The Upper Room

{Holy Thursday, Maundy Thursday, the night before…Since Lent began, I have been writing about “room(s).” Today, that one upstairs, where Jesus broke bread with his true family for the last time.}

Tonight I will lead a service of Holy Communion at a local Presbyterian Church. We will gather in small groups around a table in the front of the sanctuary, and I will say what we call “The Words of Institution,” words from scripture in which the Apostle Paul “instituted” or initiated the way we remember that night when Jesus headed from table to betrayal.

Though we think of this night as a kind of reenactment of the Last Supper, it is nowhere near that. We cannot pretend we know the hearts of Jesus and disciples as they reclined at table for the meal. Some churches do try to make this night into quite the production number, perhaps serving a copy of the Passover Meal to worshippers gathered at tables, with explanations of the various traditional elements of the meal, and then engaging in the ritual of footwashing, followed by the sharing of the Sacrament. Maybe they will then sing a hymn as the disciples did as the meal ends and people go home to TV. But liturgy is not “play acting.” Please, I intend no judgment here. My point is that there is no way to capture the true drama of that evening in the upper room, then in the garden, and then into the darkest of nights.

The church we where we usually worship has gathered folk in the fellowship hall on Maundy Thursday evening, around the tables normally used for church luncheons and dinners. In the context of a worship service there, the people serve one another bread and cups of “the fruit of the vine” (our nomenclature for the grape juice we use in place of wine), and with the reading of scripture passages, candles are eventually extinguished until the room is darkened. And the direction is that we leave the hall in silence. Of course, some folks can’t help themselves, and chat on the way home…to TV.

I do like that model. Even more meaningful, though not practical for such a large group, would be to have the meal in the church’s “upper room.” A couple of weeks ago in this series, I wrote of “tower rooms” and our church has one. It would be cramped, but certainly a special place, set apart, and carefully prepared for this special night. I can only imagine it, however: candle light, a table set with dinnerware, hunks of bread (no, not unleavened…no need to be that fundamental), and vessels of wine, real rich, red wine…with Welches for those for whom wine would be a serious problem. But here I am, making it into a period drama. No, it’s to be a simple act of remembrance.

And what is it that we are remembering? An upper room? Last meal? Disciples wholly and holy converted into family? The special and very careful arrangements Jesus made for the use of this upstairs room? Feet being washed and servant love being taught by example? Judas’ early exit? No. Indeed the question is put wrong. It should be “Who is it we are remembering? Jesus. “Whenever you do this, remember me.” Or, as Eugene Peterson’s paraphrase has it: “This bread…eat it in my memory.”

So, this Sacrament, whether called “Holy Communion” or “Eucharist” or “The Lord’s Supper,” is a meal (simple as it is with mere bits and sips!) of remembrance, and yes, like the Jewish Passover. (By the way, John’s Gospel has this farewell meal on the eve of Passover, not on Passover night itself. But that Jesus was betrayed and arrested and killed during the Jewish feast of liberation is of great significance theologically. So significant that I never should have placed that sentence within parentheses. Sorry.)

I quote my dear friend and colleague the late Lamar Williamson here, a summary paragraph from his Interpretation commentary on Mark’s Gospel.

Nothing is haphazard about Jesus’ death nor about the meal he shares with his disciples in preparation for it. All occurs by divine appointment, coupled with careful and conscious preparation by the participants. The principle still holds true: Time and place must be prepared if this established ritual is to serve effectively as a point of intersection with ultimate reality.

Lamar Williamson, “Interpretation,” John Knox Press

Tonight then, the sanctuary where I am guest worship leader is arranged for tables up front (Presbyterians do not have altars), liturgy carefully chosen, choir and organ music rehearsed, bread and grape juice ready for serving– and we shall remember Jesus. We will not think casually about that night so long ago. We will retell the story of that supper, partake of the “elements” (such a strange word for bread and cup), and pause ever so briefly in silence to meditate on our own place at his Table. Our own place in his story, and his life in us.

And for the rest of our stories in this life, we shall commit ourselves to follow his commandment to love one another, so that people will know we are his disciples, his family still. Dirty feet and all.

 

My Place at the Table – Part Two

{Yesterday I wrote about the tables at which my family gathered for meals and special times. I began with my childhood family and then moved to the family Joan and I have nurtured. Today, I write of two more family tables, these within the family of faith.}

“Do This in Remembrance of Me.” Those are the words carved into the communion tables of many of the churches I’ve served. Or, they are embroidered on the “table cloths” placed under the bread and wine. Remembering Jesus and his friends and disciples gathered in an upstairs room, a farewell meal of Passover symbols and final instructions — that is what we call to mind on the Thursday of Holy Week. And what we recall every time we break the bread and drink from the “Cup of the New Covenant.” Some faith communities follow a weekly ritual of remembrance. Others far less often. Traditions vary.

