A Fresh Look at the Lord’s Supper

Editor’s Note: The following is an excerpt from Interrupted: An Adventure in Relearning the Essentials of Faith, the latest short-term study from Threads by author Jen Hatmaker. Pre-order your copy today!

I re-discovered another passage in Luke 22, the story of Jesus’ final meal with His disciples, a meal Jesus used to help close the normal/un-normal gap. This is the seventh recorded meal scene in Luke and two more remain. Evidently, Luke loved meals. So much happened around the dinner table.

Jesus was seriously making a point with His statement in verse 15. In Greek, He literally said, “I have desired with desire to eat this Passover with you.” Jesus was underscoring His great anticipation for this moment. He had been waiting, and this was it. This was monumental. He would become living theology to change the course of history. It was time to make old things brand spanking new.

This was a radical moment for the disciples. Jesus redefined a Jewish ritual with a 1500-year history. In a culture that revered ancient feasts and festivals as is, Jesus transformed the untransformable. It’s hard to imagine how bizarre this must have sounded to the disciples, which helps us understand why they shifted their focus to arguing about “Top Disciple” three minutes later.

This is My body. This is My blood.

Jesus didn’t just host and serve the meal; He became the meal. He was the sacrificial Lamb, broken for the redemption of humanity, forever our feast and sustenance. He was the sacrifice, the High Priest and Reigning King. He alone understood the necessary tension between His submission and dominion. The Lamb went willingly, embracing sacrifice.

No one takes [My life] from Me, but I lay it down on My own.

John 10:18

That’s right, Judas. You were but a pawn in the sovereign plan of the Most High. The singular reason you were allowed near Jesus in betrayal was because this was your preordained hour of darkness—not before or after. The angry mob didn’t “catch” Jesus. The high priest didn’t decide His fate. The false witnesses, Herod, Pilate, soldiers—none took His life. Jesus eluded death countless times before the cross.

He laid His own life down at the appointed time—not under coercion or because His reckless message finally caught up with Him. Jesus assured us that every time it seemed He was forced against His will, He wasn’t. He chose and embraced that moment. It was the culmination of God’s redemptive plan for mankind. All of heaven waited with baited breath as the King became the Lamb and humanity was finally rescued.

Jesus desired with desire to offer His body, His blood—this bread, this cup.

“Do this in remembrance of Me” (Luke 22:19). Here I got stuck. Do what? What did He mean by do? Is this a simple matter of observing the Lord’s Supper once a quarter? Was Jesus emphasizing the Jewish custom of ritual, just with new symbolism?

The important “do” aspect is how Jesus used the present tense, indicating continuous action, as opposed to the aorist imperative, implying a single action. (What?) It’s the difference between “I’m going to Sonic” and “I’m going crazy.” Once versus perpetual. When Jesus said of the wine in verse 17, “Take this and share it among yourselves,” that was a one-time command. But when He said, “Do this in remembrance of Me,” it required continuous action.

Not only does Jesus’ statement require a constant response, but “remembrance” is from the Greek anamnesis meaning “to make real.” Communion is more than a memory, more than a reverent moment when we recall Jesus’ heroic sacrifice. Remembrance means honoring Jesus’ mercy mission with tangible, physical action since it was a tangible, physical sacrifice. In other words, “Constantly make this real.”

That’s the command of Jesus.

Not only was Communion a symbolic ritual, but it was a new prototype of discipleship. “Continuously make my sacrifice real, by doing this very thing.” But what? What was the very thing Jesus was doing? He was becoming broken and poured out for hopeless people. He was becoming a living offering, denying Himself for the salvation and restoration of humanity. Obedience to Jesus’ command is more than looking backward; it’s a present and continuous replication of His sacrifice. We don’t simply remember the meal; we become the meal too.

Now you are the body of Christ.

1 Corinthians 12:27

Doesn’t this concept of being broken for others ring true? It’s a spiritual dynamic manifested physically. Why is it so exhausting to uphold someone’s heavy, inconvenient burden? Why are you spent from shouldering someone’s grief or being an armor-bearer? Why is it that lifting someone out of his or her rubble leaves you breathless? Because you are part of the body of Christ, broken and poured out, just like He was. Mercy has a cost: Someone must be broken for someone else to be fed. The sermon that changed your life? That messenger was poured out so you could hear it. The friends who stood in the gap during your crisis? Each embraced some sacrifice of brokenness for your healing. Anytime you say, “That fed me; that nourished me,” someone was the broken bread for your fulfillment.

Carrying on the life of Christ is integrated with the concept of death. There is a death/life rhythm that sustains creation. Much like a seed is destroyed to produce a living tree, or a vegetable is plucked from its vine to nourish a living body, self-sacrifice is hardwired into the mission of a believer. It’s paradoxical, but it fits into the economy of God. Think about it—it’s only through death that we see life. It’s only through weakness that we see strength. It’s only through meekness that we see power.

That helps me better understand Paul’s teaching to the Corinthian church:

We always carry the death of Jesus in our body, so that the life of Jesus may also be revealed in our body. For we who live are always given over to death because of Jesus, so that Jesus’ life may also be revealed in our mortal flesh. So death works in us, but life in you.

2 Corinthians 4:10-12