1 Corinthians 11:17-34 · The Lord’s Supper
Meal of Death
1 Corinthians 11:23-26
Sermon
by Steven E. Albertin
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There it is. No one can enter this sanctuary without noticing it. Because of the events we remember tonight, the night that our Lord was betrayed, this object is so central to our worship.

What is it? Is it an altar? Or is it a table? I am not just nitpicking. What we call it probably reflects our understanding of what goes on there when Christians gather around it. There are dramatically different understandings of it within the Christian church. The gigantic high altar of St. Peter's Basilica in Rome is a far cry from the simple, plain table that you will find in the sanctuary of many American Protestant churches.

I suspect that most American Christians today are more comfortable with a table than with an altar. An altar brings to mind grotesque images of some wild, dark-skinned natives isolated in the darkness of a remote jungle offering a bloody sacrifice of an animal to placate an angry god. We are much more comfortable with the image of a dining room table. At the dining room table we are the friendly family of this congregation gathered around the cozy table, just like our families at home, to share some good fellowship and a little bit of food.

When the people of this congregation built this church, they were too Christian to have just a small table in their sanctuary. They had a strong suspicion that there was something more going on here than simply table fellowship. It looks like a table, but its sheer size and dominating presence indicates that there is something big and powerful associated with that table. There is something about this table that reminds us of an altar. In fact, even though it looks like a table, we still call it an altar. Perhaps if we knew why it is an altar rather than a table, we would better understand what we are participating in when we gather around it. If we knew its origin, then we would know why it is an altar.

As an experiment sometime, when you are at home sitting at the kitchen table with one of your children, ask this question: "Where does that slice of bread in your stomach come from?" You will probably get a variety of answers, none of which really tell the origin of that slice of bread. Your child might say, "From this plastic package." "From the supermarket." "Oh, I know ... the bakery!"

Like that slice of bread, there are so many things in life that are just "given." We accept them without really thinking about their origin. In a recent magazine article I read one man's account of just how difficult it is to get back to the origin of things. He described how once he was walking through the streets of a Mexican village at dusk, when he heard the calm of the fading day shattered by the sound of an unearthly scream. Was it a child in pain? A dog in heat? No! On the back stoop of a simple stucco house, an old woman was calmly wringing a chicken's neck. It was suppertime and she was preparing the family's evening meal. In a short time it would be ready to be eaten on her family's table. Now, compare her children who were standing in the doorway watching this bloody slaughter ... with our children who think that their fried chicken comes from a kindly old Kentucky colonel with a white goatee. There is something to be said for the mother who let her children see the real origin of their evening meal. When they ate their chicken, it meant something much more to them than just a means to satisfy their appetite.

Our technological society insulates us from the truth of so much of life. Why? Perhaps because our world with all of its conveniences and pleasures is really the end product of a long line of suffering, toil, and pain. It is not easy to live with the constant awareness of such misery staring us in the face. It is carefully concealed in plastic and cellophane, brightly colored wrappers, and cardboard packaging. If we can't see it, we don't think about it.

Perhaps that is why so many modern Christians, when they decide to build a church, shy away from building something like this large altar. A table is so much more "user-friendly." At a dinner table there is harmony, unity, and pleasant conversation. The only sounds are the sounds of polite talk and the clink of sterling china. But at an altar the sounds are so much more disturbing. One does not hear the polite table conversation of friends but the braying and screaming of beasts being slaughtered. At the table there is the coziness of family relationships. At the altar there is cry of anguish as the beast sighs its last before the blade of death finally pierces its breast. At the table there is bread, wine, and the conviviality of good friendship. At the altar there is blood, carnage, and death. When we see ourselves gathered only around a table instead of an altar, we forget the true origin of this meal. I fear that it is more than a matter of mere forgetfulness. Perhaps it is the deliberate intention of those who do not want to face the horror, the blood, the carnage, and the blasphemy ... that is the origin of this sacred meal.

The real reason for our gathering in this place around this object this evening is not just that we like each other's company (although I hope that we do!). It is not just that we like to party together (although that also may be true!). No. We gather because we cannot forget the blood, the carnage, and the death of which this important object reminds us. It was the death, not just of another beast, not just of another man ... but of the Son of God!

