Even Unto Death?
How do you talk about a week that defines a life… and changes the world? How do you select one picture from the hundreds that fill the scriptures in this Holy Week and say, “This is what it all really means?” I have read to you a particularly long passage of scripture and yet, it is not even half of the story of the last week in Jesus’ life. It is only a piece of the story of his final days. And, from that, I draw only a sliver of a piece of the picture.
When we sit down to eat our Fellowship Meal together today, we partake in one of the oldest traditions of Christian fellowship and hospitality that dates back thousands of years. The meal is a tangible expression of hospitality that was a critical component of society in the Ancient Near East. Hospitality, or the welcoming of strangers and the care of the widowed, the orphaned and the weak, has its roots in every culture on earth, but in ancient times it was far more important than it is today. In ancient times, hospitality was a fundamental courtesy needed for survival in the harsh and unforgiving climate of the desert Middle East. Hospitality among those who lived nomadic lives in desert climes could mean the difference between life and death. For that reason, a strong culture of hospitality developed among the tribes and peoples of the Ancient Near East and still thrives today in Middle Eastern lands. Strangers who were encountered were welcomed and were offered food and drink to sustain them as they continued their journey. The pressure was on the host to insure that all whose paths chanced to bring them to their tent were never sent away hungry or empty-handed. There was no greater compliment in that time than to be named a gracious and generous host.
But, lest we think that this was a one-sided affair, there were equally stringent expectations of the guest. Those who were invited in were expected to accept the invitation with humility and gratitude… and any attempt to refuse such hospitality… to reject any food or drink that was offered… or even to attempt to shorten the time spent with the host over the meal was met with strong disapproval. If the guest was invited to break bread with the host… to sit at the family table… that guest was drawn into one of the most intimate expressions of relationship and caring ever extended to one who was not blood kin. It was understood that to share a meal with another was to create a mutual bond that was stronger than any other outside of marriage. No one who broke bread with another would dare do anything that would hurt or harm their host. It was this understanding that allowed nomadic peoples to live in harmony. These unwritten laws of hospitality guaranteed the safety and security of both guest and host. And it is these unwritten, but long-practiced rules of hospitality that allow us a deeper glimpse into the pain and sense of betrayal that permeated the events of Holy Week and bring us to a deeper understanding of Jesus and his disciples.
It would be an interesting exercise to go through the gospel accounts of Jesus’ life and ministry and count the number of times that Jesus served as host at a meal. The event that is counted as his first official miracle is the wedding feast at Cana. While he is not officially the host of this event, Jesus does provide the wine for the feast… and provides an abundance of wine in a manner that earns him the reputation as a gracious and generous host. Other meals that quickly come to mind are the times when thousands are fed and then there is the intimate gathering of the disciples for the Last Supper that I read from our text today. There are, of course, the parables of the wedding banquet and the feast that welcomed the Prodigal home. Both stories abound in imagery that suggests generous hospitality and an effort by the host to promote harmony and reconciliation. The host was expected to greet his guests, usually with a kiss on the cheek and an embrace, and to offer water to wash sandaled feet that were dirty and dusty from long miles on the road. The guest was expected to sit and partake of what was offered… exchanging news and stories with the host until the host indicated that time was ended.
Within this context, then, imagine Jesus’ triumphal entry into Jerusalem. Wouldn’t this be the ultimate expression of hospitality of a city toward a visitor? Those who lived in Jerusalem… and those who had come to Jerusalem for the celebration of the Passover… all turned out to greet him. Jesus rode into town on a donkey… graciously provided by an anonymous donor… elevated from the ordinary to royalty by this simple act. The townsfolk laid their garments on the ground… an overwhelmingly generous gesture of acceptance… of welcome… of hospitality. They waved the branches of palm trees… another gesture usually reserved for those of royal blood… and they shouted “Hosanna”… a welcome reserved for conquering kings and mighty warriors. Jesus humbly accepted all their acclamation… with the humility of an honored guest. Don’t you wonder how he felt just five days later, when the crowd gathered again to shout “Crucify him” as Pontius Pilate washed his hands? What could be further from the generous hospitality extended to him when he arrived than this unconscionable betrayal of his love and trust?
Imagine, too, the twelve disciples gathered together in an Upper Room. They have lived together for three years, breaking bread together many, many times. They have been both guest and host at many meals… renewing the bonds of love and friendship within the Middle Eastern context of nomadic desert hospitality with each meal. What does it mean, then, for Jesus to give Judas a piece of bread at that final meal? Jesus… the ever-gracious and generous host… singles out Judas, the outsider… the only Judean… and gives him food… the ultimate gesture of hospitality… with all of the unwritten… and unspoken… import of that gesture included. Don’t you wonder how Judas felt when his hand touched Jesus’ hand in that exchange? When his eyes met Jesus’ eyes as Jesus spoke the words…”One of you will betray me.” Only a few hours later, Judas would greet Jesus with a kiss… not to welcome him… but to reveal him to his enemies. Judas… the guest… would bring outsiders to a place that where Jesus and his intimate friends had gathered… and betray his host into the hands of those who would take his life… the very antithesis of hospitality… and an act for which society… if it ever learned of his betrayal… would never forgive him.
