Here’s a parable: a man is convicted of a criminal act. But before he is sentenced to life in prison, the governing authorities issue a pardon. This convicted criminal is permitted to live in society like a law-abiding citizen. How do you think he’ll be treated? Probably few people will accept him -- children will be told to stay away from him; employers won’t hire him; banks won’t give him a loan; landlords will refuse him as a tenant. He’ll most likely be the butt of jokes, jokes that cut him down as inferior, jokes that ring with self-righteous pride.
Finally, in desperation, the man finds a home among a small community of women, men, and children who take him in because they, like him, are convicted criminals. They, like him, have received the pardon of grace. It’s the present pardon that gives them unity, not the sin of the past. It’s the grace of forgiveness that makes them one, not the successes or failures of other times.
In a sense, that’s a picture of the church of Jesus Christ. Each person has been convicted of sin, yet each lives in the grace of God’s pardoning love. What good would a pardon be if each of us were forced to live in isolation at the edges of communities that rejected us, joked about us, and refused to let us in?
To be pardoned and yet to be alone would be the worst of all punishments God could inflict on us. Instead God has created a new humanity, a society of the forgiven who no longer see each other with the scarlet letter of adultery, or the neon sign of pride, or the sticky fingers of materialism, or the bloody hands of murder. Each person is welcome, not because he or she is a sinner in a club of rogues, but because each has received the kiss of forgiveness from the great Governor of the Universe.
It’s an amazing theme to sing. Our participation in the present humanity of this world drives us often toward distinctions, separations, bigotry, and racism -- even in the church. This is why a meal table has always been at the center of biblical faith. The Old Testament reminds us that Israel’s initial journey from slavery to freedom began at the Passover table. And in the New Testament, the core expression of life in the church is the communion table. Jesus wed these two tables together in his own final feast with his disciples -- a Passover celebration that turned into the ever-remembered Lord’s Supper.
Maundy Thursday worship continues to bring these together in holy unity. This is why we repeat Jesus’ words tonight: “I have given you a new commandment, that you love one another.”
Exodus 12:1-4 (5-10) 11-14
When Moses makes his first dramatic appearance back in Egypt, the Pharaoh’s initial reaction is disdain; why should he listen to the apocalyptic ravings of a wilderness wild man, even if he seems unusually aware of Egyptian language and protocol?
At this point the famous plagues enter the story. While these miracles of divine judgment make for a great Hollywood screenplay, the reason for this extended weird display of divine power is not always apparent to those of us who live in very different cultural contexts, especially when it is interspersed with notes that the Pharaoh’s heart was hardened, sometimes, in fact, seemingly as an act of Yahweh. Could not Yahweh have provided a less destructive and deadly exit strategy for Israel?
The plagues begin to make sense when they are viewed in reference to Egypt’s climate and culture. After the initial sparring between Moses and the Pharaoh’s sorcerers (Exodus 7:10-13) with snakes to show magical skills, the stakes are raised far beyond human ability merely to manipulate the natural order. First the waters are turned to blood; then the marshes send out a massive, unwelcome pilgrimage of frogs; next the dust is beat into gnats, soon to be followed by even peskier flies; subsequently the livestock get sick from the dust, and this illness then spreads to human life in the form of boils and open sores; penultimately the heavens send down mortar shells of hail, transport in a foreign army of locusts, and then withhold the light of the sun; and finally, in an awful culmination, the firstborn humans and animals across Egypt die suddenly.
Strange. But not quite as much when seen in three successive groupings. Among the many deities worshiped in ancient Egypt, none superseded a triumvirate composed by the Nile, the good earth, and the heavens which were the home of the sun. So it was that the initial plagues of bloody water and frogs both turned the Nile against the Egyptians, and showed the dominance of Yahweh over this critical source of national life.
The ante was then upped when Yahweh took on the farmland of Egypt, one of the great breadbaskets of the world. Instead of producing crops, Moses showed, by way of plagues three through six, how Yahweh could cause these fertile alluvial plains to generate all manner of irritating and deadly pestilence, making it an enemy instead of a friend. Finally, in the third stage of plagues, the heavens themselves became menacing. Rather than providing the sheltering confidence of benign sameness, one day the heavens attacked with the hailstone mortar fire of an unseen enemy. Next these same heavens served as the highway of an invading army of locusts. Then old friend Ra (the sun), the crowning deity of Egyptian religion, simply vanished for three days. The gloom that terrified the Egyptians was no mere fear of darkness but rather the ominous trepidation that their primary deity had been bested by the God of the Israelites.
All of this culminated in the final foray of this cosmic battle, when the link of life between generations and human connectedness with ultimate reality was severed through the killing of Egypt’s firstborn. The Egyptians believed that the firstborn carried the cultural significance of each family and species, so in a sudden and dramatic moment the very chain of life was destroyed. Furthermore, since the Pharaohs themselves were presumed to be deities incarnate, descending directly from the sun by way of firstborn inheritance, cutting this link eviscerated the life-potency of the Egyptian civilization not only for the present but also for the future. It was a true cultural, religious, political, and social knockout punch.
