By Nancy Karpenske

You probably know someone who can’t stand the sight of blood—the man who considered becoming an emergency medical technician but couldn’t deal with the blood, the mom who nearly passes out while washing off her child’s bloody knee, the friend who avoids any movie with gory scenes. Blood can make us extremely uncomfortable.

But the death of Jesus, horrifically bloody, is the centerpiece of our salvation. We can’t afford to close our eyes or look the other way.

“For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed . . . but with the precious blood of Christ” (1 Peter 1:18, 19).

“In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace” (Ephesians 1:7).

“But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near by the blood of Christ” (Ephesians 2:13).

“The blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin” (1 John 1:7).

Revelation 5 records a gory scene. The apostle John is weeping because no one in the throne room of Heaven is found worthy to open the scroll. John is told, “Do not weep! See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has triumphed. He is able to open the scroll” (v. 5). Expecting the Lion, John sees instead a “Lamb, looking as if it had been slain” (v. 6). The Lamb takes the book, and everyone falls down to worship him. They sing a new song, saying, “You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased for God persons from every tribe and language and people and nation” (v. 9).

Jesus poured out his blood, his very life, to bring redemption, forgiveness, purification, and reconciliation.

Jesus also ordained the way we would ponder and recall his sacrifice. He didn’t ask us to read graphic descriptions. He didn’t order reenactments. He didn’t prescribe paintings or movies. He commanded the drinking of the cup and eating the unleavened bread from the Passover meal. He could have asked for the slaying of lambs and told us to use their blood to paint door frames. But because of his death, no more sacrifice was needed. None better could be offered.

Our memorial is simple. But we cannot afford to forget that real blood was poured out, real flesh was torn. As it says in the old hymn, “See, from his head, his hands, his feet, sorrow and love flow mingled down.” By his wounds we are healed.

________________

Nancy Karpenske is women’s ministry director at LifeBridge Christian Church in Longmont, Colorado.

By Nancy Karpenske

When my family gathers at the dinner table, it is common for the designated prayer person to pray, “Lord, thank you for the hands that prepared this meal.”

Those would be my hands they are talking about. Sometimes fixing dinner has taken hours, chopping, mixing, stirring, grating. Occasionally my hands smell like the onion I chopped, or they are scratched from picking raspberries. But quite often my hands have merely pushed the buttons on the microwave or flipped the switch on the Crock-Pot in order to produce a satisfying meal.

I like to cook and bake. But even if I didn’t, I would fix dinner anyway, because I love my family, and I love sitting down together and sharing a few moments of our day together.

When we gather to celebrate Communion, it is a family mealtime. And we can pray that same prayer, “Lord, thank you for the hands that prepared this meal.” And while we would be referring to the people who carefully prepare the trays and fill the cups every week, the more important hands involved in this meal are the hands of Jesus. His hands were pierced with nails as he died to pay the price for our sins.

Jesus asked us to remember his body by eating this bread and to think of his blood as we drink this juice. Jesus allowed his hands to be pierced, his life to be given, because he loves us and he desires more than anything for us to eat with him, and not just this weekly remembrance; he wants us to live with him forever and sit at the Father’s table as his beloved children.

Lord, we thank you for the hands of Jesus, who lovingly prepared this meal for us by giving up his life. And Lord, we eat and drink in faith that some day we will feast at your table with never-ending celebration.

Nancy Karpenske serves with the staff of LifeBridge Christian Church, Longmont, Colorado.

By Victor Knowles

It was the summer of 1966, and I was set to enter my junior year in Bible college in August. Three shocking events transpired that sultry summer 50 years ago.

On June 6, civil rights activist James Meredith was shot while traveling in Mississippi. Fortunately, he survived.

A few days later, on July 14, the city of Chicago became the scene of a horrific mass murder when Richard Speck killed eight student nurses.

And just when I thought things couldn’t get worse, on August 1 an ex-Marine, Charles Whitman, barricaded himself atop the University of Texas Tower in Austin. Before that now distant day was done, the sniper had shot and killed 14 people and wounded 32 more.

Sometimes we think “the good old days” were not so bad. Not so. Mankind had barely begun to breathe when Cain killed his brother, Abel.

The Bible says the heart of God was “deeply troubled” (Genesis 6:6) at the “wickedness of the human race” (6:5), and that “the earth is filled with violence because of them” (6:13).

Centuries later, in the parable of the tenants, Jesus spoke of a landowner (God) who sent his servants (the prophets) to collect the fruit from the tenants. Every one of the servants was beaten, stoned or killed. “Last of all, he sent his son to them. ‘They will respect my son,’ he said” (Matthew 21:37). But they didn’t. They killed his son too.

God so loved but the world so hated.

Jesus came into a first-century world filled with death and violence. His love and compassion was met head-on with nails and thorns.

