By Neal Windham

When asked what’s missing when churches marginalize the Lord’s Supper by breaking bread casually and infrequently, Eugene Peterson replied, “Mystery.” He wasn’t talking about cheap novels or detective shows. No, he spoke of a mystery that runs so much deeper, a plot hatched in eternity, hidden for long ages, thoroughly misunderstood, often misrepresented, but, in the end, designed for our good, for our “glory,” as Paul put it. Peterson spoke of a narrative fit for God.

The word mystery comes from muo, a Greek verb that means to close or shut. Our word mute shares this root. Paul often spoke of mystery. But, unlike others who talked about religious mysteries, he seemed to know something they had missed.

For Paul, the cat was out of the bag. God had disclosed the powerful secret. What had remained obscure and unknown for so long was now the grand wisdom of God’s people for the ages. Jesus, Messiah, had come and, with him, salvation. The apostle put it like this, “We declare God’s wisdom, a mystery that has been hidden and that God destined for our glory before time began” (1 Corinthians 2:7).

As we return to the table of our Lord, week after week, we enter ever-increasingly and deeply into this sacred mystery, a mystery incapable of anything resembling full comprehension, and yet, easily the single most life-giving event of the week. “If God is not present at this table, I don’t know where he is,” a friend so aptly put it.

Here, all the doubts and fears we shoulder are met with God’s stubborn determination to save us.

Here, our sins pale in the light of God’s outrageous, extravagant forgiveness.

Here, broken relationships in the body of Christ come clean as we pray for and with estranged brothers and sisters with whom we share this little meal.

And here, more than anywhere, God’s pardon and release meet us in a fragrant bouquet of mercy.

Again and again, they meet us here. Such a mystery, this table, this enduring memory of God’s relentless love.

Neal Windham serves as professor of spiritual formation with Lincoln (Illinois) Christian University. 

By Neal Windham

Corinth is a beautiful city. Set on an isthmus dividing the Adriatic and Aegean seas, it was frequented by mariners avoiding the more treacherous waters of the Mediterranean in Paul’s day. As a result, it was a popular destination, well populated, and with a thriving economy. Remains of its stunning temple to Apollo stand in ruins to this very day, silently testifying to a distinctively pagan past.

Little wonder that Paul had such a tough time with this church. It seems they were attempting to make the break with pagan society as slight as they possibly could. Factious cliques, believers taking each other into pagan law courts, a man living with his stepmother, sexual promiscuity, difficulties with marriage and divorce, continuing affiliations with the pagan temple, gorging and drunkenness, the selfish exercise of spiritual gifts, and even serious doubts about the resurrection—all of these problems plagued a people called by God but lured by a full menu of lusty compromise.

Even when the Corinthians gathered to remember Christ’s death, they struggled for sanctity. The poor went hungry, while the wealthy met in what was known as the triclinium, a dining room in the host’s home, with tables on three sides and a fourth for serving. Here, the elite ate all they wanted and drank themselves into a stupor. “That is why many among you are weak and sick, and a number of you have fallen asleep,” concluded the apostle Paul (1 Corinthians 11:30). A very serious offense, this abuse of the Lord’s table.

Making the break with pagan society has always been difficult for God’s people. Israel forsook him for the Baals and Asherahs. The churches of Asia Minor struggled with magic and apathy. Monks were driven into the deserts by the varied sins of their corrupted cities. And Satan continues to seduce the people of God today with hypocrisy, distraction, and lies.

As we gather to break bread and drink this cup today, we gather for cleansing, through and through. We gather because many of us are still struggling to make the break with the alluring passions of pagan society, because many of us have repeatedly been seduced. And so it is we need some spiritual reference point, some story, that is so compelling and truthful and pure that all of our worst thoughts, words, and deeds are driven into oblivion by its stunning victory over evil.

This table tells that story. This table is that reference point. Please respect it. Gaze deeply into its life-giving mysteries. And by all means, examine yourselves, Paul says. This world is a very corrupt place. It is high time for a clean break with sin!

Neal Windham is professor of spiritual formation with Lincoln (Illinois) Christian University.

By Neal Windham

Jesus’ last supper was almost surely some sort of Passover meal. It was eaten at night while in Jerusalem, as custom would have it. Our Lord likely explained the meal’s key features, much as Jewish fathers would have done for their own children, though in Jesus’ case the symbolism was developed in new and astonishing ways. “This is my body,” he said, “my blood.” More than this, Jesus ended the meal with a hymn, as was also customary at Passover, and celebrated it with his new “family,” the disciples, a Passover tradition dating to the time of the exodus. In view of so many and such clear parallels, surely Jesus’ use of Passover to introduce the Lord’s Supper is more than a coincidence.

In truth, God has always been in the business of delivering his people. Whether we speak of Israel’s first exodus from Egypt or her new exodus through King Jesus, the message is always the same: God comes to his people when they need him most.

During this Passover, our Lord’s disciples heard him retelling the old reassuring story of certain freedom from forces hostile to God and his children. But they also heard something new, something more, for Jesus now claimed that he was entering into the story, taking on the role of deliverer, ushering in the climax of the long-awaited kingdom promised so long ago through the prophets.

