Blood Brothers

We are ambassadors for Christ, as though God were pleading through us: we implore you on Christ's behalf, be reconciled to God. For He made Him who knew no sin to be sin for us, that we might become the righteousness of God in Him. (2 Corinthians 5:20-21).

Courtesy of the small business I manage, I'm introduced to a variety of Jews: entrepreneurs, school teachers, rabbis, an Iranian mother who grew up near Queen Esther's tomb. As a result, my prejudices have been challenged as I learn more about what individuals believe and how they practice their faith. What began as a surface intrigue has grown into a surprising desire to find common ground to turn conversations toward topics of transformation.

As Easter approached this year, I was thinking more about Passover and how the elements God commanded the Israelites to use in preparation of their exit from Egypt relate to The Lord's Supper. I convinced my amiable husband to accompany me to a Messianic Passover Seder, hosted by Jewish Christians.

We arrived at the Sabbath event and were seated at dinner tables along with 300 believers and seekers. Promptly, we were adopted by a group of African American Baptists (one asked if I was Jewish) and then the remaining seats at our table were filled by missionaries to Afghanistan and their friends. As the Seder began, we voted the oldest woman, the Baptist grandmother, as our mother. She, along with the designated mothers at every table, lit the candles as the host rabbi's (non-Jewish) wife said the blessing over the entire group. The "fathers" at each table broke the middle of three layers of unleavened bread, replacing half in the pouch and obscuring the other half in a napkin. What unenlightened Jewish rabbis explain as a child's game to break up the monotony of a long Passover meal is in fact the hiding of the broken bread (Jesus was the only visible member of the Trinity) covered in linen (symbolic of Jesus' wrapped and buried body) only to be discovered later--as Jesus too appeared after his resurrection.

There were four ancient questions to be answered as we passed parley dipped in salt water, matzo bread, horseradish, honeyed apples, and hardboiled eggs. We raised our cups four times: to commemorate sanctification and plagues; and then later, after eating a meal of chicken, roasted potatoes, vegetables and fruit, we celebrated redemption and praise. At one point, I hid among the conversation, like a middle child, spooning up food while silently observing faces, listening to the sounds of elders. Hymns were sung, some in English and some in Hebrew--the official language of heaven, as the rabbi's wife suggested with a smile.

As the children searched for the "afikomen", that concealed parcel of matzo bread, a third cup was poured. Then the "father" crushed the retrieved cracker in its napkin and served a sliver to each "family" member while we raised the cup of redemption--to signify freedom from slavery. The rabbi explained that this was the time in the Passover meal when Jesus revealed to his disciples the true meaning of the bread and wine, the fulfillment of Messiah as the Passover Lamb. The obedience of the Jews to dab the blood of a spotless lamb on their doorposts to be passed over by the death angel pointed to Jesus' sacrifice as the perfect son of God (the broken bread) as the blood ransom (the cup of wine) on the threshold of faithful human hearts.

In a strange place, sharing unfamiliar customs with new acquaintances, the past shadow of a future feast was an undeniable unity that stirred many to misty eyes and silent prayer. As we raised the final halle cup of praise, the rabbi shared his testimony. When he was a teenager searching for truth, he was warned by his beloved parents not to touch the subject of Jesus or he would be disowned. Later, as a college student in possession of his first Bible, smuggled from a hotel room, the forbidden truth of Matthew's gospel seared his conscience. He gave his life over to the King of Jews, suffered the rejection and disbelief of his parents, and was called to minister to those whom he describes as the biggest omission to the Great Commission--the Jewish community. He acknowledged that, as Paul said, through the envy of Gentiles would his people be stirred to jealousy for the Gospel.

So my dilemma seems to be in serving Jewish customers, while I may strive to delight them with our educational product, I must also be planting a seed of theological dissatisfaction.
What I can't possibly do, Jesus can.