“Jesus Christ died for you.”
It sounded like it belonged in a Billy Graham Crusade, but I had heard it while sitting in a Scottish abbey with about seventy-five other people, huddling together or dispersed throughout the large stone church.
At the end of the service, the preacher repeated the phrase: “Jesus Christ died for you. . . because he loves you.”
But I was expecting the preacher to say something that sounded more profound. After all, this was the Iona Abbey on the Isle of Iona, where saints, pilgrims, kings, and strangers have traveled from around the world for centuries. People had been telling me that Holy Week was the peak of the year there, and I came to this Good Friday service expecting some revelation from God.
The preacher said the simple phrase a third time. Was that really the main point of her homily? No deep spiritual insight? No poetic epiphany? The words sounded out of place, like someone posting a Facebook status with the lyrics of a love song.
Maybe every Gospel message is a love song: though no two are the same, every song is about the same thing.
One of my final assignments in seminary was to write an essay answering a question of my choosing. Mine was “What is the Gospel, and how does the Church proclaim it?”
The Gospel, I wrote, is that through the life, death, and resurrection of Jesus Christ, we can live everlastingly. The Good News is that the God who created and loves the universe continues to transform it from chaos into completeness. The Good News is that God desires to heal us, to make us whole. That everyone is invited to Christ’s banquet, and that the outcasts of our communities, those with disabilities, without work or homes, who are wounded and don’t fit in, have first choice at the table.
Yet months after writing the essay, I continue wrestling with the Gospel. I can explain what the Good News is, or what I think it is, and in so doing momentarily convince myself that it is the greatest message anyone in the world will ever hear--yet I don’t feel motivated to share it, and I don’t remember the last time I did. Unless I include writing the essay for class.
I stand in line, and when it’s my turn, I pinch a small cube of bread with my left hand. The pastor says, “The body of Christ.” With my right hand I pluck the plastic thimble carrying grape juice from the silver tray as the pastor says ”The blood of Christ.” I return to my chair, where I wait for everyone else.
“On the night that our Lord was betrayed, he was gathered in the upper room with his disciples, celebrating the Passover meal.” In this small church in San Diego, California, communion seems to be the climax of the service, around which revolve the singing, praying, tithing, fellowshipping, and preaching.
“Then he took the bread, and after breaking it, he said, ‘Take and eat. This is my body, broken for you.’” The bread tastes salty; Jesus’ sweat?
“In like manner he took the cup and said, ‘Take and drink, for this is my blood, poured out for you, for the forgiveness of sins.’” The remnants of chewed bread catch the juice in my mouth.
How can the body and blood of Christ--the Word of God in flesh, who stilled storms by speaking and who healed people by touching them, whose anger overturned rules and whose compassion fell like wheat from heaven, and who now fills the universe--be contained in such tiny portions?
I want to be true, like the prophet Jeremiah, the Apostle Paul, and the good preachers I’ve heard. I want to proclaim the Gospel not because I think Christians are supposed to, but because the Word of God has been trapped in my bones like a fire, making me too weary to keep it in any more.
I get out of bed, sit in my chair, and write. Now it’s my turn.
Jesus Christ died for you.
Jesus Christ wants to live in and through you.
And God loves you.
