The Last Supper and the Seder

A professor at Cambridge has published a new book in which he argues that Jesus’ Last Supper with his disciples took place on the Wednesday before Easter, not the Thursday, as church tradition has long taught. He bases his arguments on astronomical calculations and an ancient variant calendar that seems to have originated in Egypt, concluding that Jesus held his seder one day earlier than the official Jerusalem calendar would have called for. Books of this sort of scholarly speculation appear fairly regularly. But in this case the secular press, with its typical taste for controversy, has seized on the book as a potential challenge to the observances of Holy Week, and is making hay of it as another example of how churches Get It Wrong.

This is, to my mind, an excellent example of the silliness of trying to take the Bible too literally. The four canonical gospel accounts of the Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday of Jesus' death and resurrection vary in many details. It has long been known that Matthew, Mark, and Luke present the Last Supper as a Passover seder and John does not. There's nothing new there. The Synoptics present it as a seder because they have a thematic and theological interest in showing how Jesus reinterprets the bread and cup of the seder meal to refer to the new covenant in his blood. John famously presents the meal as not a seder -- there is no institution of the Eucharist, no bread and cup at all, in John's Last Supper -- because he has a thematic and theological interest in narrating how Jesus dies on the cross at the very moment the Passover lambs are being slaughtered in the Temple. John's theological interest is not to show that Jesus reinterprets anew the Passover meal, but that Jesus is the new Passover meal (he earlier identified Jesus as the Bread of Life as well). It is directly connected to the verse in John 1:29 where John the Baptist identifies Jesus as the Lamb of God: Jesus as Lamb is a theme that runs through the entire gospel, and reaches its climax at his death on the cross. To John, the identification of Jesus as Lamb is far more important than the repurposing of the seder. The Synoptics, on the other hand, do not have John's theological focus on demonstrating that Jesus is the embodiment of the traditional symbols; to them, it is far more important to show how Jesus redirects the symbols to point to the reign of God rather than the Mosaic covenant. So for them it makes theological sense to stress that Communion is based on the seder, and they narrate accordingly. (It may also be significant that Paul, in 1 Corinthians 11:23-25, the oldest textual account of the institution of the Eucharist, makes no mention of it being a seder.) The point is that the identification of the Supper as seder or not is driven by theological, not historical, concerns. What all four (and Paul) agree on is the central point that Jesus died and was raised at Passover. That is enough.

So for a 21st century metallurgist to say that an Egyptian offshoot calendar can account for how Jesus could have had a seder on Wednesday rather than Thursday, so that all four gospels can be historically accurate, is, to my mind, simply missing the point. It is treating the gospels' carefully crafted theological symbolism with all the nuanced understanding of a baseball bat. I'd rather let the symbols be symbols, and the difference be a difference, and thank God for the richness of meaning in our communion with our Lord.

And don't even get me started on the conundrums hidden in the assumption that the date of Jesus' passion can be assigned confidently to 33 CE!

Monday in the Fifth Week of Lent

As Jesus walked along, he saw a man blind from birth. His disciples asked him, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?" Jesus answered, "Neither this man nor his parents sinned; he was born blind so that God’s works might be revealed in him." (John 9:1-3)

These verses are the beginning of an extended story about the healing of the man born blind, which gradually unfolds from the physical into a story about spiritual blindness and insight. At the very outset, however, there is this little exchange between Jesus and the disciples; it is almost a throwaway line in its context, but it poses an important question all by itself.

The disciples want to know what sin caused the man to be born blind. In their general way of thinking, illness and disability are the result of sin, they are the concrete forms taken by God's punishment for wrongdoing. But this man has been blind from birth. He could not have sinned in the womb, could he? So why then was he punished with blindness? Perhaps he is being punished for his parents' sins. Moses certainly talked about punishment for sin being visited on children and children's children. But then the prophet Ezekiel had changed that, specifically hearing God say that from then on "the life of the parent as well as the life of the child is mine: it is only the person who sins that shall die" (Ezekiel 18:4). So, strictly speaking, it would go against the teachings of the prophets to assume this man was born blind because his parents had sinned. So the disciples are faced with a quandary: If this man's blindness is a punishment for sin, then what sin could possibly have warranted this punishment?

