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Sunday
Last week I reported on a talk given by Sewanee’s Jennifer Michael about finding God in the silences between words. At one point, she handed out a number of poems and had us discuss them in groups, including this tender poem about the Last Supper by Mark Jarman.
In “No One Understood the Final Meal,” Jarman points out that the disciplies could (of course) only grasp its significance upon looking back. After all, at the time it resembled other meals they had had with Jesus. “What was the order,” he asks at one point, only to respond, “But who can remember dinner yesterday?”
After the crucifixion, resurrection, and ascension, however, they sounght to repeat the meal—as best they could—in order to bring everything back. If they can recrate the details of that last supper, maybe they can bring back their friend.
It’s a very personal way of capturing the meaning of the eucharist. In eating the body of Christ and drinking his blood, we enter into an intimate relationship with him. This miraculous transformation originates in a simple meal.
No One Understood the Final Meal
By Mark Jarman
No one understood the final meal,
that it was final, each part with a meaning.
No one understood as it was served—
each portion of the body doled, poured out.
Strange flesh. Strange drink.
Each portion of his body.
And as they ate and drank, he talked,
even had a private conversation.
All they remembered was eating with their friend,
a meal they’d had so many times
and known the order of. What was the order?
But who can remember dinner yesterday?
Forgiven for a crime not yet committed,
enjoined to remember someone not yet lost,
they tried to bring them back—
the taste and texture, somehow, the meal, him.
