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Describing Communion may be like describing the taste of a mango. It's different for everyone. When I try to reduce it to words, I'm limited to poetry or comparisions -- describing what it's like, not what it is. But somehow I come back to the idea that it's a time when my spirit and God's touch, and we take time out to love.


1 Corinthians 11:23-26 is about a meal. It didn't take place in Rome, the focal point of the world at that time. It took place in Jerusalem, a city of captivity which would be destroyed forty years after the meal.


And the meal didn't take place in a palace or an inaugural ballroom. It happened in the upper room of a house of which we don't know the owner, the condition, or the location. Of the thirteen people present, only one had any sort of reputation, and he'd be dead the next day. The other twelve were young working class men whom nobody had ever heard of nor expected to ever hear from again. And no banquet. Just the basics of bread and drink.


So why is it that a simple, nondescript meal in a simple, nondescript place with thirteen rather simple, nondescript people in an out-of-the-way city off the main path of world affairs has been made the focal point of worship for millions of people for 2000 years? What made that meal Communion?


Have you ever noticed that the simplest events in life may turn out to be time-stoppers? Hasn't some little thing had a profound effect on your life and remained in your memory forever?


It's the last supper, and I'm sitting at the end of the table, farthest from Jesus. It's pretty much like the end of any other week for us disciples. We're all exhausted. It's Thursday night, and we've been preaching and ministering and healing and teaching sixteen hours a day. Now it's time to relax a bit, talk over the exciting events of the week, and map out a strategy for the weekend.

Jesus is strangely quiet. Maybe he's more tired than any of us. He should be. I don't know where he gets his strength. I feel burned out. But Jesus just keeps going.


Just about everyone is talking in twos and threes now -- except Jesus and except me. I'm really beat. If they all knew how really burned-out I'm feeling right now and how close I am to quitting this proclaiming-the-Kingdom-of-God, they'd pay attention to me. They're so busy ministering to the multitudes, the poor, the sick, the lame, the lepers. How about me? Who ministers to us disciples? Who ministers to us? Jesus can't be expected to do it all. God, I'm depressed.


Doesn't anybody care about me? So busy planning for our next campaign and so busy yakking about their minor little triumphs. What about me? Nobody's talking to me. They're just ignoring me. Am I not a person, too? God, help me.


It's notjust inside this room either. Outside everybody's busy, busy, busy. It's Passover, and everyone's getting ready for the festival. Everybody's in town to celebrate our deliverance from the hands of the Pharaoh in Egypt.


And Pilate is in town. And Herod isn't far off So there are political as well as religious goings-on. The town's buzzing. Nobody slows down for anybody else. They're all caught up in the frantic business of life.


I hope we eat supper soon. Maybe then I'll get a word in. There comes Jesus now. I knew they'd quiet down when he stood up. Why's he so quiet? You'd think it was his last meal or something. Jesus, say the blessing as you always do and break the bread as you always do.


He's looking right at me. It's as though he can see inside me. Did he say my name? 'This is my body given for you.' That's not our usual grace. Was that said to me? He did say my name. It was for me. He knows how I feel. He does care.


I wonder if the others feel as I do. It's as if time is standing still. This is a strange, emotion-filled night. It's as though my spirit and God's are touching. Nobody's racing by, and the world isn't crashing in on us. My throat is in a knot. It's as if Jesus has stopped time by loving us.


I'm not worthy of his love, nor are any of us. If he only knew the foul-ups in my ministry -- some of them so stupid I wouldn't dare tell him. And if he knew what I was thinking before the meal. God, help me.


New what? 'New covenant in my blood.' Why'd he say that to me? What does he mean by new covenant? I thought we had blown the old covenant long ago. We haven't kept our end of the deal with God.


And blood? That must mean sacrifice. Is he saying he's willing to sacrifice, to shed his blood for me? After all those sins I mentioned? After all those sins I didn't mention?


I can see sacrificing oneself for something of value. Lots of people will die for a good cause or a good person or a good friend. We'll die for something worth dying for. But why would anyone want to die for us? We're ungodly sinners. Nobody dies for something unless it's worth something. Except maybe God.


Did he say, 'Do this in remembrance of me'? He said my name again. I heard it clear as day. What does he mean?


Here is the cup. What should I do with it? What does it mean? 'Do this in remembrance of me.' Do what? Eat? Drink? There's got to be more to it than that.


