A Bigger Story

Mark 14:22-26

February 14, 2016 • Mount Pleasant UMC

In case you missed it, today is Valentine’s Day—which means, as Tom Clayton reminded me last week, that tomorrow chocolate goes on sale for half off! Long lost are the real origins of Valentine’s Day, originally known as the Feast of St. Valentine. In fact, the origins are so lost that no one knows anymore which person named Valentine this day was meant to commemorate. The most popular story is of a priest in Rome, who lived sometime before the 5th century, who was known for performing weddings for soldiers who were forbidden to marry as well as for ministering to Christians during a time of intense persecution of the church. He was arrested and jailed by the Roman Empire, and during that time, the legend says, he healed the daughter of his jailer. Before his execution, he wrote her a letter and signed it, “Your Valentine.” Now, whether all of that is true or not is up for debate, but just think about the way we celebrate Valentine’s Day today. Hearts, candy, sappy songs and cards, all to commemorate a man who reached out to those who were being persecuted and paid for such kindness and love with his life. St. Valentine was a martyr in the spirit and image of Jesus Christ.

So perhaps it’s appropriate that we begin our Lenten series today, “24 Hours That Changed the World.” This 40-day season of the year, which began last Wednesday, is meant to help us prepare for Easter by reflecting on the life and death of this one who came and loved all, who reached out to those in need and who, for that, was murdered in one of the most brutal ways possible in that or any other day. Valentine’s Day comes and goes each year, usually without having much impact, but the 24 hours we’re going to be studying, on Sunday mornings and in small groups, has an impact that has never been equalled. Twenty-four hours, from sundown on Thursday to sundown Friday—it was a day like no other. Of course, we remember this day because of what happened to Jesus on it, but the events of that day, in some ways, are not particularly unique. People ate meals every day, and they ate Passover meals every year. People sometimes prayed late into the night. And crucifixions were common enough in that part of the world, as were burials. No, it’s not that the events of that day had never happened before; it’s what Christians have believed those events mean that makes that day the most unique and world-changing day in all the history of the world. A lot of times, honestly, we rush through that day and only a few of us give it attention on Maundy Thursday and Good Friday. We hurry past the events of those 24 hours in order to get to Easter, and yet without this day, Easter doesn’t make a lot of sense. So my hope, as we enter into this series of sermons and studies, is not just that you get some new information about Jesus’ death and resurrection, though I do hope that happens. To help you with the information part, there is a sort of clock face in your bulletin this morning, on the back of the sermon outline, in which you’re invited to follow along and fill in the details of that day, these 24 hours that changed the world. So tuck this in your Bible and bring it back with you as we walk through this day for the next six weeks. But more than just information, my prayer is that, this year, as we walk with Jesus through those last hours of his earthly life, you will fall more deeply in love with Jesus than ever before, and maybe even some of you for the first time will be able to accept what he did to save us from our sins. These days could be a turning point for some of you, much more than any flowers or box of candy you might receive today, because these twenty-four hours we’re going to be exploring truly are hours that changed the world—for you, for me, for all humanity.

And because the Jewish day begins at sundown, we’re starting our journey with Thursday evening, with dinner. Being United Methodist, I believe every event should begin with dinner. I have a dear friend of mine who one time asked me, “Can you Methodists do anything without eating?” And I said, “Why, yes, we can, but why would we?” If Jesus spent so much time around the table, I believe we should too; it’s responsible discipleship! Anyway…the dinner we’re beginning with this morning is no ordinary meal. Though there is some debate among scholars, most agree that this final meal Jesus shared with his disciples was a Passover meal, one of the great Jewish festivals which everyone hoped, at least once in their life, to celebrate in Jerusalem. In fact, the modern ritual for the Passover meal ends with the words, “Next year in Jerusalem!” (Rosen, Christ in the Passover, pg. 87). But Passover is more than merely a meal eaten in a religious context. Passover is a celebration of freedom.

For the Jews, there is no more defining moment than Passover, a celebration that goes all the way back to the Exodus. You may remember the story, or have seen the movie, about how Moses was called by God to be the deliverer. The Hebrew people had become slaves in Egypt, working as builders for the Pharaoh. And when life became too hard, the Bible says the people cried out. Now, if you pay close attention to the text, it only says they cried out. It doesn’t say they cried out to God. They just “cried out” (2:23) and even though they didn’t direct their cry to anyone in particular, God heard them and responded by sending Moses. We don’t have time this morning to go into the particulars of the story, but suffice it to say that Pharaoh wasn’t too excited about letting his workforce just walk out of the country. He refused, several times, and so God sent a series of plagues on the land—flies, gnats, locusts, water turned to blood, that sort of stuff that makes for really good special effects in the movies. And each time, Pharaoh refuses to let them go. So finally, God unleashes one last plague, and promises that after that, Pharaoh will drive the people out completely (11:1). This plague is the worst of all—it’s the death of the firstborn. In every family, in every household, including Pharaoh’s, the firstborn would die. But God gives the Hebrews a way out. They must take the blood of a lamb and paint it on their doorposts, and God tells them, “The blood will be a sign for you on the houses where you are, and when I see the blood, I will pass over you. No destructive plague will touch you when I strike Egypt” (Exodus 12:13). Then they were told to remember this night in an annual meal, an annual festival, which came to be known as Passover because the angel of death “passed over” the people and spared their firstborn.