They can't figure this conundrum out. So they ask their teacher, "Rabbi, who sinned? Who's to blame for this man's blindness?"

Jesus' answer to them turns the whole query on its head. Instead of satisfying their curiosity about who to blame, Jesus tells them they are asking the wrong question in the first place. This man's blindness isn't the result of wrongdoing, but instead it is a preparation for glory. They want to know what thing in the past has caused this situation; Jesus tells them that what they should be looking for is what future God will bring from it. Instead of asking "What bad caused this?", Jesus makes the question "What good will God bring out of it?"

How often when we are confronted with disease and disaster are our first questions "What caused this?" and "Who is to blame?" It is as if we expect to find some emotional comfort from being able to assign responsibility, or we think we can control something and keep it from happening again if we can puzzle out the cause. And often that is true: knowing a certain drug causes birth defects, for instance, means we can know not to prescribe that drug, and further suffering can be prevented. But sometimes I think the urge to assign responsibility and figure out blame can become a red herring: we can spend so much energy trying to figure out why a bad thing happened that we become virtually blind to the good things that could and should be done to heal and cure the situation. Too often, I think, we can be like the disciples, asking "Who sinned?", when what God really wants for us is to be asking "What good will God bring forth from this?"

I think it can be a form of spiritual discipline to train our minds to ask the question "What good will God do here?" whenever we are faced with a situation of pain or grief or loss or disaster. Along with the necessary, practical questions about causes and effects, we can ask spiritual questions about purpose, about the end to be served, about the compassion and love and healing that can be revealed even in the worst of situations. And, asking that question, we can also ask "How can we be co-creators with God, to do God's work of revealing love and compassion even here?"

What insight into transforming loss into love will you be open to today?

Thursday in the Fourth Week of Lent

We know that the whole creation has been groaning in labor pains until now; and not only the creation, but we ourselves, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, groan inwardly while we wait for adoption, the redemption of our bodies. (Romans 8:22-23)

Living in the first-century Hellenistic world, Paul had no inkling of the Darwinian theory of evolution, nor of our contemporary scientific view that the universe began in a hot big bang and has been evolving into more complex and interesting forms ever since. But Paul did have something much of the Hellenistic world lacked, something that makes his thought closer to our own: a sense of the future, a sense that the universe is going somewhere, a sense that the universe is bringing forth something new and not just an eternal return of the same cycle of ages and epochs. Some historians suggest that one of the reasons Christianity caught on in the ancient world (along with its practice of radical hospitality) was that it gave people a hope for the future in place of an expectation of unending repetition. Paul says the creation is "groaning in labor pains," and that image of birth, even though it involves struggle and pain, that image of birth implies hope for something new in the world.

And Paul clearly ties that something new to the work of the Spirit. The Spirit, the immanent and active empowering and unifying power of God, is, Paul asserts, involved in the world now in a new way, and  that new way has transformative potential for the whole universe. "We ourselves," Paul says, we followers of Jesus, "have the first fruits of the Spirit" — that is, we have in ourselves the beginnings of transformation in a new relational way of living that can change everything. Because of Jesus, because of the embodiment of divine Word and Wisdom in the human life of Jesus, because of Jesus’ faithful living-out of God’s purposes for him, because of Jesus’ death and resurrection, a new way has been opened up for the Spirit to enter into the very constitution of human life, a new way has been created for human spirit and Holy Spirit to synergize in enacting divine ideals of justice and peace and compassion and love in the very concrete and down-to-earth activities of human life. The Spirit empowers us to share with God the very same kind of relationship that Jesus has with God, so that, like Jesus, we can become agents and instruments of God’s love in the world.

This is not yet a fully accomplished transformation: we have just the “first fruits,” we are still “groaning” inwardly as we await the full new birth. But something new is already happening in us, and we can bring that newness to bear in the work of helping the universe itself in its labor of new birth. Relationships of justice and peace and compassion and love begun among us by the Spirit can and must be extended and enlarged, by the Spirit’s empowerment, to embrace all sorts and conditions of people and places and creatures and environments and ecosystems and even the most fundamental processes by which we exist in the world. We, who have the first fruits of the Spirit, are called to be midwives of the universe in labor to give birth to the New Creation.