This explains why the plagues originally served not as gory illustration material for modern Sunday school papers, but rather as the divine initiatives in an escalating battle between Yahweh and the Pharaoh of Egypt over claims on the people of Israel. The plagues were a necessary prologue to the Sinai covenant because they displayed and substantiated the sovereignty of Yahweh as suzerain not only over Israel but also over other contenders. Israel belongs to Yahweh both because of historic promises made to Abraham, and also by way of chivalrous combat in which Yahweh won back the prize of lover and human companion from the usurper who had stolen her away from the divine heart. Furthermore, Yahweh accomplished this act without the help of Israel’s own resources (no armies, no resistance movements, no terrorist tactics, no great escape plans), and in a decisive manner that announced the limitations of the Egyptian religious and cultural resources.
This is why the final plague is paired with the institution of the Passover festival (Exodus 12). The annual festival would become an ongoing reminder that Israel was bought back by way of a blood-price redemption, and that the nation owed its very existence to the love and fighting jealousy of its divine champion. In one momentous confrontation, Egypt lost its firstborn and its cultural heritage, while Israel became Yahweh’s firstborn and rightful inheritance.
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
Engaged in a new church plant in Ephesus, Paul received a list of questions from his former congregation in Corinth. Most of 1 Corinthians is a series of answers to these queries, including our passage for today. Paul’s response to questions about worship practices (11:2-33) contains a reflection on the church’s celebration of “the Lord’s Supper,” as it was becoming known. The “differences” within the congregation were not only of the kind where parties became loyal to different leaders (1 Corinthians 1-3), but were also the manifestation of divergent socioeconomic groupings present in Corinthian society. The reason why some who attended these Lord’s Supper gatherings “go ahead without waiting for anybody else” and others “remain hungry” was due to the divergent lifestyle practices of the rich and the poor among them. Wealthy people were able to come and go as they pleased, including showing up to worship services, potluck dinners, and Lord’s Supper celebrations right at the start. The poor and the slaves, however (some likely coming from the same households), were often late to arrive because they had to fulfill their domestic work obligations first. Paul declared that “recognizing the body of the Lord” was necessary if the Lord’s Supper was to be celebrated properly. This did not mean having the capacity to understand an appropriate theological theory of the atonement, or some other such cognitive ability. Instead, it amounted to remembering that all who belong to Jesus are welcome at his table, and none have more rights than others. If this socially and economically diverse group of society was indeed the body of Christ, each must live and act accordingly, making room at the table for all.
John 13:1-17, 31b-35
In his “Farewell Discourse” (John 13-17), Jesus makes clear the meaning of everything. His disciples have been transformed from darkness to light (and thus from death to life) through Jesus’ incorporation of them into fellowship with himself and the Father (chapters 13 and 17). This does not free them immediately from struggles, as seen in Judas’ betrayal and the coming denial of them all. But the connection between the Father and the disciples is secure, because it is initiated by the Father, and will last even when Jesus disappears from them very shortly, because the powerful “Paraclete” will arrive to dispense Jesus’ ongoing presence with them all, wherever they go and in whatever circumstances they find themselves. Of course, that will only trigger further conflicts and confrontations with “the world.” So (and here’s the central element of the discourse), “abide in me!” Either you are with the darkness, or you are with the light. Either you are dead because of the power of the world, or you are alive in me. And, of course, if you “abide in me” you will glow with my light, and the multiplication of the seed sown will take place. Eventually, through you, the light that comes into the world through Jesus will bring light to everyone. It is a picture of the mission of God, promised to Abraham (Genesis 12-17), enacted geographically through Israel, but now become a global movement through Jesus’ disciples who “abide” in him through the power of the “Paraclete.”
Following Mark’s lead, the synoptic gospels clearly identify this final meal that Jesus shared with his disciples as a Passover celebration. Strangely, for all the other symbolism in the fourth gospel, John clearly steers away from that connection here in chapter 13. Why?
The answer appears to have several parts to it. First, John deliberately times the events of Jesus’ final week so that Jesus is tried and sentenced to death on Friday morning (at the same time as the unblemished Passover lambs were being selected), and crucified during the precise hours when the Passover lambs were being slaughtered in the Temple courtyard. In this way John accomplishes a purpose that he indicated at the beginning of his gospel, to portray Jesus as the “Lamb of God” (1:36). Thus it was important for John not to identify the Last Supper as the Passover, since Jesus must die with the lambs who were being slaughtered prior to that meal.
Second, this does not immediately mean that either John or the synoptics are telling the story wrongly. Instead, there were actually several different calendars functioning among the Jews of the day, marking the celebration of the Passover with slight variations. These came into being due either to the chronological ordering of each new day (Roman: sunrise to sunrise; or Jewish: sundown to sundown) or the perceived occasion of the new moon that began the month (adjusted differently by Babylonian and Palestinian rabbis).
