Just a Gift

Sunday, July 13th, 2003
Jerusalem Baptist Church, Emmerton, VA
Mark 14:17-31

Steve accepted the gift of a brass and copper rooster I'd brought him with grace and an introspective, quiet air. Holding the small wall hanging, he asked, “Did you know the rooster is a traditional representation of Peter? It was used by the early church as a reminder to all of us that, at some point in our lives, we are guilty of betraying Christ.”

My first reaction was “Gee, Steve, it's just a PRESENT!” but I was taken aback by the comment, struck by it's truth, and surprised at the simplicity and directness of the symbolism. It had turned a passing act in a friendship into a searing moment in memory, reminding me of just how likely I was to betray our Lord.

In the passage, Jesus has just uttered a conversation stopper. He has gathered his disciples in the upper room, and is sharing the Passover meal with them. He knows it is probably his last night to be with them, and he knows, with more clarity and certainty than anyone else in the room, what the next hours will mean to him and to them.

It is at the beginning of the meal, he shocks them all by telling them that one of those who is sitting around the table with him, who is dipping his bread into the same bowl with him, will betray him. That act, the dipping into the same bowl, would not be something unusual. In Biblical, as well as modern-day Palestine, it is part of the tradition that everyone share from the same, central bowl at the table. The identification of the betrayer as someone who is dipping his bread into “the same bowl” was as much an indictment of all as of one of those who were gathered that evening. Their reactions are predictable. After all, they’ve been following him around for the last 3 years, watching him heal, preach, and teach. Each in turn responds, “Surely, not I?” There seems to be an assumption on their part that things would continue the way they had been going all along.

We do that as well, don’t we? We get into the automated mode, occupying ourselves with the regular, predictable, expected, and less-obtrusive aspects of living out our Christian Walk … we have our regularly scheduled meetings, our appointments, our gatherings, with the same people, reviewing the same issues, arriving fort the most part, to the same conclusions, and find ourselves slipping into autopilot. It is when we are confronted with the unexpected that we are made aware of our hidden weakness.

It really doesn't take any effort at all, does it? We’ve all had those moments, the ones we’d rather forget. The harsh word to an innocent child, the disengagement from someone who obviously, desperately, needs us to become Christ to them, to reach out with a helping, caring hand, and feed, or clothe, or just listen to them, or an action, taken in direct opposition to what Paul called “that which I want to do”, that tears at the very essence of Christ in us, and betrays him to a world that may only have that single, fleeting chance to see him through us. We’ve all had those times when we knew, as soon as the moment was passed, that we’d been Peter, and we can almost hear the echo of the cock’s crow dying in our ears.

It is utter darkness, to be confronted with one's weakest self.

But the story doesn’t end with Jesus telling them that one of them will betray him. Neither, for that matter, does the meal.

In the Gospel of Mark, it is AFTER this darkest moment, AFTER Christ has acknowledged the betrayer in their midst, and despite that, that he picks up the loaf of bread, blesses it, breaks it, and passes it to his disciples, "Take; this is my body" and follows that with the cup, saying "This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many”. Mark seems to be pointing out the proactive nature of God’s grace. Before Peter has denied him, Jesus offers him the wine and the bread. Christ’s invitation precedes our sin. He knows our weaknesses, he understands that we will fail, yet he still extends the invitation to remain with him at the table, to join him and to eat of the bread, drink from the cup, to share in the coming of his Kingdom. In Luke’s account of the last supper (22:32), We find Jesus telling Peter that after he has turned back, he will go on to strengthen his brother’s faith with his own. Jesus not only knew that Peter would deny him, but that he would also become the pilar of the early church that we read of today.

This week in Vacation Bible School, the theme has been Jesus, our greatest treasure. In the last session before the closing on Friday, the question was posed: if Jesus is OUR greatest treasure, what treasure can we bring Jesus?

The answer, of course, is the treasure of our lives; our hearts, minds, and souls.

We have an opportunity to respond in kind.

Peter’s vehement statement to Jesus that “Even though I must die with you, I will not deny you” proved to be hollow in the short term, but just look at what Peter did after he turned back. It was through the power of the resurrection that Peter’s denial and Christ’s forgiveness and acceptance of him on the shore of the sea of Galilee that Peter became the anointed missionary and evangelist, who brought thousands to join the church that we read of in Acts. Tradition has it that Peter ultimately DID die for Christ.

The disciples did not know on Thursday night that Sunday was coming. We here have the unspeakable grace of knowing what happened. We stand on this side of the resurrection, and can claim all the joy that comes from that.

The Jewish understanding of remembrance is different from the Greek, and western understanding. Remembrance in western tradition is a more superficial event. It is strictly recalling a memory, an intellectual exercise. In Jewish tradition, the event is in a sense, relived. Christ is calling us to relive the moment. We’ve been revealed as capable of betraying him, and yet we are still welcomed at the table, because ultimately, Christ knows our best selves as well as our worst. Christ calls us to communion with him and to remember that, in spite of what we know we are capable of, his grace, his sacrifice, his love, has covered it all.

That copper and brass wall hanging was just a gift, but with a few words, the gift had been transformed into a treasure, perhaps for the recipient, but most certainly for me.

It is in those few words that this ordinance becomes a treasure. We gather to proclaim Christ’s sacrifice. His broken body, his shed blood. There is little to rejoice in for that. Jesus’ pain and suffering should have been our own. Yet he willingly took it on himself, and bore our punishment, and offers to us his eternal life. We are reliving that evening. We’ve been revealed, unmasked, and at the same time invited. We are still guests at the table, and it is truly cause for joy to come to the table and accept the invitation to the feast. There is still a solemnity to it in that, if we accept the invitation, we are invited to follow Christ – to carry his yoke. To suffer his passion, his COMpassion, to live as he lived, to love as he loved, and to give as he gave – fully and completely – our lives to God.