Passover

Contemplating the eschatalogical day of atonement

Note: These scenes were originally published in The Paradise King; a number of my friends like to read these stories aloud as a part of their Holy Week observations. I’ll be sharing the relevant stories this year to make those rituals easier. If you’d like the rest of the story and you haven’t yet read the book, you can always pick up a copy.

I’ll post these a day early so they can contribute to your celebrations if that’s helpful.

From Luke 19:45-46

We are near now.

We are very close to the events at the center of the universe, the stories to which all reality points.

In the west, we usually think of time as a linear sequence of causes and effects, and though that approach has some advantages, it has many flaws. It is better, in this case, to think of time as a many-stranded river, flowing from many directions to a single point, the gate by which this present age flows into the age to come.

This is that gate.

To understand these events, you have to have Keilah in mind. You have to remember a city besieged, and picture David, cresting the last hill on his way to deliver it. You have to think of Josiah, hefting his hammer to descend to the realm of the dead. You have to remember Elijah. In fact, to see what’s about to happen, you’d have to have met many more characters, men and women both. You’d have to know Esther and Deborah. You’d have to know Abigail. They are the touches of color in the master’s portrait.

Even so, we may be sufficiently prepared, especially if we think of Moses beholding the sunset on the night of the Passover.

For the true Passover was finally at hand, and Procula, Pilate’s wife, was having nightmares. The gospel account of Matthew does not say what they were, and much speculation surrounds her visions, but we can be sure they were mighty and mysterious omens. In her bed, Procula made plaintive sounds. The images in the dream were not identifiable. She heard huge stones grinding together and saw flashes of fire and knew that empires were toppling and that a very great king was near. All of a sudden, a voice she did not recognize called out “Behold!” and she saw in a flash the face of a man.

Procula woke with a start. It was black dark outside, though doves cooed in the window. Procula shouted for her servant, and the woman came bustling in. “Send word to Pilate,” Procula panted, “have nothing to do with the righteous man Jesus, for I have suffered much because of him.” The servant saw the terror in her face and sped away.

The message only reached Pilate in time. That old governor was agitated. He was fickle, and prone to violence, and always offending the sensibilities of the Jews. In time he’d be stripped of his office for his violent bent. Early that morning he’d heard the Jewish leaders clamoring outside his office. It irked him terribly. But when Procula’s message arrived, he called for the man in question, and so one of the great plotlines of history was finally resolved.

All through the scriptures there is a contest.

It is a battle for dominion, and it is waged between fallen human beings—and the rebellious spirits they serve—and Yahweh. Many times, Yahweh has confronted the powers of Empire through intermediaries. Moses stood before Pharaoh; Daniel stood before Nebuchadnezzar; John the Baptizer stood before Herod. But eventually, they would have to meet face to face. Two parties vying for a throne must eventually fight in front of it.

In Jesus, it finally happened.

The scene is cinematic indeed. They are alone. The governor's offices are lit only by a torch, and apart from the murmuring of the crowd outside, it is quiet and deadly. The human emperor, present in Caesar and represented in Pilate, faces off with Yahweh, incarnate in Jesus. It is a quiet, sinister, deathly exchange.

From John 18:33-38

Pilate came forward, ever so slowly, into the light of the torch. In his ravenous and fearful eyes, you could see a gleam of Naram-Sin, and of Belshazzar, and of our own emperors. He watched Jesus carefully. The messiah’s eyes were on the floor. He’d been roughed up. There were bruises on his face and his lip was split.

If I’d written the scene, Pilate would hiss, “We finally meet.” But the exact truth is more to the point. Pilate approached the original legend and said, “You are the King of the Jews.”

True to his nature, Jesus treated Pilate’s words like a question. “Are you wondering that yourself, as a man,” he asked, “or did others,” he said, and the shadows flickered, “tell you?”

Pilate recoiled. “Am I a Jew?” he asked, and perhaps meant, That I would serve you as king? He put much mockery in his tone. “Your people and your priests delivered you to me. What have you done?”

Again, the quiet returned. On the wall, the Roman Eagle glowed.

“My people?” Jesus replied, “And my priests?” He shook his head. “My kingdom,” he said, and a flash of fire was in his eyes, “is not of this world.”

Pilate shrank back. His fear increased. The silence was deep. Like dry leaves on the floor, the rebellious spirits rustled.

“So,” Pilate breathed, “you are a king.”

