word “maundy” is derived from the Latin mandatum; the first word of the phrase, Mandatum novum do vobis ut diligatis invicem sicut dilexi vos, “A new commandment I give unto you: That you love one another; as I have loved you, that you also love one another” (John 13.34); that statement by which Jesus explained the significance of washing the feet of his disciples. “Maundy”, also drawn from the Latin mandare, meaning “to command”, references Jesus institution or establishment of the Lord’s Supper, saying, “Do this in remembrance of Me” (Luke 22.19; 1 Corinthians 11.24, 25).

[2] John 6.55

[3] John 6.56

a-Lenten-prayer-a-day, day 37, Wednesday in Holy Week, April 12, 2017

Note: As a personal, spiritual discipline, I write a prayer for each of the forty days of Lent; each petition focusing on a theme, truly, relating to a care or concern weighing on my mind and heart, at times, vexing my soul and spirit…

On dying & death in the spirit of Saint Thérèse of Lisieux (subtitle: I believe):[1] O Lord, I believe in mortality…

Daily, I examine the progression of life in this world and, e’en when peering through a lens of light and joy, there is, undeniably, “change and decay in all around I see.”[2]

And, daily, I experience the inexorable procession of mine aging; the “change and decay” in me of slower thought and shorter memory, sinew less supple and strength swifter spent.

Yea, so it is I believe that this life in this world is an inherently terminal proposition, and, one day, I know that I will die.

Yet, O Lord, I believe also (and more!) in You. I believe that You have not brought me this far to leave me.[3] I believe that on my dying day, as I have known what is temporal and spatial, physical and perishable, I forever finally fully will know what is spiritual and eternal.[4]

O Lord, by Your Spirit, grant me greater faith that, on my goin’ up yonder[5] day, I, with gratitude undying, fail not to fear not coming to You to behold You by sight face to face. Amen.

Footnotes:

[1]  Saint Thérèse of Lisieux (1873-1897), Roman Catholic Carmelite nun revered for the simplicity and practicality of her approach to the spiritual life, on her deathbed was heard to have murmured, “I am not dying. I am entering into life.”

[2] From one of my favorite hymns, Abide with me, by Henry Francis Lyte (1793-1847). The full text of verse 2:

Swift to its close ebbs out life’s little day;

Earth’s joys grow dim; its glories pass away;

Change and decay in all around I see;

O Thou who changest not, abide with me.

[3] From the gospel song, I Don’t Feel No Ways Tired (1978) by Curtis Burrell:

I don’t feel no ways tired,

I come too far from where I started from.

Nobody told me that the road would be easy,

I don’t believe He brought me this far to leave me.

[4] This prayer is born out of my understanding of two of the Apostle Paul’s teachings: For we know that if the earthly tent we live in is destroyed, we have a building from God, a house not made with hands, eternal in the heavens…For while we are still in this tent, we groan under our burden, because we wish not to be unclothed but to be further clothed, so that what is mortal may be swallowed up by life. He who has prepared us for this very thing is God, who has given us the Spirit as a guarantee (2 Corinthians 5.1, 4-5) and Flesh and blood cannot inherit the kingdom of God, nor does the perishable inherit the imperishable…For this perishable body must put on imperishability, and this mortal body must put on immortality. When this perishable body puts on imperishability, and this mortal body puts on immortality, then the saying that is written will be fulfilled, “Death has been swallowed up in victory” (1 Corinthians 15.50b, 53-54).

[5] My reference to the gospel song Goin’ Up Yonder (1994) by Walter Hawkins, especially the words: As God gives me grace I’ll run this race until I see my Savior face to face. I’m goin’ up yonder to be with my Lord.

a-Lenten-prayer-a-day, day 36, Tuesday in Holy Week, April 11, 2017

Note: As a personal, spiritual discipline, I write a prayer for each of the forty days of Lent; each petition focusing on a theme, truly, relating to a care or concern weighing on my mind and heart, at times, vexing my soul and spirit…

On a day’s reflection on the restlessness of yesterday’s early morn: O Lord, I feel afresh my frailty. I, whether joined with others or alone, do not have the wealth of strength or sense or substance to serve all of my sisters and brothers, whether near or far, in great and grave need. Yet I remember the words of Your Son, my Savior Jesus, “You always have the poor with you and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish.”[1]

O Lord, through Your Spirit, alway pour Your Love into my heart[2] that I have kindness for those who suffer and that I may be kind, doing whatever I can with whatever resources I have at whatever occasion arises for whomever is in need.

