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On December 18, 1707, the Rev. Samuel and
Susanna Wesley gave birth to their eighteenth child. One
more child would be born to them, but only nine of the
nineteen would survive infancy. Number eighteen was born
prematurely and struggled through the first weeks of his
life. The fact that he survived was a bit of a miracle. They
named him Charles.
Both sets of grandparents were
non-conformist Puritans, but his father and mother were
loyal to the King and the Anglican Church. From his
scholarly father he inherited a love for the church, but it
was his strong-willed mother who made all the difference.
She taught him Latin and Greek before he
went to school.
She encouraged him to write his thoughts
in rhyme and meter.
She trained him in the faith and in
prayer.
And at Susanna’s table, Charles first
learned to sing the faith.
He went to Westminster School with his
older brother, Samuel, Jr., as his tutor, where they would
awaken every day at 5:30 a.m. and speak, write and translate
Latin until 8:00 p.m. Ultimately, Charles would master seven
languages, including Hebrew and Greek. And at his brother’s
table at Westminster, Charles learned to sing the
scriptures.
In 1749 he married his beloved Sally
Gwynne. By contrast with his brother, John, whose travails
with love and marriage are memorable, their love story can
be traced through his many love letters and poems. And with
his wife and children, Charles learned to sing at the table
of love and devotion.
By the end of his life, he had written
over eight thousand hymn texts which incorporated references
from all but five of the sixty-six books of the Bible. The
one repeated most often is Romans 8:
There is now no condemnation for those
who are in Christ Jesus... For you did not receive the
spirit of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have
received the spirit of Sonship… When we cry “Abba! Father!”
it is the spirit himself bearing witness that we are sons of
God and joint heirs with Christ… For we are more than
conquerors through him who loved us.
Methodist musician and scholar William
Gould calls his hymns “Theology in Song” or, in the
spirit of this culinary-themed sermon, “Digestible
Doctrine”…literally singing at the table.
When I was a child, my mother tried to
teach me good table manners: don’t put your elbows on the
table; don’t start until everyone is at the table; don’t
talk with your mouth full; and don’t sing at the table. But
for Charles Wesley, it just came naturally.
1. Singing at the table of Christ.
This is, after all and before all,
Christ’s table, the table of our Lord. It is not a Methodist
table, not an Anglican table, and not truly our table. It is
an invitation to Christ’s table.
The invitation to the sacrament says:
“Christ our Lord invites to his table all who love him, who
earnestly repent of their sin and seek to live in peace with
one another.” But I love the old-fashioned liturgy I heard
when I was growing up. I guess it gives away my age, but I
memorized it years ago and it still draws me to the table:
All ye that do truly and earnestly repent
of your sins, and are in love and charity together, and
intend to lead a new life, following the commandments of God
and walking from henceforth in his holy ways, draw near with
faith and take this holy sacrament to your comfort and make
your humble confession to Almighty God.
However you say it, this is Christ’s
invitation to his table, an invitation to a table which is
open to all who come to him by faith.
And so Charles would write and we would sing at the table:
Come, sinners, to the Gospel feast,
let everyone be Jesus’ guest.
Ye need not one be left behind,
for God has bid all humankind.
Singing at the table. First and foremost,
it is not our table, not a Methodist table. It is Christ’s
table, and all who respond by faith to his gracious
invitation are welcome here.
2. But in another sense, it is “our table.”
It is a common table, a table of
fellowship, a table of brotherhood, a table of community in
Christ.
Last week I mentioned E. Stanley Jones,
who served most of his life in India—one of only two people
in the history of Methodism to be elected a Bishop and turn
it down. (The other, by the way, was Bishop Fisher, who was
elected a Bishop while serving in India and resigned in
order to return to the First Methodist Church of Ann Arbor
as its pastor.) One of my favorite E. Stanley Jones
quotations says: “Everyone who belongs to Christ belongs to
everyone who belongs to Christ.” At this table, we are all
one in Him.
That’s why we include laity in the
serving of communion. The sacrament is not the private
reserve of the clergy to be discretely doled out to humble
laity. The sacrament, the table, the bread and the cup,
belong to the whole church. We are all one in Christ.
Because there is one loaf, we, though many, are one….for we
all partake of one loaf.
There are many different forms of bread
and ways of receiving it: individual pieces of bread, round
wafers, pita bread (which would be the closest to the bread
Jesus would have used). But there is something powerful
about the symbolism of receiving from one common loaf:
One bread, one body, one Lord of all,
one cup of blessing which we bless.
And we, though many throughout the
earth,
we are one body in this one Lord.
Because
there is one loaf, we, who are many, are one….for we all
partake of one loaf.
And so Charles would write and we sing at the table:
Jesus, united by thy grace
and each to each endeared,
with confidence we seek thy face,
and know our prayer is heard.
It’s not really our table, it is Christ’s
table. And yet in another sense it is “our table,” for here
we are all one in Him.
3. And at this table we sing of the depth of love divine.
That’s
one of Wesley’s favorite phrases:
Love divine, all loves excelling,
joy of heaven to earth come down.
O love divine, what hast thou done!
The immortal God hath died for me!
And at
the table, we sing of love divine.
Hymn #627 is not so well known, but it is
perhaps the best statement of Wesleyan theology of the
sacrament. He begins with a sense of awe, wonder, mystery
and amazement:
O the depth of love divine, the
unfathomable grace!
Who shall say how bread and wine God
into us conveys!
How the bread his flesh imparts, how
the wine transmits his blood,
fills his faithful people’s hearts
with all the life of God!
Who can say? Who can explain how this
little bit of bread and sip of juice can convey God’s love
and grace to me? Who can say, who can say? Then he takes on
a bit of a theological argument over what’s called
“transubstantiation,” the belief that somehow the bread and
cup literally become the body and blood of Christ. He argues
that they remain bread and cup, but at the same time, become
something more:
Let the wisest mortals show how we the
grace receive;
feeble elements bestow a power not
theirs to give.
Who explains the wondrous way, how
through these the virtues came?
These the virtues did convey, yet
still remain the same.
Just a bit of bread. Just a sip of wine.
And mystery of mysteries, they carry the very life of God.
Then he turns from teaching to prayer and desire:
Sure and real is the grace, the manner
be unknown;
only meet us in thy ways, and perfect
us in one.
Let us taste the heavenly powers,
Lord, we ask for nothing more.
Thine to bless, ’tis only ours to
wonder and adore.
“O the
depth of love divine, the unfathomable grace.” I don’t
understand it. I can’t explain it. All I can do is by faith
receive it. ’Tis only ours to wonder and adore.
Well, I know I should know better. I was
always told: “Don’t put your elbows on the table. Don’t talk
with your mouth full. Don’t sing at the table.” But I just
can’t help it. I can’t help but sing at Christ’s table. I
can’t help but sing at our table. I can’t help but sing of
love divine.
And I
think Charles would understand.
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