Welcome back here to the semi -seminary podcast,
Theology Through the Static, where gospel meets
dust and memory. Today's episode, we're stepping
into Corinth, into Paul's sharp word about the
Lord's table. You see, the table was supposed
to level the ground, rich and poor, gifted and
ordinary, all one in Jesus. But the Corinthians
turned it into noise, into pride, into a supper
that looked more like Rome than Calvary. If we're
honest, sometimes we do the same. So the question
on the table is this, when you say amen, is it
just noise? Stick around because this word will
cut through comfort and call us into something
deeper. Hey, if this message stirs you, if grace
whispers through the static today, do me a favor.
Like it, share it, subscribe. That little click
helps carry the gospel further down this old
dusty road. So let's dive in and I will see you
on the other side. So I was thinking this morning
as I was looking over the sermon that maybe this
message isn't for you. Maybe this message is
for a congregation a long time ago in the galaxy
far, far away. Maybe this is a sermon that...
when I needed to say it, I didn't know how to
say these words. Or maybe this is a sermon where
when I felt like I probably need it, I didn't
know I could say these words. So it's weird because
here we are today and I'm not convinced this
is for you, but I want you to do me a favor.
Try to prove me wrong. Open up your heart and
see if maybe I didn't anticipate that this message
was for you, but it was actually for you. And
if you let me know, I'd appreciate it because
then I don't feel like this is a time that could
have been better spent with a different message.
So here we go. We're going to talk about whether
your amen is just noise or not. And to do so,
we're going to talk about a story that we find
in the Bible. It's from the first Corinthian
letter written by the Apostle Paul. Now, let
me just very quickly, let's set the stage what
we're talking about. Paul, in the Bible, the
Apostle Paul was a builder of churches. He went
around as a missionary and he built churches.
So it didn't mean he became a starter of a church
and he became their minister, pastor, whatever,
leader for a while. And then he would go someplace
else and do it again. And the church didn't move
with him. They stayed there. And over time, these
churches grew. And with their growth, good things
happened and bad things happened. The Apostle
Paul, because he loved the churches he started,
had concern for them. So he wrote letters back
to them to either give them praise for the good
stuff they were doing or to correct them for
the bad stuff they were doing. That's the Pauline
letters, the letters that are in Paul. That's
what's going on with two -thirds of the New Testament.
It's Paul's letters back to these churches saying,
yay, nay, right? This morning, we're going to
talk about a nay. And so this is so great the
way I'm picking up where we're starting the story,
because I think every one of us can imagine your
mom or your boss or a teacher, your spouse, somebody
that's telling you good stuff. Hey, man, you're
knocking it out of the park here. This is great.
You're doing awesome. And you can almost feel
like, you can almost tell that she hasn't, he
hasn't, they haven't said it yet, but there is
a but coming. But. And that's where we're going
to pick up in Paul's letter to the Corinthian
church. He's just given them the butter. Now
it's time for the bus. The bad stuff. So he's
telling them good stuff. I pick up scripture
right here with his but. But. In the following
instructions, I do not commend you. Because when
you come together, it is not for the better,
but for the worse. For in the first place, when
you come together as a church, I hear there are
divisions among you. And I believe it in part.
For there must be factions among you in order
that those who are genuine among you may be recognized.
But when you come together, it's not the Lord's
Supper you eat. For in eating, each one goes
ahead with his own meal. One goes hungry, another
gets drunk. What? Do you not have houses to drink
in? Or do you despise the church of God and humiliate
those who have nothing? What shall I say to you?
Shall I commend you in this? No, I will not.
And then we're going to hear it again. For I
have received from the Lord what I also delivered
to you. that the Lord Jesus, on the night when
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, also he took the cup
after supper, saying, This cup is the new covenant
in my blood. Do this as often as you drink it
in remembrance of me. Listen. For as long as
you eat this bread and you drink this cup, you
proclaim the Lord's death until he comes. So
then, my brothers and sisters, when you come
together to eat, wait for one another. If anyone
is hungry, let him eat at home, so that when
you come together, it will not be for judgment.
Thus ends the reading word. So, picture it. Corinth.
on a Sunday evening. You're barefoot in the dust.
