Introduction: The Brokenness That Healed
Holy Week is not the story of our breaking. It is the story of a love broken open for our healing.
“And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.’” (Luke 22:19)
“Having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end.” (John 13:1)
Christ chose to be broken so we would not have to live forever fractured.
Communion was never meant to remind us how unworthy we are — it was meant to whisper how deeply we are loved.
It is not a summons to shame. It is an invitation to belonging.
The Lie of Broken People
Somewhere along the way, faith spaces taught us that being broken was our identity.
They suggested it was a requirement — as if God relished our smallness, our shame, our unworthiness.
They called it humility, but it wore the face of shame, dressed neatly in Sunday best.
We were told to approach God crawling.
But Christ’s brokenness was never about magnifying our shame.
It was about the power of His love to heal.
It was about wholeness, not humiliation.
The Meaning of Broken Bread
When Jesus lifted the bread and said, “This is my body, broken for you” — it was not an indictment.
It was an invitation.
An invitation into healing — for in Him, we are held. An invitation into restoration — for in Him, we are complete. An invitation into union — for in Him, we find our place.
His body was broken — so ours could be made whole. Every part we thought disqualified us finds its place in Him.
Broken bread did not decree our unworthiness; it shattered the wall between God and humanity, weaving us back into oneness with Him.
Communion: A Table for the Whole, Not the Worthy
Communion is not a celebration of perfection.
It is not a test to pass.
It is a celebration of grace.
Yet somewhere, communion became a ritual of fear — purify yourself or perish.
I remember a church where, before you could partake, you had to prove yourself spotless. They taught that to eat “unworthily” was to risk death.
But Paul’s warning was never about earning worth.
It was about remembering the One who made us worthy.
You do not earn your place at the table.
You accept the invitation.
We do not come because we have proven ourselves.
We come because we remember Who has provided for us.
Conclusion: Healing at the Table
As we approach Easter, may we not come crawling in shame.
May we come in awe.
Not to beg for a seat, but to break bread and remember:
It was never about being good enough.
It was always about being loved enough.
This Holy Week, may we not only remember His brokenness, but the healing it offers.
May we come to the table whole.
May we come to the table home.
Broken Bread, Not Broken People: The True Communion
Introduction: The Brokenness That Healed
Holy Week is not the story of our breaking. It is the story of a love broken open for our healing.
“And he took bread, gave thanks and broke it, and gave it to them, saying, ‘This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.’” (Luke 22:19)
“Having loved His own who were in the world, He loved them to the end.” (John 13:1)
Christ chose to be broken so we would not have to live forever fractured.
Communion was never meant to remind us how unworthy we are — it was meant to whisper how deeply we are loved.
It is not a summons to shame. It is an invitation to belonging.
The Lie of Broken People
Somewhere along the way, faith spaces taught us that being broken was our identity.
They suggested it was a requirement — as if God relished our smallness, our shame, our unworthiness.
They called it humility, but it wore the face of shame, dressed neatly in Sunday best.
We were told to approach God crawling.
But Christ’s brokenness was never about magnifying our shame.
It was about the power of His love to heal.
It was about wholeness, not humiliation.
The Meaning of Broken Bread
When Jesus lifted the bread and said, “This is my body, broken for you” — it was not an indictment.
It was an invitation.
An invitation into healing — for in Him, we are held. An invitation into restoration — for in Him, we are complete. An invitation into union — for in Him, we find our place.
His body was broken — so ours could be made whole. Every part we thought disqualified us finds its place in Him.
Broken bread did not decree our unworthiness; it shattered the wall between God and humanity, weaving us back into oneness with Him.
Communion: A Table for the Whole, Not the Worthy
Communion is not a celebration of perfection.
It is not a test to pass.
It is a celebration of grace.
Yet somewhere, communion became a ritual of fear — purify yourself or perish.
I remember a church where, before you could partake, you had to prove yourself spotless. They taught that to eat “unworthily” was to risk death.
But Paul’s warning was never about earning worth.
It was about remembering the One who made us worthy.
You do not earn your place at the table.
You accept the invitation.
We do not come because we have proven ourselves.
We come because we remember who has provided for us.
Conclusion: Healing at the Table
As we approach Easter, may we not come crawling in shame.
May we come in awe.
Not to beg for a seat, but to break bread and remember:
It was never about being good enough.
It was always about being loved enough.
This Holy Week, may we not only remember His brokenness, but the healing it offers.
May we come to the table whole.
May we come to the table at home.
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