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A CUP AND A CRACKER #5
MEETING THE MAN BEHIND THE MEAL
It's a scene I'm sure you've seen many times on the
news or maybe dramatized on a television movie. Where, right at the end
of a military funeral, the lone trumpeter plays taps while the soldiers
fold up that flag. Maybe it's snowing. And then they bring that folded-up
flag over and give it to the war bride. A lot of us remember the real-life
scene a few years ago on TV where daughters Julie Nixon Eisenhower and
Tricia Cox received the flag when President Nixon was buried.
And that flag is a memory, because usually the person who died was a soldier
or a person who gave years of service to their nation. The flag reminds
the widow of the sacrifice, the nobleness of the gift.
And yet in a way — and I can only conjecture because this hasn't been
my personal experience — maybe it's also true that in the fabric of that
flag, the widow even finds her beloved again. He's almost THERE in the
red, white, and blue. As she holds that flag, she remembers how he looked
in uniform, how that last hug felt before he got on the plane headed for
combat. It reminds her of his personality and his character: how much
he loved his country. How he spoke so passionately about the values of
his nation, his willingness to die for her.
I understand that today, June 6, is Korea Memorial Day. There are probably
people holding flags today, medals of honor, combat ribbons . . . and
as they hold those mementos close to their heart, they almost have an
encounter with their loved one. The emblems almost bring them back.
Of course, this takes us back again one final time now to the emblems
we've been studying this week: A CUP AND A CRACKER. The Lord's Supper,
or Communion. And we've spent four days now talking about the value of
this bread and wine, what it does for us as parts of the Body of Christ.
But I think on Friday — and of course, our Lord died on a Friday — we
really can only make one point. These two simple, precious, invaluable
emblems — bread and wine — have as their foremost purpose helping us find
Jesus again. Just as that widow's flag brings back memories with such
emotional intensity that he's almost THERE . . . I believe it's true that
a tiny cup of grape juice, that little cracker, are meant to take us,
in our memories and our imaginations, right into the presence of Jesus
again.
Now, friend, I know full well that we're on the edge of a field of intense
discussion. There are theologies out there regarding what happens with
that bread and that wine. Some faiths teach something called transubstantiation,
where the emblems literally become again the physical body of Jesus Christ.
Or they suggest that somehow, again, in those sacramental elements, Jesus
"(quote) dies again" each time Communion happens. This is sometimes
described as the "re-sacrifice," or it is said that Christ is
"re-presented" with the benefits of Calvary being continually
applied anew to the believer. This is basically what mass is all about,
and such sacraments are said to act ex opere operato; in other words,
they work by their own working. The bread and the wine give grace, no
matter what, simply because they're bread and wine.
Well, it isn't our intention to debate these points, important as they
are, here on the radio — and if we had planned to do that, we certainly
would have started before Friday! Sincere believers have discussed the
Lord's Supper for two thousand years and won't stop any time soon. But
I think every believer, whatever his or her background, would agree that
when we come to the table to be served, when we kneel at the rail and
receive the elements, we want to leave all else behind and have an encounter
with Jesus Christ.
It's always helpful, I find, to go back to the original meal, that Thursday
evening in a secret Upper Room. Jesus Himself and His twelve followers.
He knew He'd be leaving soon; He knew it would be eleven disciples, not
twelve, after the betrayal of Judas. He knew that in a few short weeks,
after His own resurrection, He'd be departing to return to His Father.
And this infant church, such a tiny, feeble, fledgling movement, would
have to carry on without Him.
Is it any wonder, then, that for a million important reasons He gave us
this gift? Bread and wine. "This is My body," He told them.
"My blood. Remember Me. Remember My words, My example, My values,
My sacrifice, My unending, undying love for you."
And for 2,000 years now those people and their spiritual descendants have
lifted to their mouths the same bread and wine. All around the globe for
2,000 years, and they've remembered those things. They've remembered that
they needed to put self aside, like Jesus did that night. They needed
to make themselves servants, like Jesus did that night. They needed to
praise God in times of adversity, as Jesus did that night.
Friend, I'm so thankful that we have this gift of encountering Jesus again
and again and again. Because I need many such encounters. Don't you?
I love how Dr. John Stott wisely sidesteps the theological debates about
the elements themselves, and describes instead our human need for that
encounter. This is from his powerful book, The Contemporary Christian:
"We need such a reverent and expectant administration
of the Lord's Supper that (I choose my words carefully)" — he admits
— "there is a Real Presence of Jesus Christ, not in the elements
but among His people and at His table, Jesus Christ Himself objectively
and really present, coming to meet us, ready to make Himself known to
us through the breaking of bread, and anxious to give Himself to us, that
we may feed on Him in our hearts by faith."
I like that for so many reasons. First of all, because
it describes Jesus as anxious to meet with us, anxious Himself to have
that encounter. Isn't that a beautiful thought? Listen, friend, if next
Sabbath or Sunday is the day for Communion at your church, don't skip!
Don't be at the beach! Don't conveniently plan to be out of town because
you suspect the services might run a little long that day. No! We should
almost lay awake in our beds the evening before, anticipating that tomorrow,
in a heightened kind of way, we're going to encounter Jesus. He's going
to especially be there in that bread and wine; He's going to be more present
than on any other Sabbath.
I probably can't come up with a metaphor or word picture to describe just
how we ought to feel as we get ready for that meal together. Would a long-anticipated
rendezvous at a restaurant with a long-lost lover do it? Probably that
captures for us the excitement, the anticipation level.
But this would be more, wouldn't it? Maybe a time where you could be with
the man who volunteered, stepped in, to save the life of your only child.
A doctor, perhaps, who donated his services free of charge, sacrificing
himself or herself so your daughter could live. Even more, maybe he rescued
your entire family from a terrible accident, injuring himself in that
process. What would it mean to have dinner with a man like that, a wonderful
man, whose scars from the sacrifice were still right there in front of
you? Maybe it would make us uncomfortable to sit at the table with a man
like that, usually, but not with this Man! He welcomes us, makes us feel
at ease. He tells us what joy He has over the fact that you've been saved.
"It was My pleasure," He says over and over.
I try to catch just a glimpse of how we ought to feel — and you know,
I feel ashamed. Ashamed that I don't think of this more. Ashamed that
those 12 disciples didn't feel it more.
The New International Version of the Bible, in its text notes, points
us back to that meal with the followers of Jesus. They should have been
feeling this enormous connection, this huge debt. Jesus, their Leader
and best Friend, was about to go to the cross for them. Here was their
last meal together. What an opportunity that could have been.
And then the NIV scholars make this point:
"In that culture, as among Arabs today,
to eat with a person was tantamount to saying, ‘I am your friend and will
not hurt you.' This fact made Judas' deed all the more despicable."
I guess maybe that makes us shudder, but I have to
ask myself how often I've done the same thing. Sitting at the Communion
table, where I should be almost on pins and needles over the opportunity
to encounter the Person who saved me . . . and maybe my mind is still
spinning with thoughts of some kind of betrayal. I'm still plotting, still
mentally sanding the handle of that hatchet I refuse to completely bury.
What a waste, when the Rescuer of my family is sitting right with me at
the same table. Listen, friend, let's receive the bread and the wine with
hearts of full anticipation. Let's make room for our meeting with Jesus
by sweeping out all the other things that might get in the way.
In their book, The Body, Chuck Colson and Ellen Santilli Vaughn affirm
what an opportunity this moment is.
"When we take the cup and the bread, it
is a physical bonding," they write. "Communion is the holiest
moment, when we signify our ONENESS with Christ."
That's an opportunity too good to let pass by,
isn't it?
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