By Your same Spirit, O Lord, lead me and guide me to believe and to trust in You that You, with whatever I offer, great or small, all of which You first have given to me, will bring good fruit.[3] Amen.

Footnotes:

[1] Mark 14.7. To view and interpret this saying in its context (see Mark 14.1-9), this was Jesus’ response to those who were angry at what they considered the waste of costly ointment with which a woman had anointed him. They had professed a desire to have sold it and the money given to the poor. Jesus prophetically perceived that he had been anointed for his burial following his soon coming crucifixion and death. In his recognition and acceptance of his destiny (see the full verse [my emphasis]: “You always have the poor with you and you can show kindness to them whenever you wish; but you will not always have me”), he graciously received the gift of the woman’s kindness.

Here, as I employ and pray this Jesus-saying, I recall that over generations some have interpreted this verse to suggest that as the poor always are present nothing need be done to help them insofar as poverty is an insuperable condition of life in this world. I, rather, believe that the ever-presence of sisters and brothers who are poor and the systems and institutions of avarice that create and maintain economic imbalances constitute a constant call to render sacrificial service to, for, and with those in need. To put this another way and succinctly, the “whenever” to show kindness is always!

[2] See Romans 5.1-5 (my emphases): Therefore, since we are justified by faith, we have peace with God through our Lord Jesus Christ, through whom we have obtained access to this grace in which we stand; and we boast in our hope of sharing the glory of God. And not only that, but we also boast in our sufferings, knowing that suffering produces endurance, and endurance produces character, and character produces hope, and hope does not disappoint us, because God’s love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us.

Concerning “sufferings”, the Apostle Paul most likely refers, specifically, to the trials he endured in his life’s vocation of spreading the gospel and, generally, to the tribulations common to any human life. Regarding the latter, I include the sympathy one can have for another undergoing suffering.

[3] Here, I think of the spiritual and material principle that undergirds the Apostle Paul’s teaching about the primacy (or rather its lack, for only God is supreme!) of those who seek to do God’s will and work: I planted, Apollos watered, but God gave the growth. So neither the one who plants nor the one who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth (1 Corinthians 3.6-7).

I also am put in mind of John the evangelist’s version of the feeding of the 5000 (6.1-14), particularly verses 5-11 (my emphasis), which bears a detail the other evangelists, Matthew, Mark, and Luke do not: When (Jesus) looked up and saw a large crowd coming towards him, Jesus said to Philip, “Where are we to buy bread for these people to eat?” He said this to test him, for he himself knew what he was going to do. Philip answered him, “Six months’ wages would not buy enough bread for each of them to get a little.” One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish. But what are they among so many people?” Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was a great deal of grass in the place; so they sat down, about five thousand in all. Then Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted.

In the face of manifold need, I often feel (indeed, I am!) like that boy; my provisions and resources of self and substance being woefully meager. Yet, by my faith in God, I trust that God, Who has given me whatever I have to offer, will use whatever I have to offer.

a-Lenten-prayer-a-day, day 35, Monday in Holy Week, April 10, 2017

Note: As a personal, spiritual discipline, I write a prayer for each of the forty days of Lent; each petition focusing on a theme, truly, relating to a care or concern weighing on my mind and heart, at times, vexing my soul and spirit…

On the restlessness of early morn: O Lord, I awoke in this morning’s wee hours upon my bed of ease with its firm mattress and clean, crisp sheets soothing the mild infirmities of mine aging flesh (did You, O Lord, stir me from my serene and sheltered rest?).

