Rev. Dr. Joel D. Biermann
Mark 14:17-20
Maundy Thursday April 13, 2017
This is it. This is the day, this is the night, this is the time, when everything comes together. This is the night when the Passion begins, the night when our Lord’s journey to the cross accelerates alarmingly. This is the night when all of history and all of time seems to swirl and hurtle toward one critical moment, one singular event that becomes the hinge and center directing and transcending time and recalibrating all of history. But, that’s later. Before the cross, the torture, the trial, the arrest, and the betrayal, we have tonight. Before the horror and the disaster, God provides a respite. For the twelve it was Passover, for you it is the festival called Maundy Thursday. White on the altar tells us that this is a holy celebration—and so it is, a pause for nourishment, an hour to revel in God’s work. Here, in God’s church, we live the reality of what God has done and is doing; tonight, we retrace the story. With the twelve, we follow Jesus into the upper room and relish the celebration of God’s deliverance of Israel. That’s how it works in the church. Time runs together. The past is present reality and the future is palpable all around us.
It was certainly that way for the twelve. They reclined around the table that night with a tangible awareness of the past, and a sense of peace and confidence about the future…and why not? The memory of Sunday’s exuberant arrival in Jerusalem was still vivid. They could hear the glad shouts of “Hosanna” echoing still. They had watched and listened with delight as Jesus had sparred that week with the brightest and shrewdest of the rabbis and political elite—and had put them all to shame. Jesus had never looked more poised for an ascent to the halls of power and authority in Israel. And, here they were, Jesus’ hand-picked, chosen twelve. They were the real disciples. They had been with Jesus from the beginning, following him all over Galilee and Judea learning much and growing much—being groomed, they were sure, for positions of service and authority within the ranks of Jesus’ coming kingdom. And so, they were. But, they had still a few more things to learn, and the growth that was yet to come would prove the most painful of all. Of course, the disciples lounging with Jesus in the upper room knew none of this that Passover night, so we can understand their reaction when Jesus declared an impending tragedy: he was about to be betrayed…by one of them.
In Greek, the recorded response is only seven letters long, two short words: μητι εγω. In English, it usually gets translated, “Surely, not I?” But, the meaning is a bit more nuanced. The sense is, “No way it’s me…right?” or perhaps, “You don’t mean me, do you?” It’s a question that expects an emphatic “No!” for an answer. It’s a question that’s actually more of an assertion. We are left to guess what it might have been like at that moment during the meal. But, Mark does add one more detail. The twelve didn’t blurt out their question all at once. Rather, each disciple asked individually, one at a time. Maybe they worked their way around the table, maybe they followed some acknowledged order of rank, or a deference based on age. The first—was it Peter?—asked, and set the pattern: “Surely, not I?” and then another, “Surely, not I?” and then another, and then the scene became a sort of ritual, each man speaking the same words. There was no way for any of the group to avoid asking the question, now. It had to be asked by each one: “Surely, not I?” If Jesus said anything in response to each query, Mark doesn’t tell us. I suspect that Mark records nothing because Jesus said nothing. It’s only later in the conversation that Judas is finally revealed as the traitor—a detail supplied not by Mark, but by Matthew’s account. No, I think Mark tells all that there is to tell about this moment. Each disciple’s question is met with the same silence. I wonder how they asked the question…was it said with a hint of indignation? Were they offended that Jesus could suggest such a thing: “Surely, NOT I!?” Were they hurt that Jesus could implicate them, “Surely, not I.” Or was there a bit of confident bravado in the words, “Surely, not I!” Yet, after each iteration of the question, however inflected, there was that same stony silence. Did the silence rattle their confidence? Did they begin to waver in their certainty? Maybe, by the end of the litany-of-questions, the brash declaration had withered to a hesitant and doubtful plea, “Surely, not I?” It would have been right if it had come to this.
