“And he took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and gave it to them, saying, “This is my body, which is given for you. Do this in remembrance of me.”

Luke 22:19

I didn’t understand most of the service. I’d taken Spanish in high school and college, but had forgotten most of it. And Spanish 101 and 102 help you ask questions like “where is the bathroom?” Or “do you like to dance?” It turns out these are not helpful phrases during a worship service in a rural village in Honduras.

It was the night before our trip home. What a week it was! And, in good Latin American tradition, we ended the week with worship and a fiesta. I was so lost in my Spanish translation. I got bamboozled by my professor. We came to the portion of the service where we pass the peace. I looked at Dan and asked quickly, “What peace in Spanish?”

Pesca. He looked me dead in the eye and said Pesca. Pesca means fish. Fish. I went around to my new Honduran family passing the Fish of Christ. I still laugh about it today!

Towards the end of the service, the local pastor began the communion liturgy. He held up bread and wine. He recited family words in an unfamiliar language. The elements were blessed, and we all came to receive the bread and the wine—the Body and the Blood of Jesus.

It was a holy moment.

When was a holy moment for you that centered around Communion? A time that its meaning and significance landed differently in your heart?

I’ve had other experiences when I was more in tune with the presence of God. After a meaningful moment in my life; a trip that got me out of my usual and comfortable surroundings. I always love to experience communion in different languages.

Ethan and I were in Denmark when he was around 10. I was invited to teach at a conference there and got to bring my eldest along. It was a special trip for both of us. While I was teaching, a mom told this touching story about her young child.

They were driving one day, and the boy was in the back seat. Randomly, he asks Mom, “Do you think God will have fun on that day when he opens up all of the treasure boxes?” Mom was confused—this young lad was accustomed to random statements and questions. “What are you talking about, buddy?” “You know, the treasure boxes? Don’t you think God will be so excited when he opens them up?” “What treasure boxes?” “You know, the one grandpa was laid in? And all the other people who have died? The treasure boxes. God is going to have so much fun when he opens them up one day.” The boy was talking about coffins. And, with the promise of the resurrection through the eyes of Jesus, these symbols of death and grief—to this boy—they were treasure boxes.

It was at the end of the week, and Ethan and I were getting ready to fly home the next day. We went to worship at a Danish church. We didn’t know a thing that was going on—but Ethan leaned over and, as he pointed, he said, “Dad, look, it’s Jesus and the treasure box.” The picture above the altar was of Jesus’ resurrection as he was rising out of a casket.

I didn’t understand a word that was said that day in worship. But, as we went up to receive the body and blood of Jesus, my heart was stirred in powerful ways. It remains a memory that I cherish.

I hope you have had moments and stories where the presence of Jesus in Communion was sensed at a deeper level for you. That you were more present, more aware of what God was doing in your midst.

I hope this is the case. I hope you have a boatload more of these types of experiences.

But, the truth is, most times we come to receive the bread and the wine are not noteworthy. They are not moments that are stained in our memory or on our hearts. Most times we come to communion, we receive a morsel of bread and a sip of wine, we return to our seat, and we count the moments until we can walk out the door.

I’m not mad about this. I’m not chastising you (or me) that this is the case.

Most of the time, communion does not shake or shape us. It’s something we do at worship, and then we continue with the rest of our day.

Again, I’m not here to tell you that you need to do better. Quite the contrary, actually.

I think this is part of the most beautiful element of what we declare to be true about the Eucharist. Certainly, we say that it is anything but ordinary. In the Lutheran church, we believe that this is not some symbol of Jesus. No, we believe that the bread and the wine become the Body and Blood of Jesus. “In, with, and under” is the doctrinal verbiage we use these days. Jesus is present in, with, and under the bread and the wine.

It’s a big deal.

And this is the beauty of it. It is a big deal whether you are dialed in or not. It is a big deal when it moves you and impresses upon your heart. And it is a big deal when it doesn’t.

This is the main part of the beauty of this holy supper. It doesn’t depend on you. There is something incredible about the objective presence of God in the bread and wine. Jesus shows up. Every time.

His presence is not dependent on if you’ve had a bad morning. He is present even if you daydream. He is present if the band plays the wrong song and you have to sing all the stanzas of the hymn. The beauty of communion is that Jesus shows up in the bread and wine. Period.

This is the Good News. This is grace. If you need to be locked in, it is no longer grace. If His coming is at all dependent upon you or me, it is not longer a gift given. It is something earned by us. And, thanks be to God, this is not how Jesus operates.

Yes, I’d love for you and for me to be fully engaged each week when we come to the railing. I’d love for every time to stir your heart in deep and powerful ways. I think it would be amazing to encounter the life-changing reality of Jesus’ presence as you hold out your hand. Of course, I want this for you.

But the power and promise of Jesus is—if when you don’t—He does. Even when you can’t—He already has. Jesus comes regardless. Every. Single. Time.

It is given for you. Always.

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When was a meaningful time you received the body and blood of Jesus that stands out from the rest?