In “Indifference,” poet George Studdart-Kennedy wrote of Jesus’ crucifixion:

They crowned Him with a crown of thorns, red were His wounds and deep,

For those were crude and cruel days, and human flesh was cheap.

And herein lies the miracle of Calvary and Communion.

“You see, at just the right time, when we were still powerless, Christ died for the ungodly. Very rarely will anyone die for a righteous person, though for a good person someone might possibly dare to die. But God demonstrates his own love for us in this: While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (Romans 5:6-8).

The broken bread and crimson cup remind us of our sin—and God’s amazing love for sinners.

Victor Knowles is founder and president of POEM (Peace on Earth Ministries), Joplin, Missouri.

By Victor Knowles

In 1983, President Ronald Reagan issued a proclamation establishing the first National Sanctity of Human Life Sunday. (It will be observed next on Jan. 15, 2017.) This day calls attention to the cause of the unborn and to the precious gift of life itself. Life is a sacred gift from God, but it was not considered so in the time of Christ. The Anglican priest and poet G. A. Studdert-Kennedy (1883–1929) writes in his famous poem “Indifference”:

When Jesus came to Golgotha they hanged Him on a tree,

They drave great nails through hands and feet, and made a Calvary;

They crowned Him with a crown of thorns, red were His wounds and deep,

For those were crude and cruel days, and human life was cheap.

Our Lord understood what awaited him when he traded the splendor of Heaven for the squalor of earth. He knew his purpose in life included having nails driven through his hands. “They pierce my hands and my feet” (Psalm 22:16). He told his disciples he must suffer many things, be rejected, “and that he must be killed and after three days rise again” (Mark 8:31). He knew that he was born to die, but in dying he would “give his life as a ransom for many” (Mark 10:45).

Communion reminds us of those “crude and cruel days” when “human life was cheap.” Roman soldiers and Jewish leaders alike mocked Jesus. Even the two thieves “heaped insults on him” (Matthew 27:44). But Communion also reminds us of the love Jesus showed for us on Calvary, for in the midst of crudity and cruelty, Jesus prayed, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing” (Luke 23:34).

Studdert-Kennedy’s poem includes Jesus coming to Birmingham, England, where, instead of inflicting pain, they simply “left Him in the rain.”

Still Jesus cried, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.”

And still it rained the wintry rain that drenched Him through and through;

The crowds went home and left the streets without a soul to see,

And Jesus crouched against a wall and cried for Calvary.

________________

Victor Knowles is founder and president of POEM (Peace on Earth Ministries), Joplin, Missouri; www.poeministries.org.

By Victor Knowles

The Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial in Washington, D.C., was dedicated in 2011. Visitors pass through the divided granite “Mountain of Despair” on their way to the “Stone of Hope.” An inscription on the “Mountain of Despair” reads, “I was a drum major for justice, peace, and righteousness,” a statement King once suggested for how he would like to be remembered.

But today we celebrate a different kind of memorial. It is not carved in granite or set in stone. The memorial consists of two extremely perishable elements: unleavened bread and the fruit of the vine. You do not have to travel to Washington or Jerusalem to appreciate this memorial. Indeed, today, all around the world, millions of people are gathered around the Lord’s table to remember the One who died to set them free from sin and death and Hell. On many of those Communion tables you will see the words: “Do this in remembrance of me.”

By revelation the apostle Paul received these words: “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’” (1 Corinthians 11:23-25).

The fundamental truth of the gospel is this: Christ died for our sins. The mountain of our sins caused us great despair. But then Christ, who is our hope, took our sins away. “He has died as a ransom to set them free from the sins committed” (Hebrews 9:15). And so today we can paraphrase King and say, “Free at last, saved at last. Thank God Almighty, through Jesus Christ, we’re saved at last.”

Victor Knowles is founder and president of POEM (Peace on Earth Ministries), Joplin, Missouri; www.poeministries.org.

By C. Robert Wetzel

“We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans” (Romans 8:26).

We often find our congregations preparing for the Lord’s Supper with an appropriate Communion hymn followed by a meditation that helps us focus on the meaning of this sacred event. This is followed by what some call the “words of institution,” such as the words of the apostle Paul in 1 Corinthians 11:23-26. The presiding elder then offers a prayer of blessing over the bread and cup.

As we partake, we focus our thoughts with thanksgiving on the sacrifice of our Lord Jesus Christ and the new life he has given us through our baptism (Romans 6:4). But then comes a time of personal prayer as others are being served—it’s a time we can pour out our hearts to God. It can be a time of bringing the week’s concerns . . . or joys . . . before the Lord.

