By Mark Atteberry

The world has little patience for a misfit.

Show up at a swanky country club in jeans and flip-flops and you won’t be allowed to play. Let your grass grow too tall or park a junk car in your driveway and the homeowners’ association will impose a fine. Cheerfully work above and beyond your job description and your fellow employees will resent you for making them look bad.

Let’s face it. Life is less painful if you fit in. We even drill this into our children, starting with the uniforms we force them to wear when we send them to school. When some future generation picks through the rubble of our collapsed civilization, they will no doubt wonder about our obsession with tiny polo shirts and khaki shorts.

But even our most valiant efforts to avoid the misfit label are doomed to fail. The truth is, there’s something wrong with all of us. Like the pants with the wonky zipper or the shirt that’s missing a button, we’re all irregulars. If you look close enough at even the most polished person, you’ll discover something that’ll make you turn up your nose.

The apostle Paul put it succinctly: “No one is righteous—not even one. No one is truly wise; no one is seeking God. All have turned away; all have become useless” (Romans 3:10-12*).

It is no exaggeration to characterize our weekly church service as a misfit convention. We are not the Navy SEALs, we are F Troop. We are not the Harlem Globetrotters, we are the Washington Generals.

All of which makes me appreciate even more what Jesus did on the cross.

He gave his life, not for spit-polished, high-achieving, miniature versions of himself, but for a bunch of bumbling misfits who crank out more cringe-worthy moments than Hershey does candy bars. Paul was acknowledging this when he said, “When we were utterly helpless, Christ came at just the right time and died for us sinners” (Romans 5:6).

As you partake of the bread and the juice, make sure you thank Jesus for his sacrifice. It’s an amazing thing that someone would give his life, and even more amazing that he would give it for people like us.

________

*Scripture quotations are from the New Living Translation of the Bible.

Mark Atteberry is senior minister with Poinciana Christian Church, Kissimmee, Florida.

By Becky Ahlberg

Do you remember your first Communion? The first time you held the bread and cup and accepted the invitation to this table offered by the Lord himself upon your baptism and commitment to him? How old were you? Where were you? Who else was there? For some of us, that moment was decades ago; for some others, it might be this very day. For all of us, it is a call to remembrance.

We’re called to remember our commitment. We’re called to remember our community here in this place and to remember Christians around the world. And we’re called to remember Christ, our Savior. This is how Jesus asked us to remember:

The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes (1 Corinthians 11:23-26).

When Jesus spoke those words, he was among his closest friends, those who knew him well and were committed to following him. Jesus knew they would need each other as never before in the days ahead, and even though they still didn’t understand the full extent of his words, they grasped that it was a significant moment.

And for years to come, every time they gathered around the table, Jesus’ friends remembered the history-changing events of those days. It was a personal memory, a shared memory, and a transformative memory.

We may not have been there, but this table is spread to help prompt a transformative memory in each of us. We are called to embrace that memory of our connection to Christ and to each other. Ultimately, in this moment, we are to embrace our connection to God, because of what Christ did for each of us. His body broken for us, his blood spilled for us: an unforgettable gift.

So pause now and remember. And as you do, look around the room and join with the others in their remembrance, and let us together proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

Becky Ahlberg serves as executive director of My Safe Harbor in Anaheim, California.

By Mark Atteberry

Philo T. Farnsworth.

You should know who he is.

You don’t, but you should.

He made a gigantic contribution to mankind, one that most people experience every single day, often for hours at a time. But I suspect you couldn’t find one person out of a thousand who could tell you what he did.

On January 7, 1927, Mr. Farnsworth, then a 19-year-old farm boy, filed a patent on an invention called “television.” A few years later, he transmitted a Mickey Mouse cartoon, Steamboat Willie, from his Philadelphia laboratory to his home a few miles away. Ironically, the man who invented the technology was forgotten, but the character that appeared on the screen became world famous.

The next time you gather with your family or friends to watch the big game, giggle at the silliness of Barney Fife, or steal a recipe from one of your favorite TV chefs, you’ll have ole Philo to thank. But you won’t. Nor will I. Most of us live so much for the moment that we don’t think about—nor do we care about—the pioneers that went before us. We just like their stuff.

With few exceptions, most of the world’s greatest contributors end up like Philo T. Farnsworth. For every Abraham Lincoln or Alexander Graham Bell, there are a thousand brilliant inventors, scientists, pioneers, and humanitarians who are long forgotten. Quick . . . can you remember who invented the refrigerator? Eyeglasses? The washing machine? The indoor toilet? Probably not, but I’m guessing you’d hate to do without their contributions!

This is why we need to share in the Lord’s Supper on a regular basis. It’s the best way to ensure that Jesus doesn’t ever become like Philo T. Farnsworth. By taking a few moments to think about his sacrifice on the cross and by eating the bread and drinking the juice, we are proclaiming his death until he comes again, as Paul says in 1 Corinthians 11:26. As long as God’s people are continually proclaiming his death—the single greatest sacrifice in all of history and the key to our redemption—it will never be forgotten

___

Mark Atteberry is senior minister with Poinciana Christian Church, Kissimmee, Florida.

