Transformation

                A meal transformed. I gaze at my supper, laid out on the square plate; a grilled lamb-chop, some steamed Brussels-sprouts, unleavened bread and a glass of wine. The aroma of the grilled lamb-chop drifts up; a mélange of olive-oil, garlic, coarsely ground pepper, and fresh rosemary at once familiar and yet exotic. I do not often cook lamb or unleavened bread. Despite the busyness of the day and rapid approach of the hour of our departure for Good Friday I was compelled to make my own Seder (Passover). I let my mind drift back several millennia to the first transformative Seder. A people trapped in bondage hurriedly feast, anticipating their impending transformation. The salt and herb encrusted lamb speaks of the bitterness of bondage, reminding me of my own struggles against the fetters of sin. The bread speaks loudly of sustenance, transforming my weakness into strength. Its flatness whispers of a hurried flight from darkness into light. All of this washed down with wine, grapes transformed. For a few moments I, those ancient slaves, and all those believers in between gaze at each other across the table; laden with broken bread, lamb, and wine. All transformed by ultimate pascal lamb. A meal, a people, a man transformed by a single death, the ultimate sacrifice the true pascal lamb.