And this is precisely why we have gathered to remember him today: the deliverer, Jesus, first remembered us in an upper room, furnished and ready. We’ve been freed from sin’s impressive, but limited, grip, rescued from death’s ugly reign of terror over us, delivered from Satan, as our Lord once taught us to pray, and ultimately banished from Hell’s enduring flames. What more could we possibly ask of God? What more could we somehow expect of him?

On the night he was betrayed, Jesus took the bread and cup, proclaiming them his own body and blood. In this way, he fulfilled the promise of the ages, heralded the end of evil’s powerful grip over human hearts, and ushered in a bold new era of forgiveness. Israel’s long, hard exile was over; her much anticipated return home had finally begun. Soon there would be a fledgling church, comprised not only of Israel’s remnant, but of all God’s children living among the nations.

So great a body in such little bread! So large a story in so small a cup! Just what deliverance are we proclaiming as we ingest this little meal? What freedom are we sharing with the world?

Neal Windham is professor of spiritual formation with Lincoln (Illinois) Christian University.

By Neal Windham

The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me, because the Lord has anointed me to preach good news to the poor. He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted, to proclaim freedom for the captives and release from darkness for the prisoners . . . to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion (Isaiah 61:1-3).

Jesus loved Isaiah. Again and again, our Lord turned to the trusted old prophet to help orient his disciples in the compassionate ways of the kingdom. For example, he began the Sermon on the Mount with the words, “How blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” And he continued, “How blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted.” Both were echoes of Isaiah.

When John asked from prison whether Jesus was the one who was to come, the Lord replied, “The good news is preached to the poor.” Another echo of Isaiah.

And when in the synagogue Jesus was asked to read from the scroll of the prophet, he announced, “The Spirit of the Lord is on me, because he has anointed me to preach good news to the poor.” Still another echo of Isaiah.

Surely Jesus saw himself standing at the end of Israel’s lengthy spiritual drought. He had come to alleviate her painful captivity, not so much to nations as to notions. Notions of military conquest and world spectacle. Notions of somehow pleasing God if only she could get the Sabbath and the tithe and the temple right this time. Notions that God would judge the wicked Gentiles, but not Israel. She was, after all, exempt by virtue of her election, or so tradition had it. Notions not grounded in spiritual truth so much as human endeavor and a distorted perception of her privileged position with God.

“To comfort all who mourn” (Isaiah 61:2) was central to Jesus’ mission. And he had come to bring this comfort to none other than Israel, “to proclaim freedom for the prisoners and recovery of sight for the blind, to release the oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Luke 4:18, 19). Some embraced these gifts; many others rejected both them and, ultimately, the one who brought them.

Surely, it is tragic when people targeted for love, people chosen to be comforted and delivered, say no. If this table means anything at all, it surely means we have been loved, remembered, and comforted by the one who saw himself in Isaiah’s inspired vision. Today, the world is again filled with anxiety and despair. Turning inside, and thus upon itself, the only real way forward is to go back; to believe, unswervingly, that Jesus came to comfort not some, but all, who mourn.

Neal Windham is professor of spiritual formation with Lincoln (Illinois) Christian University.

By Neal Windham

Garrison Keiller tells the story of how Clarence Bunson (at least, I think it was Clarence), a mainstay in Keillor’s fictional town of Lake Wobegon, lay cruciform, frozen to the roof of his Minnesota home in the thick of winter.

Bunson had gone out to clean the snow off his roof and, tired from his work, had fallen asleep. Meanwhile, his wet clothing bonded to the frozen roof, rendering him immobile.

Neighbors asked whether anything was wrong, and with characteristic Norwegian restraint he responded again and again, “No, I’m fine.” We know his character well, don’t we? We’re all just fine, thank you.

But the cross tells quite another story. Its cruciform victim had taken the cold, hard blows of iron on iron, piercing flesh, severing tendons, cutting into veins and nerves, into spirit and soul, into life itself. Impaled on a tree of his own making, Jesus struggled both for breath and voice. For breath, because the urge to live is a strong one, summoning every last physical reserve available. And for voice, because he had important things to say, among them, “Today you will be with me in paradise” and “Father, forgive them; they don’t have a clue.”

At the heart of Jesus’ work lay a settled commitment to endure the horrors of the cross until all was accomplished. The one who had healed so many with words of mercy and miracles of love would himself now provide ultimate healing for humanity, not by acts of brute force, but by a determined will born of courage and resolve to take what was given him, painful and unfair as it was.

Jesus could well have demonstrated to Pilate that he was no real threat to society, that he was not bent on destruction or murder or an imperial coup. In fact, church history tells us the grandchildren of Jude, Jesus’ own brother, when summoned by Emperor Domitian because they were descended from David, did just this. They testified to the simplicity of their lives, to their hard work, and to the loving nature of Jesus’ heavenly kingdom. On the basis of their defense, the emperor ended a season of persecution.1

But Jesus himself had to die. “On all counts,” says Tom Wright, “he had to die.” And this is why we remember him today, not because we have ambitious plans for our churches or because we have established untold programs, not because we have baptized hundreds or built buildings costing millions, not because we have done anything, but because he, arms stretched out and hands held tight, has accomplished everything God ever deemed necessary for our deliverance.