That’s all very grand and cosmic — but it’s also very personal. We participate in the New Creation with every moment of our personal experience. When you speak to someone, that is a creative act. When you choose how to respond to someone’s emotions, with compassion or caring or anger or indifference or rejection or patience, that is a creative act. When you open your eyes and look at the scene in front of you, and your brain assembles thousands of nerve impulses into a visual image, and your preconscious mind connects the image to memories of other images and provides an identity and a context for what you’re seeing, and your emotional infrastructure provides feelings and responses and likes and dislikes and flights and fights and attractions and affections for what you’re seeing, and the whole thing comes to your consciousness as a world to be part of — that is a creative act. And the Spirit also enters into that creative act, lifting our perspectives beyond our own immediate horizons, and empowering us to respond with capacities for love beyond what we thought we were capable of. We midwife the New Creation in every moment, and out of those moments we, with the Spirit, build the transformation of personality, and community, and society, and ecology, and everything.

What new bit of the future, what first fruits of the New Creation will you birth today?

Tuesday in the Fourth Week of Lent

I do not understand my own actions. For I do not do what I want, but I do the very thing I hate. For I do not do the good I want, but the evil I do not want is what I do. (Romans 7:15, 19)


In these two verses, Paul captures the very heart of the Christian idea of sin. In its most genuine meaning, sin is more that just breaking the rules, more than just transgressing God's commandments, more than doing things we know we're not "supposed" to do even though we  think they're fun. In its most genuine meaning, sin is the experience of not being able to do the good things we really do want to do. Sin is a kind of fracture within ourselves, an alienation from our own best selves, the inescapable sense that no matter how hard we try we just can't seem to act with the good motives and characteristics and outcomes we truly desire. Sin is not about some high-up, far-off, distant vengeful god watching to catch us when we trip over some arcane rule and punish us for every minor infraction. Sin is about our own bafflement that even our best intentions, even our wisest aspirations, even our most generous impulses, so often go awry, so often fail to live up to the love we mean them to be.


And that means, in turn, that repentance and forgiveness of sin is about more than just God letting us off the hook for the rules we've broken, more than just God deciding not to punish us even though we "deserve" it. The word "forgive" is built on the word "give": forgiveness of sin is an act of giving, a generosity to make up for the failings and inadequacies of our good intentions that miss their mark. God's forgiveness is a gift of wisdom to help us understand our own actions, a gift strength that is greater than our own to do the good we want. The repentance we practice in Lent is much more than beating ourselves up for the bad things we've done, but instead is a discipline of opening ourselves up and preparing to receive the gift of God's forgiveness, the strength and wisdom and love that makes life new.


How will you understand what you do -- and do what you truly want -- today?

Monday in the Fourth Week of Lent

One of his disciples, Andrew, Simon Peter’s brother, said to him, “There is a boy here who has five barley loaves and two fish. But what are they among so many people?” Jesus said, “Make the people sit down.” Now there was a great deal of grass in the place; so they sat down, about five thousand in all. Then Jesus took the loaves, and when he had given thanks, he distributed them to those who were seated; so also the fish, as much as they wanted. (John 6:8-11)


Two thoughts:


First thought: The boy had five loaves of bread, about the size of a modern pita, not the size of a loaf of Wonder Bread, and there were five thousand people there. Offering his five loaves to Jesus to share with the people was a silly thing to do. There was no way it would be enough, no way it would be anywhere near enough. A more sophisticated, more rational, more grown-up person would have known better than to have made the offer. But this naive child doesn't think the matter through; he gives what he has to give, even though it's nowhere near enough; and Jesus, also not limited by conventional rationality, takes it, and blesses it, and makes it enough.


Second thought: The boy had five barley loaves. Barley bread was poor people's bread. It was what you baked when you couldn't get wheat. It was ordinary -- it was less than ordinary. A more sophisticated, more rational, more grown-up person would have known better than to have offered barley bread to someone as important as Jesus, someone who had the public recognition and growing reputation that Jesus had. It's embarrassing. But this naive child doesn't know enough to be embarrassed by the poverty of his gift; he gives what he has to give, even though it's not good enough; and Jesus takes it, and blesses it, and makes it good enough.


