And now in all reverence and gratitude let us consider what really happened at this last supper of our Blessed Lord. It was not with His friends at Bethany that He spent this final evening, but with "the Twelve" whom He had chosen, one of whom, as He had said, was a devil. Some of them might be rough of speech; others addicted to jealousy; others, again, unwatchful against temptation; and all equally disinclined to serve one another in menial duties. But He had chosen them, and claimed their company. The question with Him was not what they were, but what He could make of them.
As one thinks how communion with Him has been obscured by priestly pretensions and ecclesiastical rivalries--churches contending with one another, as did "the Twelve," which shall be the greatest--one feels how, through all the centuries, His table, where Judas sat, has been spread in the presence of enemies. What He meant was so simple. He asked two of the disciples to prepare for Him the Passover. On entering Jerusalem, they would meet, not a Rabbi or a Levite, but just an ordinary man, to all appearance, going about his work--or what the Psalmist would call his "way"--with a pitcher on his shoulder, in which vessel, perhaps, was the very water that our Lord would need to pour over the disciples' feet. Here, again, was a nameless follower of the Master, who said nothing about religion, but was quite ready, when asked, to lend his upper room. There are such men all around us, if only we can show them what it is that Christ needs from them. It was Christ's plan to take common duties and transform them into God's service.
The Upper Room
What He required was that upper room. He showed that His Communion does not depend on a consecrated building, or altar, or chancel. The room was already furnished, and the furniture was entirely of the home. It had been used and would be used again for domestic purposes. It was around such a table that they sat, or, in Eastern fashion, reclined. Between Him and them there was no rood-screen or other dividing barrier. The beloved disciple lay on His bosom, and could catch His lightest whisper. We do not read of candles or incense or vestments, for He Himself was clearly seen and clearly heard, and this was enough. There was indeed a genuflection, but it was He who knelt in Divine humility at the feet of His friends. But the circumstances of that solemn meal--the dish whence was drawn the sop, and the hour when the supper took place--should warn us against the habit of laying emphasis on the material side of these deep happenings. There is no suggestion of a fasting Communion, and the service was held, not in the morning, but at night.
We should notice, moreover, that both here and after He had risen Jesus was present with His disciples before any blessing was pronounced on bread and wine. It was no word--no formula, however sacred--that drew Him to His own. He was among them first, and it was because this was so that He could give His blessing. The occasion was not ecclesiastical, but, in a sense, universal for those who love Him. It was so painted by Leonardo da Vinci, who shows us the disciples, not in worship, but in conversation--rather unedifying until He took part, when gradually other voices were hushed, and perhaps His alone was heard. When we say grace at meals, we invite Him to grant us His real presence; and there is, I am told, at Alnwick Castle a chair always left vacant for Him to occupy when He comes again.
The Elements
Now, as then, His are always the abundant blessings. His Spirit is like wind and flame. His is the water of life, flowing freely as a river. And so He took bread, the commonest of foods, with wine, which was then the universal drink, to hallow both. In the material sense there was no miracle. He did not multiply the bread. He meant the water in the water-pot for other purposes than a change into wine, as at Cana. His aim was no longer to satisfy physical hunger--to lavish yet more loaves and fishes; but to show us that a mere morsel, when we take it from His hand, a mere drop or two that He has blessed, are more precious than all the luxuries that wealth can procure. And amid the ceremonial that now surrounds His ordinance, we may, at least, say this--however many jewels there may be on the paten and chalice, bread remains simple bread, wine remains wine. No prelate, no theologian, has been able to alter those "elements"--note the word, for it brings us back to our position as His "children"--which are of His will. The "elementary" love is what we need.
