Remembering, proclaiming, praising
Sermon for Maundy Thursday, year C
Bible reading: 1 Corinthians 11:23-26
This is a night of remembering. Most of us remember this text from 1st Corinthians word for word. It is the earliest account of the Last Supper we have, and we have heard it hundreds of times in the sacred liturgy. It is part of our common memory.
This is a week of remembering for Christians throughout the world, a kind of mental pilgrimage. We recall the irony of Palm Sunday, the ominous last supper of Jesus with his disciples, the agony of his death on Good Friday, and the joy of Easter Sunday. There will be many pilgrims in Jerusalem these days, visiting the sacred sites, including the Cenacle, the traditional site of the Last Supper. Tonight, millions of Christians throughout the world will be revisiting this site if only in imagination and in quiet meditation.
The solemnity of this night perhaps gives rise to some personal memories: perhaps your first communion, or the time you went to the altar full of doubts, participating in a ritual that meant little more than empty repetition. But you were drawn to the offer of grace and your faith was revived. You may recall the last time you communed with a loved one. You may remember lost loved ones most times you kneel; you are united with them in the moment where time and eternity are bridged. You may remember that time when you knelt at the altar with a heavy burden of guilt and shame on your shoulders and you went away with lighter step: forgiven, healed, given new hope.
What were the disciples remembering that night two thousand years ago? The ‘Last Supper’—the expression has an ominous ring! Something is coming to an end, and Jesus’ followers are swamped by a fearful uncertainty. One thing is clear: Jesus is playing right into the hands of the authorities. It’s crisis time.
The disciples are surely remembering how Jesus has hinted at a painful parting from them, when he has spoken of the necessity of his death. Now he eats with them in the framework of the Passover meal, which requires the death of a sacrificial lamb. And as he presides over the meal, one thing becomes clear: he is about to die. My body given for you…my blood shed for you. Remember me.
This dinner is prelude to a death, his death.
St Paul makes the context of our Lord’s words of institution quite clear. He begins by recalling that the meal took place on the night Jesus was betrayed (or handed over by God as in Romans 8:32) and he ends his account by speaking about proclaiming Jesus’ death.
In the words of institution St Paul gives us the sacred memory of the church. He dips into the common liturgical tradition to counter problems in the congregation at Corinth. People are turning the meal of fellowship into a celebration of selfish preferment. They should remember Jesus’ words and actions, and their behaviour will surely change. Why? Because the crucified Lord is present in every repetition of this meal—he is present as Saviour and Judge.
‘Do this in remembrance of me’ doesn’t mean that we are to cast our minds back to the distant past and remember who Jesus was. The Eucharist is not the repeated last rites for a fallen hero. We don’t remember a martyr who died for an ideal. Remembering here is not visualizing the terrible events of Holy Week: betrayal, false accusations, farcical trial, brutal torture, mockery and death.
The wonder of this holy meal is not that it represents the past, but that it re-presents the past. That is, what our Lord gained for us by giving his body and blood in death for us is made a present reality as we eat and drink. Even better, Christ the Son of God, our crucified Saviour is himself present for us.
As we participate in this sacred meal, God is saying to each one of us: I did this for you. This sacrifice is for you. You are not asked to make yourself worthy of the gift. Just take, eat…take, drink. Do nothing more than receive in faith.
Again, our Lord didn’t institute a funeral wake but a continual re-presentation of a joyful celebration of his presence with us. Even tonight, on the Eve of Good Friday, it is still the meal of joy, the eucharistia. It celebrates not only a saving death but an Easter life. That is why we can repeat the cry of the early church, preserved twice in the New Testament, ‘Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus!’
As we remember Jesus we are re-membered into him. We became members of the body of Christ by baptism, as the life-giving Spirit united us with him in his death and resurrection. In the Eucharist, in the mystery in which past, present and future are united, we are again membered with all the saints on earth and in heaven into the one body of Christ, his church. His past, present & future are ours.
Is it too much to suggest that as we eat and drink in remembrance of Jesus, God the Father also remembers him? In this celebration we hold up to the Father the perfect atoning sacrifice of Christ. In faith we claim that sacrifice as ours. The Father did not forget the Son when he cried, My God, why have you forsaken me?
Easter makes that clear. And we are joined to Christ in this meal know he will never forget us. In 100 years time we may be little more than barely recognized photos or names in books and on tombstones. But we remain in the memory of God for eternity.
In his brief postscript to the words of institution, Paul reminds us that our remembering is also a proclaiming. As often as you eat this bread and drink this cup you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.
The very act of receiving the host and the cup can be a mini-sermon that we preach to each other. We commune in the fellowship of faith and confirm each other in that faith—as we do when we confess the Creed—not for the benefit of God (who knows the truth better than we do!) but for each other.
But the apostle means more than individual witness. In the Old Testament remembering God’s mighty deeds in coming to the rescue of his people is much more than recalling the past, especially the exodus from Egypt. Memory leads to praise and thanksgiving. So sacred story becomes sacred song.
That’s why the liturgy is so important. It is much more than some kind of window dressing or setting of the stage for the Lord’s Supper. It is sacred story, sacred interpretation and sacred song. It contextualises the sacrament in time and eternity. It proclaims the truth of what is happening in this meal:
With angels and archangels and all the company of heaven we laud and magnify your holy name evermore praising you and singing, Holy, Holy, Lord God of hosts; heaven and earth are full of your glory…
Faith discerns glory in the one who comes in the name of the Lord; it sees glory even in the broken body and the blood out-poured. This experience of glory as redeeming love is meant to carry us to a fuller vision of God’s glory out in the world. The one whose story we recite, and proclaim is out there in the world of experiences that need to be interpreted. The celebration of the divine story leads to the construction of our own story in which we discern God’s power and presence in all the contradictions of life where hopes are dashed, dreams frustrated, where injustice seems to triumph over justice.
The experience of divine glory through bread and wine preserves for us the larger vision of Jesus’ return in glory. So we pray, Come, Lord Jesus. Come to us in this sacred meal. Come to us in all the mundane details of our daily life. Come to us in our death. Come to our world at the end to finish your work. We remember you. Lord, remember us, now and for eternity.