Now, celebrating Passover is not just a remembrance of the people’s history. They don’t just remember or retell the story. When the Jews in each generation, even down to today, celebrate Passover, they’re not just remembering that long ago in the past, God set a bunch of slaves free. No, Passover is a celebration of what God did for me, not just for them, because when a Jew celebrates Passover, they understand themselves as being or becoming part of what God did back then (Garland, NIV Application Commentary: Mark, pg. 534). God set me free, just as much as God set my ancestors free. For the Jewish people, Passover is a defining moment. It’s a story that defines and shapes who they are. Let’s listen to a modern rabbi talk about the meaning of Passover for Jews (and for Christians) today.

VIDEO: Rabbi Nemitoff 1

And so, that last night Jesus was with his disciples, they gathered in an upper room for a Passover meal. This night was so full of ritual, and everyone in that room had been through this before. They knew the ritual, they knew the process, they knew what was coming next before it was even spoken. One critical part of that night was the way they sat—or, actually, reclined. You didn’t sit at the table on Passover because in ancient tradition, it was only free people who could recline or relax at dinner. Now, we’re accustomed to thinking of the Last Supper in DaVinci terms, where everyone is sitting on one side of the table (you know, so they can take the picture), but in reality, they would have gathered around a low table with pillows at each spot. This picture was taken several years ago at the New Holy Land in Eureka Springs, Arkansas, and it’s a fairly accurate depiction or recreation of what scholars believe the Last Supper might have looked like. Now, Christopher is not laying correctly; instead, a person at the table would have propped themselves up on their elbow and leaned near the table like this. So you can see how John would have been able to lean and ask Jesus a question, which is what happens in John’s account of this story. When you recline at dinner, you’re declaring your freedom (Rosen 72) because only free people can recline.

So the disciples are at Passover, and all their lives, they have been defined by this meal. No matter what power might have been occupying their country from year to year, this meal was a way of saying that political power ultimately did not have their allegiance. They were free people. This meal defined them, and Jesus, of course, knows that. That’s why he chooses this meal to redefine them. In the midst of the meal, Jesus takes a piece of bread—flatbread, without yeast, which was used according to the ancient instructions—and he broke it. Then he says, “This is my body,” as he passes it to them. That was not part of the script (Hamilton, 24 Hours That Changed the World, pg. 23). Jesus is making changes to the order, to the ritual which these disciples knew by heart. What must this change have done to them? Well, think about how you react when you’re expecting things to go one way and they go in another. It’s striking, startling, jarring. What is Jesus doing? “This is my body,” he says, which is a first century way of saying, “This is myself.” This bread represents me, all that I am and all that I have come to give you. Isn’t it striking that Jesus infuses that meaning into something as ordinary as bread? Bread is just about as common a meal item as anything. There is almost always some form of bread at any given meal. These disciples would never again come to a meal where there is bread without thinking about this last night they were together with Jesus. Bread would forever trigger their memories of this night (Garland 526-527). Bread would define them.

The next thing that happens is even more jarring; we’ve toned it down in our minds because we’re so used to it. But notice how Mark, which is probably the earliest of the Gospels written, tells the story. It’s not the order we’re used to. Jesus takes the cup, gives thanks, passes it among the disciples, watches silently as they all drink from the cup, then and only then does he tell them what it means: “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many” (14:24). I cannot tell you how shocking that would have been to first-century Jewish ears. “This is my blood”? Every Jewish schoolchild knew you didn’t drink blood. Genesis 9:4 says, “You must not eat meat that has its lifeblood still in it.” The law of Moses forbade the consumption of blood, and any animal that was killed “had to be drained of all blood before being eaten” (Garland 528). Now, put yourself in the seats of those gathered around that table—good Jewish men who had tried the best they could to follow the rules. They’ve drank the wine and now Jesus announces that it is his blood. Don’t you think they started to get just a little queasy, a little upset? Don’t you think they might have felt Jesus was pulling a little prank on them? What did he mean?

Well, remember, this is a Passover meal. And in the Passover, the blood of the animal who had died meant salvation, rescue from death. It was when the blood was put on the doorposts that the people inside were safe. They were people who had been marked by the blood of a lamb. And they didn’t understand it that night, but Jesus is putting himself in the place of the lamb. He is the lamb of God, the one whose life will be sacrificed so that others might live. In just a few hours, he will be killed, and though these men, gathered around this table this night, don’t have any idea yet what that will mean (they don’t even believe it will happen quite yet), this night, this meal will come to define them in ways they can’t even begin to imagine. Just as the Passover defined the Hebrew people as free people, this Last Supper defines Christian people as those who have been set free from sin and death and hopelessness. And, just like Passover for the Jews, when we come to the communion table, we do more than just remember a meal 2,000 years in the past. We affirm, when we take the bread and the cup, that what Jesus did then can somehow save us now. We affirm that we are part of a bigger story.