By Mark Atteberry

Some of Jesus’ parables are epic in scope, like one about the prodigal son. Others are quite short, like this one about a farmer and his two sons: 

“There was a man who had two sons. He went to the first and said, ‘Son, go and work today in the vineyard.’ ‘I will not,’ he answered, but later he changed his mind and went. Then the father went to the other son and said the same thing. He answered, ‘I will, sir,’ but he did not go” (Matthew 21:28-30).

The kingdom of God is hindered by people like this second son, who say yes to God, and then don’t follow through. They say yes to faithful obedience, then choose compromise as soon as obedience begins to cramp their style. They say yes to generous giving, then rob their weekly offering to pay for some new bauble that has captured their fancy. They say yes to compassionate ministry, then decide the work demands more time, energy, or patience than they are willing to give. On any given Sunday morning, how many people do you suppose are sleeping in, playing golf, or lounging with the morning paper, who once said an enthusiastic yes to Jesus?

Experts tell us the word yes is one of the easiest words in the English language to say, even easier than the word no, which requires more facial muscles. What those experts fail to point out is that while yes is an easy word to say, it’s an extremely difficult word to keep saying. Feelings change, obstacles arise, and strength wanes. The first thing you know, our minds are filled with excuses and rationalizations.

The great thing about the Lord’s Supper is that it gives us all an opportunity to reaffirm our yes to the Lord Jesus. We do it by reflecting on his willingness to say the hardest yes in history—yes to the cross. When seen through the lens of the crucifixion, our excuses suddenly seem a lot flimsier, making even our hardest yeses seem a lot easier.

The crying need of today’s church is not for us to say yes to Jesus, but for us to keep saying it, day after day, week after week, year after year.

Mark Atteberry serves as senior minister with Poinciana Christian Church, Kissimmee, Florida.

By Randy Gariss

It must have seemed an odd table. David was king of Israel, and when he sat down to eat he had his family and his sons. As king, he naturally would have included some friends and perhaps a favorite servant or two. And also a crippled man by the name of Mephibosheth.

The backstory has all the human interest we can handle. Years before, Saul had been the king and he had made the young David’s life miserable—repeatedly attempting to cut it short! Saul’s despotic life and desperate panic were all an ill-fated attempt to keep David, God’s anointed, off the throne.

The story gained additional intrigue and depth when King Saul’s son, Jonathan, whom the world would have expected to inherit his father’s throne, chose to love David like a brother. Jonathan had seen God’s hand on David and swore to the former shepherd that, when the time came, he would support David’s kingship and not his father’s claims.

Jonathan never got the chance.

King Saul and Jonathan were killed in a battle with the Philistines, and David became king.

A little time passed, and David inquired, “Is there anyone of Saul’s or Jonathan’s family left?” That question typically would have struck terror across the land, for it normally would have come from the darkest corner of a ruler’s heart. When the king of a different family takes power, you see, members of the former king’s family historically are killed, thus eliminating all potential threats to the current reign.

There was one member of King Saul’s family left—a grandson, a son to Jonathan. He was severely crippled, having been dropped as a baby. David summoned this grandson of his former enemy. With what must have been unimaginable fear, Mephibosheth limped into the throne room. The conversation went like this: “Don’t be afraid,” David said to him, “for I will surely show you kindness for the sake of your father Jonathan. I will restore to you all the land that belonged to your grandfather Saul, and you will always eat at my table” (2 Samuel 9:7).

And so there he is. Mephibosheth at the king’s table. Can you imagine the nightly meals?

“Can we eat yet?”

“No son, we are not all here yet.” And then the sound of crutches can be heard as a crippled man slowly crosses the room and sits down among the sons.

The king’s table is not complete until Mephibosheth is at the table.

And that is why I am at this table. It is precursor to my story. From the family of an enemy to the table of the king, it takes one’s breath away.

Randy Gariss serves as the director of the Life and Ministry Center at Ozark Christian College, Joplin, Missouri. 

By Randy Gariss

A sage wryly commented, “All predictions are difficult to make, but especially those about the future.” He is right, of course, but can you imagine the empowerment if we were able to accurately see the future? For example, what if the junior high teen, distraught over his gangly appearance, could only get a glimpse of the composed, mature young adult he would someday be? Wouldn’t that picture diffuse much worthless worry?

Or consider the impact a peek into the future could have on the young couple working through that first rough year of marriage—each of them going through that painful but necessary struggle of learning to be less me and more us. How helpful it would be if they could actually see the photograph of the elderly couple they would become: deeply in love, surrounded by family, and in a house of peace and laughter. Wouldn’t that scene greatly comfort and calm the nervousness of the present?

The Lord’s Supper gives us an image of the future. Matthew 26:26-28 tells how Jesus broke the bread and explained the meaning of the cup. But it is the next verse (v. 29) that captures our attention. “I tell you, I will not drink of this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it anew with you in my Father’s kingdom.”