________

1Eusebius, Ecclesiastical History, 3.19, 20.

Neal Windham is professor of spiritual formation with Lincoln (Illinois) Christian University.

By Daniel Schantz

“The punishment that brought us peace was on him, and by his wounds we are healed” (Isaiah 53:5).

Sixteenth-century England was the era of the “divine right of kings,” when kings believed they were appointed by God and could do no wrong. During this time, the king alone was allowed to discipline his own son, the prince, but kings were often busy or out of town. Even when they were available, kings tended to be indulgent, and thus princes were often spoiled.

The solution was to hire a “whipping boy,” someone to take the beatings the prince really deserved. This boy would be about the same age as the prince and would live with him. In time the two boys would become very close, like brothers.

Whenever the prince misbehaved, the whipping boy would receive a beating. The prince was required to witness these thrashings, which were usually substantial. The whipping boy would be stripped to the waist and caned to the point of bleeding.

At first the prince was more than happy to have someone take his punishment, but as the two boys became close friends, it began to grieve the prince to see his friend suffering. Gradually the prince decided to grow up and behave himself, in order to spare his companion much anguish.

The system worked well, perhaps even better than if the prince himself had been caned, because no one likes to see someone he loves suffering for his own failures.

It was a great honor to be a whipping boy to the prince, and when the whipping boy grew up, he would be rewarded for his sacrifice with a title or a wife, a territory, or a statue of himself displayed on the palace grounds.

Jesus was our whipping boy, and because of his sufferings he has been honored. “God exalted him to the highest place and gave him the name that is above every name” (Philippians 2:9).

Here at the Lord’s table, we reflect on the punishments we deserve and renew our vow to grow up and behave ourselves like the spiritual royalty that we are through Christ’s death on our behalf.

Daniel Schantz is professor emeritus with Central Christian College of the Bible, Moberly, Missouri.
Find another meditation by him each Friday in July. 

By Mandy Smith

Mountaineer Joe Simpson tells his chilling story in the book and movie Touching the Void.

Thousands of feet up the side of the 20,814-foot Siula Grande mountain, Joe’s safety line was cut, leaving him to slide, with a broken leg, into a deep crevasse. After several desperate attempts to climb up and out of the crevasse, he realized his injury made that impossible. And so, against all survival instinct, he made the excruciating choice to lower himself deeper into the crevasse, in the hope that there would be other exits further down.

All the time he was wondering, Am I lowering myself to freedom or deeper into the belly of the earth? Does a ray of sunlight await me in the pit, showing a way out into day or is it only more darkness and slow death? With every inch he lowered himself, he was edging further from what seemed the obvious way to freedom. And there was no way back up.

How are we like that mountain climber? When we sense how far we are from what we should be, do we desperately try to make ourselves better? Or is there some strange way we can stop scrambling long enough to make the counterintuitive choice to empty ourselves?

Paul’s thorn in the flesh placed him in a similar situation. When God chose not to remove it, and there was nothing Paul could do to help himself, he had no choice but to live in God’s answer to his prayers: “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9). This kind of perfection is about fullness, completeness. For God’s power to be full, we need to be empty, to give him more room to fill.

When we find ourselves limited by our circumstances and crippled by our weakness, will we keep scrambling to fix it ourselves? Whether our need is for courage in suffering, perseverance in our work, or help to overcome our own sinfulness, will we keep working to be enough? Or will we look down and be willing to lower ourselves, to empty ourselves, and give God space to fill with his power?

In his death, Jesus modeled that kind of sacrifice, that kind of lowering. And we saw how God was able to reveal his power in it. How could God have shown his resurrection power if Jesus were not willing to lower himself to death? We celebrate and remember Jesus’ lowering and God’s resurrection power here in this Communion. And we live it every time we trust God to be enough.

Mandy Smith, originally from Australia, serves as pastor at University Christian Church, Cincinnati, Ohio (www.universitychristianchurch.net). She is the author of Making a Mess and Meeting God: Unruly Ideas and Everyday Experiments for Worship (Standard Publishing) and of The Vulnerable Pastor: How Human Limitations Empower Our Ministry (IVP, slated for release in October). This Communion meditation is adapted from that book. 

By Mandy Smith

The old Sunday school song goes, “Since Jesus came within and cleansed my soul from sin, I’m inright, outright, upright, downright happy all the time.” But very few Christians could honestly say they feel happy all the time. While we may retain an undisturbed, deep joy, it’s normal for any Christian to have moments of spiritual high and spiritual low, to feel close to God and far from God at various times, to have times of great faith and times of great doubt.

One helpful practice that allows us to survive the darker times is to overlook our doubts and feelings and soldier on, regardless. We tell ourselves all is not as it seems, that we are the winners, although we seem to be the losers. We remind ourselves that what we believe is true, even if we’re not sure we believe. We call this endurance, perseverance, and long-suffering.

A second practice, which we could add to the first, and which is often overlooked, is to turn to the traditions of our faith—a kind of practical perseverance. While self-talk is helpful to keep us faithful, could we also find some reassurance in the familiar routines of our Christian life?

