When I first started coming to church, I didn’t understand communion. It was a strange ritual. Bread, wine (or rather, grape juice) and the same words often used each time until they felt like an echo of the last time they were spoken, and the last time was an echo of the first time I heard it.
Over time, communion has become even more familiar. The words, the feel of the bread between my fingers as I squeeze it whilst waiting to eat it, and the concave shape the juice takes in the tiny single serve cups we use.
We took communion at Newtown Mission this week. The raggedy mob of misfits that God loves drew together and laid their struggles at the foot of the cross, with the assurance that he cared enough to go to the cross for us. We stood and raised our tiny glasses to Jesus’ sacrifice and ate the bread to remind us of his body broken.
Good Friday is a time when we celebrate what He did for us on that cross. We think of the greatest love there is. We celebrate it. We do not mourn as those without hope, because we know that Sunday is coming.
But this year, I’ve been struck by the way that old rugged cross drew us all to Him, and in doing so, drew us together. We all stand at the foot of the cross, guilty yet beloved. We stand together – no matter where we come from. The streets, the beach, the North, the West, the South. Our appearance becomes irrelevant and the man with the dreadlocks to the floor and tattoos coating his skin is called the ‘brother’ of the Christian politician. The cross… it makes us stand equal and amazed.
For the sacrifice that drew us to Him, I am thankful.
For the drawing of us all together by His blood, I am thankful.