There may well be times we are feeling so overwhelmed we do not know how to pray. Granted, there are some concerns for which we know exactly how to pray. If a child is sick, we pray for healing. If a relative or friend is beginning a journey, we pray for traveling mercies. But there may be personal, family, workplace, or church problems that are so confusing we just do not know how to pray. All we can do is groan . . . inwardly. But then the Holy Spirit steps in: “We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans” (Romans 8:26)

Not only are we groaning, the Holy Spirit is groaning! With this assurance, we can simply pray, “Lord, will you, in your wisdom and power, be at work in this distressing situation. And please let me know what I am to do . . . if anything!”

C. Robert Wetzel, retired after serving as president of Emmanuel Christian Seminary for 15 years, still lives in Johnson City, Tennessee. 

By C. Robert Wetzel

There is both a vertical and a horizontal dimension to the Lord Supper. In a spiritual sense, we are looking up as we once again focus our thoughts on the gift of God in the sacrificial death of our Lord Jesus Christ. As we eat the bread we remember his words, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me” (1 Corinthians 11:24). And as we drink from the cup we hear his words, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it in remembrance of me” (11:25).

It is as though in that moment we are alone with our Lord. The thoughts and cares that have filled our lives throughout the week have been pushed aside. We are now looking up to the God who revealed himself in the Christ. It is a time of remembrance, thanksgiving, and praise.

But there is also the horizontal dimension. As we eat the bread we are mindful of the words of the apostle Paul, “And is not the bread that we break a participation in the body of Christ? Because there is one loaf, we, who are many, are one body, for we all partake of the one loaf” (1 Corinthians 10:16, 17). Yes, we who have gathered in this place of worship are reminded we are all members of the one body of Christ. We are indeed brothers and sisters in Christ with one God and Father who created us and redeemed us.

Hence, as we share in the Lord’s Supper, let us look up to the Christ who gave us this memorial meal. And let us look around to remind us we are brothers and sisters in the body of Christ.

Robert Wetzel, retired after serving as president of Emmanuel Christian Seminary for 15 years, still lives in Johnson City, Tennessee.

By C. Robert Wetzel

On his third missionary journey, Paul had arranged to rendezvous with some of his coworkers at Troas. Arriving there, he stayed for several days so he could meet with the church. He knew they would be meeting on the first day of the week to observe the Lord’s Supper. The meeting proved to be surprisingly eventful (Acts 20:7-12).

I wonder how the people at Troas remembered Paul’s visit? “That was the longest sermon I ever heard,” recalled one man.

“Far too long,” said the mother of Eutychus. “I know the boy should not have gone to sleep, and he certainly shouldn’t have been sitting in the window of a second-story building. But couldn’t Paul have wrapped up his sermon after an hour or two without going on till midnight? I don’t mean to be ungrateful. Yes, Paul did restore him to life. But I could have done without the fright of thinking I had lost my son.”

Alas, poor Eutychus! With whatever else he did with his life, he was remembered only as the young man who went to sleep during Paul’s sermon and fell out of a second-story window!

Perhaps years later, when most of the people had passed on, an old elder was teaching some young people in the congregation. “Let me tell you about the time I had Communion with the apostle Paul. . . .” It was indeed a memorable Communion.

As we come to the Lord’s table each Lord’s Day, it is a time of remembrance, a time to remember the new life we have in Christ.

Robert Wetzel, retired after serving as president of Emmanuel Christian Seminary for 15 years, still lives in Johnson City, Tennessee.

By C. Robert Wetzel

We often look to the Gospel of Matthew for an account of the institution of the Lord’s Supper. It is here that we read,

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” (Matthew 26:26-28).

One can only imagine the intensity of this occasion. And it would have been even more so had the disciples understood the future significance of what Jesus was doing. But it is understandable they did not even realize what was to happen a few hours hence, let alone what the Lord’s Supper was to mean to future believers.

In any event, this came at the conclusion of the Passover meal. It was a spiritual high. And you do not nonchalantly walk away from a spiritual high. And so they sang a hymn (v. 30).

Today our observance of the Lord’s Supper is often introduced by a hymn, a “Communion hymn.” One hopes this Communion hymn focuses our thoughts on the sacrificial death of our Lord Jesus Christ. And so we sing, “Beneath the Cross of Jesus” or “Bread of the World” or another appropriate hymn. These songs prepare us for the spiritual experience of sharing in this sacred meal.

The observance of the Lord’s Supper can and should be an intense spiritual moment. And when one has such a spiritual high, there is then a coming down. And what better way to come down then to sing a hymn?

Robert Wetzel, retired after serving as president of Emmanuel Christian Seminary for 15 years, still lives in Johnson City, Tennessee. 

By C. Robert Wetzel

Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me, for in you my soul takes refuge (Psalm 57:1).

We readily understand the words of Simon Peter when he said to Jesus, “Depart from me, for I am a sinful man, O Lord.” Early in his ministry, Jesus had occasion to use Peter’s boat as a pulpit. When the sermon was over he told Peter to put out to sea and let down his nets. Peter protested, “Master, we toiled all night and took nothing! But at your word I will let down the nets.” And when he and his fellow fishermen did, their nets filled to overflowing. Peter suddenly realized he was in the presence of one who had been sent by God, and he was overcome with his own sense of unworthiness (Luke 5:1-11, Revised Standard Version).