When the people of Israel fled from captivity in Egypt, they did not yet have a temple or homeland. They were tied together by their common ancestry but had not yet established themselves as a nation. And so God didn’t wait long to create the weekly observance of the Sabbath, a practice that made them unique (Exodus 20:8-11; Nehemiah 9:13, 14). They may have been a ragtag bunch, wandering through the wilderness, but they were defined by their tradition. God understood his people need regular routines to remind them who they are, to draw them together and to himself.

And so Jesus created this regular feast to be celebrated “as often as we meet together.” Like those runaway slaves of ancient times, we may feel homeless, but this bread and cup are our constant in the midst of a wilderness. Although we wander in a dry land, we are bound to each other, to Christ, and to thousands of believers who have joined this celebration over the centuries. This tiny meal is able to sustain us through wanderings and droughts and to provide us hope of the comfort and bounty to come.

Mandy Smith, originally from Australia, serves as pastor at University Christian Church, Cincinnati, Ohio (www.universitychristianchurch.net). She is the author of Making a Mess and Meeting God: Unruly Ideas and Everyday Experiments for Worship (Standard Publishing) and of The Vulnerable Pastor: How Human Limitations Empower Our Ministry (IVP, slated for release in October).

By Mandy Smith

We know Jesus instituted the Lord’s Supper during the Passover feast, which Jews have celebrated for generations. Passover is an annual festival remembering God’s salvation of his people from slavery in Egypt. Like all celebrations of annual holidays, it takes much preparation and is a turning point of the calendar. So, as good Jews, Jesus and his disciples prepared and celebrated this feast together. But Jesus knew this Passover would be different from all he’d celebrated before, because he knew his death was imminent.

The food is a central part of the Passover feast, but so are the words. When Moses established this tradition, it included teaching children the meaning of the meal (Exodus 12:26, 27). It was not only an opportunity to eat symbolic food together, but to tell the story of how God saved his people.

As at all Passover meals, this ancient story undoubtedly was retold at Jesus’ last supper, and perhaps it was so customary to those in attendance that it almost went unheard. But if any in the room were lulled into daydreams by the familiar words, new words from Jesus snapped them out of their stupor.

His version of the tale is different. Jesus tells his friends not only to use this feast as a reminder of an old story, but also of a story that is about to happen. And he tells them to no longer save the story for an annual event but to tell it as often as they meet.

And so, in his usual, transformative way, Jesus takes an old habit and creates something fresh. He reshapes a climactic, annual event into something almost mundane. In doing so, he invites us to make sacred things common in their frequency without making them common in value.

It must have seemed strange to first-century Jewish ears to observe an annual, sacred holiday on a weekly, or even daily basis, like if we suddenly celebrated Christmas every Tuesday. But Jesus was good at making the spiritual things ordinary and the commonplace things spiritual.

He didn’t want his sacrifice to become a distant memory or a vague concept to be dusted off once a year, then tucked away for next time. He wanted future generations to live it. And so, he asked us to tell this story as often as we meet—to have Easter every Sunday—because this is not an annual reminder of God’s faithfulness in the distant past. This is a reminder of his ongoing faithfulness, his ongoing salvation every week, every day.

Mandy Smith, originally from Australia, serves as pastor at University Christian Church, Cincinnati, Ohio (www.universitychristianchurch.net). She is the author of Making a Mess and Meeting God: Unruly Ideas and Everyday Experiments for Worship (Standard Publishing) and of The Vulnerable Pastor: How Human Limitations Empower Our Ministry (IVP, slated for release in October).

By Mandy Smith

For many Christians, singing hymns in a group is still a meaningful experience. An a cappella version of “Praise God from Whom All Blessings Flow” can induce goose bumps, especially when those harmonies chime in on the “A-men.”

While we don’t usually dissect the meaning of this practice, there are reasons why singing as a group is powerful. The simple act of singing old songs about God to God with each other reinforces three things that are central to our faith:

We are devoted to God through Christ,

We are devoted to him together, and

We are devoted to him together with the millions who have gone before us.

We could simply make these three statements every Sunday, but they’re a little dry compared with the experience of singing together, and so we communicate them metaphorically through music.

All of Scripture reinforces these themes, but one moment that sings it most clearly is Jesus’ summary of “all the Law and Prophets”:

“‘Love the Lord your God with all your heart and with all your soul and with all your mind.’ This is the first and greatest commandment. And the second is like it: ‘Love your neighbor as yourself’” (Matthew 22:37-40). Here is the same threefold refrain: We are devoted to God, we are devoted to him together and—by connecting it to the ancient Law and Prophets—Jesus is adding, “And this is nothing new.”

Communion takes up the same theme. Whether by singing hymns together, reading Jesus’ words from Matthew, or taking Communion together, we repeat these same truths, reminding ourselves of the anthem that hums along behind all we do. Communion has been celebrated throughout the centuries and across the nations since the first century. Its symbols remind us of Christ and our reliance on him. By taking it together we remember that we rely on him together. So in this simple act of together lifting a morsel of cracker and tiny sip of juice to our mouths, we join this ancient chorus:

We are devoted to God through Christ,

We are devoted to him together and

We are devoted to him together with the millions who have gone before us.

