There's a famous photograph called "Grace." An old man at a simple table, head bowed, hands folded over a loaf of bread and an open book. Most people have seen it. Before I ever learned the actual story behind it, I made up my own.
In my version, the man is newly retired. His kids have moved out. His wife is out of town visiting family for a few days. And he's sitting there thanking God for peace and quiet. He's got a whole loaf of bread to himself. And when he's done with lunch, he's finally going to finish that book. I even came up with a title for it: "Old Man Thanks God for a Solitary Lunch."
Turns out the photograph was taken in Minnesota by a photographer named Eric Enstrom. The old man was a traveling peddler who came by to sell boot scrapers. Enstrom paid him five dollars to pose, and they never saw each other again. The real title is simply "Grace."
I didn't know the actual story, so I made up one that looked plausible to me. It fit all the visible elements. It just wasn't the real story.
That's exactly what Paul says was happening in Corinth with the Lord's Supper. People were gathering for communion but had gradually replaced the actual meaning with their own version of events. They were going through motions that looked plausible from the outside, while completely missing the point. Paul doesn't mince words about it: when you come together, it is not for the better but for the worse.
It's worth asking whether we've done the same thing. Not through bad intentions, but through drift. Whether the story we're telling ourselves about what we're doing when we gather at this table is actually the real one.