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TRY TO REMEMBER . . . BUT WHAT?

In their Christian bestseller, The Body, Chuck Colson and Ellen Santilli Vaughn tell a story in a chapter entitled "Communio Sanctorum," which they're kind enough to tell us means "Communion of Saints." In this vignette, a Catholic priest — likely you've heard of him: Father Lawrence Jenco — is being held hostage in Lebanon by Shiite terrorists. Nineteen months go by in captivity. He and three other captives are blindfolded and chained like dogs to a radiator. It's a vicious, pitiful, emotionally up-and-down experience that you and I probably can't even imagine. It's just too hard to fathom.

But here's the bit of the story that gets to me. Even while he was chained to that radiator, this Father Jenco managed to assemble some bits of bread and some water. And then he and the other three men celebrated Communion, the Lord's Supper. No, it wasn't exactly wine or vintage Protestant grape juice, but this was still the body and blood of Christ.

One of the three other captives, by the way, was Benjamin Weir, a Presbyterian minister. And together as brothers, those inmates — a Catholic and a Protestant, and the two other men — ate that bread they couldn't see . . . and they remembered. With their homelands just a fuzzy, fading image, and with all earthly hopes fading away, they still had the Communion, the Communion of Saints, to help them remember. Today we want to talk about remembering.

You know, it's one of the most poignant lines I've ever read . . . and all we have for attribution is a name: Steve Brown. He's commenting on the Lord's Supper, or what we call Communion, and the line goes like this:

"The world drinks to forget; the Christian drinks to remember."

And you know, when we sit there in church, and the organ music is quietly playing — we have that cracker in our hand and a little vial of grape juice — we're supposed to remember. In fact, if you read this beautifully haunting story from the very first communion, the gospel writer Luke has Jesus specifically saying this:

"This is My body given for you; do this in remembrance of Me."

Our title this week is a simple one: A CUP AND A CRACKER. And of course, that little cup and that tiny cracker are the very essence of simplicity. A few cc's of liquid; 10 or 15 calories in that bit of bread, that cracker. But Christians around the world do this thing, and the Bible tells us to remember. That's why we do it, in order to remember.

As we spend this one week thinking about the sacraments or the Eucharist or Communion, the Lord's Supper, we have to wonder exactly what it was Jesus Christ wanted us to remember. Obviously those hostages in Lebanon had something to hang onto in their souls: the reality of Jesus' sacrifice, the promise of an eternal life beyond their dirty prison, the reunion guarantee by Jesus Himself, where He promised His believers:

"This is My blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins." And now the great promise: "I tell you, I will not drink of this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it anew with you in My Father's kingdom."

So for those four men in their hellhole, the bread and the wine reminded them that Paradise was waiting. Even with blindfolds now, they would see the face of Jesus again; their loved ones would be restored in God's kingdom. But for those of us who aren't locked up in prison, blindfolded and chained to a rusty radiator, what is there for us to remember? What was there to remember that was so important that Jesus Christ, in instructions through Paul to the Christian Church, taught that this Lord's Supper was to be celebrated on an ongoing basis as a permanent sacrament of the Church?

How often some of us have known there was something out there we were supposed to keep in mind — but what? We tied a string around our finger . . . and now we've forgotten what the string was for. Is there a possibility that the bread and the wine can get that way for the Christian believer?

If you and I were to approach the spiritual topic of Communion from a purely human perspective — which might be helpful but not an entirely complete picture, to be sure — we could understand Jesus wanting to cry out very simply: "Don't forget Me! After three-and-a-half years with you, all this time of being your Friend, I don't want to be forgotten! These are our last moments together, and I'm afraid you'll forget." Would we understand even a holy and divine Christ having such feelings?

In one of our less favorite and probably least reliable sources of information, we note that the fictional Jesus in the Broadway opera Jesus Christ Superstar, cries out in frustration at his disciples: "Look at your blank faces. My name will mean nothing ten minutes after I'm dead!" Which, again, on a purely human level, would be painful for any of us.