Mandy Smith, originally from Australia, serves as pastor at University Christian Church, Cincinnati, Ohio (www.universitychristianchurch.net). She is the author of Making a Mess and Meeting God: Unruly Ideas and Everyday Experiments for Worship (Standard Publishing) and of The Vulnerable Pastor: How Human Limitations Empower Our Ministry (IVP, slated for release in October).

By Daniel Schantz

“For this reason many are weak and sickly among you, and many sleep” (1 Corinthians 11:30).

Church services are well underway in a smalltown church of a hundred souls, when a little girl of 10 meanders down the center aisle, looking for a seat. She looks confused, as if she has never been inside a church before and she doesn’t know where to sit. Her bony shoulders are draped with a rag of a dress and her hair is matted and greasy. Her fingers and arms are gray with ground-in dirt, and she looks starved. At last she takes a seat on the front row.

The deacons finish their Communion prayers, then the older, heavier server steps over to the first pew and offers the bread tray to the little waif. The tray contains a single, whole cracker. Many churches used to present the bread this way, believing that everyone should break the bread for himself.

The girl looks at the cracker and her eyes widen. Suddenly she grabs the whole cracker and thrusts it into her mouth, and she gobbles it like a starved animal.

At first the deacon starts to stop her, but then he sizes up the situation and holds his peace. Without a word, he turns and steps through a side door and into the kitchen, and soon he comes back with another cracker in the tray, which he passes to the rest of the audience.

The child’s actions are completely forgivable, in light of her hunger and her newness to worship services.

We understand the painful effects of hunger. Everything is harder when you are famished. Miss a couple meals and you become irritable, short-tempered. You snap at your husband or wife. You drive like you are drunk. Your thinking gets fuzzy, and you find it hard to do the simplest task, like reading a book, and all because your mind is preoccupied with one thought: food, glorious food!

The effects of spiritual hunger are just as real, but they are not always obvious or urgent. Like tooth decay, spiritual decay can go on for a long time before you notice any pain. Suddenly you find yourself unable to get along with a coworker or to stand up to a mild temptation, and then you realize you are spiritually famished.

Here, at the Lord’s Supper, you can fill up on the rich offerings of grace. You can savor the thick steak of God’s Word and the buttery bread of God’s love, and you can finish off with the sweet desserts of Christian fellowship. Everything is better after a good meal.

Daniel D. Schantz is professor emeritus with Central Christian College of the Bible in Moberly, Missouri.

By Daniel Schantz

“The soul of Jonathan was knit with the soul of David . . .” (1 Samuel 18:1).

The word communion means “to share” or “to have something in common.” Although it is more than just a feeling, the feeling is rather nice.

Communion is what you feel the first time you fall in love, and she loves you back. You can almost read her mind, and when she goes away, your heart breaks.

Communion is what you feel in the middle of the night when your wife is trembling from a nightmare and, gently, you wake her from it. She thanks you with a hug for saving her from the terrors of the nighttime.

Communion is what you feel when you are really, really down, and a friend drops by for a visit. For two hours you trade woes, and when you are done, you are both laughing like schoolkids, and the world looks bright.

Communion is what you feel when you are striding down the walking trail with God’s sun on your face, the wind in your hair, and the birds cheering you on.

Communion is what you feel at the funeral of a godly friend. You are relieved that his sufferings are over, and you feel that if he is in Heaven, then Heaven will be a pretty nice place to be.

Communion is what you feel when you have had a brutal war of words with your husband, and it was entirely your fault, but he puts his arms around you and says, “I’m sorry, it was all my fault.”

Communion is what you feel when a neighbor calls to say, “We lost our son in the war,” and you lost your own son in the war last year.

And communion is what you feel when you are sitting in church, feeling lower than a lizard because of careless and stupid choices you made when confronted by terrible temptations.

Suddenly the worship team begins to sing, “Lord Jesus I long to be perfectly whole. I want thee forever to live in my soul. Break down every idol, cast out every foe, now wash me and I shall be whiter than snow.”

Reluctantly you reach for the unleavened bread, wondering if God can really forgive you yet again. You rinse the bread down with the blood of the vine, and your eyes are moist with relief. You can almost hear your Savior say, “It’s OK, I understand. I was tempted too, remember? And I overcame temptation just so I could help you in times like this. I forgive you for everything, and I’m giving you a new, unspoiled week. Call on me whenever things get tough.”

Daniel D. Schantz is professor emeritus with Central Christian College of the Bible in Moberly, Missouri.

By Daniel Schantz

 

“Peace I leave with you, My peace I give to you” (John 14:27, New King James Version).

You arrive late at the little country church that is surrounded by lime green sycamore trees. Late, because you had a tiff with your wife at breakfast.

The pianist is playing “The Old Rugged Cross” on a piano that is slightly out of tune, just like you. Just as you and your wife take a seat, several farmers stand up and make their way to the back of the auditorium. Their faces are red from sun labors, except for their foreheads that are white where their hats covered them. They wear short-sleeve shirts and have arms that are strong, solid, furry. Slowly they march down the center aisle, their leather boots making a pleasant, squeaking sound, and the wooden floor rising and falling to their cadence.

The men stop in front of a massive, wooden Communion table that probably was carved by Michelangelo himself from an olive tree that grew in the Garden of Gethsemane. The words, “This Do in Remembrance of Me” stand out in relief. The table is covered with a crocheted ivory cloth, made long ago by an elder’s wife. The bronze Communion trays were salvaged from the old building that was destroyed by fire 50 years ago.