Imagine the scene. Jesus shares this meal with spiritually incomplete and very immature individuals—men who will fail him in many ways. Yet, he reveals a promise in this picture of the future. He points to a day and a place where these men, and all who follow Christ, will sit with him in the eternal kingdom and take of the cup together. There is the image of home contained in this verse . . . an image of a table, of Christ, of our place with him, and of the shared cup.

Look around the room as we take of the Lord’s Supper. We all carry the bumps and bruises and immaturity of this world. Yet, his words echo out “until I drink it anew with you again in my Father’s kingdom.” As you take of the bread and the cup, may the picture of that day comfort and quiet your spirit.

Randy Gariss serves as the director of the Life and Ministry Center at Ozark Christian College, Joplin, Missouri. 

By Randy Gariss

If the idea of a one-person wedding seems bizarre, so too does the idea of personal Communion. There are many things in the Christian life you can do on your own. You can study, pray, fast, sing, worship, and serve all by yourself. But why is there not even a hint in Scripture about taking the Lord’s Supper alone?

When Christ initiated Communion, it was in a group (Matthew 26). When Communion is described in the book of Acts, it is in a group (Acts 2:42). The same is true in 1 Corinthians. A study of Scripture indicates that Christians partook of the Lord’s Supper when the church came together as a body. Why this togetherness at the Lord’s table?

Perhaps it is because the Lord’s Supper has more to do with an emphasis on the us than the me. Could it be participation in the Lord’s Supper centers on the atonement and grace that brought me into his community . . . an atonement that placed me among his people, more than simply centering on my own personal atonement with Christ?

“Hush everyone, don’t distract me, I am having my time with Jesus and taking my Communion,” has often been the unspoken pattern in some churches. Is it possible that the biblical pattern is just the opposite? “Hey, I would like to see your faces and know your names, for I am taking Communion, and I celebrate the grace of God that forgave me and gave you to me as my family!”

The largest windows we are given to the first-century church and its practice of the Lord’s table are two passages in 1 Corinthians. In chapters 10 and 11, Paul reminds the Communion participants of the “us-ness” taking place during this meal.

“We, who are many, are one body, for we all partake of the one loaf” (1 Corinthians 10:17). You and I, both saved by Christ, have been made one family, and we sit at the same table.

Not too much later, Paul again speaks of the us, and warns not to take the Lord’s meal without recognizing or comprehending the Lord’s body around us (1 Corinthians 11:29). It isn’t just Christ who is to be on my mind, but you as well.

I don’t take Communion by myself; I take it with you. And today, I will thank God that he has made us a family, a community, a kingdom . . . his church.

Randy Gariss serves as the director of the Life and Ministry Center at Ozark Christian College, Joplin, Missouri. 

By Randy Gariss

The Lord’s Supper is about celebration. After all, the meal points to the love of Christ, forgiveness of sins, the coming of the kingdom, and other wonderful repercussions of the cross.

Yet, in the midst of the joy there is another imperative from Paul, one with more sobering overtones. We are each told to “examine” ourselves.

Therefore, whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord. A man ought to examine himself before he eats of the bread and drinks of the cup. For anyone who eats and drinks without recognizing the body of the Lord eats and drinks judgment on himself (1 Corinthians 11:27-29).

What does it mean to examine myself? Examine myself in light of what? Am I to examine myself in light of my sins this week, in light of my attitude at the moment, in light of what? I suspect the focus of Communion varies so greatly among us because we each answer that question so differently. But what does Paul have in mind? Perhaps we would better know how to examine ourselves if we looked at the context of the command.

There is a clear and unmistakable theme to the 1 Corinthians letter. It is the theme of others. In chapter 8, I am told not to eat or drink or make any decision without considering the impact of my decision on the conscience of others.

In chapter 9, I am reminded my rights are to be surrendered, if in doing so I can better love others. In the 10th chapter, God points out that I am part of the whole, and therefore I am never to seek my own good but the good of others.

In chapters 11 and 14, there are severe rebukes for those who want to worship God, but are inconsiderate of the others in the body. In the 12th chapter, I am told spiritual gifts are not for me, but are for the good of others. In the 13th chapter, the love of others is elevated above every other virtue.

There is no great mystery about this examination at Communion. I am to consider how Christ has loved me and placed me in his family, a family that has made you to be a brother or sister to me. It is in the light of our unity and love I am to examine myself.

As I take this Communion, I must ask a haunting question: “Am I being Christlike to you in both my attitude and my actions?”

Communion is not a solitary meeting with God in a private cubicle. In fact, it is just the opposite. It is a group activity. It’s in the midst of your lives, with your faces on my mind, in the midst of the grace that God has given us—it is there, I am to examine myself.

Randy Gariss serves as the director of the Life and Ministry Center at Ozark Christian College, Joplin, Missouri. 

By Rick Chromey

Everybody loves a reunion.

