In the Durham Cathedral in northern England, in the fourteenth century, a ritual known as the Judas Cup ceremony was instituted as part of the Maundy Thursday liturgy. It offers a stark and compelling image of the theme of betrayal. Following Holy Communion, a large cup of water was placed before the monks.
“it was called the Judas cup because the face of Judas was worked into its bowl so that when the monks drank from it they could see, as it were, the face of Judas looking at them and, in a sense, mirroring their own face.”
It underscores simply and powerfully what we participate in this night. We contemplate the Judas in each of ourselves, but we do so in the light of the love of Christ who loves us and commands us to love him and one another in the face of our betrayals of his love. We shall only be able to love him through his love in us; such is the greater friendship of Christ.
Maundy Thursday is the day on which we recall the ambiguities, the paradoxes of discipleship even among the most committed of us. Of those privileged to be present at the Last Supper, the Mystical Supper, one disciple was already plotting Jesus’ betrayal, while another would soon deny any knowledge of him and subsequently weep tears of penitence, and all the rest, save John, would flee. It serves as a way of reminding us of the necessity for humility as we recall the ambiguities and paradoxes of our own discipleship.
Tonight, we commemorate the institution of what is one of the great mysteries or sacraments of the Church. Christ’s offering of His life’s body and blood to His own – a participation in the very life of the One through whom all things were created by the Source of Being.
We consume our God – we partake of His Sacramental Body and Blood and do so so often, most of us, that it can become mundane – commonplace. But I would suggest that that is a dangerous way to approach so great a mystery.
It is told of Rabbi Uri of Strelisk that he took sorrowful leave of his household every morning because he was setting off to his prayers. He told his family how to dispose of his manuscripts if praying should kill him.
Another tells of a shochet, a Jewish ritual slaughterer, who bade goodbye to his wife and children every morning and wept as if he would never see them again. His friend asked him why. “Because”, he answered, “when I begin I call out to the Lord. Then I pray ‘Have mercy on us’. Who knows what the Lord’s power will do to me in that moment after I have invoked it and before I beg for mercy?”
I have known more than one priest who died while serving the Liturgy, one on Easter morning. Sure, a heart attack, the doctor said – but why at that moment?
I suggest we take our preparation very seriously, and never allow the familiarity of this mystery to overcome our sense of awe. Our God is a consuming fire, we read in Hebrews. May we not consume the Chalice in such a way as to be consumed.