The oldest farmer opens his heavy, worn Bible, adjusts his thick glasses, and reads the text in a deep, rich voice, then closes his Bible and offers a simple, honest prayer, the same one he has prayed for the past 42 years, and you are comforted by its familiarity.

Weathered, calloused hands distribute the trays, row-by-row, then old men and women shade their eyes with their hands to meditate. Young couples hold hands. You can almost see the prayers rising like incense from the pews—prayers of confession and regret, prayers for children and grandchildren, anxious prayers for rain and good crops.

The air has a fruity fragrance, and the clicking of little glass cups in the bronze trays is soothing. The two of you serve each other the Communion, and your eyes meet for just a moment, as you check each other for anger, but the anger is gone. Your wife places her hand on top of yours, and you can feel your eyes beginning to overflow. You squeeze her hand in response.

The farmers carry the trays back to the table, and the pianist begins to play a sprightly tune, in preparation for the offering.

You glance at your watch and note that the Communion service lasted only seven minutes, but it was long enough to bring you deep peace.

“Thank you, Lord,” you pray, “for holding us all together.”

Daniel D. Schantz is professor emeritus with Central Christian College of the Bible in Moberly, Missouri.

By Daniel Schantz

“I . . . am like a sparrow alone on a housetop” (Psalm 102:7).

The city can be a lonely place, and on this Sunday morning you are utterly solo. Your husband is on the road, and the kids are at grandma’s house. You are a worship widow.

You take a seat near the front of the auditorium, looking around to see if there is a familiar face, but you recognize no one.

The lights in the auditorium dim, and the video screen flashes to life with lovely nature scenes—a yellow field of wheat against a blue sky, and green vineyards heavy with purple clusters of grapes. Then shots of a farmhouse where a grandmother is baking bread, then scenes of children picking grapes from an arbor and lugging the heavy buckets to the house, where they will be made into juice and jelly. You can almost smell the grapes. Finally, the video switches to scenes from the life of Christ—the feeding of the five thousand, the turning of water to wine, the last supper, ending with a shot of Judas reaching for bread.

There is a moment of silence, then the sound of children singing. You swivel your head to see beautiful, sweet children skipping down the aisle, waving white streamers as they go. They circle a large table at the front, which has been set with loaves of unleaved bread and little white cups of juice. The children stand behind the table and sing, “Come . . . now is the time to worship. . . .”

Row-by-row, members stand up and move forward to the table, where they break off pieces of the bread to eat, and lift the cups of juice to their lips. They meditate for a moment, then move to the side, forming a circle around the auditorium, all of them holding hands and singing, “Amazing grace, how sweet the sound, that saved a wretch like me . . . ”

On their way back to their seats, members stop to chat and embrace. Suddenly a familiar face appears, an old friend, just passing through town. She hugs you. “May I sit with you,” she begs, and you nod, happy to have some company for the rest of the service.

The rest of the service is a blur. Like naughty schoolgirls, the two of you whisper your reactions to the sermon, and sometimes stifle a laugh. Your loneliness vanishes like a bad dream, and during the closing prayer you find yourself overflowing with thanksgiving. “Lord, thank you for your amazing grace that understands my loneliness, and thank you for bringing us all together in this place.”

Daniel D. Schantz is professor emeritus with Central Christian College of the Bible in Moberly, Missouri. 

By Tom Ellsworth

One really can make a difference.

It was a sweltering election afternoon in 1842 when Hoosier farmer Henry Shoemaker finally realized he hadn’t voted yet. Shoemaker had personally promised state representative candidate Madison Marsh he would cast his vote for him, so he saddled his horse and hurried to Kendallville before the polls closed. When the votes were counted, Marsh and his opponent, Enos Beall, were tied. There was one contested ballot, and it was Shoemaker’s. When his vote was finally admitted, the tie was broken, and Marsh was declared the winner . . . by one vote.

At that time, state legislators, not the populace, elected U.S. senators, so when the Indiana general assembly gathered for that responsibility, Edward Hannegan was elected by one vote. You guessed it; it was none other than Madison Marsh who changed his vote on the sixth ballot to give Hannegan the election.

Three years later a sharply divided U.S. Senate was debating the issue of war with Mexico. The vote was deadlocked until Sen. Hannegan of Indiana cast his vote in favor of declaring war.

And what did the U.S. get out of that war with our southern neighbor? For one thing, California, which was surrendered to the United States! Henry Shoemaker could never have imagined that day the chain of events he set in motion with one vote that would forever change American history.

The Scriptures are clear about the power of one. Paul, writing to the church at Rome, reminds us of that very truth: “For if the many died by the trespass of the one man, how much more did God’s grace and the gift that came by the grace of the one man, Jesus Christ, overflow to the many!” (Romans 5:15).

When we gather around the Lord’s table, we remember his life-changing sacrifice. Only God understood the wonderful chain of events set in motion the day Jesus died. Jesus wasn’t just one, he was the only One who could win the war for our souls and forever change spiritual history. His singular grace overflowed to us, the many.

One really did make all the difference!

