Baruch attah adonai elohenu melech ha-olam. Blessed are you, Lord our God, ruler of eternity. Amen.
* * *
A very long time ago,
a man and his friends sat down at a table for dinner.
They had been through a lot together, these friends.
They had given up a lot to be together—more than they knew.
They ate together most nights
and because it was the celebration of the Passover,
of course they would meet again
—nothing was out of the ordinary.
Something was coming—they all felt it—
but they didn’t know what.
The men and women around the table talked and joked
with the comfort of brothers and sisters.
They ate slowly,
savoring the plates of lamb, eggs, bitter herbs,
and unleavened bread they passed.
They drank wine and delighted in one another’s company.
And at the same time, even longer ago,
the people called the Israelites sat down for dinner.
In Egypt, in slavery.
They had been through a lot together already, these people.
They had given up a lot
—and had had a lot taken from them to be together—
more than they knew.
They ate together most nights, but this night was special.
They ate with their shoes and hats on,
their walking sticks in their hands,
their luggage packed for a journey.
They ate quickly,
pausing only to pray to God for mercy.
They barely tasted the bread and wine and bitter herbs.
And they ate in both fear and excitement.
And at the same time, far in the future,
a group of brothers and sisters sat down at a table for dinner.
They had been through a lot together, these brothers and sisters.
They had given up a lot to be together—more than they knew.
They didn’t eat together very often any more, not as a whole group
at least not in one another’s houses.
But they did meet every week
to pass a plate of bread and a cup of wine.
They loved one another deeply
and yet didn’t quite know what to do about it
in the vast and changed world.
They talked and joked with the intimacy of family
and remembered all the times they’d eaten together,
every meal for 2,000 years.
They knew something was coming,
they knew what it was
—had heard the story, too, for 2,000 years—
yet they didn’t understand it, didn’t really know their part.
They ate, loving one another, loving God,
loving what they thought they knew.
* * *
The man and his friends, a very long time ago,
were about to depart:
the man would depart this life and he grieved to think about it;
his friends would depart from each other and from him,
running away in fear and grief.
Only Judas would have the courage of his convictions
and only the women would return.
The man knew that this departure, this ending
would also be a beginning
And he knew that beginning would not make the end less painful
His friends knew something was ending
Maybe they thought the rule of the Roman oppressors was ending
Maybe they thought their poverty and directionlessness were ending
They didn’t know that this would be their last dinner together
That this was the last meal of a condemned man
That this last supper would feed them in the wilderness
And at the same time, that people called the Israelites, even longer ago,
Were about to depart:
They would depart from Egypt and the slavery they had endured
They would depart from the life they had known,
oppressive as it had been
and embark on a long journey into the wilderness
but before they left, they covered their doorposts with blood
marking their homes
so that the angel of death would pass over them
they killed the lamb, and ate it in fear and joy
grieving the loss of their old life,
ready to leave for a new life
terrified by what was happening outside their doors
this people had a leader, a man named Moses
Moses knew that this departure, this ending
Would also be a beginning
And he knew he would not survive this new story
He knew this beginning would not make the ending less painful
And at the same time, far in the future,
The brothers and sisters gathered here were about to depart
They didn’t know it
They thought their weekly meal was comfort and beauty and joy
And it was
But it was also the last supper before the storm
They would eat hastily, knowing something was coming
They would pray to God to pass them over
Marking their foreheads with ash
And their hearts with regret
These brothers and sisters are the ekklesia, the church
the gathering of people
the people, literally, “called out” of our normal lives.
We are that beloved community
we will depart from the empire,
from mammon,
from the way we’ve always done things
we are always on the move, always at an ending and a beginning
our weekly supper of bread and wine
will be food for the journey
our love for one another will sustain us in the wilderness
* * *
This [gesture to table] is the end, brothers and sisters.
We will eat our meal together hastily,
our shoes on our feet and our walking sticks in our hands,
our luggage packed
For we have been called to witness to the world
We have been called to an ending
We will depart from this place like the Apostles—the ones Jesus sent out
We will leave the expectations of the world like the Israelites left Egypt
We will travel in circles where our calling is foolish
Where we will look ridiculous
for insisting on love and compassion
Where we will be insulted and misunderstood
Where we will be desperately hungry for more than bread
Every time we eat this meal together,
We remember every other time we have eaten together for 4,000 years
And every time we eat this meal together,
God is present with us
Jesus returns
God is with us on this journey
We are not alone
Yet, for now, it seems God has abandoned us
We cannot see or feel God
We feel battered and bruised
By the Story we enact this week
By its contradictions and problems
The light is departing this world
Jesus, our brother,
Is betrayed into the hands of us poor sinners.