The master sat with his disciples—more like his children—who hung on to every word he spoke not knowing they were sitting with him breaking bread for the last time. It was the Feast of Passover, the sacrificial lamb was the master himself—he knew it, but the disciples did not.

The master was so beside himself with the pathos of parting that he took the bread, broke it, and gave them, saying, This is my body; eat it and be in communion with me. He also raised his wine chalice, took a sip, and exhorted them to drink, saying, This is my blood. Drink it, so that you will remember me whenever you do so again.

The passionate guru had woven around himself such trust that the disciples did exactly as he told them, sometimes even without grasping the intent. 

The one to betray him was there among them, too. When the master broached the subject, everyone asked, Is it me, is it me?—including the betrayer.

Such a business banquet never happened again. Born of it, we have the endless story of sin and forgiveness, fall and redemption that millions believe around the globe. The feast did it.