And that bigger story ought to be what defines us, which is why we’re spending so much time on it this Lent. And this morning, we’re going to celebrate communion together so that we can remember and celebrate all that this table means. I know we just had communion last week, but it seemed rather silly to not take communion when we’re talking about the last supper. So as we think about how this meal defines us, or how it should define us, I want to share a bit of my own journey and experience with this meal. When I was growing up, at my home church, communion Sundays were probably the least attended Sundays in the year. I don’t have firm data to back that up; it’s merely my perception and memory. But I know why that was. Our pastor, who is a great guy and whom I love a lot, routinely preached his way past the time for the service to be over, and then would say, “Now we’re going to have communion.” So the reason so many people stayed home on those Sundays is because the service would always run long. All over Clinton County, roasts would burn on those days. As a kid, though, I remember the thrill of being able to come forward, kneel and be served communion. I remember being included; in fact, I don’t ever remember not being included in communion. In fact, I remember being surprised when I learned from other friends later that they weren’t allowed to receive communion in their tradition until they joined the church or reached a certain age. As a child, I was always welcome. I was always included.

When I went to Ball State, I spent the first several weeks visiting various churches that were within walking distance of the campus, and I noticed that every week, whichever one I was visiting was having communion that day. Now, it may have been that God was trying to tell me something, but I do know that it was during those weeks when I realized how important communion had become to me. In this time of change, in the middle of this first time away from home, I found something familiar (except among my Lutheran brothers and sisters who surprised this small town boy with wine instead of grape juice). No matter what else had changed in my life and in my circumstances, communion remained the same. The format may have been different, the serving style may have changed from place to place, but communion was the same. The story was the same, and it was my story. I was part of that bigger story. It was in those days that communion began to define who I am. I am someone for whom Christ offered his life, and I am someone whom Jesus cared enough about to take common, ordinary elements and give them enough meaning so that they constantly remind me who I am.

There was one other time when this truth came slamming home to me. It was after worship one Sunday and we were putting lunch on the table at home. Christopher was probably about 3 years old; Rachel wasn’t born yet. And I came into the dining room and saw that Christopher had gotten into the loaf of bread and was busy tearing up a slice of bread. A bit frustrated, I asked him, “What are you doing?” And he picked up a piece of bread, handed it to me and said, “This is the body of Christ.” Even at three years old, when he couldn’t possibly have understood what it all meant, Christopher got it. The story was already defining who he is, and that’s one of the reasons I love the fact that our table is open to anyone who loves Christ or who wants to love him. The disciples certainly didn’t have it all together, no more than I did as a child, no more than Christopher did at age 3. And yet, the story defines us. This story is bigger than we are.

Sometimes, I think, when it comes to communion, we examine our watches more than we examine our hearts. We worry more about whether or not we’ll get out of the service on time than we do whether or not this meal is shaping who we are. This is our story. This is our defining moment. Do we let this story shape our lives? Do we hear this story remind us that we are welcome, that we are loved beyond measure, that we are friends of Jesus? Or do we walk away from the table unchanged, untouched, with simply a taste of bread and juice on our tongue? There is nothing magical in the bread or in the cup; it’s only when the story to get into our hearts that we become who and what Jesus intended when he said, “This is my body…this is my blood.”

Now, I’m not naive enough to think that the story gets in our hearts and shapes our lives just by what we hear on Sunday morning. So I want to challenge you this week to commit for the next seven weeks to being involved in a LifeGroup, a smaller community of people where you can learn and grow and share life together, where you can in surprising ways allow this story of Jesus’ last 24 hours to shape you. There are new groups just forming this week, and don’t think if you can’t make every single week that you can’t be involved. Come as much as you can. And also don’t think that you have to know it all before you come. The underlying assumption of all of our LifeGroups is that none of us know it all, and we can learn and grow as we encounter the story of the Bible together, and as we care for and pray for each other, doing life together. This is your chance to find your story and allow your life to be shaped by God’s story.

You know, it’s true that we mark many, if not most, significant family events with a meal. A meal binds a family together, draws together a group of friends, seals relationships among colleagues. Such a meal not only feeds our bodies, it strengthens our souls (Wright, Mark for Everyone, pg. 193). And what is true in our families and among our friends is even more true in our Christian family. The twenty-four hours that changed the world began with a meal. And this meal, this bread and cup we are about to partake of, shapes us and is one of the most significant things we do. And while it should not be entered into lightly, it must be approached joyfully. This is a celebration: we were once slaves, but now we are free—free from sin, free from fear, free from death, free to serve Christ. This is who we are, and this meal defines not only our present but all of our future. This morning, as we prepare our hearts to come to this table, may we be shaped forever by the bread and the cup—the bigger story—and the Savior who offers them.