Every Sunday we celebrate the Eucharist. In doing so we re-enact what we call the Last Supper. It is a celebration of the supper that Jesus had with his disciples on the night before he died. We tell ourselves this story over and over again and we participate in eating a meals together. It is a action packed moment, even if it is old hat by now. It is a story, that is not just a story. It is what some of us call a myth which is not just a story and certainly is not a lie. It contains a truth that we act upon, stake our lives on, but are unable to prove in a scientific or legal manner. Think about it. We know that Jesus is dead. Centuries dead. We do not know for sure where he was buried. But that makes no difference since he rose from the dead and appeared to people all over the place. He died on a cross which one no one knows except maybe the folks in the Middle Ages who got pieces of it as relics, souvenirs, for tourists. Yet we believe that Christ died for our sins and that we are feed spiritually through this meal. We hear the story every Eucharist. This is my body broken for you. This is my blood sacrificed for you. Take it. Eat it. Do this because you remember me. We re-enact the event, we remember it and we act on it. It is alive. We live in it and into it. Over and over, again and again. It continues to live because we are alive in it.