Lent is a time for repentance, a time to be aware that we are not all we could be, a time to be mindful of the faults and failings and frailties that hinder and undercut our better aspirations. But we cultivate that mindfulness in Lent not to feel bad about ourselves or beat our breasts for our inadequacy: we cultivate that mindfulness in Lent so that we can open up our inadequacies to the possibility of blessing. Like five barley loaves, too little and too poor, we bring ourselves to Jesus; and Jesus takes us, and blesses us, and makes us more than we could be on our own, makes us enough to do the work of love.


What barley loaves will you offer Jesus for the sake of love today?

Sunday in the Fourth Week of Lent

The Pharisees came and began to argue with Jesus, asking him for a sign from heaven, to test him. And he sighed deeply in his spirit and said, “Why does this generation ask for a sign? Truly I tell you, no sign will be given to this generation.” (Mark 8:11-12)

Why do we ask for signs? For guidance. For reassurance. As markers that we’re on the right path. Signs can come in many forms. Sometimes they are as obvious as voices from heaven. Sometimes they are subtler: a thought, an intuition, a synchronicity, a word from a friend at just the right moment. Sometimes when I  am trying to make a particularly important decision I look for the sign: after all the rational analysis and weighing of pros and cons and careful balancing of factors I wait for the intuitive “click,” or the significant coincidence, or the gut feeling that one option is just right — the suprarational sign of guidance for that moment.

But the Pharisees who come to Jesus are looking for a sign for a different reason. They seek a sign “to test him.” They want proof — irrefutable, incontestable, unquestionable proof — that Jesus is acting on behalf of God. They want something that will make them believe that Jesus is doing what God wants done in the things he does and the precepts he teaches and his (to them) radical notion that devotion to the reign of God made manifest in love of God and love of neighbor is more important than devotion to Torah. They want a sign to make them believe.

There’s just one problem: signs don’t work that way. Signs can’t force belief, but instead function within an already existing system of significant relationship. That’s true not only of religious signs, but of all kinds of signs. These words you’re reading, for instance: they are, on one level, nothing but glowing pixels, nothing but a series of shapes and squiggles against a background field. The shapes and squiggles on their own can’t communicate anything to you. But you are reading them and understanding them (I presume) because you and I share a relationship as speakers of English. It is the existing system of word-meanings, and the metaphorical power of meanings to connect with and point to deeper and wider and more suggestive meanings, and the presumption of trust that I am trying to say something and you are trying to understand it, that make all these shapes and squiggles come together to signify, to point to, a reality that is bigger than they are on their own. These word-signs can’t make you understand anything; but because you begin with a basic belief that they say something, they may have the power to point you to a new understanding that wasn’t in you before.

It is the same with religious signs. Miracles, healings, voices from heaven, intuitions, visions, feelings of transcendence, multiplications of loaves and fishes, rising from the dead — they can’t compel belief in anyone. They function as signs, they point to special meanings, because they function within an already existing system of relationships. The sign cannot prove the relationship, but the relationship is revealed in the sign. If you hold back from the relationship, if you’re not willing to attempt the relationship even provisionally, even experimentally — then you’ll never understand the sign. Jesus says no sign will be given to the Pharisees, not because he refuses to give it, but because they refuse to try to believe him, even to experiment with believing him, and so they refuse to receive it.

Christians believe that our primary relationship, the relationship in which all other relationships are comprehended and sustained, is our relationship with God, “in whom we live and move and have our being.” That fundamental relationship is what gives the potential of significance to everything else we say and do and feel and experience. In a sense, therefore, our lives are surrounded by signs, the very texture of every momentary experience is filled with factors that point beyond themselves to the love of God. That can’t be proven to someone who chooses not to experiment with experiencing life that way; these aren’t signs by which we test what we are willing to believe. But these are signs that reveal the reality of relationship in God that is always already there.

One of the purposes of the disciplines of Lent is to sharpen our ability to read the signs of everyday experience. Prayer, fasting, giving, reading and meditating on God’s holy Word — all of these build up our awareness of our foundational relationship with God, the ultimate context in which even the most ordinary things become signs that point beyond themselves to extraordinary love. That can be Lent’s gift of wonder and joy.

What signs will you seek today?