The workshop was winding up. About 25 pleasant church people had gathered in central Pennsylvania to take part in a workshop on worship. The better part of a Saturday morning had dealt with a variety of topics, such as the order of worship, the role of music, the place of preaching, and whether or not children should come to the Lord's table. A few stomachs were growling for lunch when I asked, "Does anybody have any questions?" Most people smiled and sat in that circle of metal folding chairs. One woman, however, thought for a minute and then shot up her hand. She said, "You know, there's something I've always wondered about. Why do we bother with Maundy Thursday?"

The question came out of the blue; it was some time in October, and no time close to Holy Week. I said, "I'm not sure what you are asking."

She clarified the question. "Christians are Easter People. We celebrate the resurrection of Jesus Christ. So why do we observe Maundy Thursday?"

I asked, "Do you have a problem with the death of Jesus? Or do you have concerns about the trial and crucifixion and all of that?"

"No," she said, "Good Friday is essential to the story. You can't celebrate the resurrection if nobody died. Jesus died; and his death holds great significance. No, what I want to know is why most churches have a worship service on Maundy Thursday. It is such a dark and gloomy night, with all of that talk about thirty pieces of silver, the garden of Gethsemane, and Peter's denial. I know the story is in the Bible, but I don't think we need to honor it with a worship service. Why not remember the cross on Good Friday and the resurrection on Easter? Isn't that enough?"

Fortunately, time ran out before I could finish mumbling my half-baked answer. It was obvious from the confused glances and wilted handshakes that the question had dampened the genial enthusiasm of the group. Most folks present could have handled questions on the mechanics of worship, such as, "Should ushers wear sneakers?" or "How do you introduce unfamiliar hymns to the congregation?" But this person was questioning the purpose of observing a well-established church holy day. As she put it, "Why do we bother with Maundy Thursday?"

Given some time to think about it, we could come up with a number of answers. As the writer of Mark tells the story, the day we call Maundy Thursday was the last occasion that Jesus spent an evening with his disciples. The events surrounding that night became the acid test of true discipleship. Jesus ate a Passover meal with the twelve disciples, announcing that someone within that inner circle would betray him. After singing a hymn, the whole group went to the Mount of Olives, where Jesus warned that all of them would desert him. As he prayed in Gethsemane, his closest companions fell asleep. Then, while Jesus was still chastising the sleepy disciples, Judas appeared with a gang of thugs, and betrayed the Lord with a kiss. With that, says Mark, "all of them deserted him and fled" (Mark 14:50).

For many Christians, the age-old inference has been that if you can watch, wait, and stay faithful on a night like Maundy Thursday, then you must truly belong to the inner circle of Jesus' followers. If you can survive the telling of Mark 14, then you may be worthy to remain within the fellowship of the church.

Unfortunately, that has not always had the desired effect of producing committed believers. A middle-aged woman tells how she first joined a Lutheran church as a teenager on Maundy Thursday. "I had to sit through a lot of boring classes with our minister," she said. "After enduring weeks of strict instruction, we approached the night of our membership reception. We wore dark clothing and sat in the front pew. The minister preached a sermon about how horrible it would be for us to betray Jesus. Then he called us forward, and we joined the church. It was a gloomy conclusion to a dreary class. Not coincidentally, it was the last time I sat in a church for a number of years."

"Why bother with Maundy Thursday?" Others claim that Maundy Thursday, like no other occasion, is drenched with a mood which lies at the heart of true Christian discipleship. And if we cannot watch and wait and feel a little bit guilty, then we don't know what it means to follow Jesus Christ. That is, the story of Jesus' final evening with his disciples is intended to evoke a recognition of our sinfulness. "Truly I tell you," the Lord says, "one of you will betray me, one who is eating with me" (Mark 14:18). Those who hear him begin to exchange glances and say, "Surely, you're not talking about me, are you?"

For such people, Christian piety means beating your breast and wallowing in perpetual self-examination. Faith is incomplete until they can sing the words of a favorite hymn,

Who was the guilty? Who brought this upon you?
It is my treason, Lord, that has undone You.
'Twas I, Lord Jesus, I it was denied You;
I crucified You.1

A minister friend once told me about the biting criticism he received from an austere member of his congregation. The member said, "Reverend, the problem with you is that every Sunday you stand up and tell me that I am forgiven. Obviously you don't know how evil I am, otherwise you wouldn't forgive me so much." When my colleague expressed a bold word about how we are justified with God by grace through faith, the man replied, "You don't understand, Reverend. I come to church so I can feel guilty about my sins." Perhaps the man wishes every day was Maundy Thursday.

I believe we need to affirm what the woman at that workshop said. We are God's Easter people. We are gathered, not by a single sinister episode from the story of Jesus, but by a complete narrative of sin and forgiveness, death and resurrection. This story is fleshed out in the final meal that Jesus ate with his disciples. The scriptures tell us Jesus instituted two important practices around that table. First, he washed his disciples' feet and said, "I want all of you to wash each other's feet" (John 13:14). That, of course, is a practice which most Protestants would never go for, although it has always set the example for Christian service.

