I walk in late, and slide into the front row to the one remaining seat and there I see it. A table set for communion, covered in the usual thin muslin cloth. My gaze is fixed, caught on the sight. Tears stream.
Today I don’t see my saviour on that table. Today I see my friends on that table. And I weep for them. I see their blood shed, their bodies broken, their flesh ripped so brutally apart. I see their love, their love of a saviour, so deep that they would die for Him. Beautiful, tragic, love. I am ashamed, but I also see betrayal. Betrayal of a saviour who did not save, and the betrayal cuts deep. I almost choke as my emotions hit me, and I sit down, tears flowing freely. I look away, away from that table of betrayal.
Something brings me to look back upon those small cups filled with red juice, and those baskets containing broken bread. I see the pain and suffering of those dear to me, but then I see something more. I see His pain, and His suffering, His sacrifice… for
me. I see that love, the love of a saviour, so deep, that He would die for me. But I see more, I see my betrayal, the betrayal of one so loved yet so eager to turn away, my betrayal which caused that body to break, that blood to flow. My own betrayal for which I can never pay back. I am disgusted by my own rebellion, so overwhelmed by my inability to make things right. I quickly shift my eyes.
But He’s not done yet, and I hear him whispering to my heart,
“But it’s ok, I still love you, THAT deeply. It was for your betrayal that I became broken, that my blood was shed, that my body was pulled apart. I know your humanness, and that is why this gift of my life, is free. That’s why I’m giving you grace.”
And so I see, this table is a table of betrayal. Not of His, but of mine. It is because of my betrayal this table is necessary. Yet He loves me still, and he loves me so deeply He would hang from that tree.
His grace undoes me once more, and my tears tell the story.