At this meal, God came to eat with his people in the flesh. As Jesus fed the four thousand, he foreshadowed that coming day when we would all feast at the marriage supper of the Lamb (Rev. 19:9). To eat at the end with God is the sign of ultimate blessing. Isaiah prophesied that at the end of all things, God would feast with his people and this would be the sign of consummate salvation. At this Supper would be the eternal bliss begun and the effects of sin destroyed.

In some churches the Lord’s Supper is referred to as the “Eucharist” (pronounced yoo-ka-rist). In fact, it is used predominantly in Roman Catholic circles, so Protestants might be prone to have an aversion to such a name. But is it bad? Is it unbiblical? On the contrary, “eucharist” is a helpful term derived from Scripture that gives further insight into how we ought to think about this blessed sacrament.
Background of the Word Eucharist
Eucharist comes from the Greek word eucharisteō, which means “to be thankful on the basis of some received benefit” (Johannes P. Louw, Greek-English Lexicon of the New Testament, p. 299). Jesus uses this word during his ministry at a very interesting point: during the miracle of feeding the four thousand in Mark 8. In verse 6 we read, “And he took the seven loaves, and having given thanks [eucharistēsas], he broke them and gave them to his disciples to set before the people.” Here Jesus establishes a practice that many of us (hopefully!) still practice today: giving thanks to God for his provision before we eat a meal.
God Feasts with His People
And yet this particular meal was different from our regular meals at home. At this meal, God came to eat with his people in the flesh. As Jesus fed the four thousand, he foreshadowed that coming day when we would all feast at the marriage supper of the Lamb (Rev. 19:9).
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Things are not right. Untold crowds protest. But in Psalm 130 we hear the perfect outcry that can, and must, arise from every heart. In this Song of Ascents we lift up our heads to Jesus Christ. We wait for him, more than the watchman waits for the morning. 

The year 2020 will be remembered, so far, for Covid-19, and large-scale protests. Vast masked crowds gather to rail against racism, policing, gender-inequality, climate change, and whatever other grievances each new week brings. Iconoclasts topple whole quarries of obnoxious memorials of the people and events of our past.
I tend to be cynical about all this. Protestors seem intent on inflaming rather than healing race and gender divisions. And they seem to give little thought to the consequences of their demands. Defund the police? Erase our history? How then will our grandchildren not repeat its mistakes?
Whatever I may think, thousands are getting off their bottoms and onto the streets. They are unhappy, distressed, and they cry out for change. “Things are not right! We want something better!”
In Psalm 130 the psalmist too was deeply unhappy and distressed.
In this they share some common ground with Psalm 130. The psalmist too was deeply unhappy and distressed. He too felt the pain of brokenness and cried out in anguish.
The difference is that Psalm 130 is a perfect outcry. It shows exactly what should be cried out, and to whom we should cry out, and for what reasons.
Psalm 130 is “A song of ascents.” The temple was on Mount Zion, the highest point of Jerusalem, which is itself a city on a hill. It may first have been sung by pilgrims as they streamed up through Jerusalem to the temple to worship. It looks up, away from self and the earthly, to the face of the Lord.
And Psalm 130 is, along with Psalms 6, 32, 38, 51, 102, and 143, one of the Penitential Psalms. We see a sinner looking up to God’s face and pleading for his mercy.
A broken heart cries out to the Lord.

Out of the depths I cry to you, Lord! O Lord, hear my voice! Let your ears be attentive to the voice of my pleas for mercy (Psalm 130:1-2).