Thus Jesus and his disciples probably ate a Passover meal together, as the synoptics identify it, but one which was tied to a different calendar than that used by the bulk of the Jerusalem population. In this way John could leverage the different schedule to communicate a particular emphasis in his portrayal of Jesus’ symbolic identity.
Application
Fred Craddock once flew to Winnipeg, Manitoba, to speak at a church conference. Unfortunately his arrival coincided with the worst snowstorm of the decade. When no one picked him up at the airport, Fred found a taxi willing to brave the whiteouts and drifts in the drive required to get him to his motel. There a message awaited him; he was to call the man who booked him for the conference.
“I’m sorry, Fred,” said the man. “We didn’t count on this blizzard. We’ve had to cancel the conference. In fact, we’re so snowed in here at the church that we can’t even get out there to the motel to pick you up for a meal. You’re on your own.”
The motel was not all that great. It didn’t even have a restaurant. When Fred called the office to find directions to some food place nearby, a woman suggested the coffee shop at the bus depot. It was about a block and a half away. Battling gale-force winds and stinging snow, it still took Fred twenty minutes to stumble over there.
The bus depot was dirty. The coffee shop was worse. Even so, an overflow crowd had taken refuge inside its steamy windows. Everyone seemed to know the plight of those who newly entered, for when Fred saw no seats open kind strangers at a booth shoved over to make space. Soon he was eating a tasteless gray soup.
The door opened again. This time a woman struggled to find her way into the throng. Her lingered entry brought out the man with the greasy apron. “Hey!” he yelled. “Close that door! You’re letting all the cold air in here!”
Like Fred, the woman had to find sanctuary at a table of strangers. When the man with the greasy apron walked over and asked what she wanted, she asked for a glass of water. He returned and asked again: “What do you want?”
“The water will be fine,” she said.
“No,” replied the man. “What do you want to order from the menu?”
“I’m really not hungry,” she answered. “I’ll just stick with the water.”
“Look, lady!” came the response. “We’ve got paying customers waiting! If you’re not going to order anything, you’ll have to get out!”
“Can’t I just stay a few minutes and get warmed up?” she asked.
“No way!” he said. “If you don’t want to order, you’ll have to leave!”
So the woman gathered herself and stood to make an exit. Of course, these two had gotten the attention of everyone in the room. As the woman rose, everyone noticed the men on either side of her pushing back their chairs and standing as well. And the men next to them. In a flash, everyone at that table stood and turned to leave, plates still bulging with food. Something like an electric current buzzed through the room, and all at once everyone else got up and moved toward the door.
The man with the greasy apron was startled. “All right! All right!” he said, motioning everyone to sit again. “She can stay!” He even brought her a bowl of soup.
As Fred turned back to his own bowl of broth he found that it tasted better than he remembered. In fact, it reminded him of something, but he could not quite recall what. He turned to the stranger next to him and asked, “Do you know her?”
“No,” said the man. “Never saw her before. But if she can’t sit here to get warm, I wouldn’t want to stay in a place like this.”
As Fred paused to leave a short while later, it finally dawned on him that what he had been thinking about when the soup gained its taste was the last time he shared the sacrament of communion. Maybe these mixed strangers in search of shelter were only a pack of isolated bodies. But for a moment the spirit of Jesus warmed the air in the room and they breathed in something of the Maundy Thursday command of Jesus: “Love one another.”
Alternative Application
John 13:1-17, 31b-35. In John’s gospel, “light” and “darkness” explain everything. Right up front, in the “prologue” of 1:1-14, John helps us think through life and values and purpose in a stark dualism that is engaged in a tug-of-war for everything and everybody. Throughout the gospel this is fleshed out, including one very interesting Doppelganger comparison (Nicodemus vs. Judas) and a variety of other supporting evidence. Nicodemus will come to Jesus in the darkness of night (chapter 3), only to be serenaded by Jesus’ fine teachings about walking in the light. The blind man of chapter 9 is actually the only one who can truly see, according to Jesus, because all of the sighted people have darkened hearts and eyes. Judas will enter the room of the Last Supper basking in the light of the glory that surrounds Jesus (chapter 13), but when he leaves to do his dastardly deed of betrayal the voice of the narrator ominously intones “and it was night.” Evening falls as Jesus dies (chapter 19), but the floodlights of dawn rise around those who understand the power of his resurrection (chapter 20). Even in the extra story added as chapter 21, the disciples in the nighttime fishing boat are bereft of their netting talents until Jesus shows up at the crack of dawn, tells them where to find a great catch, and is recognized by them in the growing light of day and spiritual insight. Darkness, in the gospel of John, means sin and evil and blindness and the malady of a world trying to make it on its own apart from its Creator. Light, on the other hand, symbolizes the return of life and faith and goodness and health and salvation and hope and the presence of God.
As we enter the darkness of Jesus’ move to the cross in the evening gatherings on this Maundy Thursday, it is important to draw on this symbolic dualism to shape the feel of worship. We cannot fully celebrate the brightness of Easter dawn unless we first experience the weight of darkness that begins to swallow up Jesus, and we with him, this ominous holy night.