And there’s no better place to observe a good reunion than outside airport security, as various groups congregate and wait for loved ones to arrive.

During the wait, some families huddle quietly while others chatter loudly. A woman inspects makeup and hair. Several check the flight board. A mom and two kids look for their soldier dad, while grandparents anxiously wait on grandchildren. A nervous boyfriend clutches chocolates and fingers a ring, while cheerleaders prepare to welcome a victorious team.

Others wait, as well, but with noticeably less enthusiasm. These individuals seem apathetic, nonchalant, and bored. They read, check phone texts, and sleep. Many others opt to park outside in the cell phone lot. For these folks, the pending reunion is nothing special. It’s just another job. Been there, done that. Let’s get it over with. Familiarity breeds complacency and expedience.

In reality, the expectancy of reunion and the desire to reconnect reveals the heart.

Maybe that’s why Jesus instituted the Lord’s Supper as a weekly reunion for his family. Listen to his words:

While they were eating, Jesus took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to his disciples, saying, “Take and eat; this is my body.”

Then he took a cup, and when he had given thanks, he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you. This is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you, I will not drink from this fruit of the vine from now on until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom” (Matthew 26:26-29).

For Jesus, this meal is about relationship. And for us, every Sunday is “reunion Sunday” until Jesus comes, producing the grandest reunion of all. This begs a few questions: How’s your heart today? Do you eagerly desire to reconnect with Jesus? Do you anticipate this reunion meal or have you grown bored and apathetic?

Reunions are rooted to relationship. Consequently, any energy the connecting parties enjoy is fueled by their desire to reconnect. If we passionately love Jesus, we’ll hunger to congregate and commune with him. On the other hand, if this moment sparks complacency or apathy, it reveals a true heart problem.

As we reunite in this ancient meal, let’s do so with renewed fervor in our God who longs to meet us in this moment.

Welcome home, church.

Rick Chromey is the director of leadership and online training programs for KidZ At Heart, International, Mesa, Arizona.

By Ron Davis

Many Americans were introduced to one of the stories of the Afghanistan war when they saw the 2014 CBS interview of Dr. Dilip Joseph regarding his experience and the book he had just written with James Lund, Kidnapped by the Taliban (Thomas Nelson Publishers). Dr. Joseph was the medical director for Morning Star Development, active in Afghanistan, serving locals with medical care and training.

Returning from a mission of mercy, Dr. Joseph and his party were captured by the Taliban and held for several days. Their captors kept them moving constantly, and they were in moment-by-moment fear of death. But Navy Seal Team 6—the same Navy Seal Team that tracked down and killed Osama bin Laden—rescued Dr. Joseph in a flurry of gunfire and shouting. Joseph was free from the threat of imminent death. Yet, in the rescue, Nicolas Checque, Seal extraordinaire, was killed.

Dr. Joseph commented, both in sorrow and in joy, “He died to save my life. It is hard to live with that idea that someone died for my sake.”

We know what he feels and means. We, simply going about daily life and mission, were once captured by the father of the Taliban, the father of all lies and violence. Daily we walked in the valley of the shadow of death. But our Redeemer came, not with terrifying noises and loud voice, but in the quiet of a Calvary hour, with whispers of love and forgiveness.

Here, at his table, we remember that rescue. It is hard to live with the idea that someone had to die to save our lives. But someone did. And we both mourn his loss—because of our choices—and rejoice in his accomplishment—because of his grace. Here. Here at his table.

Ron Davis loves “standing at the cross” reverently and thankfully each week at the Lord’s table of grace and sensing God’s love. Find another meditation by Ron each Friday in July at christianstandard.com.

By Rick Chromey

January 26, 2005, was to be a typical day for 44-year-old John Phipps and millions of other Los Angeles workers. When the father of three boarded his morning train he couldn’t possibly have known a suicidal Juan Manual Alvarez had parked his car on the train tracks several miles away. It was only minutes to mayhem.

Details about what happened are sketchy, but Alvarez evidently changed his mind and escaped his car just prior to collision with Phipps’s speeding train. Unfortunately, Alvarez’s selfish act killed 11 people and injured more than 200, including John Phipps, who lay in his own blood with head and groin injuries. As he floated in and out of consciousness, all Phipps could think about was his family.

Losing blood and life, Phipps desperately desired to leave his final thoughts. He had no paper or pen. All he had was his own blood to finger a simple message on the back of a chair: “I (heart symbol) my kids. I (heart symbol) Leslie.” His wife later said, “Hallmark is never going to top that,” and she’s right. Soon after Phipps scrawled his haunting message, rescuers reached him and found that bloody note. His survival and recovery is nothing short of miraculous.

Two thousand years ago another miracle man bled out on a Calvary crossing. With his head punctured by thorns and his hands and feet pierced by nails, His mission of love was wrecked by conspiracy, compromise, and conflict. Guilty murderers like Barabbas were strangely set free. And intensely religious leaders like the Pharisees were driven to lies, bribery, and execution. Devoted disciples like the suicidal Judas and self-serving Peter surprisingly betrayed their Master.

