Maundy Thursday.C.25
“The Last Supper” by Bassano
The Rev. Melanie McCarley
At its deepest truth, the Gospel is participatory—it asks something of us—not simply that we listen, that we engage at the level of the head—but that we open ourselves to be changed, in our hearts. The Gospel does not ask that we be observers. Instead, we are participants. The time in our liturgical year where this is most apparent is Holy Week. On Palm Sunday, we, like those who came before us, strew palm branches in the path of our Savior as he entered the gates of Jerusalem—welcoming him with the word of adoration and joy, “Hosannah!” Tonight, we find ourselves as guests, invited into the upper room to share the Last Supper with Our Lord and his Disciples.
To aid us on our journey, I want to share with you this evening the painting of the Last Supper by Jacopo Bassano, a Venicean artist of the sixteenth century. I have been assisted in writing this reflection by an article from St. Albert’s Chaplaincy in Edinburgh. This painting was created sometime between 1542 and 1546. Take a step back in time, and walk into this painting with me.
A quick glance at Bassano’s painting tells us that it was inspired by Leonardo Da Vinci’s Last Supper. But there are differences, aren’t there. Whereas Da Vinci’s masterpiece of a century before depicts a spacious upper room with windows opening on to a sun-filled world, Bassano’s room is small and decidedly cramped—with no windows. Moreover, the occupants of this feast. Well, they lack the statesman-like decorum of Da Vinci. Da Vinci’s Last Supper is quiet (almost airless) and dignified. It’s hard to imagine anyone raising their voice above a whisper. Instead, in Bassano’s painting, it is clear that these disciples are fishermen. Elbows are on the table, extravagant gestures are being made. Not a napkin in evidence. Nor is it difficult to figure out that emotions are highly charged. Things look…well, unorganized, maybe even a bit confused—chaotic, even. And this is emphasized in the disciple’s faces. Their expressions range from bewilderment to what might be construed as accusation. Notice, none of them (not one) is looking directly at Jesus. Nor, for that matter, do they look at us. Only one person is looking at us. Jesus. Standing calm in the midst of disordered chaos he invites us in.
Who are these disciples? It’s difficult to tell. The one sleeping is clearly John, the Beloved Disciple, but it is hard to identify the rest. Which one do you think is Judas? Perhaps it is the figure in the dark cloak. He’s the only one drinking wine. He looks at no one, but stares at the table, lost in thought. Is this Judas? We don’t know, but perhaps we are not meant to know. The identity of the betrayer is yet to be revealed. Close by is an older man in brown garb, in a strange pose with a knife in his hand. Who is he?
Let’s look at Jesus. Unusually, he is placed somewhat in the background—but he is clearly the central figure of Bassano’s painting. He is the calm in the midst of the storm. Now, look at his hand, gently fingering a platter with a lamb’s head on it. This is a Passover supper—but the lamb is also a symbol of Jesus, the Lamb of God.
Now, look down. In the center of the floor is the bowl (and me—I’m delighted to see a dog resting. I’m wondering if the cat is about to pounce—disturbing his rest.) And there are feet. Lots of feet—bare feet—clean feet! Perhaps this is the vessel used by Jesus to wash the disciple’s feet, but if it was, the water in it is remarkably clear, one might say, miraculously clear. Above it is a carafe of wine. The carafe is placed at the very edge of the table. In such a crowded space, it could easily be knocked over. Should this happen, the wine would pour directly into the bowl of water beneath making it resemble the blood and water that will flow from the side of Jesus on the cross, signifying the sacraments of Baptism and the Holy Eucharist. In this very natural way, this arrangement of items calls to mind the new commandment that Jesus has given the disciples “that you love one another as I have loved you. By this all will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”*
So, perhaps another way of experiencing this painting is to see that the source of the disciple’s consternation isn’t that there is a betrayer in their midst, it is, instead, this new commandment bestowed upon them by Jesus. These disciples, they knew each other well. So, to love as Jesus has loved them could be challenging for them. Perhaps it is challenging for us as well. If they, who have followed Jesus so closely for so long find this uncomfortable and difficult, what about ourselves? How well do you go about the task of loving your neighbors as yourself?
This night is moody and dark—for Jesus and the disciples, certainly, but perhaps also for us. The world on that Thursday night, long ago, was chaotic and frightening. Politics, then as now, was forefront on people’s minds. Drama and accusations were par for the course. Uncertainty and fear would have been warring with hope and expectation. What would the morrow bring? What would Jesus do? Would people rise up in revolt, or capitulate to the powers that be?
Standing in this room, what do you hear? There are whispered discussions, perhaps even arguments, voices are raised by some, and then there are others whose silence speaks volume. What do you think Jesus wants on this night—from his disciples…from us? From you? What does his look convey? For, make no mistake, he is looking at you and at me, at all of us here. For we, too, are participants. Oh, the time may have shifted—by more than two millennia. But even now, for disciples such as ourselves, the question persists. How shall we watch with Jesus this Eve before Good Friday? As we greet tomorrow, will we stand at the cross or will we occupy ourselves with tasks designed to distract us from what occurred on that day long ago? How shall our actions display our love and devotion to God and our neighbor?
The days of Holy Week are difficult, to be certain, but they are there to prepare us for the Day of Resurrection—a day when we, like the women at the tomb, will look into the burial place of our Savior and behold an emptiness—that looks surprisingly, like hope. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
• From St. Albert’s Catholic Chaplaincy, Edinburgh