Brent Pollard
God’s wisdom shines through the four Gospel accounts in unexpected ways. Nowhere is this more evident than in the reconstruction of our Lord’s final Passover with His disciples.
The Synoptic Gospels all record Jesus instituting the Lord’s Supper during the Last Supper. John, writing later, highlights different moments from the same night. When we lay these accounts side by side, a clearer picture emerges—one that reveals both divine providence and human frailty in sharp relief.
Luke, the careful historian, notes that the final Passover began with an argument. The disciples disputed among themselves who was the greatest (22.24). This prompted Jesus to teach humility not only through words, but also through action. He wrapped a towel around His waist and washed their feet (John 13.4ff). True greatness, He demonstrated, lies in serving others.
However, John’s Gospel clarifies a crucial aspect of that night’s sequence. Despite his prominent place in Leonardo da Vinci’s famous painting, Judas probably wasn’t present when Jesus instituted the Lord’s Supper.
Here’s what likely happened: After washing the disciples’ feet, Jesus and the Twelve began their Passover meal. During this time, shortly after Jesus’ act of service, He handed a morsel of bread to Judas, identifying him as the betrayer (John 13.26). Judas departed immediately, vanishing into the night (John 13.30).
Only after Judas left did Jesus take the bread and declare it His body, which was soon to be broken (Matthew 26.26; Mark 14.22). Later still—meta to deipnesai, the Greek phrase meaning “after supper”—He took the cup and proclaimed it the new covenant in His blood (Luke 22.20; 1 Corinthians 11.25).
The betrayer had already gone.
Does Judas’s absence from this sacred moment carry symbolic weight? We must be careful not to over-read. Peter sat at that table, yet within hours, he would deny his Lord three times. As we often declare about the Lord’s Supper, participation has nothing to do with personal worthiness. None of us merits the sacrifice of the Lamb of God. None of the disciples gathered that night deserved what Jesus was about to do for them.
Judas’s swift departure likely served a more immediate, though no less providential, purpose. His exit facilitated the dark necessity that would lead to our Lord’s arrest in Gethsemane. God’s sovereignty moves through betrayal as surely as through blessing, orchestrating even the actions of the wicked for redemptive ends.
One question remains: Why didn’t John include the institution of the Lord’s Supper in his Gospel?
The answer sheds light on God’s design as revealed in Scripture. John’s was the last Gospel written. By then, the Synoptic Gospels had circulated throughout the churches for decades. Christians were already familiar with the details of how Jesus instituted the Lord’s Supper. This freed John, through the inspiration of the Holy Spirit, to provide what the other Gospel writers hadn’t recorded.
John gives us the intimate moments—the private teachings and prayers that occurred between supper and arrest. Consider the High Priestly Prayer of John 17, where Jesus intercedes for His disciples and for all who would believe through their word. Consider the comforting promise of John 14:1-3, where Jesus tells them that He is going to prepare a place for them in His Father’s house. These treasures appear nowhere in the Synoptic Gospels.
John’s Gospel doesn’t merely supplement the others—it completes the portrait. Each evangelist contributes unique dimensions to our understanding. Together they reveal not just what happened, but what it means.
When we delve into these unique perspectives, we gain something precious: a more comprehensive picture of Jesus’ final hours with those He loved. We see sovereignty and tenderness intertwined. We witness the depth of Christ’s care for His followers even as betrayal ripened and denial gestated in the hearts around that table.
Every detail carries weight. Every exclusion and inclusion serves a divine purpose. The argument about greatness becomes the occasion for the greatest act of humility. The betrayer’s exit clears the stage for the institution of the meal that would sustain the church through millennia. The absence of specific details in one Gospel creates space for other revelations in another.
The table Judas abandoned still stands. It declares that God’s grace reaches the unworthy, that true greatness kneels with a towel, that covenant blood speaks better things than thirty pieces of silver clutched by a traitor stumbling toward his fate.
We come to that table not because we deserve it, but because we desperately need it. We remember not merely historical events, but present realities—Christ’s body broken, His blood shed, His love poured out while we were yet sinners. And in remembering, we are transformed by the One who loved His own to the uttermost, even unto death.
Come. Remember. Be changed.









