On this basis one can understand how it was that very early on, Jesus’ Last Supper—which includes not only a prophecy, but a real anticipation of the Cross and Resurrection in the eucharistic gifts—was regarded as a Passover: as his Passover. And so it was.
2. The Institution of the Eucharist
The so-called institution narrative, namely, the words and actions by which Jesus gave himself to the disciples in the form of bread and wine, lies at the heart of the Last Supper tradition. In addition to the three Synoptic Gospels (Matthew, Mark, and Luke), Saint Paul’s First Letter to the Corinthians provides a further institution narrative (11:23-26). The four accounts are very similar in essentials, yet there are differences in detail that have understandably received a great deal of attention in exegetical literature.
Two basic models can be distinguished: first there is Mark’s account, which is broadly similar to Matthew’s; then there is Paul’s text, which is related to Luke’s. The Pauline account is the oldest in literary terms: the First Letter to the Corinthians was written around the year 56. Mark’s Gospel in its written form came later, but it is widely agreed that his text is based upon very early tradition. The argument among exegetes is concerned with the attempt to establish which of the two models—Mark’s or Paul’s—is the older.
Rudolf Pesch has argued impressively for the greater antiquity of Mark’s tradition, which he dates back to the 30s. But Paul’s account has its roots in the same decade. Paul states that he is handing on the tradition that he himself received concerning the Lord. The institution narrative and the Resurrection tradition (1 Cor 15:3-8) occupy a special place in Paul’s letters: they are preexistent texts that the Apostle has already “received” and that he takes pains to hand on literally. In both places he states that he is handing on what he has received. In I Corinthians 15, he insists explicitly on the exact wording, as it is necessary for salvation that this be preserved. It follows that Paul received the words of the Last Supper from within the early community in a manner that left him quite certain of their authenticity—quite certain that these were the Lord’s own words.
Pesch bases his argument for the historical priority of Mark’s account on the fact that his is still a simple narrative, whereas Pesch regards I Corinthians 11 as “etiology of worship”, that is to say, it is shaped by and for the liturgy (cf. Markusevangelium II, pp. 364-77, esp. 369). He certainly has a point. Nevertheless, it seems to me that, as far as their historical and theological character is concerned, there is ultimately no significant difference between the two texts.
It is true that Paul is using normative language to speak about the celebration of the Christian liturgy; if that is what is meant by “etiology of worship”, then I can agree. But what makes the text normative for worship in Paul’s eyes is the very fact that it reproduces the Lord’s testament literally. Hence there is no contradiction between holding that the text is intended for the liturgy, having been crafted earlier with the liturgy in mind, and holding that it represents a strict tradition of the Lord’s own words and intentions. Quite the contrary: it is normative precisely because it is true and authentic. At the same time, accuracy of transmission does not exclude a degree of concentration and selection. Yet whatever selection and shaping of material took place could never, in Paul’s mind, be allowed to misrepresent what the Lord entrusted to his disciples that night.
Similar selection and shaping of material for liturgical purposes took place in Mark’s Gospel as well. For neither can this “narrative” prescind from its normative function vis-a-vis the Church’s liturgy: it, too, presupposes an already established liturgical tradition. Both strands of tradition set out to transmit the Lord’s testament to us accurately. Between them, they allow us to recognize the depth of the theological implications of the events of that night, and at the same time they highlight what was radically new in Jesus’ action.
Given the uniquely powerful event described in the Last Supper accounts, in terms of its theological significance and its place in the history of religions, it could hardly fail to be called into question in modern theology: something so utterly extraordinary was scarcely compatible with the picture of the friendly rabbi that many exegetes draw of Jesus. It is “not to be believed of him”. Neither, of course, does it match the picture of Jesus as a political revolutionary. Much present-day exegesis, then, disputes the claim that the words of institution go back to Jesus himself. As this concerns the very heart of Christianity and the essence of the figure of Jesus, we must take a somewhat closer look.