The other thing Jesus did was to take bread, and bless it, and break it, and give it to his disciples. From the beginning, the followers of Jesus have received these gifts around the table of the Lord. The bread and wine are not given to test our faithfulness. They are not intended to toss believers into a murky pool of guilt. The loaf and the cup are given, and received, as gifts. Through these gifts, our relationship with Christ is nourished, sustained, and increased.2 Our only appropriate response to such generosity is to offer a word of thanks.

Taken without a sense of gratitude, the story we heard from the Gospel of Mark becomes subject to an unduly sorrowful interpretation. It is the story of the Last Supper, the final occasion for Jesus to be with his disciples. Already we know that Judas has cut a deal with the chief priests. He will turn over Jesus for a handful of coins. This is the last time Jesus will eat with his closest friends. The shadow of gloom is so heavy that you can cut it with a knife.

Historically this grim, thankless mood has been perpetuated as some Christians gather at the table for communion. A sour-faced minister in black intones the words, "This is the joyful feast of the people of God," never sensing the irony of what is said. Chunks of bread are distributed by people with the countenance of pallbearers. As the bread and wine are served, organ music in a minor key reminds the recipients they are not worthy to receive this supernatural gift. The message is clear: "This is the Last Supper, observed under the shadow of darkness, betrayal, and death."

If I may speak my mind, however, the church has no right to observe the Last Supper. Instead it is our duty and delight to observe the Lord's Supper. There is profound difference between Last Supper and Lord's Supper. The Last Supper took place on the eve of Jesus' departure, a night filled with anguish, abandonment, and loss. What Christians celebrate is the Lord's Supper, the feast of the Risen Lord. We cannot come to this table and pretend Easter has not happened. Christ is risen; and that reality is the means by which any of us can come to this table. We come not merely in repentance, but in gratitude. God has raised up Jesus; and that is the only reason to gather for worship on this day, or any other day. We come, not to mourn the dearly departed Lord, but to receive the gift of his life.

For isn't that what he says? "Take; this is my body." Or to paraphrase it, "This is the essence of my life, and I put it into your hands. I give my life to all of you as I gave up my life for all of you." Then he adds, "This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many." According to Mark, Jesus gives his blood to pay the ransom (Mark 10:45), to purchase us back from the forces in the world that would hurt and destroy. Jesus gives his blood to establish a relationship with all of us, that we would know we belong to him. "I give you my life; I claim you as my own."

Christian faith is nourished through receiving and responding to this gift. As John Calvin wrote in one of his letters, "The moment we receive Christ by faith as he offers himself in the gospel, we become truly members of his body, and life flows into us from him as from the head. For by no other way does he reconcile us to God by the sacrifice of his death than because he is ours and we are one with him . . . Thus we draw life from his flesh and blood, so that they are not undeservedly called our 'food.' "3

If we come to a Maundy Thursday table as God's Easter people, suddenly the whole occasion comes into focus. Jesus gives himself to us and for us. As we participate, we remember the story of our redemption. We claim the strength to abide in the thick of suffering. If we should watch our small corner of the world descend into horror, we can trust that horror will not speak the last word. We remember that we belong to Jesus, even when we are tempted to turn away from him. And we wait for the day, the final day, when suffering, horror, and temptation will pass away . . . when we shall eat and drink in the fullness of God's kingdom.

These are some of the reasons why we bother with Maundy Thursday. The table set before us tempers the Easter life with the reality of the cross. Even in the assurance of the resurrection, we cannot be glib or naive. The gifts of this supper are given in the midst of suffering. They are signs of grace, signals of love, pieces of evidence that God will continue what God alone has started. They are promises of Christ's life, given to us in the midst of a world of suffering and death.

Maybe that's why we often take such a little piece of bread and sip a tiny cup. We have only a taste of what it means to belong to Christ. It is never the whole experience, but simply a taste. And a taste of life is enough to sustain us.

In 1984, novelist Reynolds Price discovered he had a malignant tumor in his spine. There came a point in his illness when he felt the need to reconnect with his Methodist roots. Since he was staying with a cousin at the time, he asked her to contact her minister and request the sacrament of communion.

The minister arrived on a hot morning. Price sat alone in a chair in his bedroom. He listened as the pastor read the words of institution from the Gospel of Mark -- "This is my body, this is my blood, do this in memory of me." Then he ate the bread and drank the cup. Of that occasion, Price writes,

Perhaps as intensely as any mystic, in the slow eating that one morning, I experienced again the almost overwhelming force which has always felt to me like God's presence. Whether the force would confirm my healing or go on devastating me, for the moment I barely cared. No prior taste in my old life had meant as much as this new chance at a washed and clarified view of my fate -- and that from the hands of a strange young minister in a room which didn't belong to me.4

It was only a taste, with meager portions of bread and wine. The sacrament did not mend his body. Neither did it set him free from weakness and confinement. But it did give him a taste of Christ's presence. And that taste was sufficient to sustain his appetite.

1. Johann Heerman, "Ah, Holy Jesus," The Presbyterian Hymnal (Louisville: Westminster/John Knox Press, 1990), p. 93.

2. B. A. Gerrish, Grace and Gratitude: The Eucharistic Theology of John Calvin (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 1993), p. 134.

3. As quoted in Gerrish, Grace and Gratitude, p. 128.

4. Reynolds Price, A Whole New Life: An Illness and A Healing (New York: Penguin Books, 1995), p. 81.