Wine or juice? White bread cut into cute little cubes, or a variety of breads torn into more than bite-sized pieces? Eat the bread and drink from the chalice, or tiny plastic cups? Or dip the bread into the fruit of the vine? Another choice in pandemic years is a pre-packaged portable plastic vessel with a bread-like wafer accessible by tearing off the protective top layer…and then another unwrapping ritual to get to the sweet “juice.” It’s so very hard to hear the words, “The Body of Christ, the Cup of Salvation” without smirking, or swearing at the inaccessible wafer that has little or no resemblance to bread. Apparently, though, it’s safer than having the communion elements exposed to dangerous droplets. (Frankly, I’d rather bring my own bag lunch of bread and wine to church and consume that, even if the elements haven’t quite been properly introduced by the “Words of Institution.” The good news is that in our church, we’re back to the “real thing.”)

Lest I become lost in the theological discussions of the “real presence” or consubstantiation or symbolism, I write today of the table. In the Reformed tradition, most of us refer to the furniture on which the chalice and bread rest as the Communion Table (no caps necessary, I guess). Other traditions have altars. Maybe it’s because I grew up with tables, but I like that appellation. It is a simple reminder that Jesus and his followers gathered at a table for a meal. Some artwork has the group sitting in chairs, but they could have been sitting (half reclining) at a low table. The scriptural accounts speak of Jesus and his disciples, and we assume there were reservations for a party of 13. Men. But once again, I protest. If it were a truly “last supper,” and Jesus’ friends suspected it, we can imagine a larger group of women and men, people who had sat at his feet taking in his teachings, some who had been healed of an infirmity, others who had developed a devotion or deep affection for the itinerate rabbi.

Talk about a big table! On what some of us refer to as “World Communion Sunday,” the first sabbath day in October, when at first the Presbyterians (back in 1933) and later many other denominations schedule the Sacrament. The day is meant to unite Christians of many stripes in celebrating the Lord’s Supper on the same day. When I happen to preach on that day, I have referred to the symbol of the world’s biggest table, with all gathered ’round to remember that night when Jesus said goodbye, was betrayed, arrested, and carried off to court. And to the cross.

I’ve recounted these two “table” stories before, but now seems a good time to repeat them.

Shortly after my arrival in Vermont to serve as a solo pastor in a rural church, a beloved long-time member named Marion died. While I hadn’t known her long, everyone agreed that one of her admired gifts was her hospitality. So, at her memorial service there was a wonderful display in the narthex with symbols of a welcoming and bountiful table. Her husband Albert contacted me soon after and asked what he might do for the church to keep Marion’s memory alive. Knowing Albert’s love of wood (carpenters would understand that), and knowing that what the church had been using for a communion table was almost too small to hold the chalice, bread, and communion trays, I suggested that Albert might build a new table.

The Lord’s Table Crafted by Albert Urie at the East Craftsbury Presbyterian Church, Craftsbury, VT

He carefully chose the wood from his own farm property, lovingly designed the table, and proceeded to apply his talents. He called me up to his house to show me what he had so far. It was as lovely a table as I have ever seen. He wondered if he might add a design to one side, but he had been taught that simpler was better. When he showed me his design, some trees, hills, and three crosses I told him that he should go ahead. The other side can be the simple side, but this side tells a story. He added that scene and the table still graces the front of the church.

My next church was in a village in the Finger Lakes Region of New York. When I arrived I found that the communion table was actually a large rectangular box, with a portable lectern placed on it for preaching. The good news was that I liked the idea of leading worship and delivering the sermon from the table. We speak of Word and Sacrament being at the heart of our worship. But the size of the “table,” enclosed on all four sides, gave the appearance of the world’s most bloated pulpit, a speaker’s platform fit for Yankee Stadium. I knew enough to keep my mouth liturgically shut, however…until the church’s Bicentennial Celebration when the sanctuary was to receive a facelift. Fresh paint, some new colors, a new floor, and lighting in the long-darkened dome overhead. When discussion turned to the chancel area, I broadly hinted that a new pulpit and table would be an attractive addition to the focus of the room.

The Pulpit and Table at First Presbyterian Church of Ulysses, Trumansburg, NY (Ulysses is the town, btw)

One talented carpenter in the congregation found a pulpit design that incorporated the Presbyterian Church USA seal or logo. It was perfect. The new table was just the opposite of the old one. No bulk, but a simple Shaker design, beautifully crafted. It wasn’t necessarily a communion table; it was a common table, the kind a family would gather around and at which they would share a common meal.

Our supper on this Maundy Thursday isn’t a Passover Meal, nor a typical church pass-the-dish dinner. Just bread. And wine (or a reasonable facsimile thereof). We remember the Bread of Life, and that we are alive in the bloodline of Jesus, whose words that night we recall as we gather. Jesus, whose humility led him to serve others, to speak words of eternal life, and whose heart beats today within the body of his followers.

To consider: do you remember a service of Holy Communion that was especially a spiritual feast, a gathering that fed you for a lifetime? If not, keep getting together with a family of faith somewhere until the Spirit prompts you to remember Jesus through the breaking bread and sharing the Cup of Salvation. Be patient.