The principal argument against the historical authenticity of the words and actions of the Last Supper may be summarized as follows: There is an insoluble contradiction between Jesus’ message about the kingdom of God and the notion of his vicarious expiatory death. Yet the key element in the words of institution is the “for you—for many”, the vicarious self-offering of Jesus including the idea of expiation. Whereas John the Baptist had called people to conversion in the face of the threat of judgment, Jesus, as the messenger of joy, proclaimed that God’s lordship and unconditional readiness to forgive were close at hand, that the dominion of God’s goodness and mercy had arrived. “The final word spoken by God through his final messenger (the messenger of joy following the last messenger of judgment, John) is a word of salvation. Jesus’ proclamation is characterized by an unambiguously prior orientation toward God’s promise of salvation, by the eclipse of the approaching God of judgment by the present God of goodness.” In these words, Pesch summarizes the essential content of the case for incompatibility between the Last Supper tradition and all that was new and specific in Jesus’ proclamation (Abendmahl, p. 104).
Peter Fiedler takes this argument to extremes by pointing out, first: “Jesus taught that the Father is unconditionally ready to pardon”, and going on to ask: “Yet perhaps he was not so magnanimous with his grace or so sovereign after all, since he demanded expiation” (Sünde und Vergebung, p. 569; cf. Pesch, Abendmahl, pp. 16, 106). Fiedler then claims that the idea of expiation is incompatible with Jesus’ image of God, and here many exegetes and systematic theologians would agree with him.
This is the real reason why a good number of modern theologians (not only exegetes) reject the idea that the words of the Last Supper go back to Jesus himself. It is not on the basis of historical evidence: as we have seen, the eucharistic texts belong to the earliest strand of tradition. From the point of view of historical evidence, nothing could be more authentic than this Last Supper tradition. But the idea of expiation is incomprehensible to the modern mind. Jesus, with his proclamation of the kingdom of God, must surely be diametrically opposed to such a notion. At issue here is our image of God and our image of man. To this extent, the whole discussion only appears to be concerned with history.
The real question is: What is expiation? Is it compatible with a pure image of God? Is it not a phase in man’s religious development that we need to move beyond? If Jesus is to be the new messenger of God, should he not be opposing this notion? So the actual point at issue is whether the New Testament texts—if read rightly—articulate an understanding of expiation that we too can accept, whether we are prepared to listen to the whole of the message that it offers us.
We will have to provide an answer to this question in the chapter on Jesus’ death on the Cross. Naturally this will require of us a readiness not only to form a “critical” assessment of the New Testament, but also to learn from it and to let ourselves be led by it: not to dismantle the texts according to our preconceived ideas, but to let our own ideas be purified and deepened by his word.
Meanwhile, by listening in this way, let us try to take some tentative steps toward an understanding. Here the first question to consider is this: Is there really a contradiction between the Galilean proclamation of the kingdom of God and Jesus’ final teaching upon arrival in Jerusalem?
Some notable exegetes—Rudolf Pesch, Gerhard Lohfink, Ulrich Wilckens—do indeed see an important difference, but n
ot an insoluble antithesis between the two. They argue that Jesus began by offering the good news of God’s kingdom and his unconditional forgiveness, but that he had to acknowledge the rejection of this offer and so came to identify his mission with that of the Suffering Servant. They argue that after his offer was refused, he realized that the only remaining path was that of vicarious expiation: that he had to take upon himself the disaster looming over Israel, thereby obtaining salvation for many.
What is our response to this? From the perspective of the whole structure of the biblical image of God and salvation history, a progression of this kind, a move toward a new path of love after the initial offer was rejected, is entirely plausible. This “flexibility” on God’s part is utterly characteristic of the paths that he treads with his people, as recounted for us in the Old Testament—he waits for man’s free choice, and whenever the answer is “no”, he opens up a new path of love. He responds to Adam’s “no” with a new overture toward man. He responds to Babel’s “no” with a fresh initiative in history—the choice of Abraham. When the Israelites ask for a king, it is initially out of spite toward God, who prefers to reign directly over his people. Yet in the promise to David he transforms this spite into a path leading directly to Christ, David’s Son. So a similar two-stage process in Jesus’ approach to the people is entirely plausible.
