“But God raised him on the third day and allowed him to appear to us who were chosen as witnesses, and who ate and drank with him after he rose from the dead.” – Acts 10: 41 (NRSV)
The Last Supper wasn’t. Jesus ate many meals with his friends after that “last” one. A snack of fish in a locked room, breakfast on the beach, supper in Emmaus, and untold others in the forty days after God raised him.
Dying and rising seems to have stimulated his appetite. It’s like he’s saying, “The worst thing imaginable happened. But look at us now. Me, with scars in my shining flesh; you, with a hint of courage in your timid hearts. We made it through. Let’s eat. We’re not done yet.”
The story of our lives, the story of the church: The worst things imaginable happen. Yet, somehow, by grace and grit, we’re still here, weary and scarred, but breathing, more or less upright, taking nourishment.
We’re not done yet. Not done blessing, singing, giving thanks. Not done washing feet, feeding, consoling, emptying jails. Not done multiplying justice like bread. Not done feasting at the table of life.
Which makes me wonder: when we do Communion, why is it usually a Last Supper of dread and death? Why not do New Suppers of relief and resilience as well? We could call them Stunned Snacks in the Locked Room, Beauteous Breakfasts on the Beach, Dazzling Dinners in Emmaus, Triumphant Feasts of Forty Days.
We could bless the bread and cup with new words, too. Maybe these: “We remember, O God, that the worst happened. But here we are. By grace and grit, we’re not done yet. Pass the bread, good Jesus; pour the wine.”
Gather us in grateful relief, good Jesus, at the Table of Not Done Yet. Remember with us that love outlives death, the work goes on, the feast never ends.