Confidence comes easily enough to most of us, doesn’t it? Oh, I know, when you’re put in the spotlight, you are quick to offer an appropriate and expected display of humility, and self-effacement, maybe even some self-deprecation. We all know that we’re not supposed to be too full of ourselves. And, of course, you know that you have some areas or arenas in which you feel at least a little inadequate and insecure. Still, at the core, you know the kind of person that you are, and the kind of things that you would or would not do. There are fundamental issues of right and wrong that are simply non-optional for you. In the things that matter, you know what you are made of, and you know your capabilities. You can even point to evidence of the kind of person that you are. There are severe trials, maybe even some tragedies that you have overcome. There is the family that you have held together, and the children that you have raised. There are the temptations you have faced and conquered, the habits you have beaten. You’ve proven yourself in school and at work. You’ve been a respectful and affectionate son or daughter. You don’t do the sort of things that your classmates routinely do. You’ve been a loyal friend, and a neighbor respected by all. You’ve provided a comfortable retirement for yourself and for those you love. And you do your best to be a good church-member, giving your offering faithfully and generously, and never missing a worship service—not unless you’re incapacitated. You do things right, and work hard to make sure that it becomes a way of life for you. When it comes to following God, and obeying his will, you know what counts, and you strive to do it. You’re not so different, then, than the rest of the disciples. So, take your place there at the table with the twelve. Choose a humble seat, of course, one down by Thomas and Thaddeus. And then, when it’s your turn, look your savior in the eye, and you ask him the required question: μητι εγω, “Surely, not I?”
How did your voice sound? Was it confident and self-assured? Were there overtones of sorrow and regret that Jesus could suggest that you might be capable of betrayal? Did you say it with a hint of hesitation and fear? Did you doubt yourself? Is it possible, after all? Is it possible that even you might be able to betray Jesus? Surely…not…I?” The I is the problem. It always is. Less than ten hours after that Passover meal, Judas betrayed Jesus, Peter denied Jesus, and Thomas and Thaddeus, and Simon and James and the rest of the disciples, all abandoned Jesus. They had been warned. It didn’t matter. When the moment of testing came, they failed, completely. “Surely, not I?” Silence, and then the grim reality: utter collapse, total failure. The outcome is always the same when “I” is at the center. The I is so vulnerable, so fragile, yet so full of itself that it does not see even its own inability and its own peril. You cannot trust yourself. It does not matter what is in your heart. It does not matter how sincere you are. It does not matter how much you truly love God and earnestly want to follow him. When the question is about you and about what you can do, the outcome is invariably, surely, the same: defeat, denial, death.
Jesus knows all of this, of course. As the disciples each ask in turn, as you take your turn, and ask, “Surely, not I?” …Jesus already knows the answer. He knows the reality. And he responds…by giving grace. It is to these twelve—full of confidence, full of sincerity, full of themselves—it is to them that he gives himself: his true body, his true blood. He sees how fragile, how weak, how empty they are; and he gives them what they need: the gift of forgiveness and strength and certain hope in the meal of Holy Communion with himself. Regardless what was going on in their hearts, no matter what thoughts they were having, in spite of all that would unfold in a matter of hours, Jesus looks at each disciple…and gives. He gives grace. He gives forgiveness. He gives himself. He does it all. The I is irrelevant. The I brings nothing to the table. The I does not earn and surely does not deserve what is given. But, Jesus gives anyway. He gives to Judas. He gives to Peter. He gives to Thomas and Thaddeus. He gives to Simon and to James and to John and…and to you. He gives to you. You bring nothing to the rail tonight, not commitment, not self-confidence, not sincerity, not humility, not compassion; you bring nothing—nothing but yourself and your failures and your regrets and your emptiness. And here, at this rail, the meal of the upper room is extended into the present, into this here and now, and Jesus himself meets you, and Jesus himself feeds you. That’s grace, and that’s what tonight is all about.
Following Christ is, finally, not about doing, or being, or performing, or becoming. Following Christ is ultimately about receiving. That was the unmistakable message of Jesus’ last Passover meal with the twelve. It’s the same message of Maundy Thursday, 2017. “Surely, not I.” Exactly. It’s not about you and your doing. It’s about Jesus and his giving. It’s about Jesus and his certain promise. You can never be sure of yourself and what you can or can’t do. Like the twelve, you too are fragile, vulnerable, and certain to fall. But, tonight Jesus comes to you, anyway; and no matter what you have done or will do, no matter who you are or will be, no matter what; Jesus gives you himself. He’s here giving you the gift he gave the twelve: his true body, his true blood. You do not make it happen. You do nothing to make it real. It’s all his giving. It’s simply his promise in action. Because of his promise, you receive his body and his blood—the same body nailed and blood shed on the cross of Calvary—the same body broken and blood spilled that prompted the centurion to confess: “Surely, this man was the Son of God.” Indeed, surely. The same body and blood surely are here tonight. Surely, this is the Son of God, here, for you.
Only one “surely” matters—it has nothing to do with what you have done or what you will do. The only surely that matters is the surely that centers on Christ and his promise. Surely, he is here. Surely, he comes with his grace. And you, so susceptible, so prone to fail, so quick to fall—you are on the receiving end of his grace. Surely, this is Christ, for you. Amen.