In that moment of humanity’s desperate darkness, in his final act of charity, Jesus scrawled across the sky of eternity in his own blood: “I (heart) my kids.” I love my family. Jesus changed everything in that moment of mayhem. Centuries of religious rites and priestly practices violently collided with divine purpose.

Most of us have forgotten John Phipps, if we ever even knew his story, and that’s understandable. Humans tend to forget. It’s why Jesus instituted this sacrament of bread and wine in the first place. We must never forget his message: “I love my kids.” The apostle John later penned it slightly differently: “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends” (John 15:13).

This body and this blood, through the bread and cup, reconnect us to Calvary, to Christ, and to an ancient communiqué. Brothers and sisters, we are forever family.

We are his kids.

________________

Rick Chromey is the director of leadership and online training programs for KidZ At Heart, International, Mesa, Arizona. He has empowered children’s ministry leaders to lead, teachers to teach, and trainers to train for more than three decades (www.rickchromey.com).

By Rick Chromey

Every culture has holidays, but few sanctify more special days than Americans. Perhaps it’s because we embrace our past as good and godly. Perhaps it’s because we hunger for any reason to party or get a day off. Or perhaps it’s because we need another special day to capitalize on our consumerism.

Regardless of the reason, Americans celebrate famous people like Martin Luther King Jr., St. Patrick, and Columbus. We memorialize Mondays into three-day weekends to rest from our labor. We throw parties on July 4, October 31, and December 31. We love to give thanks around turkey, football, and reruns of Miracle on 34th Street. We particularly relish chocolate holidays like Christmas, Valentine’s Day, and Easter, but won’t forget mother and father need their day, too.

Of course, designating a day as holy, or set apart, is nothing new. It’s how we get the word holiday in the first place. Americans simply have learned how to make a buck off most cultural celebrations (and that’s nothing new, either). Ultimately, we create holy days to remember a person, event, or thing. We don’t want to forget how we got here, who made us who we are, or why we fought.

Consequently, it’s no surprise Jesus used the ancient Jewish holiday of Passover to celebrate his life. He built a memorial around a meal of Exodus and then chose to recline and rest. Jesus lifted the cup of wine and gave thanks, revealing this drink as a new blood covenant. He broke the bread with gratitude and grace, teaching its brokenness was his body. Jesus was the ancient Passover lamb. He was the blood painted on the doorframe. He was their Moses.

Jesus created a holiday to remember his sacrifice. “Do this in remembrance of me,” he told his disciples. And they did. And we still do, every Sunday, set apart time to reflect, recall, and rewind.

For Christians, every Sunday is a holy day and this meal is the glue that connects generations of believers, globally, for all time. It’s our Memorial Day, Thanksgiving, and Easter all rolled into one.

Come, let us celebrate.

________________

Rick Chromey is the director of leadership and online training programs for KidZ At Heart, International, Mesa, Arizona. He has empowered children’s ministry leaders to lead, teachers to teach, and trainers to train for more than three decades (www.rickchromey.com).

By Rick Chromey

From mainstream Starbucks and neighborhood bistros, the local coffee cup has evolved into a symbol of connection, companionship, and community. The coffee experience is about family and friends, because great coffee naturally takes time. The beans must be roasted and ground. The coffee is percolated, heated, and even specially flavored. And, of course, every cup is sipped and savored to the last drop.

Consequently, coffee is the perfect nonalcoholic drink of choice. It’s the ideal beverage for gathering because great community also happens with time. Friendships are grounded and grown. Relationships emerge through connection and communion. In an instant, fast-paced, microwave culture, the human soul hungers to slow and silence, connect and commune, remember and reflect. It’s no wonder many coffeehouses look like living rooms.

If Jesus were to institute the Lord’s Supper in our 21st-century culture, he might prefer coffee to wine as the cultural memorial to his life. After all, in the first century, wine was a common social drink. Like coffee, great wine took time to mature and, consequently, was the centerpiece beverage for meals, marriages, and other special cultural moments.

The Lord’s Supper, as it’s called now, was originally the Passover celebration, a multicourse meal of wine, unleavened bread, lamb, and herbs. Jewish families gathered around supper tables to remember the Egyptian exodus, the messianic Moses, and salvation by blood. The use of wine proved the perfect cultural drink to represent his mission of redemption, reconciliation, and restoration.

This ancient “love feast” has become a centuries-old weekly tradition for believers to experience within community. Like coffee and wine, we don’t drink from this cup hastily or consume the bread without right reflection. In fact, in the early church, the Lord’s Supper was no swift snack. Paul admonished the Corinthian church because some were getting drunk and gorging themselves at this meal (1 Corinthians 11:20-22). He later instructed the Corinthians, “Therefore, whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord. A man ought to examine himself before he eats of the bread and drinks of the cup” (1 Corinthians 11:27, 28).

