John 13:1-17, 31b-35
If today was your last day on earth, how would you want to spend it? If you knew, without a doubt, that you were about to die a sudden death, what would you want to do?
Most people, most of the time, think of the loved ones they would want to spend the day with. Some people think of a specific place they would want to be; their childhood home, their favorite restaurant, a beautiful city they always wanted to visit. Culturally, we have this idea of the bucket list, the to do list for the end of life. Some people keep their bucket list simple: see their grandchildren graduate from college; walk their daughter down the aisle; finish their memoirs. Others lean into the grandiose: skydiving, hiking a high mountain, meeting their favorite celebrity. I have had the honor of walking with many people through the twilight of life, and I can tell you that what Jesus chose to do with his final hours of life and freedom is both entirely human and utterly unexpected.
Jesus, on his final night, chose to pray. He chose to gather with his closest friends and confidantes and share a meal with them. He chose to surprise them with an act of service and care, overwhelming them with his love one last time. He chose to eat good food and share wine with his loved ones, in a private place where they could enjoy one another’s company without the endless needs of the world seeping in to disrupt the moment.
Jesus and his disciples spent most of their time on the move, walking from place to place with nothing but the clothes on their backs. They likely slept on the ground and on the floors of kind strangers’ homes. Everywhere they went, they were surrounded by crowds of people who wanted to question them or be healed by them. Occasionally, those crowds became violent and tried to cast them out. Always, the crowds wanted something from them. But on this final night, in a city that was on the verge of destroying them, Jesus gathered his friends close and took them somewhere quiet, away from prying eyes and outstretched hands. He took this brief time, not to cram in another miracle or a few dozen more healings, but to be present with the people who knew him best and loved him most. When we relinquish the drive to impress, to accomplish, to cross more things off our bucket list, wisdom reveals this as the deepest desire of our hearts, the way most all of us would want to spend our final precious moments on earth if given the choice. The gift of presence, of real closeness without the distractions that so often keep us distant from each other, is sacred and rare. It is the gift Jesus chose to give his loved ones, and how he chose to fortify himself for what came next.
But the gift does not stop with the disciples. What Jesus gave on his final night, that precious last dinner with his friends, is a gift for us also. The broken bread, the shared cup, the crowded table. This gift of closeness, of presence, continues to be given to us every time we repeat the words of Jesus on that night long ago. This is my body, given for you. This is my blood, for you and for many. Every time we gather around the table, every time the bread is blessed and broken, we live for a few moments outside of time, both now and then. We are at the same table, in that same upper room, on that same night before the cross.
There is a word in Greek, anamnesis, which refers to a remembrance that is more than simple memory. In the context of theology, anamnesis is the difference between reenacting and remembering, the difference between a symbol and a transcendent reality. The eucharist, the Lord’s Supper, Holy Communion is anamnesis, the remembering of Christ’s presence in our midst. It is more than simply recalling the events of the past; we are in that moment reliving them. In re-membering, in putting back together the members of the body, we are returning to the moment before Christ’s body was broken, and at the same time experiencing a glimpse of the future moment when we, Christ’s body in many members, will all be made whole again. We are in our bodies experiencing something impossible, something true. Jesus was born, he died, he is risen, he will come again. All of those realities coexist in the moment we receive the bread and drink the wine, shoulders brushing against the other members of our body as we kneel or stand side by side at the rail.
This is what Jesus chose to do with his last night on earth. He chose to be with us, entirely and without distraction or disruption. He chose to place his body in the midst of our bodies, to share the cup with us and to submit to being broken so that we might know what it is to be truly whole. And now, for this brief moment, we choose to remember, to receive that gift offered once for all in an upper room on the other side of the world. Taste and see, receive and know. Christ is here with us. Do this in remembrance of him.
Mother A Writes 