The Reverend Seth Ethan Carey
March 2, 2008
First Congregational Church,
www.firstconge.org
630-469-3096
Introduction to the
Scripture:
This passage from the Gospel of Luke needs little introduction. It is appropriate to read it on a communion Sunday, because this story is the origin of our communion ritual. It is the tale of the Last Supper, a legend immortalized in images and words. It is the final night of Jesus’ life. He spends it around a table, in the company of friends. It’s no secret that Jesus enjoyed a good meal, particularly when he was sharing it with others.
How else would you imagine he would spend his last night
on earth?
Scripture: Luke 22:14-30
When the hour came, he took his place at the table, and
the apostles with him. He said to them,
‘I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover with you before I suffer; for I
tell you, I will never eat it again until it is fulfilled in the kingdom of God.’ Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks
he said, ‘Take this and divide it among yourselves; for I tell you that from
now on I will not drink of the fruit of the vine until the kingdom of God
comes.’ Then he took a loaf of bread,
and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is
my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.’ And he did the same with the cup after
supper, saying, ‘This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my
blood. But see, the one who betrays me
is with me, and his hand is on the table. For the Son of Man is going as it has
been determined, but woe to that one by whom he is betrayed!’ Then they began to ask one another which one
of them it could be who would do this.
A dispute also arose among them as to which one of them
was to be regarded as the greatest. But
he said to them, ‘The kings of the Gentiles lord it over them; and those in
authority over them are called benefactors.
But not so with you; rather the greatest among you must become like the
youngest, and the leader like one who serves.
For who is greater, the one who is at the table or the one who
serves? Is it not the one at the table? But I am among you as one who serves.
Sermon:
I’d like to share a story
with you. It is a recent story, and yet it echoes from a distant era of human
history. It is a story of honor and glory, a recollection of unimaginable
treachery and unsurpassed valor. It is a memory of Medieval Times®.
Yes, I am referring to a chain
of theme restaurants that bear that distinguished name. By a show of hands, how
many of you have eaten at Medieval Times®? It’s alright; there’s no
need to be ashamed.
Last fall, I finally decided
to fulfill my long held dream and purchase tickets for a magical evening there.
The experience doesn’t come cheap, but it’s worth every cent. The great feast
is held in an arena-style hall, with long wooden tables stretched out before
the stadium-seating in regal fashion. The arena floor churns with a mysterious
fog, and multi-colored lights glide along the walls, creating an atmosphere
reminiscent of an Iron Maiden
concert. The evening would progress much like one, too, with a great deal of
cheering and fists being thrown up in the air with gusto. My fiancée and I took
our seats at the majestic table and the show began with a booming voice that I
will never forget—
“Welcome to Medieval Times.”
That voice belonged to the
captain of the King’s royal guard, who would play a role in the epic saga that
unfolded before us, a tale to rival the best and worst that the World Wrestling
Federation has to offer. I don’t recall the details, but it involved a
tournament between a handful of knights, and a treacherous mutiny by the
captain of the royal guard. The knight we were supposed to be cheering for—the
Yellow Knight—was knocked out in the first round of the tournament. Imagine my
elation when he charged out into the arena in the final act like a man come
back from the dead, bravely defeating the evil captain and saving the kingdom
from certain doom. My heart swelled with pride.
The best part of this heroic
extravaganza, I have to say, was the food. I watched the drama before me with a
goblet raised high and a crust of bread in my hand, my mouth filled with savory
chicken that spilled onto the table as I cheered loudly for the Yellow Knight.
It was delicious. It was, I
think, one of the greatest meals of my life.
***
Another great meal in
history—perhaps the greatest—was the last supper of Jesus and his disciples. It
wasn’t the menu that made it so memorable, but rather the significance of the
event itself. For this was no ordinary
meal. It was the last time Jesus would sit down at the table with his closest
friends. It was the last time he would enjoy the taste of bread. For in the
dread hours to come, he would taste nothing but blood.
It was on the Passover, in
the dim candlelight of that mythic room that Jesus took a crust of bread—and
after giving thanks, he gave it to his friends, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”
We don’t know what they talked about while they ate. Maybe no one said
anything at all. When they had taken their fill, Jesus raised a cup and toasted
to their good health: “This cup that is
poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood.” These words are
familiar to many of us. They are the words that we say whenever we gather
around the table that is laid out before you this morning. These are the words
that we hear as we come to the table, together.
The scriptures place a great
deal of emphasis on the act of sitting down at a table with our friends and
enemies alike. It’s not a coincidence that Jesus—knowing full well that Judas
Iscariot would betray him—nonetheless shares his final meal with him.
Jesus also tells the twelve
disciples—including Judas—“You are those
who have stood by me in my trials; and I confer on you, just as my Father has
conferred on me, a kingdom, so that you might eat and drink at my table in my
kingdom.” This seems to be a reference to the ancient belief in a messianic
banquet, a feast of celebration that will be held in Heaven at the end of time.
Judaic tradition teaches that a great battle will one day take place between
the immortal sea-demon Leviathan and the mighty monster they called Behemoth, a
clash that will end in their mutual destruction. It is further held that both
of them will be thoroughly salted and served as the main course at the
messianic banquet.
These awful manifestations of
fear and terror will be consumed, as all of humanity gathers in celebration
around a single table—together. No matter what we feast upon, there’s something
sacred about putting aside our differences and eating at the same table—either
in this world, or the next.