Like great coffee and fine wine, this cup, symbolizing Jesus’ blood, should be slowly sipped. This bread, which represents Christ’s body, should be digested like a spiritual feast. In this divine opportunity we dine as the body of Christ so we might savor redemption, reconciliation, and restoration.

________________

Rick Chromey is the director of leadership and online training programs for KidZ At Heart, International, Mesa, Arizona. He has empowered children’s ministry leaders to lead, teachers to teach, and trainers to train for more than three decades (www.rickchromey.com).

By Rick Chromey

Holes come in all shapes and sizes, from pinpricks in paper to massive holes in the ozone. There are knotholes, peepholes, and sinkholes. If there’s a hole in your story, you’re not telling the whole story. Our food is filled with holes. Swiss cheese is among God’s holiest. Doughnut holes are delicious.

Some of God’s finest holes are tourist attractions, such as the Grand Canyon, Royal Gorge, and Mammoth Cave. Space tourists, however, would think twice before visiting a black hole.

A Google search of holes produced 87 billion results.

That’s a lot of holes.

I’m not sure there’s a history of holes. We don’t know who dug the first one, though it probably was Adam. Men dig many holes. Scripture—God’s Holy Word—tells us Jacob dug a well, Joseph’s brothers dug a pit, Elijah dug a trench, and Isaiah dug a vineyard. There was plenty of digging in Jesus’ parables: a landowner dug a winepress, a servant dug a hole to hide money; another man dug deep to hunker his house to rock.

And yet the greatest holes in history were pounded into Jesus’ hands and side, and Jesus invited Thomas to put his finger in the wounds that set men free. As Isaiah penned, his wounds heal us. His holes fill us. God lives in life’s vacuums.

Today, as you meditate upon your own holes, remember his. The human heart is a black hole and a grand canyon of deceit, lust, greed, and selfishness. And yet, in this memorial meal, we pack our hearts with gratitude and praise. The bread that represents his body fills cavities created in our crimes against divinity. The cup represents his blood, which seeps into the tiniest cracks and crevices to heal the holes. As Jesus told Thomas, and which he now speaks into our own hearts, “Stop doubting and believe” (John 20:27).

We gather together as a broken people, dinged by our choices and punctured by our circumstances. We assemble in weakness, but leave in his strength. This ancient meal is a weekly reminder that life’s deepest holes can be filled only by God’s holy Son. The crosses we bear and the holes we dig to anchor them are merely Friday fixes. His body bridges the chasm of sin and his blood floods doubt’s darkest holes. We simply must believe his grace heals us. Because of the cross, we are complete. We are free.

We are truly holy.

Rick Chromey is the director of leadership and online training programs for KidZ At Heart, International, Mesa, Arizona. He has empowered children’s ministry leaders to lead, teachers to teach, and trainers to train for more than three decades (www.rickchromey.com).

By Ronald G. Davis

Turning points sometimes come in a roar. Turning points sometimes come in a whisper.

In modern history the roar was heard in the deathly din of D-Day. And the course of modern human history was changed.

In biblical history, the whisper was heard by Elijah when he had fled in cowardice from an interloper in the messianic line. God called him with “a still small voice” to return to his ministry in the court of kings. And the course of Israel’s history was redirected toward a Messiah.

John 6 pictures just such a dramatic turning point. The roar is heard. Thousands gather with the excited buzz of those who think they have found what they have long awaited, a Messiah to resolve all their earthly woes. Fascinated by possibility (and later, food), they seemed eager to hear the words of Jesus. Yet, soon, the whisper of one friend to another might be overheard: “This is just too hard. Let’s go home!” And the crowd thinned drastically, for “from this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him” (John 6:66).

Jesus’ teaching about himself and one’s relationship with him had echoed over those Galilean hillsides and across the waters of the sea. And it had set the heads of many to a ringing confusion. “Bread of life? Come down from heaven? How can one find and eat that?” “His body and his blood? What could that possibly mean?” “That just boggles my mind. I am a simple uneducated peasant. I’m going home!”

And we have come to his table. To ponder his body, his blood. And our minds are aswirl with confusion. We do not fully understand. We do not completely comprehend. But this we know: Jesus died for our sins. He is the risen Lord. So we have come to obey his words: “Do this to remember me!”

We can always walk away like some mentally lazy Galilean. Or we can simply say, “Yes, Lord, whatever you say!” Away from the roar of daily life. Here where we hear him whisper, “I love you.” Here where the body and blood of Christ are the clearest to us, we eat. And our personal histories are redirected to the life in Christ, the life spiritual.

Ron Davis loves “standing at the cross” reverently and thankfully each week at the Lord’s table of grace and sensing God’s love.

By Jackina Stark

She stood at a fourth-floor window overlooking the city of Phnom Pehn. She had spent a week in Battambang, Cambodia, at Rapha House, working with those who minister to the girls rescued from sex slavery, and in Phnom Pehn, visiting hundreds of poor children who attend the Kids Club, a prevention ministry. Her fellow workers had gone to the street market, letting her beg off. In the room, utterly quiet now, her gaze fell on the area of the city where at that very moment she knew girls, some children, were being sexually used and abused. Her whispered prayer was not eloquent or admirable, though it was honest: “Dear God, I don’t want to know this.”

