God of Bread and Cup,The new covenant came on the night when your vulnerability was used against you. Hours before the whole ordeal of torture tools, thorns, nails, and shame, you served your friends a meal and still spoke words of sustaining hope.
There you sat at the table, exposed to danger and violent threats and yet planted in the community you had formed.
It was one of those moments whose power could not be contained or understood in one night. It spilled over into years of shared remembrance. Even now, we gather tonight to reenact the night that vulnerable love persisted in the face of annihilation.
Could I be vulnerable enough to let an ancient night break my heart?
Could I grasp a story so powerful that its memory invades my present moment with a power that dismantles this heart of mine and changes the direction of my life?
Could I still take the bread and cup even though I cannot be sure if I would have been the women wailing or Peter saving himself?
I confess the utter foolishness of giving my present life to an ancient story. I confess the gravitational pull I feel away from following the patient sufferer. I confess that Holy Week takes work. And yet, I confess this faith that I cannot understand is saving me.
For the endurance of the story, I stand in awe.
For the remembrance of a night, I take the bread and cup.
For the saving mystery, I give my life.
In the name of the One whose ancient act remains somehow just as powerful today,