Chapter 6 of John’s Gospel seems to suggest just such a change in Jesus’ dealings with men. The people and many of his disciples turn away from him after the eucharistic discourse. Only the Twelve stay with him. There is a similar turning point in Mark’s Gospel after the second miracle of the multiplication of loaves and Peter’s confession (8:27-30), when Jesus begins the prophecies of the Passion and sets out on the road to Jerusalem, toward his final Passover.
In 1929, Erik Peterson wrote an article on the Church—one that is still well worth reading—in which he argued that the Church came into existence only because “the Jews as God’s chosen people did not become believers in the Lord.” Had they accepted Jesus, then “the Son of Man would have come again and the Messianic kingdom would have been inaugurated, with the Jews occupying the most important place” (Theologische Traktakte, p. 247). Romano Guardini in his writings about Jesus took up this idea and reworked it. For him, Jesus’ message clearly begins with the offer of the kingdom; Israel’s “no” leads to the new phase in salvation history to which the Lord’s death and Resurrection and the Church of the Gentiles belong.
What are we to make of all this? First of all, a certain development in Jesus’ message with a change of strategy is entirely plausible. Admittedly, Peterson himself does not locate the shift in the message of Jesus himself, but in the post-Easter period, when to begin with the disciples were still struggling to obtain a “yes” from Israel. Only to the extent that this attempt proved a failure did they turn to the Gentiles. This second stage is clearly described for us in the New Testament texts.
On the other hand, developments in Jesus’ path can only ever be posited with a greater or lesser degree of probability, not with total clarity. The sharp contrast that some modern exegetes draw between the proclamation of God’s kingdom and the Jerusalem teaching simply does not exist. We have already noted the evidence that points toward a certain development in Jesus’ path. Yet now we must acknowledge (as John P. Meier has clearly maintained) that the format of the Synoptic Gospels does not permit us to establish the chronology of Jesus’ proclamation. It is true that there is a growing emphasis on the necessity of Jesus’ death and Resurrection as the narrative unfolds. But the material overall is not chronologically ordered in a way that would permit a clear distinction between earlier and later elements.
A few examples must suffice. In Mark’s Gospel, as early as chapter 2 during the dispute over the disciples’ fasting, Jesus prophesies: “The days will come, when the bridegroom is taken away from them, and then they will fast in that day” (2:20). Still more important is the definition of his mission concealed beneath his speaking in parables—parables that convey to the people his message about the kingdom of God. Jesus identifies his mission with the one that Isaiah received after his encounter with the living God in the Temple: the Prophet was told that initially his mission would merely lead to further hardening of hearts, and only through this could salvation then follow. Even during the early phase of his preaching, Jesus tells the disciples that his own path will follow exactly the same pattern (Mk 4:10-12; cf. Is 6:9-10).
In this way all the parables, the whole proclamation of God’s kingdom, are placed under the sign of the Cross. Viewed through the lens of the Last Supper and the Resurrection, we could describe the Cross as the most radical expression of God’s unconditional love, as he offers himself despite all rejection on the part of men, taking men’s “no” upon himself and drawing it into his “yes” (cf. 2 Cor 1:19). This interpretation of the parables and their proclamation of God’s kingdom in terms of the theology of the Cross is also found in the parallel passages of the other two Synoptic Gospels (Mt 13:10-17; Lk 8:9-10).
The fact that Jesus’ message was shaped by the Cross from the outset can be seen in other ways in the Synoptic Gospels. I shall limit myself to two examples.