Imagine, then, yet another disciple… Peter… who sits at this same dinner with Jesus as the disciples argue over who is the greatest among them… and hears him say, “I am among you as one who serves.” Isn’t that statement a reinforcement of the culture’s norms of hospitality? Jesus promises that all of them will have a place at his table in his kingdom… a statement that none of them truly understands, though they think they do… and then singles Peter out… Simon, he calls him… as one for whom he is praying… that Peter’s faith might be strong enough to sustain him and allow him to help others who are wavering… to which Peter replies, “Lord, I am ready to go with you to prison and to death.” Peter probably meant it when he said it, but little did he realize that the opportunity for him to demonstrate his faithfulness would come just a few short hours later. But Jesus knew. I can see him looking at Peter across the table with a bitter-sweet smile… proud as a parent would be of his child’s naïve courage, but sadly aware of the sharp reality of the coming test of that courage. “I tell you, Peter,” Jesus says, “the cock will not crow this day until you have denied three times that you know me.” Do you notice, in this story, when Jesus calls him Simon… the name given him at birth… and when he calls him Peter… the name that Jesus gave him, meaning “rock?”
Sure enough, his chance to prove himself came in the middle of the night… when Peter was tired… sleepy… confused by Judas’ betrayal… and overwhelmed by the sight of so many well-armed, well-trained soldiers. Don’t you wonder how Peter felt when they were betrayed by one of their own? Can you sense his confusion… his sense of helplessness when this poor fisherman was confronted by such a show of force? Do you think his eyes met Jesus’ in the Garden when the soldiers surrounded Jesus to take him away? What could he do? He didn’t have an army. The disciples just had two swords… swords they weren’t even trained to use.
Matthew tells us that all the disciples deserted Jesus and fled. Don’t you wonder how Jesus felt as he watched his disciples… his friends… vanish into the darkness? What happened to the bond of hospitality that had just been renewed hours earlier? How could these guests abandoned their host? Yet they did. Peter didn’t run into the night like the other disciples… but he also did not step forward to confront the soldiers. I wonder what Peter was thinking… standing there alone in the dark… when he realized the others had gone? He followed the soldiers at a distance… watching to see where they took his master… his mentor… his friend. By the fire in the courtyard outside the building where the soldiers took Jesus, Peter could see his friend, while… cloaked in anonymity… he listened to the stories and gossip and news of the day in relative safety. That is, until a servant-girl revealed his identity to those gathered by the fire. As heads turned in his direction, he deflected her comment by claiming ignorance. Confronted by another, he again denied any knowledge of Jesus. An hour later, another man identified him as a follower and this time, Peter vehemently rejected his claim… and, while he was still speaking, the cock crowed. At that moment, Jesus turned and looked at Peter… and Peter remembered. Peter remembered. Just hours earlier, Jesus had predicted it. Peter had rejected the prediction… and it had all come true. It is one thing to bear the betrayal of one who has always been at the fringe of your circle of friends. It is something else to confront the painful reality that your best friend… your most intimate comrade… your chosen and trusted second-in-command… has betrayed you. And, yet, in the look that Jesus gave to Peter in that moment, I am sure that Peter saw only love… not accusation… not scorn… not anger… not bitterness… but sorrow… deep sorrow… and love. Peter remembered… and he went out and wept bitterly.
What does it mean to claim that we will be with him even unto death if… in just hours… we deny that we even know him? Peter had been sure that he would be, “Lord, I am ready to go with you to prison and to death”. But, when confronted with the opportunity to put his words into action, all his defenses were down. Like the foolish bridesmaids who were caught off-guard when the bridegroom arrived in the middle of the night and they had no oil for their lamps, Peter was caught off-guard in the middle of the night, as well… caught off-guard by the unexpected suddenness of what happened… and caught off-guard by his own fears… fear of shame… fear of danger… fear of imprisonment… fear of death. And yet, when Peter failed his Lord, what was Jesus’ response: love… only love.
You and I have betrayed him, too, in so many simple… subtle… and serious ways. In the stories of Judas, who betrayed him for money… of Peter, who betrayed him for self-preservation… and of all the disciples who fled that night for their own reasons, we can see ourselves… and the many ways that we, too, have compromised our faith and betrayed our Lord. Our faith… like theirs… falters in times of trial. And yet, despite all the pain that Jesus felt that night… and the pain he still feels when we betray him today… the look he give us is the same as the look he gave Peter that night. Not a look of anger… or accusation… or bitterness… but a look of sorrow… and love… a love so great that he gave his life that we might live. It is a debt we can never repay. Have we made the commitment to follow Jesus… even unto death? When our love to God grows weak… when it wavers in the light of reality… where do we turn? And who will always be there… loving us still… despite our weakness… our doubts… and our fears? Is it not our Lord? Is that not yet another reason to sing his praise? I would claim no other king… and sing my “Hosannas” to him. Amen.
Luke 22:14-62