Introduction – A Place of Belonging
I once attended a wedding in Yerevan, Armenia, held at the Sport Arena Center near the big bridge that leads into the city. If you’ve ever crossed that bridge at sunset, you know how the light spills across the hills and makes the city glow like it’s dressed for a celebration.
The hall that day was enormous — so vast that even with hundreds of guests, we hardly dented a corner.
Everything sparkled. The tables were dressed in white linen, the chandeliers glimmered, the musicians played beautifully, and the food was rich and plentiful, prepared with that special Armenian care.
But what I remember most wasn’t the food. It was the feeling — the laughter, the embraces, the warmth of family.
Everyone had a seat. Everyone belonged.
That’s what the Lord’s Supper is meant to be.
Not just bread. Not just juice. Not just ritual.
It’s a family table — Jesus saying, “I’ve prepared a place for you. Sit down. You belong here.”
Paul wrote:
“The Lord Jesus, on the night He was betrayed, took bread, and when He had given thanks, He broke it and said, ‘This is My body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of Me.’ In the same way, after supper He took the cup, saying, ‘This cup is the new covenant in My blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of Me.’ For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until He comes.” — 1 Corinthians 11:23–26
He said, “Do this.”
But what He really meant was, “Remember Me.”
Let’s walk through this meal together — the bread, the cup, and the table.
1 — The Bread: Broken for Wholeness
When Jesus held up the bread, He said, “This is My body, broken for you.”
Not My sermons, not My miracles — My body.
Because what we remember here isn’t a doctrine; it’s a Person who gave Himself for us.
Bread is ordinary. Every culture knows it — lavash, pita, tortillas, naan.
But in His hands, the ordinary became holy.
And that’s what He does with us.
The Grain and the Fire
Bread doesn’t appear by accident.
Grain is crushed, dough is pressed, loaves are baked in fire.
That’s the gospel recipe.
Jesus was crushed under sin, pressed by rejection, and tried in the fire of Calvary.
Isaiah 53:5 says,
“He was wounded for our transgressions, bruised for our iniquities; the chastisement of our peace was upon Him, and by His stripes we are healed.”
He was broken so you could be whole.
He was wounded so you could be forgiven.
He was rejected so you could be accepted.
He was crushed so you could be free.
That’s what the bread means.
Story – Bread on the Table
When I was a boy, my mother baked fresh bread on Fridays.
The smell filled the house, warm and sweet.
By the time she pulled the loaf from the oven, we were already in the kitchen, waiting.
No one had to call us twice.
That’s what grace is like — the aroma of love drawing you home.
You don’t have to be perfect; you just have to be hungry.
Wholeness in His Brokenness
So when you hold that little piece of bread, remember:
It’s not history. It’s healing.
It says, Your sin is forgiven. Your heart can be whole.
If you came broken, you can leave whole — because the Bread is enough.
2 — The Cup: His Blood, Our Covenant
After the bread, Jesus took the cup.
The bread says, you’re whole.
The cup says, you’re forgiven.
“This cup is the new covenant in My blood,” He said.
A covenant isn’t a contract; it’s a bond of belonging.
It’s God saying, “You’re Mine.”
The Blood That Speaks
Hebrews 12:24 says Jesus’ blood speaks a better word than Abel’s.
Abel’s blood cried out, Justice!
Jesus’ blood cries out, Mercy!
Abel’s blood said, You’re guilty.
Jesus’ blood says, You’re free.
The life is in the blood (Leviticus 17:11) — and He poured out His life to give you His.
Story – The Switched Cup
At a banquet long ago, a rich host noticed a poor guest drinking from a cracked clay cup.
Quietly, he replaced it with his own fine crystal goblet.
That’s what Jesus did.
He took our cracked cup — full of sin and shame — and gave us His own, filled with righteousness and grace.
He drank the cup of wrath so we could drink the cup of life.
The Shared Cup
In old Armenian homes, one cup would pass around the table — a sign of fellowship and trust.
When we lift this cup, we’re saying the same thing:
We are one in Christ. We share His life.
This is not a private ritual — it’s family.
What the Cup Declares
When you drink, you’re declaring:
I am forgiven.