Rising, I felt led (by You, O Lord?) to the window, and I, further bidden (again, by You, O Lord?), looked up into Your sky, alit by Your distant vapor-veiled moon and, farther still, Your winking stars.

And I wondered (did You, O Lord, disturb my mind with this thought, and this morn not for the first time nor, I believe, for the last?) about the eyes of others, my sisters and my brothers of the human family in which You birthed me to share, who also gazed into Your infinite space; though, not with the liberty I enjoy, but without choice, for they had no other place to be, but out-of-doors, in open-air…

Those who are homeless, fending for themselves on dim-lit streets and darkened alleys, lacking sufficient means, some, perhaps, too, no longer sound of mind so to inhabit abodes on avenues with names and numbered addresses called their own…

Those who are refugees, by ruthless powers and principalities heedless of human kindness, forced, bomb-strafed, from their homes to set off across unforgiving terrain toward unfamiliar lands praying for uncertain asylum…

Those who are abused, in fear fleeing olden lovers, who, through terrifying transfigurations, transmogrifications have become habitual transgressors of all sense and safety and any sanctity of self…

Those, in the fresh innocence of their youth, held captive, cruelly coerced to barter their bodies to favor lustful hearts and hands…

Those addicted with stung, needle-marked flesh, lolling brows and listless bodies…

O Lord, I wish, I pray none of this was true; that these situations were but ephemeral images, fragments of dreams, nightmares from which all might awaken, though, yes, shivering and soul-shaken, yet physically sheltered from all harm.

Alas, all, and more, is true, and, as true, my heart is not, cannot be tranquil.[1]

O Lord, I beseech You, tell me what to do? What do I do? What can I do? Amen.

Footnote:

[1] Here, I have in mind Ephesians 5.15-16: Be careful then how you live, not as unwise people but as wise, making the most of the time, because the days are evil. Though the writer’s primary point, as I interpret it, is an admonition to those who follow Christ to reject the ways of their former lives, the crux of the word “the days are evil” strikes a resonant chord in my heart; for so much (and more) of what I behold, as I capture in this prayer, is, for me, the personification of evil; all that denies and defies God.

we were there

a sermon, based on John 18.1-19.42, preached with the people of Epiphany Episcopal Church, Laurens, SC, on Good Friday, March 25, 2016

Paraphrasing the African American spiritual, if we had been there when they crucified our Lord, what would we have done? Speaking always, only for myself, I would have been disheartened by the blind jealousy of those who sent Jesus to Pilate, foolishly rejecting one who only sought to do good. And disturbed by the violence of the crowd, who with a mindless mob mentality, cried, “Crucify him!” And dismayed that the crowd, given an opportunity to release Jesus, demanded the freedom of Barabbas, an insurrectionist, choosing a terrorist over a peacemaker. And disgusted by the cruelty of soldiers who scorned and scourged Jesus, perhaps offering in their defense that empty, evasive excuse that they merely carried out their orders. And disillusioned by the disciples’ cowardice, forsaking Jesus in his greatest, gravest hour of need.

Yet, in my disheartenment, disturbance, dismay, disgust, disillusionment, I am secure in my moral superiority only for a moment before I hear again that haunting question: Were we there when they crucified our Lord?

Not physically, but existentially and spiritually, thus no less truly. For those who were there were people, thus, in our shared humanity, like us in every respect and we like them.

John’s passion narrative, then, is a mirror in which we can (that is, we are able to) behold the reflection of all human-experienced and human-administered suffering. John’s passion narrative also is a mirror in which we (and here I employ a word I utter infrequently and carefully because of its manifestly great moral freight and weight) must (that is, we need to) behold the reflection of all human-experienced and human-administered suffering…

And this reflection is true for all we have seen and do see – whether in Oklahoma City, on 9/11, and in Ferguson, Missouri, Paris and Brussels, Nigeria, Jerusalem and the West Bank, Beirut, Syria, and Turkey, Afghanistan and Iraq – for the places of human-administered suffering have been endless and the peoples who have experienced it, countless…