Matthew begins his account of Jesus’ ministry with the Sermon on the Mount, which opens solemnly with the beatitudes. These are colored throughout by the language of the Cross, expressed most vividly in the final beatitude: “Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are you when men revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account. Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for so men persecuted the prophets who were before you” (Mt 5:10-12).
Finally, at the beginning of Saint Luke’s account of Jesus’ ministry, we read of his rejection in Nazareth (cf. Lk 4:16-19). Jesus proclaims that Isaiah’s promise of a year of the Lord’s favor is being fulfilled: “He has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to set at liberty those who are oppressed” (4:18). In response to this claim, his compatriots immediately become angry and drive him out of the town: they “led him to the brow of the hill on which their city was built, that they might throw him down headlong” (4:29). At the very moment when Jesus announces the message of grace, the perspective of the Cross opens up. Luke, who took great care over the composition of his Gospel, used this episode quite deliberately to set the scene for Jesus’ entire ministry.
There is no contradiction between Jesus’ proclamation of joy and his acceptance of death on the Cross for many. On the contrary: only through this acceptance and transformation of death does the message of grace acquire its full depth. Moreover, the idea that the Eucharist originated within the “community” is quite absurd, even from a historical point of view. Who could possibly have dreamed up such an idea, such a reality? How could the first generation of Christians—as early as the 30s—have accepted such an invention without anyone calling it into question?
Rightly, Pesch comments that “so far, it has not been possible to come up with any convincing alternative explanation of the Last Supper tradition” (Abendmahl, p. 21). No such explanation exists. Only from the mind of Jesus himself could such an idea have emerged. Only he could so authoritatively weave together the strands of the Law and the Prophets—remaining entirely faithful to Scripture while expressing the radically new quality of his sonship. Only because he himself spoke and acted thus could the Church in her various manifestations “break bread” from the very beginning, as Jesus did on the night he was betrayed.
3. The Theology of the Words of Institution
After all these reflections on the historical background and authenticity of Jesus’ words of institution, it is now time to consider their content. First we should remind ourselves that the four accounts of the Eucharist can be grouped according to two strands of tradition with differing characteristics. Without exam
ining the differences in detail, we should briefly draw attention to the most important ones.
Whereas Mark (14:22) and Matthew (26:26) give the words spoken over the bread simply as “This is my body”, Paul extends this to “This is my body which is for you” (1 Cor 11:24), and Luke fills out the sense further: “This is my body which is given for you” (22:19). For Luke and Paul, this is immediately followed by the instruction to repeat the action: “Do this in remembrance of me”, but no such instruction is found in the accounts of Matthew and Mark. The words over the chalice, in Mark’s account, are: “This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many” (14:24); Matthew adds: “for many, for the forgiveness of sins” (26:28). In Paul’s account, though, Jesus says: “This chalice is the new covenant in my blood. Do this, as often as you drink it, in remembrance of me” (1 Cor 11:25). Luke uses a similar formulation, but with slight differences: “This chalice which is poured out for you is the new covenant in my blood” (22:20). There is no second instruction to repeat.
It is important to note two clear differences between Paul / Luke, on the one hand, and Mark / Matthew, on the other: Mark and Matthew make “the blood” the subject: “This is my blood”, whereas Paul and Luke say: This is “the new covenant in my blood”. Many see here an acknowledgment of Jewish abhorrence at the idea of consuming blood: here the direct content of what is to be drunk is not “blood” but “the new covenant”. This leads us now to the second difference: whereas Mark and Matthew speak simply of “blood of the covenant” and thus point to Exodus 24:8, the sealing of the Covenant on Sinai, Paul and Luke speak of a new covenant and thus refer to Jeremiah 31:31—yet another strand of Old Testament background. Moreover, Mark and Matthew speak of the shedding of the blood “for many” and thus point to Isaiah 53:12, whereas Paul and Luke say “for you”, bringing the community of disciples directly to mind.
Jesus of Nazareth: From His Transfiguration Through His Death and Resurrection Page 11