Tom Ellsworth serves as senior minister with Sherwood Oaks Christian Church in Bloomington, Indiana. 

By Tom Ellsworth

On July 30, 1945, just after midnight, the heavy cruiser USS Indianapolis was torpedoed while en route from Guam to the Leyte Gulf in the Philippines. The resulting explosions so damaged the cruiser that it sank in only 12 minutes. Amazingly, nearly 900 crew members made it into the water. Since the Indianapolis was unable to radio a distress signal, no one knew to look for the ship until it didn’t arrive in port. Consequently, after it was determined the Indianapolis was missing, no one knew where to look for survivors—if indeed there were any.

The shark attacks began the morning after the sinking, and the bloody death toll began to rise. The dwindling number of survivors had been in the water for 96 hours when Lt. Wilbur Gwinn, while on a routine test flight in his Lockheed Ventura, spotted the men and immediately radioed for help. He and his crew dropped all available items that might aid the struggling survivors in the water, and continued to circle until a Navy PBY seaplane appeared. Within hours other naval vessels arrived to aid in the rescue.

A few days later, Gwinn stopped by the naval hospital to see the survivors. Of the 900 crewmen who had entered the water, only 316 lived through the ordeal. When Gwinn entered the hospital ward he was introduced with these words, “Boys, here’s the guy who found you!” Cheers rose from every bed. Gwinn, who was deeply moved, noted it was the most treasured moment of his life.

Gwinn died in 1993, but the remaining few Indianapolis survivors continue to meet annually, and they never forget the one who found them when they were hopelessly lost at sea.

Jesus said, “For the Son of Man came to seek and to save what was lost” (Luke 19:10). We spiritual survivors gather around the Lord’s table weekly to remember. Let the bread and cup point you to the One who found you when you were hopelessly lost in sin. And let this simple memorial be a reminder that when you found him, it was the most treasured moment of your life!

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Tom Ellsworth serves as senior minister with Sherwood Oaks Christian Church in Bloomington, Indiana. 

By Tom Ellsworth

Malchus was not your ordinary, run-of-the-mill slave; he was the trusted servant of the influential high priest. As the armed band of soldiers approached Gethsemane, Malchus undoubtedly was at the forefront, leading with all the clout of Annas and Caiaphas. He would help arrest the notorious rabbi, Jesus, or die trying. This man was no innocent bystander; he was eager to protect the rule and authority of his master.

As Judas slithered up to Jesus and branded him with a kiss, the fireworks began. In an act of noble loyalty, Peter drew his stubby sword and lunged toward the high priest’s servant. Peter swung. Malchus ducked. An ear fell.

Soldiers tensed. Twelve legions of armed angels hovered, waiting for the call to battle. Instead, Jesus reached out to the stunned and bleeding Malchus and instantly restored his ear.

Little things are often overlooked. It was merely an ear. And only the good doctor Luke bothered to record this miracle. Incredibly, the name Malchus means “king.” There in the darkness of an olive grove, two kings met—one was a servant who acted like an arrogant king; one was the humble King who acted like a servant. Ironic, isn’t it? This was the last miracle before Jesus’ death and it, like a royal crown, was awarded to the imposter.

I have often wondered what happened to Malchus. Did he linger in the garden to contemplate the grace of God? Did that physical touch change his spiritual outcome? How often did he scratch his ear and think of Jesus? Could it be the apostle John recorded Malchus’s name in his Gospel because the servant became a convert to Christianity? After all, who could be the recipient of such a miracle and ever be the same again?

Like Malchus, I am no innocent bystander. My sin threatens to enslave me; my ego cries out to be king; my will rebels against the goodness of God. It is a constant battle. Can you relate?

Something wonderful, however, happens when I come to the Lord’s table. As I eat the bread and drink the cup, my mind is transported to a moment in time where I am reminded that Jesus reserved his ultimate miracle for me, the imposter. I linger over the elements and contemplate the grace of God. I rejoice that his physical death changed my spiritual outcome forever. I am challenged to live faithfully for the one true King.

I hope your experience holds the same wonder. After all, who could be the recipient of such a miracle and ever be the same again?

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Tom Ellsworth serves as senior minister with Sherwood Oaks Christian Church in Bloomington, Indiana. 

By Tom Ellsworth

At the time many condescendingly referred to it as “Seward’s Folly”—because U.S. Secretary of State William H. Seward brokered the deal and was its biggest promoter—but the purchase of Alaska from Russia was anything but foolish. Rich in gold, copper, and oil, its value has far exceeded the 1867 purchase price of 2 cents per acre.

Part of this grand acquisition (twice the size of Texas) is a tiny island with a big story. Only 2.8 square miles in size, Little Diomede Island rises out of the water in the middle of the Bering Strait and is home to 147 residents. With a name like Little Diomede, you might suppose there is a Big Diomede Island, and you would be right. Less than three miles to the west lies the larger island. Theoretically, not much separates these two islands, but these two dots of land are truly worlds apart. Big Diomede Island is the easternmost point of Russia, therefore:

• The islands belong to two very distinct nations.

• The islands are located on two separate continents.

• The inhabitants speak two different languages and celebrate two diverse cultures.