David had once said, “I sink in the miry depths, where there is no foothold. I have come into the deep waters; the floods engulf me” (Ps. 69:2). “The depths” is the bottom of the sea, the base of the slimy pit. “The depths” can take many forms. It could be the depths of an airless dungeon, or chronic pain. It could be the depths of poverty, or of a broken heart. It could be the depths of despair, shame, or fear. It could be the depths of hopelessness, of looking forward and seeing nothing but the cold grave and endless torment. The psalmist cries out de profundis (Latin for “from the depths”) of this black and hopeless place. He dares to evoke God’s “ears” and begs that he will listen.
We should never forget that a loving Lord sometimes casts his people into the depths. Think of Joseph in the Egyptian dungeon and scabrous Job on his ash heap, consider David in the caves of exile, Jonah in the stinking whale, Daniel in the lions’ den, the Prodigal Son in the sty, and Peter in the abyss of bitter self-loathing on crucifixion eve. The Lord casts us down to death, that we might come to life and cry out to him.
Notice that the Psalmist doesn’t scramble out of the pit, and then call to God. He calls to God from the shroud. God wants our prayers from wherever we are, and even from whomever we are, at that moment.
Note two fundamental differences between the protester and the penitent.
First, the protester cries out to human authorities for change. Thus, they aim far too low and expect the impossible. Human governors can provide a degree of defense, law and order, communication, and healthcare, and we should be thankful for good government in Australia. But no government can reach into people’s hearts. They cannot make the greedy generous, the racist color-blind, the violent gentle, the selfish selfless, and the reckless responsible. The Psalmist cries out to the highest heavens. The voice of the protester, like a flapping dodo, fails to rise from earth and clay.
Second, the protestor cries for justice and rights. “Give me what I deserve!” The Psalmist cries out for the opposite. To see the Lord, the Rose of Sharon, the Lily of the Valley, the Lamb without Blemish, is to see at once the blackness of our own hearts, “deceitful above all things and desperately wicked” (Jer. 17:9 NKJV). To see the Holy One, sword of justice in his hand, is to see at once what we richly deserve, the fires of hell and the worm that does not die.
We must tread very carefully here. There are people who are in the pit as an immediate consequence of a sin. Think Jonah, Peter, and the Prodigal Son. And there are people in the pit, but it is not an immediate consequence of sin. Think Job, Daniel, and Paul and Silas in the Philippian jail. Yet the cry in both cases is the same, “Have mercy!”
There is profound injustice in the world. “The poor you will always have with you” (Matt. 26:11 NIV). Love compels us to stand for the rights of the unborn, the impoverished, child-slaves, political prisoners, and the elderly who are abused and who live, in some nations, with euthanizing potions at hand. Christians will always want to defend the weak.
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The challenge for us to be holy is put forth by Christ’s example: Every interaction showed His holiness and His humble loyalty to His Heavenly Father’s will. Every interaction acknowledged our human brokenness. Every interaction pointed us to the remedy of the impending drama of the Cross, when and where He would give us His holiness and make us His own through faith in Him.

“Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has ascended into heaven, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold firmly to the faith we profess. For we do not have a high priest who is unable to empathize with our weaknesses, but we have one who has been tempted in every way, just as we are—yet he did not sin. Let us then approach God’s throne of grace with confidence, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need.” Hebrews 4:14-16
If we are to be holy, we are to be “set apart” to God. It’s an identity given to us through the covenantal work of providence on our lives, outside of ourselves, through the life-giving, grace-imputed righteousness in Jesus Christ.
There’s lots of theology-rich, truthful words in the above sentence! Yet, how approachable is this description of my own identity in Christ? To get to the point: how do I live my ordinary life with an approachable holiness so that others (and even myself) can see Jesus in me?
As I’ve spent some time in the Gospel of Matthew, it has been refreshing to “reconnect” with Jesus. I’m reminded of His ministry and life on earth, which was raw, dirty, poor, and in a temporal way, quiet. He puzzles me and leaves me in awe at the same time!
Matthew describes for us Jesus’s holiness in His interactions with people while on earth. Jesus’ humility was holy. His wisdom was holy. His compassion was holy. Jesus’s every word, every act, every touch, every motivation was holy. He did not separate Himself from unholy, worldly sinners, but in his humility, he separated to Himself a bunch of ragged, strung out, unholy people and made them holy in Him, by Him, and for Him.
As the “God-Man,” Jesus’ holiness was entirely approachable. Beggars, blind men, “unclean” women, the powerful, the mentally-ill, wriggly and spirited children all approached Jesus. He received them and spoke to their hearts about a Heavenly Father who is jealous for them and can give them life abundant. He tells them that the Kingdom of God is for them – those who are poor, who mourn, are meek, who long for a righteousness they know they cannot give to themselves.
He labeled this cast of characters: “You are the salt of the earth…You are the light of the world.” He welcomed this motley crew to be God’s holy or “set apart” people, to receive His forgiveness and righteousness. It’s shocking isn’t it? His holy people are set apart, not because of their self-respectability, but because of their lack of it. He makes them holy through His approachable presence in their messy, unapproachable lives.
Growing in holiness to me is about growing in humility and approachability. But, it’s not just by admitting, “I’m a broken mess! (See how approachable I am?)” When I do this, I miss the point that becoming approachable to others in community is not about flippantly proclaiming my brokenness, but humbly proclaiming what Jesus has done through my brokenness, in spite of my brokenness, and offering that hope to others. He who has made me holy is making me holy through His holy, approachable presence in my broken life.
The challenge for us to be holy is put forth by Christ’s example: Every interaction showed His holiness and His humble loyalty to His Heavenly Father’s will. Every interaction acknowledged our human brokenness. Every interaction pointed us to the remedy of the impending drama of the Cross, when and where He would give us His holiness and make us His own through faith in Him.
I want reflect Jesus’ approachable holiness in my ragged life by being loyal to Him, being humble and hopeful at the foot of the cross. I am thankful for my brothers and sisters in Christ who model this for me in community. I pray that I would be considered one in that number.
Sharon Smith Leaman is a member of New Life in Christ Presbyterian Church (PCA) in Fredericksburg, Va.
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