Hungering for the God Who Became Bread預覽

Day 5: Koinonia

Daily Bread

Matthew 26:17–30

John 15:1–8

John 21:15–17

John 13:1–17

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There’s a kind of communion we were made for, a knitting of soul and hand. It’s what the Greeks call koinonia, an interlocking of spirits, an intimate connecting, like the vine to the branch. This form of communion occurs only in person. And this is why we need church. There are only so many online services you can watch, only so many times you can sing along with the TV screen. Sometimes online worship is the only way, and during the pandemic, for a while, it was. But how we longed, still, for the with-ness of people.

My family longed for down-to earth fellowship, for the salty sweat-smell of skin, for the after-breakfast breath of the one bellowing songs next to you. We longed for the awkward handshake and the slow shuffle of polyester into positions of prayer and praise. In its absence, the place called church had become something holy for all of its mess. A holy place for sinners to come and drink from the vine. But Jesus was here with us, too, in our living room, with us in our matching pajamas and disheveled hair. We just needed to remember.

So we pulled out the homemade bread and the grape juice. The kids put a white tablecloth on our coffee table, and we sat, crisscross applesauce, and we opened Scripture—its pages worn and highlighted. My husband read to us of the Last Supper, and we poured the grape juice into a goblet. We began to pass the elements and to remember.

As I tore off a piece of flour-flesh, I wondered how much to take, how much of Jesus’s body to consume. Then I dipped my bread, stained it purple, brought it to my lips, and stained my lips. I thought of His being crushed for our rebellion. I passed along the bread and the juice, and soon my kids had grape mustaches because for them, Jesus was a joyous feast.

And in the midst of our being very unsanctimonious, I heard a Voice: “Will you do this in remembrance of me, Emily?”

I leaned in.

“Will you become broken bread and poured-out wine?”

Around me were the sounds of slurping and laughing, but I was tucked inside this Voice, which was Christ. The bread, the drink, were speaking to me, inviting me to the place where the Vine bleeds.

Horticulturalists call the vine the “rootstock,” and the branches the “scion.” A wound needs to be made in the rootstock in order for new scion to be attached. Jesus was inviting me into this wound.

And suddenly, all I could see was this girl who’d refused to let her mum hug her, this woman who’d run from the church, this sinner of a person. “Me, Lord?” Yet here He was, looking at me, inviting me.

“Do you love Me, daughter?”

“Yes, dear Jesus.”

“Feed My sheep.”

Table Talk

Friend, will you join me in becoming broken bread and poured-out wine so the world might feast on Jesus? This invitation isn’t easy. But do we love Him? Do we love Him so much that we will lay down our lives for Him? And what does it look like to become broken bread and poured-out wine? To be battered and bruised, to be consumed? I often recall John 13:3, which says, “Jesus knew that the Father had put all things under his power, and that he had come from God and was returning to God.” Jesus knew who He was, and what He was worth. This allowed Him to remove all banners and labels (and outer clothing) and to serve others. Do we know who we are and where our value lies? If so, we will have the joy of true communion, through serving others.

Prayer

Dear Vinedresser, You are the Creator of earth and sky, of vine and grape, yet You liken Yourself to the vine, Your blood to the grape. You became nothing so that we might truly taste that You are good. Now You ask us to become food and drink for others, to feed Your sheep. Oh, Lord, make us bold and courageous; help us to know how dearly beloved we are to You so that we might then lay down our flesh, our blood, for the world to taste and know that You are God, and You are good. In Jesus’s holy name, we pray. Amen.

We hope this plan encouraged you. Explore other resources at https://www.whitakerhouse.com/book-authors/emily-t-wierenga/.