As we prepare to participate in the Lord’s Supper, there will always be a sense of unworthiness. This is not true only when we first come to Christ. The more we grow in our understanding of God’s revelation in Christ, the more we become aware of our own sinfulness and shortcomings. And hence, the more we realize our dependence upon his forgiving grace.

Perhaps it is like this. As we meditate in preparation for the Lord’s Supper, we think of the time in the preceding week when we were unkind or hurtful to someone. Or we are mindful of sinful thoughts we not only harbored, but even reveled in, whether or not these thoughts were acted out. Or perhaps it was simply a matter of becoming so involved in one’s day-to-day work that little or no thought was given to the work of Christ.

But now it is Sunday morning. We are singing a Communion hymn, “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.” And in surveying the cross—that is, reflecting on how God became flesh in Jesus Christ and died on the cross for our sins—we are mindful, if not overwhelmed, with a sense of unworthiness. And we cry out in our souls, “Lord, have mercy on me!” And when we eat the bread and drink the cup, we do not say, “Lord, depart from me for I am a sinner.” Rather we pray, “Lord, come into my life anew because I am a sinner.”

Preparation for the Lord’s Supper requires that we be mindful of our unworthiness so we can once again recognize the richness of the grace we receive through the sacrificial death of our Lord Jesus Christ.

Robert Wetzel, retired after serving as president of Emmanuel Christian Seminary for 15 years, still lives in Johnson City, Tennessee.

By Ron Davis

Piercings are popular.

It started with the ear lobe . . . and worked its way up . . . and down.

But piercing is not new. And it did not come from good or noble precedent.

The notoriously vicious Assyrians, in ancient times, took their captives home by inserting a hook through the cheeks of those captives. Keep up, or else, as you are dragged along!

In fact, many cultures, ancient and modern “marked” their captives as slaves by a ring in the nose or ear. It was always the sign of an ultimate death penalty.

And piercing—of a different sort—was common in ancient warfare. Knives, arrows, swords, spears, and axes—all were piercing weapons. When gunpowder was discovered, the piercings became even more efficient and possible at more than an arm’s length and an arm’s strength. The piercings were always designed to accomplish one objective: the death of the one pierced.

Mary, on the joyous occasion of the presentation of her firstborn son at the temple as dedicated to the Lord, was given the sad piercing news: “And a sword will pierce your own soul too” (Luke 2:34, 35). At the very moment 33 years later, as a calloused Roman soldier pierced the side of Jesus on the cross, simply to ascertain his death (John 19:34), the maternal sword of aching love and sadness pierced the very soul of Mary.

And John, as he stood at the cross watching the water and blood flow from the side of Jesus (John 19:35), could not but recall and exclaim the words of Zechariah: “They will look on me, the one they have pierced, and they will mourn for him as one mourns for an only child, and grieve bitterly for him as one grieves for a firstborn son” (Zechariah 12:10).

Here we stand, with visions of that pierced and bleeding body; here we mourn for him as if he were our only child; here we grieve for him as we would for a firstborn son.

Piercings are popular. Let every decorative piercing you see this week not cause your head to shake in disappointment or dismay. Let each bring your thoughts to the humiliating and life-sapping piercings inflicted on the head and back, the hands, the side, the feet of our Lord who was pierced so that we might be made whole!

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 Tom Lawson

Right now, in this time of worship, it is easy to forget how much violence there is outside these walls. We come into this welcoming place, we sing songs of praise, we greet friends and visitors, and we come to the time of Communion. All very nice and so very far removed from all the ugly that’s out there.

It’s surprising, then, to consider for a moment that this brief meal is all about . . .

• a human body broken.

• human flesh torn and bleeding.

• an innocent man hanging by nails in unimaginable agony.

• slow and painful death before a largely uncaring and mocking crowd.

It is a scene so violent we would cover our children’s faces and turn our own eyes away in shock. Behind and within this meal is terrible violence.

I know that seems far removed from this quiet moment in worship. But Communion is rooted and wrapped in terrible violence.

You see, God has not called us here to worship in order to insulate us from violence. Church is not a hideout from the harsh realities of suffering and a cold, cruel world. Each week we are confronted by a great and terrible truth: Our king was hated. Our Lord was beaten. Our best friend was murdered. And none of us, not a single one of us, who decides to align ourselves with this king and Lord can ever think we can be safe from mockery, hatred, and even violence.

Every single day, now more than ever, people are still out there doing violence against our king by mocking or beating or murdering the children of the king. The age of martyrs is not some distant century of swords and crosses. It is the age of social media, YouTube, AK-47s, and Islamic terrorists. The blood of the martyrs is not found on the pages of dusty old books about ancient history; it meets us every time we watch the news or go online.

