Broken Blessed and Shared

Preached at Philadelphia Praise Center on November 6, 2011

While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after giving thanks he broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat, this is my body.”  And after taking the cup and giving thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood, the blood of the covenant that is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.”

This was no casual meal—this was a terrifying time for the disciples and for Jesus.  The disciples had just been told by Jesus that he would be crucified in the next few days.  And as if this news was not upsetting enough, Jesus dropped another bombshell—one of the disciples in that room would betray Jesus, and hand him over to the authorities to be killed.

These disciples were scared, anxious, and fearful.

And then Jesus took bread, and after giving thanks he broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat, this is my body.”  And after taking the cup and giving thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood, the blood of the covenant that is poured out for many for the for the forgiveness of sins.

This was the feast of the Passover, the time when the Jewish community remembered when God saved them from the enslavement of Pharaoh and the Egyptians. 

But, now it had become clear.  Jesus was the Passover sacrifice.  His body would be broken and hung on a cross, and he would be shared with the world.  His blood would be spilled and offered for protection.

These frightened, shaky, unsure disciples shared this meal with Jesus, still trying to grasp the statements of man they though would be their Messiah.  They had just heard that Jesus would be crucified, that he would be betrayed by one of them, and that he would be the Passover lamb.  They wondered what all this could mean.  What does it mean that their Messiah would be killed, his body broken?  How would any of this be a good thing?

We certainly know the brokenness and uncertainty of the disciples.  We understand the question on the disciples’ hearts and minds.  We too wonder, in times of uncertainty—“What will happen next?”

There’s no place more uncertain right now than our world economy.   We can see the effect of the global down turn when our family members lose employment.  I see the toll it has taken on members of my congregation just by looking in their eyes.  We worry about paying our rent, and keeping our families fed and cared for.  I see this same fear on the faces of the homeless women I work with who are trying to find a job in Philadelphia, in a market where few are hiring.  We—the disciples of Jesus—are nervous, confused, uncertain, and afraid.  We are broken.

Where is the blessing for the disciples, who knew that their leader, Jesus, would be killed?  Where is the blessing for the disciples who knew that one of them would betray Jesus?  Where is the blessing we hope for, when our securities fail and break apart before our very eyes?

When I was a student at Eastern University, my mom, Reba, was also a student—at Eastern.  Mom quit college to marry my dad and start a family, and when my brother and I were in high school, my mom was ready to finish her college degree.  Take a minute to imagine going to school with your parents.  For me it was hard enough to live with my parents as a teenager, but when I went to college, there was no place to hide.  Everywhere I went on my college campus, I ran into my mom.

My mom was outgoing—it is no exaggeration to say that everyone at Eastern knew Reba.  I became known as “Reba’s daughter.”  At that moment when I was trying to get out from under the rule and authority of my parents, there I was on campus with my mother, somehow still under her rule and authority.

And as annoying as it was to be in college with my mom, sometimes taking the same classes with her, in so many ways it was a blessing.  Because when I was a sophomore, my mom was diagnosed with cancer.  It was a blessing to be there with people that loved and cared for both of us, and were holding our entire family in prayer.

In the four years that mom was a student at Eastern, she had four reoccurrences of cancer.  But she continued to attend classes, even though she was so sick from chemotherapy.  Mom was determined to finish school, and become a social worker.

Mom graduated in May of 1995, and in June was diagnosed with terminal cancer, and given six months to live.  With the blessing of her family, mom opted not to have more treatment, knowing that it would only make her more sick and not extend her time.  She wanted to enjoy the remainder of her life as much as possible.

And she did.  She gave away her possessions, went on trips, and spent time with her family and friends.  For a long time, no one could tell that she was sick.  Until November of that year she looked fantastic.  Then her body started to fall apart.   Mom started to look—broken.

In my mom’s last days, we took care of her at our family home.  Her hospital bed had replaced the table in the dining room, located in the center of the house.  She looked awful in the last two months of her life.  Mom was barely a hundred pounds, and her hair was short and grey.  Her skin was something between grey and yellow, and her cheeks were drawn in, exposing the sharp lines of her jaw.

Her body was broken but her spirit was not–I knew that mom looked forward to Fridays.  That was when two of our college professors from Eastern would come to give mom communion.  While mom looked forward to Fridays, I dreaded them.  It’s not that I didn’t love to see my professors, but I did not want to be near anything related to God.  I was just too angry with God for taking my 45 year old mother away from me.  This mom that I had complained about all through college, I now wanted to hold on to so tighly. So, the thought of being near people taking communion, let alone taking it myself, well, it was just out of the question.

But on the last Friday that our professor friends came to our home before Mom died, for some reason I agreed to take communion.  I don’t remember much about what was said or how we shared the bread and wine.  What stands out in my mind is that mom, whose voice was silenced by cancer, suddenly began to talk.  When we gathered around her bed to share in the Lord’s Supper, and touched her hand, she responded.  She was lucid, alert, present.  What had been broken, was—even for a brief moment—restored.

I had no delusions that she was well again, or that any sort of permanent miracle had occurred in my mom’s broken body.  But I knew that something had happened to me—I had experienced God.  My professors and I—all gathered around mom’s bed, had seen the presence of Christ in the frail body of my mother, had heard the voice of Christ in her weak voice, and had caught just a glimpse of  wholeness and resurrection as we spoke with her one last time.  Though the experience was fleeting, we were reminded that God was among us, even in mom’s broken body, even in my broken heart.

I still find ways that mom is shared with me.  I see my mom’s personality and her unmistakable smile every time I look at my daughter, who is also named Reba.  And when I see my mom’s friends and family, I’m sure to hear a wonderful story about mom that I’ve never heard before.  And when I welcome people to stay in my home, I remember those times when my parents welcomed family and friends into my childhood home, to stay as long as was needed.   Though mom’s body was broken by cancer, her life was blessed, and I am blessed to have shared in it.

Those disciples—all gathered around the Passover meal–didn’t know it yet, but they would see Jesus again—restored and resurrected, walking among them.  And after Christ returned to God, they would experience the Holy Spirit through Pentecost.  Like Jesus, the disciples were broken.  Like Jesus, they were blessed, and with the power of the Holy Spirit they would share the good news.

We continue to be anxious about the economy.  But, when I wonder about how my family will continue to live in a financially insecure world, I have to remind myself of the most important things.  That in being with other believers, I have experienced communion.  I have experienced Christ.  And that has done something dramatic to me.  And, empowered by the Holy Spirit, I can’t help but share the good news—that God loves us, and God’s grace is for all.

And then Jesus took bread, and after giving thanks he broke it, gave it to his disciples, and said, “Take, eat, this is my body.”  And after taking the cup and giving thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you, for this is my blood, the blood of the covenant that is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins.

As we gather together, we recognize that we are broken, in one way or another.  But in this brokenness and frailty, we come to together, as believers in the resurrected Christ.  Though we have fear about the future we know that when we gather together, the risen, whole and perfect Christ is present here, and we are blessed.  And we draw comfort from the Holy Spirit, and are empowered by God’s love and grace to share that blessing with others.

What is beautiful about sharing the love of God is that we are still broken.  We are not yet fully healed—God is still working on us. Despite the brokenness, we have been blessed by God, and called to share.

As you worship today, experience the blessing of communion.  All of you who are broken, experience the blessing of life together with other broken believers.  Despite the brokenness in our lives and in all Christian communities, we still see moments where Christ reveals to us a glimpse of what will be.  Despite our brokenness, we are blessed, and called to share God’s love with others, just as Christ shared it at that last supper so many years ago, and just as Christ is shared when we worship God together.  AMEN.