***
When you’re growing up,
however, the real issue on the table has little to do with who’s sitting at it.
The real issue is whether or not you’re going to finish your vegetables. When
you’re a kid, doesn’t it often seem as though adults harbor a strange obsession
with the wasting of food? If you lose interest in your vegetables, they’ll
start to get nervous. They’ll probably say something to the effect of, “Don’t
you like your lima beans?” And the moment you try to slide some of those lima
beans into the trash, normal dinnertime conversation will turn into an
impassioned plea for justice on behalf of the starving children in Ethiopia. I
think we’ve all heard speeches from our parents about the evils of wasting a
perfectly good pile of mashed potatoes.
Nobody―nobody takes wasting food as seriously
as the esteemed faculty of St. Joseph’s, where I attended school as a child. In
their eyes, throwing away food is a cardinal sin, right up there with adultery
and murder, an affront against man and God. Though shalt not steal. Thou shalt
not kill. Thou shalt not throw away a half-eaten bag of potato chips. In the
first grade, I tossed out an unfinished ham sandwich. When Sister Irene found
it in the trash, she extracted a confession and then forced me to eat it in
front of the class.
The faculty’s determination
to teach us the value of food reached its climax, I believe, in the tragic Milk
Inquisition of 1987. You see, every day at lunch, we were furnished with a
small carton of milk. That year the faculty had discovered that some of the
students weren’t drinking all of it, opting instead to leave a little pooled at
the bottom of the carton in a most wasteful fashion. Thus began the
Inquisition. Cartons were rounded up after lunchtime like suspects. Each of
them was carefully searched. If so much as a single carton was discovered to
contain a little milk, an interrogation would commence to determine the
culprit. Classes were suspended for the rest of the day as we were forced to
sit with our heads down until someone broke down and confessed. Those found
guilty were quietly led out of the classroom, crying over their spilled milk,
ushered towards an unknown fate.
In time, these dairy raids
became so frequent that I stopped doing my homework for the classes following
lunch, since they were usually cancelled on account of the controversy. I
didn’t learn much that year, but I did drink a lot of milk. And milk does a
body good; but man does not live on milk alone. What the administration of St.
Joseph’s failed to realize, I think, is that there is more than one way to
waste a meal. I clearly recall yet another fear tactic of the faculty, this one
designed to make us eat our lunch in absolute silence. Our desks had been
arranged to face one another in small clusters, creating a sort of round-table
effect. This was conducive to a pleasant lunchtime conversation with our peers.
Even during lunchtime, talking was discouraged. In an effort to purchase our
silence, our teachers promised us a small piece of candy for every boy and girl
who remained silent during the entire lunch period. If even one of us said a
word, the rest of the class would pay the price, and get nothing.
I immediately recognized this
for a cheap gimmick, and would have preferred some good conversation with my
friends to a piece of candy anyway. To my dismay, the rest of the class fell
for it hook line and sinker. Every day they would try to be quiet, try to get
that candy. Attempts to engage them in dialogue were met with cold stares.
Inevitably, someone would murmur
something to a friend, and the sick game would be lost. No candy. I’m not sure
if there ever was any candy to begin with. Regardless, the class heaped their
scorn upon the one who cost them their sugary prize. In the end, the tactics
worked. Not only did it put an end to conversation at lunchtime. It also divided
us. We sat at the same table, but we didn’t speak. We dared not even look at
each other, for fear of the consequences. Like Judas, we sold our best friends
for a piece of candy.
Now that, my friends, is a wasted meal.
***
Holy Communion is a sacred ritual.
But while the elements on the table
are important, it’s the people gathered around
the table that make this ritual so holy. Jesus was known for sitting down to
eat with tax collectors and prostitutes, saints and sinners alike. It didn’t
matter how good the food tasted. It didn’t matter if someone didn’t clear his
plate. The only thing that mattered
was that they were sharing a moment together, in community—in communion.
Over time, people have had a
lot of different ideas about what Holy Communion is. Some believe that the
bread and wine become Christ’s body and blood. Others believe that Jesus is
spiritually present in the elements. In the United Church of Christ, we believe
that Jesus is present at the table,
alongside us, sharing in the same meal that he ate so long ago. We believe that
the table that stands before us is symbolic of a far larger table, where saints
of ages past and sinners yet to be born are gathered—with us, with Christ, and
with one another.
Next month, we will be
hosting guest clergy from the Lutheran and Presbyterian traditions, and we will
be celebrating communion in the Lutheran fashion. By gathering our brothers and
sisters in Christ together at the table, we demonstrate our commitment to
unity. For in the United Church of Christ, we believe that the true essence of
communion lies in the hearts of those who gather around the table. That’s why
no one is ever turned away. It would be a waste, not of food, but of
fellowship. That’s also why communion is served by one person to another. That
relationship guarantees that we never eat alone. For as Jesus said, “Where two or three are gathered in my name,
I will be there with them.”
***
We’ve all had unpleasant
meals in our lives. Whether it was our parents fighting at the dinner table,
whether we were being bullied in the school cafeteria, or whether we decided to
eat at White Castle, those memories will always haunt us.
We also carry memories of
love, companionship, and laughter that revolve around a table. Some of those
memories are our own. Some, like the last supper of Jesus Christ, belong to a
far away time. All of those memories live on in our hearts like legends.
They call us back to the
table, where we shall raise a cup together at last.
Amen.