It is understandable we’d like to come here and not think about it. We’d like to imagine we can all be safe and comfortable, knowing we’ll all sleep tonight snug and safe with our own families in our own homes. But, then, we come to this quiet moment each Lord’s Day—a moment when we are forced to acknowledge the very center of our faith in the love of God seen most clearly only in the midst of a swirling sea of hatred and violence leading from Gethsemane to Golgatha.

The writer of Hebrews brings us face to face with the same reality: “So Jesus also suffered outside the gate in order to sanctify the people through his own blood. Therefore let us go to him outside the camp and bear the reproach he endured. For here we have no lasting city, but we seek the city that is to come” (Hebrews 13:12-14, English Standard Version).

To share in this meal is to sit at both the king’s table and the blood-soaked table of martyrs. To share in this meal is to commit ourselves not only to share in his love, but to also embrace our share of the rejection, the hatred, and maybe even the violence he endured. To an outsider or the uninformed, it seems nothing more than a safe religious action, something church people like to do on Sunday to remember they are loved. But, and I want to make this very clear, it is also something to do to remember how much we are hated.

We are the servants of a murdered king, the children of a rejected Savior, the followers of one who was despised and rejected by men. We do not come here to hide from violence, but to commit ourselves to stand with our brothers and sisters who will suffer and die this very week at the hands of violent men. We are, all of us here, remembering his body broken and blood spilled, and commit ourselves anew to be worthy children of such a king.

Tom Lawson is a professor at Ozark Christian College in Joplin, Missouri.

By Tom Lawson

One thing Americans traveling in the United Kingdom will notice almost immediately involves what people call “personal space.” Houses are smaller. Automobiles are smaller. City streets are smaller. People simply live closer together.

Nowhere is this more evident, or more awkward, than when eating lunch in a sidewalk cafe or British pub. Do not expect to eat alone. Even if you are by yourself, you will not be eating alone. The American custom of devoting an entire table to a group, or even a single person, is simply ignored. If there are empty places, don’t be surprised to look up and see them filled.

For me, this is an uncomfortable arrangement. I look up and see strangers sitting at my table. Some clearly are of Indian ancestry, some British, some African, and all of them are enjoying fish and chips or bangers (sausages) and beans, happily oblivious to my discomfort. I try and remember to turn my fork upside-down and put it in my left hand before they notice I’m a Yank. I mean, who invited them to my table?

Admittedly, the table isn’t really mine. It belongs to the local owner. Even more alarming, I have to acknowledge that my tablemates probably eat here often, while I’m only a visitor. In fact, it isn’t even my country. My passport needs to have a stamp on it giving me permission to stay here for awhile, even as it demonstrates that I have no natural or automatic right to be here. To be eating here. To be sitting next to Abdul or Alfred or Abeeku.

It dawns on me that, in reality, these chaps are letting me sit with them at their table, in their town, in their country.

The table we come to for the Lord’s Supper is never an American table. It is never our table. And, it is never an empty table. Here the poor crowd in next to the rich, white pass the plate to black, and a myriad of languages and cultures jostle shoulder to shoulder, to share in that one spiritual food and one spiritual drink.

“There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). The table is about coming to Christ, certainly. But it is also about coming together. It is about a community, a living body of believers from every tribe, tongue, race, and nation coming together at the same table to share in the same meal at the invitation of the same King.

And, like my experiences in England, we must acknowledge that none of us by place of birth or ethnicity or language or wealth or power has any natural right to be here. We are all, in a sense, strangers “who . . . have been brought near through the blood of Christ” (Ephesians 2:13).

The Lord’s Supper is, in part, a frequent reminder that the church is called upon to be a radical movement of united diversity creating genuine community throughout a world with more walls than bridges. “Excuse me, Cheng-Wang, but do you mind passing me some of that bread?”

Tom Lawson teaches at Ozark Christian College, Joplin, Missouri.

By Tom Lawson

During the 1930s a hopeful contender in a Charlie Chaplin look-alike contest in San Francisco was disappointed when he did not even make the finals. The contestant was, of course, none other than the real Charlie Chaplin.

Today, an entire industry of celebrity doubles has arisen. Want Arnold Schwarzenegger at your 5-year-old’s birthday party? No problem. Want Barack Obama to speak at the church’s annual Thanksgiving dinner? No problem.

Among the billions of human beings on earth, some clearly bear striking similarities to others. In European folklore this may be behind the myth of the doppelganger­—a person’s duplicate who is said to appear as a bad omen.

