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“Drinking, Remembering"
This is Labor Day weekend, a time to kick back and take it easy, and honor the labor of all the working people. Preachers, as a rule, don’t fall into that category. You know, preachers only work one hour a week. In fact, I was a bit concerned when I came to Dodge City. I used to only preach two services each Sunday morning, and now, my work week has doubled with four services! Actually, I do remember what it was like to work. In fact, when its hot and dry out, all it takes….all it takes is one long drink of water…not ice water, just cool water, and I am transported back to our family’s dry-land wheat farm. The sweet taste and the cooling pleasure of one long drink of water and I remember the rag jug. There was always plenty to do for a boy that was big and heavy and strong for his age. I started driving the tractor when I was about 9 years old. My dad would get me set up on the old Minneapolis Moline with a couple of one-way discs hitched up behind it. He would get the right tire lined up in the furrow and tell me to keep the wheel in it. He taught me how to engage the old hand clutch on the Minnie, and off I’d go. The days were hot and dusty, but I felt so grown up on the tractor, sitting in the seat that was more spring and wire than cushion, with the rag jug between my legs. Do you know what a rag jug is? My mother used to make them out of old one- gallon Clorox bottles. She’d wrap one with rags, burlap and a final covering of denim, safety pin the top and the bottom, and you had a water jug to take with you to the field. The rags, burlap and denim would all be wet down when you filled the jug with cool well water. And through the day, as the wet outer covering evaporated in the hot sun, it kept the water in the jug cool. The handle on the Clorox jug was perfect for hooking your index finger through. You’d hook the jug, bring it up to your lap, screw off the lid, then, perching the jug on the top of your elbow, hoist it up to your lips. When you were particularly hot, when it was particularly dry, nothing seemed sweeter than a long, cool pull from the old rag jug. That’s why my memories are so strongly tied even to this day to a certain temperature of water. Not really cold, not warm either. Cool. Quenching. Today I drink, and I am flooded with memories. Paul taught his churches that the Lord ’s Supper is not only about eating and drinking, but it is about remembering. That’s what the Lord instructed after all, Paul tells them. To eat and then drink, in remembrance. What is it then, that you remember when you come to the Lord ’s Table. As you eat the pinch of bread and drink the few drops of wine. What is it that comes to your memory? Paul gives his church folk a hint. “For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.” Proclaiming the Lord’s death until he comes. I find it somewhat peculiar that Paul, who is usually so focused upon the Resurrection of Jesus, who pounds his pulpit announcing that Jesus is the first raised from the dead, is instead here proclaiming the Lord’s death. The cross is the central image here, not the empty tomb. As the Christians gather to receive the Lord ’s Supper, they are to remember the cross, Paul seems to say. They are to remember the suffering. They are to remember the death. They are to remember the sacrifice. After all, that’s what our liturgy recalls as we gather at the Table even today, isn’t it? Body of Christ, broken. Blood of Christ poured out. In fact, it might seem a bit gruesome. But then, sacrifice for the People of God has always been a gruesome thing. On a stone altar in the Temple, the priest would lay out an unblemished animal. First born. Without fault. And the priest would cut the animal on the altar and the blood would flow over the stones. This sacrifice would be the act that enabled the people to become at-one, with God. To achieve at-one-ment. Atonement. The atoning act depended on two things. That a righteous priest present a faultless animal. Why? How did the spilling of an innocent animals' blood make possible the forgiveness of sins, the righting of the relationship with God? I imagine the people gathered around as the priest cut the animal on the altar. As the blood poured forth, I imagine them thinking, “what did that poor animal ever do to deserve such treatment.” Indeed, the animal was blameless—so the next logical reflective questions surely would be, “what have we done?” The sacrifice of the blameless created an opportunity for the sinful to acknowledge their own sin—sin which in the end has the capacity to destroy life. We do not have blood stained altars to remind us of our sin, and our need to be reconciled with the Creator, the Giver of Life. We have these symbols to remind us. A loaf of bread, broken and offered up—just as the sinless and perfect body of the Christ was broken and offered. And a cup of wine, poured out just as the blood of Christ was poured out. And as we remember, might we be moved to reflect, “what did the Christ ever do to deserve such a horrible death?” The answer of course is the same as it was for those seeing the blameless animal slaughtered upon the altar. If we are willing then, we move to the next logical question—“then what have we done?” “What sin of mine has threatened to destroy life, what sin of mine made this sacrifice necessary?” It is not easy to dwell on sacrifices made on our behalf is it? Just asking the question, “Who has sacrificed for you?” moves us into an uncomfortable place. We are ashamed by such love that would put our needs before their own. In our prayer group this week, we began to talk about the sacrifices of our mothers—those who take the smallest piece of chicken so that there was plenty for her family. One told how her mother always took what she said was her favorite piece—the neck. Flavorful perhaps, but the more filling pieces of meat were always eaten by the rest of the family. Has anyone on this earth made a sacrifice for you? Who has sacrificed for you? My wife, Kristi made some great sacrifices so that I could go to seminary—left to raise a young daughter for three years and keep a household together while I was often absent—traveling to Kansas City for class, and looking after the needs of two small churches during the three days I was home each week. Who has sacrificed for you? Who has given up that you might have opportunities, that you might have what you needed, or worse, that you might have what you desired? Often there is a desire to turn that question around—and call to mind the things we have done for others—not sacrifices really, just doing what needed to be done. Not unbearable, for love makes such self giving bearable. We become uncomfortable remembering the sacrifices made for us…it shames us, and fills us with humility. We would much rather discuss the ways we have helped others. Who wouldn’t want to be the one taking food to someone in need, than be the one opening the door and receiving the gift? Who wouldn’t want to be the one driving a friend to the doctor, than be the one being helped into the passenger’s seat? It takes courage and humility to receive such gifts. More courage and humility to recognize when such gifts are a sacrifice. How much more courage and humility to receive the gift of the sacrifice that the Christ made for us? To eat the bread, to drink the cup, is an opportunity to remember. An opportunity to receive.
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