Surely there are so many things we do not want to know. Many years ago, a quote from a missionary provided the cover for Time magazine: “There are no devils left in Hell. They are all in Rwanda.”

That could also have been written about Cambodia, where 2 million were killed, about the Soviet Union, where 20 million were killed, about the People’s Republic of China, where 65 million were killed, about Afghanistan, where 1.5 million were killed. And now, if you can bear to watch the news, there is Syria. There is ISIS.

And if governments or rebels are not the ones killing their own people, the world faces the utter misery of famine and starvation. The United Nations says nearly 16 million people in Somalia, Nigeria, and South Sudan are at risk of dying soon.

This is not the only misery. Everywhere in the world, hatred and violence is being directed toward marginalized groups; individuals and families are broken because of weakness or sin. Sometimes diseases and natural disasters bring death, decimating the living. Of course, we can find much joy in this life, but we cannot deny that we also face much sorrow.

Isaiah called the coming Messiah a “man of suffering” who was “despised and rejected by mankind . . . and familiar with pain” (Isaiah 53:3). Today Jesus is our “merciful and faithful high priest” who suffered and made “atonement for the sins of the people” (Hebrews 2:17, 18).

The cross story does not make sense to many unbelievers, but seeing so much misery around us, the “cup” he drank to save us, as horrible as it was, somehow helps believers. Jesus intimately knows the violence, shame, and misery of this world. We do not suffer alone.

And, glorious morning, he rose again and showed us the victory.

Jackina Stark is a retired Ozark Christian College English professor who lives in Branson, Missouri.

By Ronald G. Davis

A few years ago, a well-known preacher’s morning sermon was titled “God at Eye Level.” That’s a provocative title, isn’t it?

In that Jerusalem upper room long ago and at this table today, we are at eye level with God. That’s an intriguing thought to me.

Imagine those men who were at the table in the upper room, eye-to-eye with Jesus. Could each look him in the eye? Or did each try to hide his face in the shadows of that dimly lit room, not so much as daring to catch his eyes with their own?

Thomas—who would doubt his resurrection—what doubt might have been reflected in his eyes here this night?

Young John—son of thunder—leaning into the very face of Jesus; what self-sufficient burst of human pride might be seen on his face? Would he ponder calling down fire and brimstone on Jesus’ betrayer and on his tormentors?

Peter—about to deny even knowing the Lord in only a few hours—what cowardice lurked behind his manly lids? Would he show bravery or only bravado in the face of Jesus’ arrest and abuse?

Nathanael—once proclaimed by Jesus as an Israelite in whom there was nothing false—was he ready to join in that childish and petty argument about personal greatness about to erupt in this same room? Would he even think or dare say, “You all do remember when Jesus said of me . . . ?”

And what of Judas—coins of betrayal rattling in the folds of his garment—what greed and treachery ran freely with any fake tears he could manage? Was his eye on the door, the one he would soon use to exit into the dark of night and dark of soul?

And then, the important question: What of me? Will I hold a shamed head down? Or will I hold a redeemed face up . . . fully looking into the eyes of the One on the cross? Certainly I carry the flaws of character and soul that each of the apostles did. But here I sense redemption. I have been bought back!

Here at this table we are at eye level with God’s all-seeing, all-knowing eye. The only way we can approach is with a repentant heart, looking for the love and grace in his eye. The love and grace personified on a Roman cross, as body and blood paid the ransom. Here . . . here we feel “fully paid up” and we can look our Savior in the eye.

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Ron Davis loves “standing at the cross” reverently and thankfully each week at the Lord’s table of grace and sensing God’s love. 

By Ronald G. Davis

John, in his Gospel, borrows the beautiful image of God that permeates the Scriptures: God is our shepherd. And that image may be the most common symbolic image reproduced through the Christian era. From mosaics in the second-century catacomb resting places of those first Christians in Rome to magnificent stained-glass windows in hundreds of 20th-century church buildings from Europe to Australia, the shepherd shows himself ready to protect and feed.

When Jesus applies that image to himself, in John 10, he pictures the absolute devotion the shepherd maintains in every circumstance. His whole existence is given to keeping the sheep well fed, well watered, and safe from any creature that would prey on them. He would willingly give up his life to keep the sheep alive!

Yet, of all the images imagined and painted of “The Good Shepherd,” not a single artist pictures him hanging on a cross, holding a helpless (and bloodied) lamb, with a flock of faithful sheep grazing on the hillside below, safe within the view of the shepherd.

But that’s the image Jesus describes in John 10: “I am the good shepherd; I know my sheep and my sheep know me—just as the Father knows me and I know the Father—and I lay down my life for the sheep. . . . The reason my Father loves me is that I lay down my life—only to take it up again. No one takes it from me, but I lay it down of my own accord” (John 10:14, 15, 17, 18, author emphasis). He is not a mere employee, paid to protect the sheep. He is the owner who loves his sheep dearly.