Maybe he means to do the same thing he's doing -- not with the bread and the cup, but with his life -- sacrificing his life for others. Maybe he means taking time out to love people as he's doing now. If he means sacrifice, does he mean my body, too? My blood? If I drink from this cup, am I sealing the covenant? Oh, God, help me.

Back to the present. It's like Jerusalem in many ways. I get wound up earning a living, ministering to people, trying to get ready for the holidays and relatives coming, attempting to be diplomatic in church and local politics. And sometimes I forget to take time to love and to be loved. And that may mean missing the simple little time-stoppers which can have a real impact on life.


My eight-year-old wrote a story for me, and she wanted me to read it. I was so caught up in hospital visiting, planning Sunday school lessons, and paying bills that I wanted to put her off. But she had written it primarily for me, and she wanted me to read it. So I stopped the world for a minute and read her story.


It was about the creation of the earth. A character named Peetle falls through a hole in a cloud. He falls and falls. Nothing for him to hit. So God sees his dilemma and quickly creates the earth, so Peetle can hit the earth, die, and return to heaven. The story showed me that my daughter knew it wasn't so important how the creation happened, but what was important was to know who did the creating. And I knew she loved me enough to take time to write a story for me. And she knew I loved her enough to take time to read it. We had communion.


In a YMCA basketball league for junior high boys, two teams came together -- the first-place team and the last-place team. The first-place team was not only the best offensive team in the league, but also the best defensive team. Their coach took much pride in the fact that they had held their opposition to fewer than thirty points per game all year. They played like a well-oiled machine. And they were fast. When you watched their games, they just ran and ran, never slowing down. It's no wonder they were undefeated.


The other team was just the opposite. They lost every game. And when they played this first-place team, there was never any doubt about the outcome. No miracle story. The first-place team blew the last-place team out of the gym. They just ran and ran, never slowing their pace except once.


In YMCA basketball it's a rule that everyone on each team must get a chance to play. So at the start of the fourth quarter, when the game was far out of reach, both coaches began to substitute freely. And the first-place team's substitutes ran and ran, just as the starters had. And they played magnificent defense.


But there was one kid sitting on the end of the losers bench who hadn't gotten to play yet. Finally, with about four minutes to play, the clock was stopped on an out-of-bounds play, and the coach put Jimmy in.


The clock started again and everyone was off and running. Even Jimmy. But it was obvious after two or three times up and down the court that Jimmy wasn't like all the other boys on the court. He was slower, not just physically but mentally, too. While the teams were racing one way for the basket, Jimmy was racing the other way.


Oh, he'd turn around eventually, but by then they'd be heading the other way again. And they'd run back and fourth with Jimmy caught somewhere in between.


Finally there came a time when both Jimmy and the teams were going in the same direction, and by mistake somebody threw the ball to Jimmy. Everything stopped. The officials froze. The crowd hushed. All the players stopped where they were. And this great defensive team, the pride of their coach for not allowing more than thirty points per game to be scored, stood still and dropped their hands to their sides.


Jimmy turned the ball in his hands a couple times, looked at the basket, took two or three steps without dribbling, and shot. He missed. But someone caught the ball and passed it back to him. And still no one moved. And Jimmy turned it in his hands again, looked at the basket, took two or three steps without dribbling and shot. The ball hit the rim and bounced in.


A roar went up, and Jimmy jumped up and down with glee. There wasn't a dry eye in the gymnasium. The clock stopped, another player came in, and Jimmy went back to the bench. The game went on, both teams racing and running until the final buzzer.


We don't know what will be meaningful and important in our lives. We keep rushing around, trying to attend to what we think are the important things, often putting people aside. We miss the times of communion when our spirits touch God's for a moment.


Nobody remembers what happened that Passover day outside the walls of the Upper Room. What we remember is a simple meal, significant to a band of disciples because love made time stand still. And there was communion.


And I really don't recall how the Sunday school lessons turned out, what checks I wrote, or what bills I paid. But I remember a simple story, significant to my daughter and to me because love made time stand still. And there was communion.


And nobody now remembers the final score of the basketball game, who fouled out, or who scored how many. But they all remember a simple encounter, significant to perhaps a hundred people because love made time stand still. And there was communion.


Let us take time from our busy schedules to attend to the loving relationship we have here with our Lord, Jesus Christ.




1. Steven E. Burt, ‘Taking Time to LovePulpit Digest, July -- August 1981. reprinted with permission.