There are advantages to having a double, of course. Celebrities make use of them, as do important politicians. Whether for security or just to obtain a little personal privacy, a stand-in who looks just like you can come in handy. Nowhere would this be more helpful than to avoid some unpleasant consequences. Like, for example, being hanged as a horse thief or, as Sydney Carlton did for Charles Damay at the end of A Tale of Two Cities, being executed by guillotine in the French revolution. Then it would be a good thing to have a look-alike also serve as a stand-in.

When Paul writes, “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God” (2 Corinthians 5:21), he is describing a remarkable example of a look-alike serving as a stand-in. On the cross, human sinfulness was so thoroughly wrapped around Jesus that he looked thoroughly sinful. Jesus, as Peter observes, carried our sins in his body on the cross (1 Peter 2:24).

Although no longer a popular image with some who discount traditional notions of God’s justice and wrath, this understanding of the cross as, in part, an act of substitution is a foundational truth of Christianity. In looking guilty, Jesus accepted the punishment deserved by the guilty. In accepting Jesus, the guilty are, as Paul notes several times (Galatians 3:27; Colossians 3:12), clothed in Christ. That is how the Bible can speak of us as being “holy and blameless in his sight” (Ephesians 1:4).

The cross and, indeed, the ministry of Jesus are certainly about more than this one idea. But, to remove or downplay the central truth of substitution and atonement is to rob the cross of its inherent necessity.

A wise man once observed that basic fairness meant that God could only punish the guilty and pardon the innocent. “Acquitting the guilty and condemning the innocent—the Lord detests them both” (Proverbs 17:15). In the cross, however, this is exactly what God does. The innocent (Jesus) suffers punishment, while the guilty (you and me) are treated as completely innocent. Jesus looked like us so that, in God’s eyes, we can look like Jesus.

In Communion, we celebrate the most wonderful, and the most terrible, example of a look-alike serving as a stand-in in history. Jesus. On the cross. For me.

Tom Lawson teaches at Ozark Christian College, Joplin, Missouri.

By Tom Lawson

Not far from where I live, vast acres of grain fields extend as far as the eye can see. It is intriguing to see the land transition from muddy brown to springtime green to harvest gold.

Huge combine harvesters make their slow passage through the fields in August and September, pouring tons of harvested grain into the beds of waiting trucks, as the rich fields are reduced again to brown stubble and mud.

Few of us give much thought to where our food is produced, or by whose hands and efforts it comes to our table. To us, a loaf of bread is just that. Although we may know better, we tend to think of it only in its completed, whole, and sliced-up form. One could almost imagine a great chugging piece of farm machinery, slowly making its way through a vast field of plastic-wrapped loaves of sliced sandwich bread.

The reality, of course, is that our bread is produced by crushing thousands of kernels of wheat to a fine powder. This is transported, packaged, and brought home. Then the powder is scooped into a great mound waiting for the addition of water and other ingredients. Then comes the kneading, forming, rising, baking, and, finally, a loaf of finished bread shared around a family table. The grain that makes up that finished bread came from hundreds of individual plants spread over great distances. Scattered kernels brought together into a single whole loaf.

Near the beginning of the second century, an unknown Christian writer composed a prayer to be used during a Communion service. Although not part of inspired Scripture, the prayer is moving and gives us an intriguing glimpse into the worship of that first generation of believers after the passing of the apostles:

We thank you, our Father, for life and knowledge that you have made known to us through your Servant, Jesus. To you be glory forever! Just as this broken loaf, once scattered across the hills, was gathered together and became this one loaf, let your Church be gathered together from the ends of earth into your kingdom. For yours is glory and power through Jesus Christ forever (Didaché 9).

What an image—scattered grain lifted from across the hills and brought together to form one loaf as a visible parable of the church of Christ being gathered from across far-away lands and far-off times into a single gathered family of the kingdom of God at the end of the age. Paul gives the seed of this very thought when he observes, “Because there is one loaf, we, who are many, are one body, for we all partake of the one loaf” (1 Corinthians 10:17).

It is hard to see the loaf of bread when standing in the middle of endless acres of growing grain. It is also hard to picture the acres of grain when looking at a loaf of fresh baked bread. Yet, in our hearts, we know both realities, the seen and the not-yet-seen, are true.

May our coming around the table give us the ability to see both gathered bread and scattered fields, and to live in the certain hope that soon the harvester will be sent forth to bring us all home.

Tom Lawson teaches at Ozark Christian College, Joplin, Missouri.

By Chuck Sackett

Immediately before worship was to begin, a leader in the congregation dumped a boatload of complaints on the preacher. As the preacher entered the worship area, his once light spirit—which had been anticipating worship and preaching—bottomed out in a wash of questions. Instead of worshipping, he fidgeted throughout the singing, trying to get his heart and mind back on track.

He was agonizing over the complaints, frustrated by the timing, and momentarily incapable of preaching. Fortunately, Communion was served before the sermon that day. As he continued to try to settle his spirit, he felt a hand on his shoulder. A man from across the room had walked over to him to quietly ask, “Are you OK? You look really troubled. May I pray for you?”

