Bread and Wine

I'm not actually having either of those things tonight. But I have a strange desire to turn on the Sabbath Prayer scene from Fiddler on the Roof, light some candles, drink some grape juice and pretend for just a few minutes that I'm living in that culture. That I'm sitting around a campfire somewhere in ancient Jerusalem listening to the Passover prayers.

When I was a child, my grandfather preached a message one Sunday on the significance of the first Passover. I remember being enthralled by the story of slavery and deliverance. And I remember being a little frightened by the image of the Death Angel that rose up and waved around in my mind. Then, he talked in great detail about the way the Hebrew fathers applied the blood of the lamb to their door posts. In my always vivid imagination, I saw that old Death Angel swoop down over the house with his sword drawn. But, in the last second, he saw the blood and veered away. I could almost hear the swoosh as his long, grey garment swept the roof of the house.

Tonight, I want to remember that scene again. And I want to flash forward to the Passover meal where the Lamb of God sat with his friends for a final meal. I want to hear him talk about the new covenant, the one sealed with His blood and demonstrated by our love. And I want to thank Him again for being the sacrifice that keeps the Death Angel away from my door every day.