What a strange lot we Christians are. We gather to worship our God gathered not around a garden of flowers, not under the sunny blue sky, not in view of a towering majestic mountain. No, we gather around the place of death, a place that calls our attention to a life that was slaughtered. We must wonder what kind of God this is who invites us to meet him at such a place.

In tonight's lesson we see how God has always had a habit of doing things this way. There we read of the instructions God had given to his people to celebrate the Passover. That annual eating, drinking, remembering, and praying was intended to remind the Israelites that it was by means of the bloody slaughter of that unblemished lamb whose blood was splattered on the door posts and lintels of their homes that they were spared death and delivered from bondage in Egypt. The Passover meal was a meal of death, the death of the unblemished lamb, the death of the Egyptian first born, the death of Pharaoh's soldiers in the waters of the sea, deaths that ironically brought life and freedom to Israel.

The shadow of death also hangs heavy over Jesus and his disciples as they gathered for the Last Supper. It was the Passover Seder for which Jesus had gathered his disciples to eat on this dark and ominous night. Because we have the advantage of hindsight, we know that this was a meal of death in more than one way. A great horror and carnage was about to break out again. Jesus was going to be betrayed by one right there in their midst. Jesus was going to be slaughtered like a sacrificial beast upon the altar, the altar of the cross.

Why? Why was such a bloody fate necessary for the Son of God? Why would there have to be the sacrifice of that unblemished lamb of the Passover?

The answer we often utter much too blithely, too conveniently, and much too matter-of-factly. The answer reveals a truth we so often want to avoid and ignore. He died because he came to bear the sin of the world. There, I said it so easily, didn't I? But like the chicken we conveniently pop into our mouths at the colonel's, we don't realize all the brutal bloodletting it took to get it there. Jesus died because that is the bloody fate we all must suffer for being such sinners and scoundrels. Jesus died because he became entangled in the maze of lies, fears, worries, hatreds, and sins that make up the fabric of human life. Jesus died because we all must die. No one likes to admit that our world is so flawed, so fallen, and so doomed. If the Son of God was to become like us in every way, then he had to suffer such a fate.

For all of its horror and carnage, this altar and the death it symbolizes is also a place of refuge. Because of the death of the one whose life was sacrificed on the altar of the cross, God himself promised to one day deliver us from the horrible fate every sinner must endure.

In Kurt Vonnegut's novel, Slaughterhouse Five, during World War II a group of allied soldiers is captured and herded into a defunct meatpacking plant near Dresden, Germany. They are incarcerated in "Slaughterhouse Five." Vonnegut vividly describes how the prisoners dread going into the dark basements of a place they could only associate with death. But the slaughterhouse no longer seems so cold and inhospitable. Sheltered deep in the basements of this house of death, Slaughterhouse Five ironically becomes a place of refuge and shelter when the fire bombing of Dresden began. The city above them was incinerated. But sheltered deep beneath the firestorm above, this place of death became a place of life.

Can we not say the same about this altar? Our church is built around the altar of death, a place that reminds us of the carnage and slaughter of Golgotha. We are repelled by such a bloody place not only because of the blood that was shed there by Jesus of Nazareth, but also because we are reminded that it was because of us and our sin that such a bloodletting was ever necessary. But at the same time we are attracted to this place, because this altar of death is also for us the altar of life. It is a place of refuge and shelter for us in the midst of a world that is doomed to burn in the fires of judgment.

The sacrifice has been accomplished. The judgment of God has been silenced. The blood has been let. So, let us come to eat of the meal of death. Let us come to the altar and die. Let us join the sacrifice. Let us offer up ourselves and die with Christ ... the Christ who not only died a bloody death but who also was raised in a glorious resurrection. Let us eat and drink and be joined to the same fate suffered and enjoyed by our Lord.

Yes, this is the meal of death, our death, and the death of our Lord Jesus Christ. But because of him, the crucified and risen Christ, the meal of death is also the meal of life. It is our taste of eternity, a foretaste of the feast to come! Amen.

CSS Publishing Company, Inc., Sermons for Sundays in Lent and Easter: But!, by Steven E. Albertin