That moment served as the turning point for the preacher. Someone saw, and cared, and acted. Someone actually spent time “discerning the body” as they sat at the table with Jesus and among his body. Instead of closing his eyes and reliving the sins of his past week, this brother looked around and saw one who was hurting and acted upon what he saw. No one else would have known the power of the moment. But the preacher has never forgotten.

The story reminds us of Paul’s instruction recorded in 1 Corinthians 11:18, 27-30, 33.

When you come together as a church, there are divisions among you. . . . 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. Everyone ought to examine themselves. . . . For those who eat and drink without discerning the body of Christ eat and drink judgment on themselves. . . . That is why many among you are weak and sick. . . . So then, my brothers and sisters, when you gather to eat, you should all eat together.

So, for today, open your eyes. See the hurt, discomfort, and anxiety of those around you. Pray for them. Go to them. Touch them. Share the meal with them. As you “examine yourself,” become an agent of healing in the body.

Chuck Sackett serves as preaching minister with Madison Park Christian Church, Quincy, Illinois, and professor of preaching at Lincoln (Illinois) Christian University. 

By Nancy Karpenske

The notion of “coming clean” implies a person is concealing something, not being completely honest. Coming clean is connected to guilt and shame. If someone stares you down and says, “Time to come clean,” it probably isn’t a request to wash up before sitting down at the dinner table.

God invites us to dinner at his table. We have a standing invitation. Communion is a moment when we are invited to come closer to God. The bread and the juice, symbols of Jesus’ torture and death, remind us in a vivid way that we have already been cleansed. The saving and cleansing work of salvation is complete, finished. “‘He himself bore our sins’ in his body on the cross, so that we might die to sins and live for righteousness” (1 Peter 2:24).

But daily life takes its toll on righteous living. Sin creeps back in. Busyness blurs connection with God. At the end of the week, we are often weary and grungy and tangled back up in the old way of life. How can we approach God like that?

Communion can seem formidable. There’s pressure to clean up our act, to sort through our recent misdeeds and mess ups—well, let’s just call them sins. Let’s be clear. Sinful thoughts and actions don’t disqualify us from our position with God—Jesus took care of that. But the layers of accumulated pollution, that guilt and shame in our hearts and minds, make it more difficult to hear and respond to God.

God has a prescription for cleansing—return to the cross. He waits and longs for our return. When sin clouds our view of God and makes us feel like failures, participating in the Lord’s Supper can serve as the time and place where we return to God for renewal: we remember the One who cleanses us; we recall that we paid nothing for this privilege, but he paid everything.

Communion is the time and place to be renewed. Come clean, come asking for cleansing, “Create in me a pure heart, O God, and renew a steadfast spirit within me” (Psalm 51:10).

That is the essence of Communion, a return to that original experience of cleansing. First we remember Jesus’ death as the initial and complete wellspring of cleansing. Second, we thank God for our own salvation experience, when the guilt and shame were removed. “You were washed, you were sanctified, you were justified in the name of the Lord Jesus Christ” (1 Corinthians 6:11). And then we willingly return again (and again) to “come clean,” to reveal our week’s accumulation of mess ups and failures.

When we draw near to God, dirt and all, and acknowledge our need, he points us to the cross and says, “The blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin. . . . If we confess our sins, he is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness” (1 John 1:7, 9).

When we trade our sins for Jesus’ righteousness, we do come clean. We receive a new start, a new heart. Communion both reminds and refreshes. His cleansing power never diminishes. Celebrate that.

Nancy Karpenske is women and spiritual transformation pastor at LifeBridge Christian Church, Longmont, Colorado.

By Nancy Karpenske

A cup, a gas tank, a bank account, a house, even a heart can be described as empty. Typically when something is empty, the implication is it’s not worth very much, or it is waiting to be filled.

Philippians 2:7 says Jesus emptied himself of godly power. He emptied himself of godly glory. The Message says, “He set aside the privileges of deity and took on the status of a slave.”

That emptying process looked like this: He humbled himself, he showed up on earth as a human, he accepted the role of a servant, he obeyed or submitted to God’s plan, even to the point of a totally undeserved death, even a horrific death on a cross.

On the cross, Jesus emptied himself of his godly righteousness. He made himself an empty vessel in order to receive the sins of all mankind. He bore our griefs and carried our sorrows (Isaiah 53:4). He received the punishment for our transgressions. He emptied himself so God might lay on him the iniquity of us all.

Second Corinthians 8:9 describes the same idea in terms of rich and poor: “You know the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ, that though he was rich, yet for your sake, he became poor, so that you through his poverty might become rich.”

Through his emptiness, we sinners can become full—the great exchange.

