Empty table

One of the wall renderings most frequently found in Christian homes, perhaps as commonly known as Mona Lisa, is The Last Supper. Both were painted by Leonardo da Vinci.

The Last Supper was when Jesus had his last supper with his disciples. Whether it’s a copy of the original painting or a variation, a cross-stitch or an embroidery, a jigsaw or a mosaic, we always find twelve disciples seated with Jesus.

All twelve disciples, however, are absent from Timothy Schmalz’s sculpture of The Last Supper. We are invited, instead, to an empty table where Jesus sits alone. The vacant seats are for us to fill.

That space is perhaps as clean a sheet as we can possibly get. A fresh new beginning to start all over. The sort of new beginnings we plea for, the sort of new beginnings we appreciate most in times of crisis. Are we going to draft in Lazarus and park him under the table to mop up our crumbs? Are we going to congregate freezing skeletons at the gate for sniffing out whether our excess wine and meat smell aromatic or foul? Or are we able to just go, go to the table unencumbered, without the security detail?