Tonight we see the depth of God's friendship toward us. We recall the great prayer from Ephesians, where Paul says, "I pray that you may have the power to comprehend what is the length and breadth and height and depth, and to know the love of Christ which surpasses knowledge ...." A love too deep for words. Very often we have no idea of the depth of someone's love until that love has proven to be steadfast, unwavering, at the very worst of times. It happened at the last supper. Jesus, with that great spiritual insight of his, knew what was ahead. Of course he knew about the betrayal of Judas. He predicted Peter's denial. And he knew enough about human nature to realize that most or all of them would run away under pressure. And yet ... he calls them friends. He never gave up on them. His friendship did not end with their failure. If anything, it increased, if that's possible. Christ's compassion toward them in their time of befuddlement was a sovereign love, transcending the hurt that their desertion might otherwise have inflicted. His friendship was friendship on a grand scale—big enough to factor in even the spectacular foul-ups we people are capable of. Big enough to factor in the time and energy that would be required to restore them to usefulness and dignity after they had fallen.

Some of us have been to family dinners around the holidays—Easter, Christmas, Thanksgiving—that somehow turned into an ungodly uproar far removed the spirit of the events being celebrated. Arguments started over trivial disagreements, and sometimes they become long-term feuds. At first, we are in disbelief when we read what the disciples were up to this night. The infamous betrayal is only one part of it. The finding of an ancient document ... the Gospel according to Judas this week—whose release was timed for maximum books sales just before Holy Thursday—portrays Judas in a kind of conspiracy with Jesus to bring about the crucifixion. That seems far-fetched to us. But there was something pre-set about the arrest, and the way it happened. At the very least we know that the betrayal came as no surprise to Jesus. The others at the table were genuinely upset and each wondered in turn, "Lord, it can't be me ... can it?" You'd think they might be familiar enough with their own schedule to be able to say, "Well, I know I'm not the one. Who can it be?" Yet perhaps they distrusted themselves enough to wonder. Judas tried to feign innocence, and asked the same question the others had, in almost the same words. "Surely not I, teacher?" Some have suggested that this indicates his lack of reverence, for the others had said, "Surely not I, Lord?" But he and Jesus were well aware of what was going on. Jesus in essence said, "Who are we kidding? Go get it over with."

Then in Luke there's a strange part right after supper about an argument that broke out. Who will be the greatest in the kingdom? Think of it: They had just eaten the bread of his body, they had drunk the wine of his blood—what a poignant time. Now moments later, they were bickering with each other. "I'm more important than you are." We want to say, "Hello. Disciples: This is his last night on earth. Don't you want to spend the time with him, sharing, caring about him?" But no—it's all too human. They were concerned about their own positions. Totally insensitive to that sacred moment. Maybe they were just frightened, and were trying to hang on to their future as they had imagined it. We do find ways to avoid encountering the big issues of life.

And of course, Peter. He vowed to be true to the end, even if it killed him—cross my heart and hope to die, he said. We know how that worked out for him. He finished this night in tears of shame and guilt. He had broken the bonds of friendship, despite his good intentions. But there was one who was true to the end. This one saw beyond his followers' failures, to a new day for them. Jesus fully realized what Peter would do—which when you think about it, it's not much better than betrayal—yet when Jesus washed his feet, he was looking ahead to a time of service and ministry when Peter would be a leader of the church. We are sometimes inclined to remember the past of friends, children, parents, spouses and to remind them of their mistakes—to hold that over them, never letting them forget, being especially careful to bring up the past in the heat of argument. Jesus is not interested in holding our past mistakes over us. He didn't even hold future mistakes over his friends. He was interested in redeeming the situation, and helping them to realize their full potential in God. O love that will not let me go.

The Last Supper has the ability to concentrate the mind, if we will let it. Maybe your house is a bit like ours. We don't always sit down to have a meal together, although Leslie tries hard to get us to do so. One has soccer practice, another has band or bell rehearsal, someone else has a meeting. Sometimes there's half an eye on TV while we eat. We lose the uniqueness of the moment, the idea that every time we share a meal together it is a gift, never to be repeated. The Presbyterian writer Frederick Buechner has observed, in this respect, every meal together is a last supper, a cherished gift in the presence of each other. He goes on to suggest that we are reminded one of these meals will indeed be our last—we just don't know which. "For the 18-year old at McDonalds, as well as for the old-timer in the retirement—home cafeteria, every one of our suppers points to the preciousness of life and aso to the certainty of death, which makes life more precious still." It's time to focus on the gift of God. Disciples: behold your Master. Appreciate him while he is near.

On Sept 11, my brother was at work in his office a block or so from the World Trade center. It was as bright and blue a sky as you'll see anywhere. I remember days like that in the fall or late summer when I was growing up in the N.Y. metro area. As those buildings collapsed before our eyes while we watched on TV, I tried to call my brother to see if he was okay. No answer. Surprise. I was frantic, thinking what might have happened. I had a graveside service to do that very day at 11a.m. While I was at the cemetery, my brother called our home phone, and left a message to say he was okay. To me, that was deeply moving. He had to walk many miles because public transport was out—and he stopped along the way, in the midst of those thousands of people, to make a call on a pay phone, to let me know he was all right. Well, normally, when I get a voice message off the phone, I press 7 to delete. I didn't do that with this message. I kept that message on there for a long time. I'd dial in and listen to it every so often. In all the craziness in the days and weeks and months after that September day, my brother's voice was a voice of human connection.

The Last Supper provided a connection, especially as it became something Jesus' followers participated in frequently. Do this remembering Me. Allow it to focus your attention. Experience His nearness every time you partake; be deeply aware of his forgiving, redeeming friendship for you. He knows all our faults and frailties—even those times when we act as anything but Christ-like; yet he is our friend. Tonight we thank God for that kind of friendship. And doesn't it also challenge us to aspire to be that kind of friend? To be a repairer of the breach; to have mercy when others may fail us; to be kind to ourselves when we mess up; to make new starts in Christ; and, as Jesus did with Peter and the others, to look not for the weakest link but for the potential in those around us.

In this sacred meal, we connect with the Lord again. We hear his words, we obey his command to eat, drink, and remember, and to be friends with one another. We of course weren't at that meal—or were we? Is there a spiritual connection that brings us back to that table long ago, that upper room? Is there a corporate memory that we share with Christians in all times and places?