Maundy Thursday

A quiet Thursday night, like tonight.  Thirteen men in a borrowed room, leaning on elbows hardened by wind and work.  The dim light flickered, casting shadows bigger than the figures that bent over dinner.  Unleavened bread … the centerpiece of this season, cracked and crumbled into shards.  “This is My body.”  Broken, crushed, snapped in two.  Fragments melted in their mouths as they weighed those words.  My body, what a curious phrase; what could He be saying, do you think?

Shadows deepened, glancing off the stream of wine poured into a cup.  He bowed over the cup, this cup that held so little wine, so much less than the blood coursing through His veins. 

“Thank You, Father.”  He meant it, somehow.  A word of thanks, though the hands that held the cup might just have trembled, letting one small splatter hit the table, leaving a dark red stain.  “This is My blood, poured out for many.”  One drank, and passed the cup along to another, rubbing his mouth with the back of his hand.  He looks so grim tonight, though He said He was eager for this meal. 

A hushed company trooped behind Him, leaving the quiet security of the room.  They muttered to one another on the way.  The wind felt cold in the dark, pulling at their hair and moaning around the bushes.  They were only twelve now, though few had noticed when Judas slipped outside, on some business or other. 

He brought the three further into the garden, close enough to see that there was sweat on His forehead and trouble clouding His eye.  “Please keep watch.”  And there, just feet away, He fell, a groan of deepest, bleakest grief.  The dampness from the ground seeped through His tunic, while He wrestled forces that could not be seen.   “Abba!  Father!”  What does a son do, when facing every nightmare come to life, but cry for papa’s rescue?  But what is this desperate yielding, which will not cling but resolutely steps into the arms of hate?

Ashamed, bleary from sleep and grief, his friends stumbled up at His word.  Advancing torches blazed above a hoard.  One drew forward, a comfortable, familiar greeting, “Rabbi,” and kissed His cheek.

And so broke the tide upon that Rock.

One hour they were granted.  To seize Him.  Desert Him.  Accuse Him.  Condemn Him.  Spit, beat, slap Him.  Mock Him.  Deny Him.  Scourge Him.  Adorn Him.  Crucify and crush Him.  Complain against and catcall.  Cast their lots and shake their heads.  Linger while He hangs there.   Watch Him til He’s good and dead.

One hour.   

And as its capstone, He cried aloud and with His body ripped in two the veil that kept wicked mortals from the presence of the Holy One.