But on a deeper level — and let's hasten there quickly, shall we? — it is important that meaningful gifts and sacrifices, along with the Giver, should never be forgotten. We've mentioned on this program, in a past Memorial Day special, how those widows and orphans must feel about that name etched on the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, D.C. And the survivors cry out to the rest of us: "Don't forget! Don't forget what my son did, my husband, my dad. He gave his life so that you could be free! Don't forget!" And on the first level, they hope we won't forget the person himself, that anonymous GI buried in the small-town cemetery, the MIA who's still not accounted for 25 years later. But even more, it's the sacrifice, the heroism, the Medal of Honor, the act of self-sacrifice. What a terrible thing for citizens to forget the deeds done on their behalf.

And so Jesus in His divine wisdom has given us a cup and a cracker. True, so that we'll remember Him. But also true, and even more true, so that we'll remember Calvary. That's why it was bread and wine and not just a photograph or an autographed souvenir program. Jesus didn't just want His followers for the next 2,000 years to remember Him, but also that particular weekend: that Thursday night in Gethsemane, that particular Friday, that Sabbath in the tomb, that Easter Sunday. "Remember Me and remember all of this," is His cry echoing through all the Lord's Suppers of the past two millenniums.

I like the chorus of the old gospel hymn by Jennie Hussey, dating back to 1921. "Lead Me to Calvary" is the name of it, which fits perfectly, of course. But the chorus goes like this:

"Lest I forget Gethsemane; Lest I forget Thine agony; Lest I forget Thy love for me, Lead me to Calvary."

And you know, the communion elements do that. They lead us to Calvary. "This is My Body," Jesus says. "This is My blood." Well, friend, that's the essence of Calvary, of the Cross.
You may wonder if we really need such a reminder. There are crosses all over the place; Christianity is a popular, prime-time religion and millions have that little bit of gold dangling around their neck or adorning their church steeple. But somehow nothing holds the potential like that bread and wine actually held in the hand and then taken right into the person. If we allow it to happen, Communion can be one of the most powerful of transports, "leading us to Calvary."

Friend, in our last few minutes here today could I prayerfully suggest to you even a third level of remembering? We remember the Person and we remember the Deed . . . and then I even hear the voice of Jesus asking us to also remember the meaning of the deed. What is the meaning of Calvary? What is the significance of that one Life given for us? What does it mean that blood was shed?

Of course, that's a topic we could explore and worshipfully immerse ourselves in for decades to come, centuries to come. Which is good and true — and yet that quiet moment when we hold the emblems of Jesus in our hands is a time to go to those deep meanings and consider them. Yes, remember Jesus. Yes, remember Calvary. And yes, take some time — all the time you can possibly spare, friend — to think about the meaning of Calvary.

I've always thought that one verse in Matthew is one of the most chilling condemnations in the entire Bible. Romans soldiers sat around the foot of the cross with their little dice game and their soda pops and their jokes. And here's what the Bible says:

"And sitting down they watched Him there."

Now here were men who saw Jesus. They were inches away. They were aware of Calvary, since they were sitting right on top of the spot. But what was the meaning of this crucifixion? Why was this blood different from that of the two thieves or different from the ten crucifixions they'd presided over a week earlier? What was the significance of this Man's sacrifice, this Man who whispered a prayer instead of screaming an obscenity? Who was this Father Jesus cried out to? What did it all mean? Friend, those men sat there and had no clue. They didn't ever get it.

Maybe next weekend you'll sit in church and someone will give you that bread and that wine. Or maybe you'll go up to the rail and receive the Eucharist. Listen to me now. Don't let that reminder be lost on you. There's a Man to remember, and a hill called Calvary, and also the meaning of that hill called Calvary. The bread isn't just calories; it means something. And the Cross isn't just wood; it means something too.