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 Christian scholar Samuel Wells writes about a time when he was the vicar of a small Anglican church in a pretty rough neighborhood.

The Most Important Thing - I Corinthians 11: 23-26 -- September 6, 2008 - Cicero United Methodist Church - Everett 1. Bassett

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Christian scholar Samuel Wells writes about a time when he was the vicar of a small Anglican church in a pretty rough neighborhood. One Sunday, a rowdy group of youth burst into the church just as Communion was being served. As the congregation looked on in horror, the youths walked loudly up to the front of the church, their leader pointing to the bread and wine. "Are you going to give us some of that?" he demanded. The vicar took a couple breaths, I imagine, and then responded to the adolescents: "If you look behind you, you will see a small group of people who are here to do the most important thing in their lives. I don't think this is the most important thing in your life. I hope it may become so some day. But for now, I suggest you wait outside until we've finished, and then we'll have a chat..." Amazingly, those young people took his suggestion.

This morning, as we have come this far in this service, with the elements of Holy Communion sitting covered on the table in front of us, do we believe that we are here for the most important thing in our lives? Let me be the first to confess that there are times I forget that. The first Sunday of the month rolls around, and I look at the bulletin and think, "Oh yeah. It's a Communion Sunday; I've got to think of some words to say," or, "I've got to tie that into the sermon somehow." Or, "I've got to call some people to assist." And I don't always think, "Wow. What a great and holy moment this is going to be in our lives. This is the most important thing."

It's been so important that people have argued forever about what it means. There have been long drawn-out debates about "transubstantiation," which means that the-bread and the wine actually change into the physical Body and Blood of Jesus, or "consubstantiation," which means something I forget, and all kinds of big words like that. There are still big rules about who can have Communion in whose church, or what proper Communion looks like. A Methodist pointed at an Episcopalian's wafer and said, "You don't even use real bread." And then the Episcopalian pointed back at the Methodist's grape juice and said, "Well, you don't even use real wine." Actually, I once served a congregation that was combined Methodist, Presbyterian, and Episcopalian, and we served everything! You could sit; you could stand; you could kneel; you could come up for it; I could bring it to you; you could drink from the big cup, or the little cup; unfermented or fermented, take your pick; take a big hunk of the loaf, or a little cut square, or a tiny wafer - it was a Communion smorgasbord. And it worked just fine. Centuries and centuries of theological arguments and traditions were set aside for a few moments of Holy Communion between Almighty God and about seventy five people who came Sunday after Sunday for "the most important thing in their lives."

Why is it so important to hold that piece of bread, to taste that bit of grape juice?

Maybe this helps us think about it: A woman whose husband died two years ago still keeps his hunting jacket hanging by the door. She's moved on with her life, and she has many memories of her husband that make her smile; but sometimes she goes to that jacket just to touch and smell the fabric - just to hold something of him in her hand. Or a soldier in Iraq carries a small framed picture of her husband and son in her pocket. She talks with them on the phone and sends e-mails, but she also takes out that picture and touches the images. She needs something to touch, something to hold.

Jesus, sitting with his disciples at the last meal with them, knew that they would remember him. He knew that the stories of his life would be repeated, many of his teachings would be written down. He knew that the Holy Spirit would come and keep life and fire alive in the Church. But he also knew that like the woman with the hunting jacket, like the soldier with the picture - people need tangible things. Something in the holding in the hand, the scent and the taste, helps us draw near to the reality in a way that somehow transcends the barrier between memory and real presence. Jesus wanted us to have that, and so we hold the bread, and taste the juice.

Here's another reason I think we come to the Lord's Table -- the power of food. You could look at food in its most basic sense, as simply fuel for the body. There are science fiction movies where space travelers satisfy the nutrition requirements of their body by taking a pill or an injection. That should be all we need, right?

But food is so much more than just basic nutrition. Food is a social bond. Old friends don't just get together - they have coffee, or tea, or share a glass of wine or a couple beers. Sometimes people just meet to do business or catch up, but as often as not they 'do lunch', or 'come over for dinner.' And Methodists! I wouldn't trade being a Methodist for anything, because we do potluck like nobody else. Even on those rare times when everybody brings beans, they're just better beans. It's more than food though - it's even more-than good fellowship - it's an image of sharing and caring and how we pool together our various gifts and talents. A good Methodist potluck dinner is a reminder of how we are part of each other - here for each other.