As His body was to be broken, so broke He the bread. As I-J-:s blood was to be shed, so poured He forth the wine. He wished it to be clear that He died willingly because He died for us. He would have us thus show forth His death till He comes again, so that what moved Him to endure the cross may never be in doubt. "This do," said He, "in remembrance of Me"--not as a test of orthodoxy, not as a sacrifice for sin, not as expiation for the dead, not as a preparation for judgment--do it only as "remembrance." He who had called on them to follow Him, to do mighty works in His Name, to give up family and lands for His sake, asked now for no more than a place in their recollection. And even this has been denied by many of us to the Christ we forget. They were all to drink of that cup, so great was their individual responsibility, and He drank first--at least, I am so persuaded--though it meant for Him what Gethsemane revealed.
The Water of Cleansing
Nor was there an elaborate order of service. He and He alone directed the proceedings, and no one knew what He meant to do when He rose from the table and quietly disrobed, girding Himself afterwards with a towel. It seemed as if He wished to make it plain that when violent men afterwards robbed Him of His garments, they took nothing from Him which He had not freely given up. And when He poured out the water, so soon to be followed by wine, He seemed to foreshadow that flow from the very heart, water and blood--the human and the Divine--of which John was to bear witness. These also were His free gifts. And not a drop, even of the water, was wasted. Within the circumference of that basin, as of His providence, His whole effort, as Man ministering to man, was preserved for the cleansing of all who will submit themselves to Him.
Their silence, as He passed from one to another, was profound. It was as if they dared not speak. With one exception, His rebuke left them broken and contrite. For they had seen how His own feet had been washed by Mary of Bethany; and here was He, unwilling to receive any comfort which He did not share with them. They had heard his rebuke to Simon the Pharisee, when he forgot this simple courtesy; yet, as the water-pot, basin, and towel reminded them, they also had been remiss. The exquisite pain of His reproof--keen but inevitable--drove one of the disciples into vindictive though unspoken hatred, and another into vigorous protest. "Thou shalt never wash my feet," cried Peter, in utter anguish. His quiet reply meant that they who will not receive His lessons can have no part in Him. "Not my feet, but my whole body," begged Peter. But again He would not be persuaded. Cleansing must be according to His will, not according to our ideas or emotions. Peter's knowledge was imperfect; in courage he was to fail ; but he was not all bad, and the Saviour from sin never exaggerated human depravity. He did not heal a leper as if the man also suffered from fever and paralysis. Conversion is a real change that does not need to be repeated. If Peter's feet were washed, he would be clean every whit. Confronted by His humiliation and the cause of it, the Apostles never again renewed their rivalries. Among those first bishops, there was no Pope.
The Eleven
For as He talked with them far into the evening--while the Iscariot was busy with his preparations--the burden on His heart was just those eleven remaining men. He knew that, in a few hours, all of them would be offended in Him. He was so conscious of devilry triumphant in the hour of darkness--only an hour, mind you--that He spoke of Peter being sifted like wheat, and prayed God to sustain him. Torn to the heart as He was with the unspeakable malice of Judas, we see Him wrestling with an awful mistrust, not of God, but of men, whose nature He had taken. Here, in this seething ocean of godlessness, were these few frail survivors of His cause; with passionate intensity He pleaded with His Father to keep them--not to lose one of them, not one! He spoke to them, as the evening wore on, of His love, of their union with Him, of a future to be spent with Himself. He could not have said more than He did; yearning for comfort and needing it, He comforted others.
At last they rose to their feet, and together they sang what was, in fact, His funeral hymn. His voice blended with theirs as He blessed the music that would be never-ending in the Home which He went forth to prepare. Verse by verse they sang and this also came to an end. There lay the table--littered with the remnants of that long evening's feast. There stood the basin, pitcher, and towel beside them.
He added something about being delivered into the hands of men. They knew that He was in deadly danger. Into the midnight they plunged, leaving behind them the city; they made for Bethany, as usual; but at a garden He stopped. His was to be no flight from peril. Nor would He bring the home of Lazarus, and Lazarus himself, into that dreadful drama which began with a kiss. He awaited His enemies where He alone would feel their blows. His only refuge was Gethsemane.