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176 pages, Paperback
Published January 21, 2020
God in his kindness, knowing how frail we are, knowing how battered by life we can be, has also given us his promise in water, bread, and wine.
Baptism is the embodiment of our union with Christ.
The Lord’s Supper is the embodiment of our communion with Christ.
“But what we as Christians need to emphasize is that we still live in a world in which God actively and routinely intervenes. He intervenes through natural causes (and occasionally apart from natural causes through miracles). We need to see natural causes as the instruments of God. We need to see the world as a providential cosmos. That allows us to re-enchant the world.”
It is a meal that echoes all the other meals and points to their fulfillment. The Lord’s Supper looks back to the Passover meal. Luke is at pains to point this out in his account of the Last Supper, mentioning the Passover in Luke 22:1, 7, 8, 11, 13, and 15. The Passover meal told the story of redemption from slavery through the blood of a lamb. The Communion meal tells the story of redemption from sin through the blood of Jesus, the Lamb of God. The Sinai covenant and its sprinkled blood find their fulfillment in the cross. This is God’s complete and permanent solution for sin. All who come to Christ are cleansed by his blood and welcomed to his banquet. We are invited to eat in the presence of God. At the Last Supper, Jesus said, “This cup that is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood” (Luke 22:20). The cup represents the new covenant, a new relationship-forming agreement through which we become God’s people and he becomes our God. The Communion meal embodies the grace of God to needy sinners. Paul would later say we “proclaim the Lord’s death” every time we eat it (1 Cor. 11:26). Here in this meal we encounter the heart of our salvation. And we do not just see it or hear it. We eat it! It becomes part of us. We enact what Jesus said in John 6:51, 54–56: I am the living bread that came down from heaven. If anyone eats of this bread, he will live forever. And the bread that I will give for the life of the world is my flesh. . . . Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood has eternal life, and I will raise him up on the last day. For my flesh is true food, and my blood is true drink. Whoever feeds on my flesh and drinks my blood abides in me, and I in him. This is a meal at which Jesus is the host. He tells Peter and John to “go and prepare the Passover” (Luke 22:8). But the point of their mysterious encounter with an apparently random man carrying a jar of water is to show that Jesus has made everything ready (Luke 22:7–13). It is a powerful picture of the way Jesus prepares the eternal banquet by dying in our place. He takes the judgment we deserve so we can come to eat in the presence of God. At the cross Jesus experiences exclusion from God (like Adam from the garden) and exile from God (like Israel in Babylon) so we can come close to God. The Lord’s Supper also echoes the feeding of the five thousand. That miracle involved four verbs: taking, thanking, breaking, giving (Luke 9:16). The same four verbs in the same order describe Jesus’s consecration of the bread in Luke 22:19: “And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them.” Here is Jesus providing bread from heaven to satisfy his people, except that now this bread is his own body, which we feed on by faith as we consume the Communion bread. The Lord’s Supper also points forward to the final eternal banquet promised by Isaiah. Luke’s account of the Last Supper is bookended by references to Christ’s return (Luke 22:14–18, 28–30).
This is one of my favorite books. I’ve read it once a year for the past three years. Just as we return to the Lord’s Supper every week because we are a forgetful people, I return to this work to be reminded. I’ve reviewed it well in the past, so I won’t review it again. But let me say this: it’s a wonderful read that cannot be missed by anyone who treasures the sacraments. Instead of a proper review, I’ve written a brief reflection on the Eucharist, inspired by this work over the past few days. Perhaps next year, I’ll reflect on Baptism instead.
Growing up, Sunday dinners were one of my favorite family rituals. About once a month, my Nonna would make a massive lasagna and invite the entire family to feast. All the aunts, uncles, and cousins would gather in her small home, and so many people would come that my grandpa had to set up smaller tables throughout the living room just to seat everyone. My grandma, a little old Italian woman, always seemed to find stray Italians to join her table. Her house was an Italian community center in a city that didn’t have one. At her table, everyone was welcome. This is something I’ve carried into my own life. I love food, wine, and the fellowship of friends, and I want to be someone who welcomes all to my table. Come to the table and find friendship, rest, and nourishment.
But this isn’t unique to me or my cultural background. It’s something that belongs to the human condition. There’s something innately human about wanting to be in fellowship with others and enjoying a meal together. In every culture, time, and place, we find traditions of people gathering to feast. This is also found throughout the sacred scriptures. In the beginning, we find man enjoying fellowship with God. And in that fellowship, God spread out a feast, allowing man to eat from every tree that bears fruit, and from the Tree of Life itself. Then the ancient deceiver, the original foe of man, appears. That ancient wyrm tempts man over a shared meal; a feast of lies and death. In response to man’s disobedience, God casts him out of the Garden, for his own safety. In the Garden, there is eternal life, which man cannot attain in his fallen state. Man was removed from the fellowship of God and, by extension, from that glorious everlasting feast. And as a consequence, from that day onward, he would have to toil for his food.
Cast out from the Garden, man was no longer in the presence of God and would eventually face death. However, that wasn’t the end of the story. Despite man’s inability, God continued to make ways to share fellowship meals with His people. God dined with Abraham and Sarah at their table; in the wilderness, the people of God ate the Passover meal, which pointed to a greater meal to come; and through the peace offering in the sacrificial system, man was able to eat in the presence of God. Man may not have been in the constant presence of God, but it was God’s intention to share a meal with him. Sharing a meal with others and with God is part of the fabric of our human identity.
The Old Testament ends its discourse on meals with a great prophecy from the Prophet Isaiah:
On this mountain the Lord of hosts will make for all peoples
a feast of rich food, a feast of well-aged wine,
of rich food full of marrow, of aged wine well refined.
And he will swallow up on this mountain
the covering that is cast over all peoples,
the veil that is spread over all nations.
He will swallow up death forever;
and the Lord God will wipe away tears from all faces,
and the reproach of his people he will take away from all the earth,
for the Lord has spoken.
(Isaiah 25:6-8)
And that prophecy has come to pass, at least in part. The Lord took on flesh and was put to death. On the very night He was betrayed, He set out a meal for His disciples; a meal we partake in every week. O how sweet it is to dine in the presence of the Lord! He has indeed set a feast before us. Unlike the feasts of the Temple, this is a feast for all peoples. As we partake in this feast, we remember the death and resurrection of our Lord. But we also look forward to His swift return, when He will truly wipe away every tear forever, and death will be no more.
At our church, we partake in the Lord’s Supper every week. We leave our seats and come up to the table as family groups, and an elder administers the elements. Just last week, my wife and I went up to the table with a family that had a toddler. As the elder passed out the wine, the toddler instinctively reached for it, drawn to what was naturally before him. His father kept the wine away for his own safety, and as is the way with toddlers, he was sad when he couldn’t have what he wanted, even though it was for his benefit.
This scene has stayed with me all week. Taking the supper every week is an immense grace. A pastor in New Braunfels once told me, “We partake once a week because it would be impractical to partake every day.” That’s so true! There is a real transference of grace in the supper, and we need that grace desperately. However, doing it so regularly makes it easy to forget its significance. When was the last time I truly thought about the supper? When was the last time I desired it as much as that toddler did? If I missed church for any reason, would I miss the supper? Would I feel bereft if the cup passed me by?
Gathered at the table of the Lord, everyone is welcome. The feast has been laid before us, and we’ve been invited to partake. Will we take the offered cup? Will we be nourished on the bread? Or will we settle for lesser meals, as our first parents did?