Meditations on the Crucifixion and Resurrection of Christ
by Andrew Peterson
Remember, you told them.
With a loaf of tough bread and a cup of grape wine, you gave us all the gift of remembrance. You know how fallible our memories are, how prone we are to rationalize the spectacular and to sensationalize the mundane, and so you set in motion a ritual that would tether our fancies to earth and history and truth.
You broke the bread, and you thanked the Father for it; the one whose word lit the galaxies gave thanks for bread. You called it your body, and the apostles stared at you dumbfounded for a moment before they ate of it.
You took the cup and offered it to them, and you told them it was the blood of a new covenant, poured out for many. With the bits of bread still in their teeth and crumbs in their beards they looked at one another with questions on their faces.
Around went the cup and the apostles drank.
You told them it was for remembering, but what they were to remember hadn't yet happened and so it would be at least another week before they began to understand what you were telling them. I'm sure they wanted to know what you were talking about, but something in the look on your face stayed their tongues.
It's been two thousand years now, more or less. We kneel with contrite hearts and accept the gift of remembrance. We call it communion.
We accept the gift of your flesh and blood, and we offer you only our helplessness. We bask in mercy and rise from the table blessed, full of joy, because we have remembered.
Because we have been remembered.