As you hold the Communion cup in your hand, remind yourself that Jesus emptied himself so that you might be filled. It is entirely acceptable that we show up here on a Sunday morning empty, needing to be refilled, refueled, and replenished. Because the Lord’s table is the place where we can trade our emptiness for his fullness.

We are each filled with his Spirit, righteousness, and holiness. We receive his power and his love. John 1:16 says, “From the fullness of his grace we have all received one blessing after another” (New International Version, 1984).

As you hold your empty cup, pause to remember his empty cross and tomb.

Romans 15:13 says, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace as you trust in him, so that you may overflow with hope by the power of the Holy Spirit” (NIV, 1984).

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Nancy Karpenske is women’s ministry director at LifeBridge Christian Church in Longmont, Colorado.

By Nancy Karpenske

“Bring it to the table.”

You might hear the phrase in any one of several settings.

A project manager where you work might say, “Bring it to the table.” He means you have an idea or a concern that should be examined and discussed. Until a problem is “brought to the table,” it can’t be solved.

The Lord’s table is a safe place. You can bring your messiness and brokenness. You can bring your problems and worries. One of the most comforting descriptions of Jesus (although originally offered as a criticism) was, “He eats with sinners.” Sometimes a person who is considering becoming a Christian says something like, “I need to clean up my act. Then perhaps Jesus would accept me.” Sometimes a Christian judges himself, thinking, I’ve really messed up this week. I better not take Communion.

The meal offered at the Lord’s table drives home the point that our personal perfection and purity are not prerequisites for dining with Jesus. He said the cup we drink “is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins” (Matthew 26:28). Bring your flaws and failures to the Lord’s table. You will always “receive mercy and find grace to help us in our time of need” (Hebrews 4:16).

A mediator might say, “Bring it to the table.” He intends to resolve a dispute. He oversees negotiation involving compromise and trading. You must be willing to offer to give up something or do something in exchange for whatever the other party is bringing to the table.

The Lord’s table is a place of exchange. There is, however, no negotiation or compromise. Jesus is the host. He makes the offer. Trade your sin for my righteousness. Trade your guilt for freedom. The exchange takes place when you bring yourself to the table, admitting your need.

A hostess might say, “Bring it to the table.” She could be referring to your appetite. She has prepared a wonderful meal and she wants you to enjoy it.

The Lord’s table is a place of satisfaction. When I bring my thirst for connection to him, I receive refreshment. When I bring my longing to be reminded of his forgiveness and freedom, I am filled with peace.

Come to his table today, bringing your failures, trading them for his righteousness, eager to be filled with his peace. Come to the table.

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Nancy Karpenske is women’s ministry director at LifeBridge Christian Church in Longmont, Colorado.

By Nancy Karpenske

You probably know someone who can’t stand the sight of blood—the man who considered becoming an emergency medical technician but couldn’t deal with the blood, the mom who nearly passes out while washing off her child’s bloody knee, the friend who avoids any movie with gory scenes. Blood can make us extremely uncomfortable.

But the death of Jesus, horrifically bloody, is the centerpiece of our salvation. We can’t afford to close our eyes or look the other way.

“For you know that it was not with perishable things such as silver or gold that you were redeemed . . . but with the precious blood of Christ” (1 Peter 1:18, 19).

“In him we have redemption through his blood, the forgiveness of sins, in accordance with the riches of God’s grace” (Ephesians 1:7).

“But now in Christ Jesus you who once were far away have been brought near by the blood of Christ” (Ephesians 2:13).

“The blood of Jesus, his Son, purifies us from all sin” (1 John 1:7).

Revelation 5 records a gory scene. The apostle John is weeping because no one in the throne room of Heaven is found worthy to open the scroll. John is told, “Do not weep! See, the Lion of the tribe of Judah, the Root of David, has triumphed. He is able to open the scroll” (v. 5). Expecting the Lion, John sees instead a “Lamb, looking as if it had been slain” (v. 6). The Lamb takes the book, and everyone falls down to worship him. They sing a new song, saying, “You are worthy to take the scroll and to open its seals, because you were slain, and with your blood you purchased for God persons from every tribe and language and people and nation” (v. 9).

Jesus poured out his blood, his very life, to bring redemption, forgiveness, purification, and reconciliation.

Jesus also ordained the way we would ponder and recall his sacrifice. He didn’t ask us to read graphic descriptions. He didn’t order reenactments. He didn’t prescribe paintings or movies. He commanded the drinking of the cup and eating the unleavened bread from the Passover meal. He could have asked for the slaying of lambs and told us to use their blood to paint door frames. But because of his death, no more sacrifice was needed. None better could be offered.

Our memorial is simple. But we cannot afford to forget that real blood was poured out, real flesh was torn. As it says in the old hymn, “See, from his head, his hands, his feet, sorrow and love flow mingled down.” By his wounds we are healed.

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Nancy Karpenske is women’s ministry director at LifeBridge Christian Church in Longmont, Colorado.