And yet for all of that, there is one greater distinction. The international date line runs between Little Diomede Island in the United States and Big Diomede Island in Russia. What’s the big deal, you ask? Being separated by the international date line means that for a few hours the residents of Big Diomede are a day ahead on the calendar. Do you realize how unique that is? On a clear day, you could stand on the hill of Little Diomede, look across that channel of water to the coast of Big Diomede, and see tomorrow!

During the first century, many in Jerusalem considered the story of an empty tomb the “Apostle’s Folly.” We know better. The heartbreak of the cross was followed by the incredible news of Jesus Christ’s resurrection.

Theoretically, not much separates these two events—just three days—but from another perspective, these two events are truly worlds apart. One was shrouded in tears, the other overflowed with joy. One paid the wage for our past behavior while the other paved the way for our future blessings.

Incredibly, we celebrate both when we come to the Lord’s Supper. I’m grateful for Paul’s insight, “For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes” (1 Corinthians 11:26, author’s emphasis). During Communion, we don’t just reflect on the tragedy, we also proclaim his triumph. You can stand on the hill of Calvary, look across the channel of time to the coast of Heaven, and see tomorrow!

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Tom Ellsworth serves as senior minister with Sherwood Oaks Christian Church in Bloomington, Indiana. 

By Greg Swinney

A nervous group of university students stood outside the barbed wire fence and steel gates of the state prison on a windy fall afternoon. The group of about 20 students joined hands to pray before entering the prison to lead a worship service. Just before he bowed his head to pray, the volunteer chaplain said, “We are expecting God to do a mighty work today in the hearts of the inmates here. If any of you need to quietly confess any sins or shortcomings to the Lord, please do it now. Unconfessed sin hinders the work of the Holy Spirit, and we don’t want anything to get in the way of God using us to share his grace with others.”

Nervous laughter among the group turned to silence. As each one bowed his head, a deep sense of conviction spread from one to another as each person realized the price Jesus paid to “set the prisoners free.” After a lengthy time of quiet prayer, confession, and a renewed desire for purity and holiness, the group entered through the steel doors.

We find ourselves in a similar setting today. During this worship time, we desire the Lord to work in our hearts and in the hearts of those around us. We want nothing to hinder his work of transformation. As we approach the Lord’s table, we bring our faults and our failures, our sins and our shortcomings, and we lay them at his feet. We do this not only with a repentant desire for cleansing, but also as an invitation for him to work in us and through us, unhindered.

We enter into this sacred space sharing the feelings of Isaiah. “‘Woe to me!’ I cried. ‘I am ruined! For I am a man of unclean lips, and I live among a people of unclean lips, and my eyes have seen the King, the Lord Almighty’” (Isaiah 6:5). Only after Isaiah confessed his need for cleansing did he hear the Lord say, “Who will go for us?” Isaiah responded, “Here am I. Send me!” (v. 8).

The psalmist also reminds us of this truth. “Then I acknowledged my sin to you and did not cover up my iniquity. I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the Lord.’ And you forgave the guilt of my sin” (Psalm 32:5).

As we enter into a time of holiness and silence, let’s remember how the body and blood of Jesus set us free from the prison of sin and death. Let’s not forget how this supernatural encounter with Jesus prepares us to be used by him in mighty ways in the days ahead.

Greg Swinney works as the ministry facilitator for Crossroads International Student Ministries located in Kearney, Nebraska, and serves as the national representative for the Association of College Ministries.

By Greg Swinney

Columbus Day was recognized as a federal holiday in 1937 to celebrate Christopher Columbus’s heroic voyage of adventure and discovery. Many people working in banks, public offices, and businesses will enjoy a day off in recognition of the discovery of America. Maybe you are someone who is blessed with an employer who will close the doors and give you the day off. Now might be a good time to gain a better appreciation for the spiritual significance of the holiday.

In one of his journals, Columbus wrote, “I am a most noteworthy sinner, but I have cried out to the Lord for grace and mercy, and they have covered me completely. I have found the sweetest consolation since I made it my whole purpose to enjoy his marvelous presence.”

The first act of Columbus upon setting foot in the new land was to set up a standard of the cross and claim this new land in the name of Jesus Christ. The commemoration of his bravery, spirit of faith, and longing for discovery is well worth celebrating.

You may sense a connection with Columbus this morning. Maybe your life looks more and more like an adventure to the unknown. You may be praying, “What’s my next move, Lord?” Others may relate to Columbus’s comment about the need for mercy and a sense of God’s presence. Still others hunger for God’s Word and are eager to discover a fresh new insight and set their feet on the solid ground of a biblical truth that will transform their life.

Meeting around the Lord’s table unites our hearts in this adventure of faith and the joy of discovery. We do it all in the name of Jesus and for his glory. Second Thessalonians 1:12 says, “We pray this so that the name of our Lord Jesus may be glorified in you, and you in him, according to the grace of our God and the Lord Jesus Christ.”

As the loaf and cup remind us of Jesus’ body and blood given for our forgiveness, let’s also take a moment and, in the name of Jesus, proclaim our lives as his territory. The standard set over the Communion table is also the standard set over our hearts—the cross of Christ.

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Greg Swinney serves as ministry facilitator with Crossroads International Student Ministries, Kearney, Nebraska.