Introduction

This is no ordinary thing we do here this morning. We use ordinary things—a building, benches, juice, and bread—but it's no ordinary thing we do together. This is not an ordinary sack lunch we might pack with us to work or to school and eat at our convenience. It's not a fast-food fill we take as a break. It's not grazing our way through the leftovers in the fridge, stuffing our faces as we watch the clock. Nor is this a frozen dinner, thawed and microwaved mercilessly, stripped of its plastic, and eaten alone in silence in front of the television.

This is no ordinary meal. It won't fill, but it will satisfy something deep within us. It can't last, but it will linger in our souls. It holds no great variety, but it does carry the truth of love.

William Willimon recalls the first time he was asked to teach a seminary class about Communion. He went to an older colleague and said, "How shall I begin? What should I do?"

The older colleague said, "The first thing you must do is go to a kitchen and learn how to cook."

Willimon said, "Why should I learn how to cook if all I want to do is teach the meaning of Communion?"

"Ah," said his older colleague, "you will never be able to understand the meaning of Communion until you know the love of cooking and the joy of those who are satisfied."

That's what we do this morning. We celebrate a feast of love—not so much in the meal, but in the joy of what takes place here.

This is no ordinary meal.

No Ordinary Host

We are aware that the host at the table is no ordinary host. We've read the Scriptures, and we know who stands here at the table with us today. He is not a maitre d' in a restaurant: friendly, efficient, and aloof. He is not a supervisor at a buffet or a nameless ...

Wayne Brouwer teaches in the religion department at Hope College in Holland, Michigan.