In the same way, you could read through the Gospels and see how often Jesus did his best work around a meal - how he multiplied the loaves and fishes to feed five thousand; how he looked up into the tree and said to Zaccheus, "Come on down. I'm coming over to your house;" how he broke bread with two travelers on the road to Emmaeus, and their eyes were opened that he was the Risen Lord. In the days of Jesus, sitting down to a meal with someone signified mutual respect; so it was truly a scandal to the religious higher-ups when he not only talked to sinners and hung around with them - he ate with them! He reclined with them at their tables, as if they were his social equals.

And then, as we know, he sat with his disciples at the Passover meal. After the meal, as was the custom, he went through the post-meal ceremony to remember the salvation of God's people. Except, when he broke the bread he said new words that must have blown the minds of those he was sitting with: 'This is my Body, broken for you.' And when he lifted the cup, again, fulfilling the role of the head of the table for the Passover meal, suddenly he shifted the meaning totally, saying, 'This is the blood of a new covenant, poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Take this and remember me.' And the next day, his body was broken on the cross; his blood was poured out.

Why is this the most important thing we do? Yes, it's a tangible way to remember Jesus; yes, it is another way that sharing food has power to bind us together. But perhaps more than anything it is celebrating again the love of a Savior, giving his life to be broken and poured out so that God's love and blessing and saving grace could pour in -- to our lives. And that sets this apart as something holy and extraordinary.

Our lives fill up with ordinary things. There are the everyday cares and concerns - the chores that have to be done, the clothes to wash and the meals to make, the grass to mow and the recycling to take to the curb. There are commutes to make, and time clocks to punch, and appointments to keep. It all can seem pretty ordinary after a while, and that is not always a bad thing - it gives life structure, and the small moments of blessing that make up the daily routine. But after a while, the same old same old can disguise the fact that our lives are extraordinary. It is filled with God's grace. We are miraculous creations of a loving God, who would go to great lengths to let us know that his love is unconditional and constant. The sacrifice of Jesus is the most important thing; and to remember that on a regular basis is the taste of grace that brings flavor into all the moments of our ordinary lives. And Holy Communion is how we remember.

Finally, among all those big debates I mentioned earlier, one that has occupied the church for many centuries is whether children should take Communion. Some faith traditions have a First Communion, which means that a child has reached a level of instruction and understanding that qualifies them to take part. With all due respect to those traditions, I don't agree with the practice. I think children are already ready. In fact, sometimes I wonder if only children are ready for Communion. I've have seen adults who struggle with whether they believe anything happens when they take the bread and juice; and I have seen children who just know it does. No question about it. So, who understands the meaning? Children have the gift of trust - they believe what they are told about the bread; adults get hung up on all the intellectual questions. Who's better off? I imagine there are children that take Communion who understand just two things ­that God loves them, and that the bread and juice taste good. I went to college and seminary for thirteen years, and I'm still not sure there's anything more to it than just that - God loves you, and the bread and the juice taste good - just like grace, just like love. I have seen children take Communion, and ask for more; their parents get embarrassed and apologize - but I picture God with a big smile on His or Her face. When you have tasted the best that life has to offer, what can you say, except, Show me more?

Summer vacation is over, and our church is filled again. I have heard Jack Keating say several times the last few weeks, "On September 7 the family is back together." And so it is, and we have the family table before us, set with the family meal. And the One at the head of the table holds out the bread and lifts up the cup, and we are invited! To come and taste the goodness of God. To dine with Jesus. To be forgiven and healed. To be enveloped by grace. To be reminded that the moments of our lives are extraordinary because even the common things - bread, cup - call us to remember who we are, and whose we are, and who gives His life to make it possible. It's not just the most important thing, it's everything, because the Savior who loves us so much would stop at nothing less. This is what fuels your life and mine. Let us gather around the table with joy.