“You said it,” Jesus replied. There was a pause. Then Jesus’ tone changed. Jesus spoke to Pilate and to every citizen of the world who would put him on trial. “For this reason I came: to bear witness to the truth.” To show you what is really real. “Those of the truth hear my voice,” he said, “and they follow me.” Jesus watched Pilate, and all of us, to see what we would do.

Pilate stiffened. He saw the choice. Slowly, ever so slowly, with many emperors and kings and premiers and presidents, he backed away from the light. His question, when it came, was like the snake’s. “What is truth?” he hissed, and turned away.

From Luke 22, John 13-18:1, Matthew 26:17-30, Mark 14:12-26

It was, as I said, Passover. But it was not derivative. It was not subordinate. It was the original, the one from which Moses’s feast derived its power.

That was a night to remember.

Jesus could fast. He could sleep on the ground. He could endure all kinds of weather, and he did not worry or fear. But he was not a prude or an ascetic, and when it came to feasting he was not outmatched.

The smells were intoxicating. There was the lamb, roasted whole and glistening, with rendered fat running down its sides like a rich sauce. The wine was superior. Even unmixed in its jars, it put out a smell like good earth and red fruit and warm sugar. There was the unleavened bread, toasty and golden, with oil and pebbles of salt on top. The herbs and haroseth shone, and in the light of the lamps, the scene was like a feast from a dream. Jesus surveyed his table. There were tears in his eyes, but when John touched his arm, Jesus smiled. “I have eagerly desired to eat this Passover meal with you before I suffer,” he said. And of course he had. He’d waited a long time. “I won’t eat it again until it finds its fulfillment in the Kingdom.”

He was the master of that table. The cups were his to mix. The blessings were his to pronounce. And though the rituals were familiar, with Jesus it seemed like hearing them for the first time. “This is the cup of sanctification,” he said, and later, “This is the cup of proclamation.” And then that mysterious light appeared in his eyes. He looked at the faces around his table. “You’ll need provision,” he said, “for the journey.” He picked up the bread.

The disciples swapped looks. What journey?

During the Exodus, God had provided manna—it had been the first fruit of the promised land, a special portion for a special time. Like honey, it was, and coriander, just like Canaan itself (Exodus 16:31, 3:8).

Jesus held out the bread. You could see Aharon, holding the bread of the presence, in his eyes. “This,” he said, “is my body.” He broke it, and the bread cracked and crumbled. “It is given for you,” he said. “It will sustain you along the way. Do this,” he said, “in remembrance of me.” He passed it round.

Then he took the cup.

It was, most scholars believe, the cup of blessing.

(Note: Catholic theologian Brant Pitre’s treatment, Jesus and the Jewish Roots of the Eucharist, is one of the absolute best; the Jewish David Daube is also helpful; the Protestant William Lane has written good commentary. Since Pitre engages the latter two, I’d really start with him.)

“This cup, which is poured out for you,” he said, “is the new covenant of my blood.” Remember Moses, at Sinai? “This is the blood of the covenant” (Exodus 24:8). Remember the covenant of the grant, from Abraham? It was always sealed in blood. It was thus in the garden of Eden; it was thus now.

The room was silent. The wine went round. Jesus examined his new nation, and many emotions showed in the lines of his face. Slowly, in that low, lovely voice he had, a voice of open country and fields in the spring, he began to sing. “Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good, his love endures forever. When hard pressed, I cried to the LORD, and he brought me to a spacious place. The LORD is with me; I will not be afraid. What can mere mortals do to me?” He sang Psalm 118, which the Jews call the Great Hallel, the Passover Hymn. The disciples mouthed it along with him, not making a sound, the better to hear Jesus’ voice. Before it concluded, he sang, in a tone so low it was like a breath of wind, “The stone the builders rejected has become the cornerstone. I will not die,” he concluded, “I will live.”

Abruptly he stood.

The disciples gaped.

The dinner was not, by any account, complete. There remained one final cup to drink: the cup of consummation. Jesus did not prepare it. “Let’s take a walk,” he said, and went down, as he so often did, to the Mount of Olives.

That mountain, John makes sure you remember, is on the far side of Kidron Brook. The valley there was the subject of many Jewish eschatological prophecies; it was related, in the Old Testament geography, to the Vale of Fire. And so when Jesus leapt over the waters, and went up in the last light of evening to the Mount of Olives, there was no doubt. Like Josiah, he was on his way to the realm of the dead.