So much was happening that night.
There was little time remaining. Danger thrummed in the air. But Jesus still had much to teach his disciples in these last hours before his arrest, so his final discourse took place at a Passover seder around a common dinner table.
The meal took place in the Cenacle or “upper room” of a house on Mount Zion—a location that, for security reasons, Jesus didn’t reveal ahead of time. Instead, he sent Peter and John into Jerusalem, where they were met by a stranger carrying a water jar who led them to the place that had been prepared for them.
On the literal level, this was Jesus’ last chance to ensure that his disciples understood who he was and why he had to leave them—and that even though they would scatter in fear after his arrest, they would reclaim their courage.
Jesus also needed to rein in Peter, his designated leader, who kept succumbing to the fantasy that he was a natural-born hero who would stand firm no matter what. Peter would regain his courage too, but only after a spectacular failure of nerve.
On a symbolic level, Jesus was evoking the ancient Jewish Exodus and the escape from Egypt, a mission now vastly expanded as liberation from sin, death, and the power of the Devil. Not only had Jesus become the new Moses for his people, he had voluntarily assumed the role of Passover Lamb—but this time, as a once-for-all sacrifice on behalf of humanity.
Most importantly, Jesus was becoming “bread for the life of the world”—divine manna that would sustain believers in the same way God had sustained the Hebrews during their decades in the desert. As he would declare to his little band: “This is my body, which will be given for you: do this in memory of me.”
On the moral level, he urgently needed to reiterate how the disciples were to behave as they built his Church and carried out his work in the world. Though he could no longer guide them in person, they would not be alone: he was sending them a helper called the Holy Spirit.
First, however, Jesus would demonstrate the difficult humility he was requiring of them. He would rise from the table, tie a towel around his waist, and then, to their amazement, kneel on the floor and begin to wash their feet.
How could any artist possibly convey the dynamism of this charged, historic night? Many believe that Leonardo da Vinci came close in his famous painting, The Last Supper.
Instead of a gigantic canvas or the wet plaster typically used for frescoes, da Vinci chose a stone wall sealed with dry plaster as his base. He employed this unusual technique so he could work slowly in case he needed to make changes.
When the work was completed in 1498, the 15-foot high, 29-foot-wide scene rendered in tempera and oils covered a whole refectory wall of the Dominican Monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie in Milan, Italy.
But da Vinci’s experiment had failed; the enormous painting was fragile and quickly began to deteriorate. A doorway, later bricked over, was cut into the middle of the by-then unrecognizable image in 1652. During the following centuries, attempts were made to recover the magnificent work, but it was not until 1978 that professional restoration began.
For over twenty years, Pinin Brambilla Barcilon used surgical tools and a microscope to scrape away, centimeter by centimeter, accumulated grime and pollution, along with the paint residue left by previous amateur restorers.
Now a UNESCO World Heritage site, the monastery welcomes over 460,000 visitors a year, pilgrims who come to gaze upon the vibrant image of Jesus and his disciples at their final meal.
What accounts for the continuing draw of this 500-year-old painting?
One theory is that The Last Supper is so very dramatic. Da Vinci chose to focus on the moment Jesus announces that someone at the seder table will betray him. One disciple—clearly Peter—leans in toward the Master, protectively hefting a knife; others shake their heads in disbelief; still others point toward heaven or stare blankly, as if crushed by the news. Judas, grasping his bag of silver, shrinks back into the shadows. Emotions are running high, apparent even in the face of Jesus, who is staring at the table and grimacing with grief.
Another theory about the painting’s enduring power involves da Vinci’s expert use of perspective. Somehow, the artist manages to collapse the distance between the image and its viewers. Those who gaze long enough find themselves sitting at the table with Jesus, fingering chunks of bread and reaching for cups of wine, at one with the stunned, whispering disciples. It’s impossible to simply “observe” the scene; instead, viewers begin to inhabit it.
In the end, most agree with the third theory: that the powerful draw of da Vinci’s The Last Supper comes from the iconic nature of its subject matter. From Adam and Eve in the Garden to the Israelites crossing the Red Sea to the birth of Jesus in a stable, the Bible is filled with dramatic scenes—but the image of Jesus’ final meal with his little band of followers is hard to surpass.
These close-knit companions carried the weight of three hard years: leaving behind families and abandoning trades, tramping the highways and byways of Israel, dealing with great crowds who beg Jesus for miracle after miracle. Not to mention sailing little boats on stormy seas, exorcising shrieking demons, and avoiding arrest by the ever-present Roman military.
But as hard as it has been, what lies ahead is unimaginable.
Somehow, da Vinci caught it all. And no doubt Elizabeth Seton would have resonated with the great painting if only she’d been able to see it. But even if she’d traveled to Milan and the Dominican Monastery of Santa Maria delle Grazie during her months in Italy, restoration was still far in the future and the image of Jesus and his disciples at their last meal together would have likely been unrecognizable.
Yet because she had gone through her own time of severe testing, Elizabeth would have been intimately acquainted with the complex emotions da Vinci managed to convey in his great work: grief, a sense of helplessness, the shock of betrayal, the terror of being abandoned by God.
When she grieved beside her dying husband while quarantined within the cold stone walls of an Italian lazaretto, she felt much as the disciples felt during that last supper: helpless in the face of forces beyond anyone’s control.
Later, widowed and penniless, and searching desperately for a way to provide for her five young children — only to have relatives threaten to cut off their support should she become a Catholic — Elizabeth experienced what Jesus felt on his final night when his closest friends left him: the sting of betrayal.
And when, after her daughter Anna’s death, she saw a black snake slithering over her grave, she was paralyzed by icy terror, wondering, as Jesus wondered out loud on the cross, if God had forsaken her beloved child.
But on the day of her first Communion, Elizabeth understood that all things truly do work together for good for those who love God.
Flooded with joy, she evoked the image of Christ at the center of the seder table, surrounded by his committed but fallible followers, of which she was now one:
“It seemed to me my King had come to take his throne.”
PAULA HUSTON is a National Endowment of the Arts Fellow and the author of two novels and eight books of spiritual nonfiction. Her short stories have been honored by Best American Short Stories and her essays have appeared in the annual Best Spiritual Writing anthology. Like Elizabeth Ann Seton, Huston is a convert to Catholicism. In 1999, she became a Camaldolese Benedictine Oblate and is a lay member of New Camaldoli Hermitage’s community of monks in Big Sur, Calif. She’s also a former president of the Chrysostom Society, a national organization of literary Christian writers.
Image: Leonardo da Vinci, The Last Supper, 1498 (cropped). Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons.