You who gave me life, teach me, now, to live.

In the weaning hours of daylight, the sound of mom’s voice called us in for dinner. We were playing. We created all kinds of realities on our bikes as we rode around the neighborhood. We were, however, never too far away as to hear mom’s voice calling. It gave a sense of balance and identity to know that someone was looking out for us and preparing.  We had a place to go and we belonged. Dinner time was important. We gathered at the end of the day. We gathered at the beginning of the evening. We were reminded that our value extended beyond that which we were hoping or accomplished. We were a family. That was my seat and my place. You sat there. We splashed water on each other as we hurried to wash our hands. There was always a whirlwind of life that settled, finally, at the dinner table.  It really did not mattering what we ate. There you were, across from me. There was mom. The family meeting at the end of the day. That was guarded. That was treasured. We could invite whomever. The more the merrier. Our presence and participation was valued. She modeled for us and taught us what and how to value. At dinner.

The darkness of the night and the impact of decisions made before creation, like dominoes in controlled free fall, provided the backdrop for Jesus to invite his closest friends to  dinner. One last dinner. Everyone gather. Even the specter of the house keeper bringing a lamp took on otherworldly proportions. Jesus had prepared this night. And like our mother, he teaches us what and how to value. The Mandatum came later.  A new and unique modeling of Amor Dei come into a dark little room. At dinner.

And like most things that I treasure and value, appreciation comes later. Insight and truth like the tides seem to, incrementally, make its way up the shoreline of my heart. What were you doing coming back to Jerusalem, as it were, to your certain death? What were you implying, Lamb of God, to arrange all of this at Passover? How do I understand all the symbols and meanings of such a fearful and ominous invitation to dinner? Why is your heart so heavy? What is this about betrayal? How did you know that I have betrayed you? My betrayal lies not on the smile or  lack of willingness to help carry the load. I am always ready to assist. My betrayal, if it can be mine to own, is in my very heart. I cannot do other than to betray you. You know this. There is another who will betray. He will go in my stead. Tonight, I will stay here. Listen to you. Watch you. Let you wash my feet and find a perverse and tormented comfort in the deepening disillusion I find with my companions. Tonight. At dinner.