Anguish

Then he took a cup of wine and gave thanks to God for it. Then he said, “Take this and share it among yourselves. For I will not drink wine again until the Kingdom of God has come.” He took some bread and gave thanks to God for it. Then he broke it in pieces and gave it to the disciples, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.

This past week I watched Season four, Episode four of “The Chosen.” Near the end, Jesus spoke passionately to his disciples about their request to sit at his right and left hand in glory. He was shocked by this request. And told them so. They had no idea what they were asking. This and more led to the final scene where Jesus stood alone, looking at an olive press. Watching what it took to press the oil out. Standing there feeling that very same pressure. The look on his face, in those final moments, was complete and utter anguish.

Which led me to think about the Last Supper. I have never thought of that moment in time as being anything more than Jesus and his disciples having dinner and Jesus using portions of the dinner as a metaphor for what’s to come. I have never - and I’m ashamed to say this - I have never thought of what it must have truly been and felt like for Jesus in those moments. I could blame nice pictures and Sunday school, blame myself for thinking of him as more God than man, but it’s really no excuse.

And the reason I know that there was more to it is because of the experience I’ve had in acting.

When I was in a scene where people were talking and needed to reach a pivotal moment, we never went from casual conversation to the climax. I was taught to build. To build in intensity, one line on top of the other. Building and building until we finally got to and had earned the moment of exclamation.

The same would certainly be true of this supper. Jesus was not only sharing a meal with his followers, followers who really were, understandably, clueless as to what Jesus had been teaching them for the past three years, he was looking across the table at one of his closest friends who would soon deny him. And at another who would betray him. That, alone, had to have been debilitating. Yet on top of that, he knew that both of these actions were coming in a matter of hours. There was no way he could have been relaxed, even calm at this meal.

So as he held up the bread and then the wine, I now picture his hands shaking. His voice unsteady. Each word and sentence from his mouth, building and building to the moment where he ran out of the room to the garden where he prayed to the point of bleeding, having blown his capillaries. This does not come from casual dinner conversation. This comes from a build up, leading to unmitigated anguish.

When I take communion I remember what Jesus did for me. What I have failed to do is remember what it TOOK for him to do it for me. Even trusting in his father, and being part God, Jesus had to have been scared out of his mind. Knowing what was coming. The torture, the pain, the death. 

So he deserves more than just my remembrance through the bread and wine. He deserves to be remembered for what it took for him to give his life for me. I won’t go through this every time or try to manufacture all these feelings I’m currently having. But I think I will and need to incorporate one word as I take communion in my future. And that word is anguish. 

Keeping that word in mind, I will eat and then I will drink in remembrance of Him.