The word is from the third chapter of Mark’s Gospel, the 16, 17, and 18th verses: "So he appointed the Twelve: to Simon he gave the name Peter; then came the sons of Zebedee, James and his brother John, to whom he gave the name Sons of Thunder; then Andrew and Philip and Bartholomew and Matthew and Thomas and James the son of Alphaeus and Thaddaeus ..."

Thaddaeus. That is my name. And I want you to hear me for while my name to you is but an ancient word upon the dusty scrolls of distant time, I would talk with you of realities that are alive with the breath and blood of your day and experience.

I was called from my day’s routine. "Thaddaeus, come follow me!" And I did for I wanted to know that life is more than routines, and deeper than money or pleasure or status. I followed for three years.

And near the end of those months in company with The Master we reluctantly came to the holiday city of Jerusalem. Passover was close with its symbols and rites and sacrifices. We had entered through the great gates of the City, briefly welcomed as triumphant heroes.

It was a welcome soon followed by debates that pitted The Master against the learned and powerful. But our coaching through those three years taught that God’s intention for life is more than ritual; and leadership is more than the power of swords. The debates in the Temple brought a fearful intensity to the days that followed. A clash would soon come as we had predicted earlier on the roadway to Jerusalem.

It was Thursday by your counting of days that we entered the upper room, in the house of John Mark, where we ate together the meal before Passover. The steps were worn smooth from the sand led feet of many generations. The shadows of the lamp-flames cast images upon the plastered walls. The smoke smudged the ceiling above our common table.

We came into that upper room from the hot streets of The City, crowded with the pilgrim Jews who chanted throughout their days "Next year in Jerusalem" - and who now were knowing that year. The crowds talked of the Nazarene, and the call to Kingship. It was a hushed conversation whispered, yet with the hope of many generations. Can the Messiah be here this year in Jerusalem?

It was away from the intensity of the crowds that we sought the upper room - away from the clash of will, the ever-present Roman legions, the sweaty drive to make the most of this holiday. Yet it carried over into our room - bickering continued among us as to places of honor. It was not until Jesus girded himself with the slave’s apron and knelt to wash our dirty feet that the bickering was silenced.

In an act he would teach us. "Thaddaeus," he called, "let me wash the dirt of the day’s travel from your feet. Thaddaeus, be still one moment that I may serve your need." He was such a teacher and if we allowed it, we learned of God through actions.

The meal was served on the low table with the common things that made the common meals of those distant days: fruit, cheese, bread, wine. The meal together is more than food - it is fellowship, and closeness, and sharing. It was always such with us. Through the wandering years, the meal time was more medicine for our spirits than sustenance for our bodies.

But this night the Master was sad. The feet had all been washed, and with that cleansing our voices were stopped; our debates hushed by the symbolism of the act. Our Master serves.

"I would eat this meal with you," he said, "Perhaps this is the last - perhaps we will no longer lounge together picking apart the luscious grapes of the vineyards. Perhaps, the goodness of these moments together - as the goodness of the cheese and bread - will cease. God and man are meeting in these hours - and man would seek to have his way. You bicker over who is best. Why, even one of you can betray the trust, the message, the intentions of God."

Peter shouted, "No." We joined in, feeling the absurdity of the thoughts. We betray? We had walked the roads of Palestine with him. We would not betray. "No Master!"

But Jesus was not deterred. In his hands he took the hard-crusted bread. As he broke a piece from the loaf, he looked at it in an ever-so-long silence. I did not know what was upon his mind, and so questioned: "Master?"

"It is our life, bread. Yet for it to give that life, it must be broken. The bread can be beautifully formed and baked - but it cannot give life without being broken and devoured!" Again, that awesome silence. "And other things are broken to give life ... and persons ..."

It was the same with the cup, filled to the brim with the rich wine of eastern vineyards. How good it tasted as we passed the cup from friend to friend. The cup was large, and the edge rough where the crude pottery had broken away. But the wine was sweet, and burned in the back of our mouths as we swallowed it. It warmed.

Jesus took the cup in both hands - looking deeply on the design of leaves pressed into the outer surface. He looked into the cup - the red wine catching the flames of the lamps about the room. The blood-red liquid was still upon my lips as he whispered, "This is as my blood, shared that the new covenant between God and man might be known." He drank deeply, and long. I tasted again the wine still upon my lips and beard. The cup was passed on.

What was all this to mean? Was this another teaching - as he had sought to do with the washing of feet? This meal was different from the many we had shared. Yet its elements were the same. This secluded room in the upper story of John Mark’s house was retreat from the heat and pressure of the holy holiday Jerusalem. Yet there was pressure here, too, and heat that burned into our hearts even as the night breezes entered the room and played with the lamp flames.

We left that room, not understanding about the wine and the broken bread. We went with the Master to the Garden, and ran when the guards circled about us. We hid to protect our lives that evening, even with our protests of denial upon our minds, our bodies warmed by the wine and filled by the bread.

He was taken by the fastidious priests, the pious Sadducees, and the Romans. In daylight he was publicly crucified upon one of the tall crosses of Roman execution. Iron nails were pounded into his hands. From our hiding we could hear cries with each blow. And in our hiding we cried and anguished with his anguish and bore our humiliation and guilt.

He was buried in someone’s tomb, hurriedly. And the stone seal was set. The city of Jerusalem continued its honoring of Passover - the rites and rituals, the robed priests, the celebrating of the holy season that meant business to the merchants, and acclaim to the priests, and amusement to the Romans.

I still hid. Thaddaeus, the disciple from Galilee. I hid. And I cried because of my cowardice. We all hid. And cried. And Peter the most yet his denial by words was no more than mine by flight. Yet the First Day of the Week dawned with sunlight upon the land. They killed but the body. I shall speak of the spirit. The Master is with us, with me. You see, I was on my way to Emmaus that day - and in the breaking of the bread it was known to me that Christ lives. And in my forgiven state, I shall deny no more. I shall serve.

For me it was not a stone rolled from the grave’s entrance that speaks of Christ alive. For me it is not the cross’s anguish and shame and torturous death. For me it is bread broken in the sharing; and the cup gently given from hand to hand that tells of Christ alive. I do not eat - ever - without his simple words remembered: My body broken as bread is broken that God be understood. My blood shed for the lifting up of the new covenant with God.

Listen to Thaddaeus, please. It is in such simple things of life that God speaks and through which we speak for him. It is in the commonplace that the work of God takes place. The common bread, the shared cup. Listen, you are Christian by your words, and deeds, and faith. Not by ceremonies or argument! The breaking of the bread is the willing of God that we care for more than self. The drinking deeply of the cup is the willing of God that life is more than what is seen and touched.

That was the lesson in the upper room in simple things of spirit. Do not let it be ritual to you except that it speaks of God’s love for you and your love for one another. Let the word or song or act be reminder that Jesus lives - through the common things of everyday, the simple words, the usual actions, the gentleness of stooping to wash the feet of one another, the sharing of bread and drink.

My name is Thaddaeus - an apostle of Jesus Christ. What is your name? Are you one of us?