Here . . . at the cross . . . do you see yourself as a wandering lamb, rescued from mortal danger by a shepherd willing to risk his life—yes, to give his life so that you might live? When these symbols of his body and his blood come before your eyes, do you once again paint the image of a good shepherd willing to lay down his life for one little lost lamb such as you?

Are you known of the shepherd? Of course, you are. And that is why you are here: to love and obey the shepherd who so loves you that he would die if he could save you. And he has.

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Ron Davis loves “standing at the cross” reverently and thankfully each week at the Lord’s table of grace and sensing God’s love.

By Jackina Stark

I once had a vision. It was not as glorious as Isaiah’s—I can’t imagine one more glorious than that—but for me, what I saw one morning during a worship service was profoundly important. We were singing a medley of songs that ended with a beautifully melodic chorus that repeated the word holy over and over and over. I closed my eyes and got lost in the word and found, quite unexpectedly, a new understanding of who Jesus is and what holy means.

Twice in the hymn “Holy, Holy, Holy,” God is perceptively called merciful and mighty. These two qualities cover just about all our needs. Mark Scott, the former academic dean of Ozark Christian College, says holy means God is totally “other” than us. This “otherness” was captured in my vision and connects to the beloved hymn.

The word might connotes power. Jesus’ power is what seemed to impress the crowds and his disciples most. And why not? The “otherness” of his power is quite astonishing. Jesus provided numerous powerful acts, showing mastery over all things that defeat mere mortals. He overcame the elements, he overcame every kind of physical impediment, and he overcame death itself.

But strangely enough, these examples of might did not show up in my vision. In my mind, I was transported not like Isaiah to the majestic, awe-inspiring throne room of God, but instead to the dusty streets where Jesus walked among us and showed us another aspect of his holiness. He is merciful as well as mighty, and his kind of tenderness and mercy seem as “other” in our world as his mastery over nature, sickness, and death.

“Holy” we sang, and I saw Jesus touching an untouchable and audacious leper and healing him. “I am willing,” he told the wounded soul. It is his theme song.

“Holy” we sang, and I saw Jesus sitting by Jacob’s well changing the life of an outcast, inviting her to drink the water he had to give, inviting her to fellowship and worship the Incarnate Word sitting beside her.

“Holy” we sang, and I saw Jesus taking a towel and basin and kneeling before his disciples, including the one who would betray him, washing their feet and showing them the full extent of his love.

“Holy” we sang, and I saw Jesus, blood-drenched, unrecognizable, hanging from a cross, taking on the sin of the world and God’s wrath in the face of it.

It is good that we come to our time of Communion and celebrate the otherness of God. It is good to remember the merciful Son who took on human likeness in order to empathize with us, console us, and heal us physically, emotionally, and spiritually. It is good to remember it took a cross before it was finished. It is also good to celebrate his might and remember the third day, the empty tomb, and the birth of hope.

It is good to leave this celebration wanting to resemble his otherness.

Jackina Stark is a retired Ozark Christian College English professor who lives in Branson, Missouri.

By Jackina Stark

Scholars have suggested two details about the cross that I have found intriguing. One has to do with where the cross might have been placed. Some suggest it was not erected at the top of Golgotha but at the base. This is in keeping with crucifixions taking place in busy thoroughfares, but it puts the cross too close to an unconcerned, gawking public for my comfort. It puts it, for that matter, too close to me.

The second detail some scholars suggest is that Jesus might have been hung only a few feet above the ground. The imagery of “high and lifted up” is still appropriate, but Jesus might not have been nearly as high as I’ve always imagined, not nearly high enough, again, for my comfort.

No, these two suppositions make Jesus and all his suffering and shame much too close. But once I assimilated these propositions, I began to imagine a scenario that has blessed me. (Such imagining is the writer in me, I guess.) Actually, it is more an image than a scene, and I think of it most often when we partake of the Lord’s Supper.

I come to the foot of the cross and embrace the bloody body of Jesus. I stand there in that embrace, becoming bloody myself in the process, not saying anything, for speaking would be impossible. I just come, loving him and thanking him.

When this image is before me, I sometimes do more than wipe away tears. I recall the commitments Jesus made to God and man when he chose the cross—the commitment to do God’s will, to trust him, to love and care for others, to suffer when necessary, and to finish the task of redeeming us.

Such incredible commitments. Love compels me to make such commitments, or to try very hard to make them. Hope compels me as well—the hope of a second image.

I am standing on the hillside watching our victorious risen Lord ascend to his Father, knowing full well he will return for us. And when he does, shame and suffering and sorrow will be replaced with honor and glory and ecstasy. When I bring this image to mind, I can’t wipe the smile off my face.

“Do this,” Jesus said, “in remembrance of me.”

When you partake today, remember images of incomparable sorrow and joy.

Jackina Stark is a retired Ozark Christian College English professor who lives in Branson, Missouri.