I am cleansed.
I am part of His family.
I am free from condemnation.
So if you’ve carried guilt too long, if you still hear the accuser’s voice — the blood speaks louder.
There’s a reason the old song says:
“There is power, power, wonder-working power, in the blood of the Lamb.”
The blood still works. It covers shame, breaks chains, and heals hearts.
Transition
So when the cup comes your way, don’t sip it like it’s routine.
Lift it with gratitude.
You’re forgiven.
You’re His.
3 — The Table: Remember, Proclaim, Surrender
Paul said, “Whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until He comes.”
Communion isn’t just looking back.
It’s looking forward — a small taste of the wedding supper of the Lamb.
Every time we gather here, we’re telling the world:
Jesus died for me — and He’s coming again.
Story – The Pastor in the Fire
I once met a young pastor in a country where Christians are hunted.
One night, radicals broke into his home.
They beat him, tied him up, poured gasoline over him.
They struck match after match — but none would light.
He lived. Barely. Weeks later, in a hospital bed, he told me his story.
I said, “Brother, lay hands on me. Pray for me. I don’t know that kind of courage.”
That’s what this table reminds us of.
Faith that says, “If I perish, I perish.”
Communion isn’t just about comfort — it’s also about commitment.
It’s not just blessing — it’s belonging, no matter the cost.
Through the Blood
That’s why I love the old hymn:
“Some through the waters, some through the flood,
Some through the fire, but all through the blood;
Some through great sorrow, but God gives a song,
In the night season and all the day long.”
However God leads — rivers, deserts, mountains — it’s always through the blood that we make it home.
Story – The Mercedes and the Zhiguli
Let me lighten that a moment.
A friend once taped a photo of a shiny Mercedes to his refrigerator.
Every morning he’d declare, “In Jesus’ name — Mercedes!”
But church, if God’s plan for you is a Zhiguli, you can shout “Mercedes” till you’re blue in the face — you’re still driving a Zhiguli!
Why? Because this table isn’t about getting what we want.
It’s about saying, “Not my will, but Yours, Lord.”
That’s what surrender looks like — trusting the One who poured Himself out for you.
Communion Is Covenant
This meal says:
Christ is worth dying for.
Christ is worth living for.
It’s not a snack.
It’s surrender.
It’s not religion.
It’s relationship.
It’s not obligation.
It’s invitation.
Remembering Jesus – The Armenian Way
Faith isn’t always shown in grand buildings or bright lights.
Sometimes it’s shown in kitchens, in ruins, or in the quiet of a soldier’s prayer.
There was a grandmother in a small Armenian village who never missed lighting her candle on Friday evening.
Every week she whispered, “This is the hour my Savior hung on the cross.”
Her children teased her, but she smiled and said, “I’m thanking the One who gave His life for us.”
She didn’t preach, but her children grew up knowing that Calvary still mattered — because it mattered to her.
Then there was a priest after the Spitak earthquake.
The church walls were cracked, the roof gone.
Still, he gathered the people and said, “The cross still stands. We will remember Jesus here.”
They shared bread and tears among the ruins — and faith rose from the dust.
And a young soldier, before going to the front, tucked a piece of blessed bread into his pocket.
“When I touch it,” he said, “I remember that Jesus went before me into suffering.”
He came home months later and said quietly, “God remembered me because I remembered Him.”
Three people.
Three ways of remembering.
All pointing back to Calvary.
That’s what this table is about.
We remember Him — not just in ceremony, but in life.
And every time we do, we discover something sacred: He was remembering us first.
Conclusion – At This Table
As I stand here today, I don’t just want to talk about this table.
I want to be at this table.
I want to hold that bread again and remember:
He was broken so I could be whole.
I want to lift that cup and whisper:
His blood still covers me.
I want to feel, deep down, that I belong — not because I’m worthy, but because He is worthy.
And I want you beside me.
All of us — forgiven, healed, redeemed — gathered around the table He prepared.
Some through the waters.
Some through the flood.
Some through the fire.
But all through the blood.
At this table, there’s bread for you.
There’s a cup for you.
There’s grace for you.
And there’s a Savior waiting — saying,
“Do this … in remembrance of Me.”
