Tasting the Bitter Herbs

She stands tall lifting her red plastic cup high overhead. Little eyes sparkle and she tries to follow the words,

Blessed are you, O Lord our God, King of the universe…

She sips the juice and plops down on her pillow. Table spread before her. Children all around gathered for a normal Wednesday evening church service. Instead led to tables unfolded, flat on the floor. Candles glimmer and children squirm, chatter, and wonder.

Bites of parsley remind. The next bite is maror, the bitter herbs. I warn her it is hot. It is the tiniest amount, but she sobs and spits it out. The taste of slavery. The taste of sin. Unpalatable. Full of misery.

This Passover feast was God’s idea. Families recline at table nourishing souls with food. So wise and yet the symbols blur, overshadowed by one taste burned upon our tongues. The juice washes it away. Sweet purple drops of sap squeezed into a challis and poured.

We all want to drink from that cup, the special cup set aside for Elijah. We do, because one greater than Elijah is here. The communion cup poured out and filled again. Hands of all sizes hold their cups close the the mouth of the clay. The leader gives to all who ask. The words etched by an artisan years ago now wet with drops spilling over the side.

This is my blood shed for you.

Words I don’t understand. Words with promise. Words that take me back to the cross I so easily abandon.

It hurts. Surrounded by hatred and violence.

It’s messy. Smeared with flesh and blood.

I cringe remembering. The god-man groaning in agony as his most precious love turned away.

My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? (Mathew 27: 46)

Alone for the first time in eternity yet surrounded by the human race. Flesh ripped apart. Soul crushed. The consequences of rebellion, my rebellion. I don’t see my sin the same way. I don’t understand how far removed from creation I am.

The one who was there at the beginning knows. He tasted the sponge sopped with vinegar when he longed for the refreshing dew of the garden. He asked us to remember. He promised not to forget. And while he waits for us to love like he did, he prepares another feast. One without any tears.

Tags: Good Friday, Passover