Broken chalice

Nowhere in the gospels will you find evidence of a broken chalice at the Last Supper or the Passover meal. You won't see a description of a beautiful, ornate, earthen vessel rolling off a table to shatter on the stone or dirt floor, with red wine spreading into cobblestone cracks or staining and seeping into the dirt. It's just not there. But, for some reason, that's the symbol I've seen in my head this Holy Week.

On the altar lie the remains of an overturned crown of thorns chalice whose goblet has been fractured in a red pool of juice that is now dripping off the table onto the carpet below. A broken chalice? Maybe at the temple when the tables were overturned, but it's not at Jesus' final meal. Suppose however, when they went out from that meal and off to the garden that night, that no one was left behind to clean up. And, just imagine, that if everything were left as it were, perhaps the next day with an earthquake and the curtain of the temple torn, one might return to the scene of that meal to find a broken chalice lying on a wine-soaked floor.

I had a broken chalice of my own not too long ago. The chalice, along with a host of other materials, had been packed into a basket for transport. However, the weight had not been evenly distributed. As I lifted it out of the back seat of my car, the basket immediately gave way to gravity and dumped the contents of the heavier side. With a muffled crash, a silent whimper, the chalice smashed into the grass. It was so upsetting I could have cursed. Perhaps, I did. What now? What can I do with a broken chalice? I wish now I had not thrown it away. It was still so beautiful. It proved equally difficult to replace. Despite the same style or sku, nowhere I looked had a replacement with the same depth of color and hue.


This week, standing in the kitchen and washing the replacement chalice, I found myself admiring how beautiful the new shades of color are in this one. Perhaps no one else will notice the difference, but it's clear to me. As I soaped and rinsed, I began to wonder why I had been so uptight and frustrated about finding an exact replacement. The beauty and creativity of the artist and potter is not in the monotony of replicas but the variations and evolutions of their craft and pieces. Their lives would be somewhat miserable if they were only able to turn out the same shape and glaze with each firing. Perhaps, mine would be too. I was engaging in the same practice of "worship of the familiar" that grieves me when it spreads rampant throughout church and communities and crusades against the slightest notion of creativity or change. Washing the new chalice and pondering its beauty, I recognized my own stubborn human nature. It was a helpful reminder this Lent of the broken chalice that is me...going on to Easter.