And this reflection is true for all we will see. For as human history never has known a time of universal comity, of world peace, but rather testifies to the human proclivity for violence, whether rooted in political or religious, philosophical or theological ideology or wrought by the sudden, though perhaps long-simmering outburst of anyone, at any time and in any place, in possession of gun, so, I believe, we never will know a time of collective tranquility…

As this is so, this reflection via the mirror of John’s passion narrative becomes a lens through which we can and must look back two millennia to that land called “Holy” on that day called Friday and confess if we had been there, the result would be the same. Jesus would be crucified. Jesus would die. For this, we can and must tremble in sorrow.

Yet as this is Good Friday, let us, standing at the cross of Jesus, also tremble in anticipation of a new possibility…

For there in Jesus, who willingly submitted to his death for us, we behold the possibility that we might choose to die, to crucify all that is within us that makes for death – as those who sent Jesus to Pilate, our jealousies, as the crowd, our thoughtless violence in word and deed and our favoring retaliation over reconciliation, as the soldiers, our acts of cruelty, as the disciples, our cowardice in the face of trial.

Were we there when they crucified our Lord? Yes. Yet if we dare see in the cross of Jesus not only the terrible instrument of human brutality, but also an anticipatory sign of our new possibility, then we, not only in sorrow, but also in joy, might sing:

Sometimes it causes us to tremble, tremble, tremble.

We were there when they crucified our Lord.

Photograph: High altar, Episcopal Church of the Epiphany, Laurens, SC, on Good Friday, March 25, 2016

The Lord’s Supper

a sermon, based on 1 Corinthians 11.23-26, preached with the people of Epiphany Episcopal Church, Laurens, SC, on Maundy Thursday, March 24, 2016

On Maundy Thursday, we commemorate Jesus’ institution of Eucharist. Let us reflect on what Eucharist is, guided by the Apostle Paul who reminds the Corinthian Christians and us of one thing expressed three ways.

First, Eucharist is the Lord’s Supper. Not the Corinthians. Not ours. As Paul says, “I received from the Lord what I handed on to you.” Jesus is host. We are guests invited to dine. So, the words of the hymn: “Come, risen Lord, and deign to be our guest. Nay, let us be Thy guests, the feast is Thine.”[1]

Second, Eucharist is the Lord’s Supper. We come to the altar in response to His invitation: “Do this in remembrance of me.” Remembrance, from the Greek, ‘anamnesis; meaning more than mere mental recollection, but existential commemoration through which we join Jesus in the past and bring the past into our present. Again, the hymn: “We meet, as in that upper room they met.”

Still more, Eucharist is an act of celebration in which we join Jesus as he offers his body and blood, his life to us in offering ourselves one to another. Once again, the hymn: “One with each other, Lord, for one in Thee.”

Third, Eucharist is the Lord’s Supper. “For as often as you eat this bread and drink the cup,” Paul declares, “you proclaim the Lord’s death until He comes.”

 

Jesus, committed to his mission of unconditional love and justice for all, willingly faced death at the hands of powers and principalities that sought to maintain privilege for the few. Every time we eat the bread and drink the cup, we proclaim our intention to follow Jesus being as he is, doing as he does, living, willing to die, metaphorically understood, forsaking ourselves, doing something for the sake of love and justice for all.

Eucharist is the Lord’s Supper. We feast on the life of Jesus that we may become what, nay who we eat. In that spirit, let us pray:

One with each other, Lord, for one in Thee,

who art one Savior and one living Head;

then open Thou our eyes, that we may see;

be known to us in breaking of the Bread.

 

Illustrations: Christ with the Host, Pablo da San Leocadio, c 16^th century; The Last Supper, Leonardo da Vinci (1494-1499), the Convent of Santa Maria delle Grazie, Milan; Crucifixion, Nikolai Nikolaevich Ge, 1894

Footnote:

[1] Words: George Wallace Briggs (1875-1959); my emphases