You're following the smell of roasted lamb, bread,
and cheap wine. A wealthy patron's villa has
opened its courtyard to believers. Some come
in silk, reclining the front with full plates
and full cups. Others slip in from the docks
and alleyways, stomachs growling, hoping for
more than just scraps. The laughter is loud at
the head of the table. By the time you find your
spot in the shadows, the bread is broken but
not passed. The wine poured but not shared. Now
you look around, you notice the slaves who've
come straight from their master's service. Too
poor to bring anything but themselves. You see
the merchant who's brought a fine jug of imported
wine. It sits proudly at the host's side. But
you smell the sweat of the dock worker beside
you, whose hands are empty but lingers for bread.
This isn't just a church dinner. It's actually
a mirror of Corinth itself, rich and powerful
and poor and helpless. Together, but not truly
one in the body of Jesus. And Paul hears about
it. News brought to him by Chloe's people. And
he says, that's not the Lord's Supper you're
eating. Now, I have to, and I always will, pause
right here. Because if your name makes the Bible,
you were well known. And here it is, a woman.
Chloe, whose voice carries weight with Paul.
For centuries, women have been written out of
scripture. There's stories erased or footnoted.
And when we stumble upon the remnants that still
remain, man, we're going to shine a spotlight
on them. So kind of a neat thing here that this
whole Corinthian situation gets brought to Paul's
attention by a very important disciple in the
early church, a woman named Chloe. But if you
were a Corinthian listening, you might bristle.
Who is this Paul far away in Ephesus telling
us how to run our table here in Corinth? Some
admired him. Some doubted him. Some thought Apollos
was the better preacher. Or, if you're a Corinthian,
you might be in awe. Imagine sitting in that
villa and realizing the apostle himself has thought
of us, has spoken our names, written us into
his letter. That kind of attention can feel like
judgment or it can feel like honor. And Paul
doesn't soften it. He calls it what it is. He
said it's not just bad manners, it's blasphemy.
Because the table was meant to level the ground.
Rich, poor, slave, free, Jew, Greek, all. kneeling
at the same cross and holding the same broken
bread. Paul doesn't scold, he reminds. I receive
from the Lord what I also deliver to you. And
he tells the story again. Upper room, broken
bread, poured cup, body, blood. In other words,
Paul is saying, don't y 'all remember how we
got here? Now. Slip your sandals into that room
in Corinth as the letter is read aloud. The house
grows still. You can feel the air tighten as
the words settle. And, this is neat, as a Corinthian
listening to Paul's letter, you find yourself
transported back into the upper room in Jerusalem
with Jesus. In your hand is bread torn from the
same loaf your neighbor holds. On your lips,
the sharp tang of wine from that same shared
cup. Suddenly, this isn't just a supper, it's
a doorway into a greater story. That night in
Jerusalem when Jesus broke it and said, this
is my body and this is my blood, the scrape.
of the cup across the wood, the hush of the disciples
leaning in, you can almost feel it. And now here
you sit in Corinth, far away from Jerusalem's
Passover, but now folded into that same covenant.
The table tells the truth. You don't choose your
place at it. The table chooses you. And it announces
not your wealth, not your wit, but the cross
of Christ. But then you glance around at what
we poor Corinthians actually see in this villa.
The wealthy lean back satisfied, plates already
licked clean, wine flowing heavily at their end.
But in the shadows, the dock worker still stares
at an empty palm. The widow still waits, hunger
carving lines across her face. This table is
supposed to echo Calvary, but it looks more like
Rome. It should remind us of an upper room where
the master knelt to serve, but instead it mirrors
a banquet hall where the powerful take their
ease. Now, let me jump forward a chapter because
the Corinthians have another problem. Their worship
has become a talent show. Speaking in tongues,
prophecies, revelations, everybody flashing their
spiritual gifts like badges. Paul says you're
missing the point. Picture yourself. Wedged into
a crowded house church, knees nearly touching
your neighbors. The oil lamp flickers, smoke
curling from the rafters. The air is thick with
voices. One brother stands up to proclaim a prophecy.
A sister bursts out in a tongue no one understands.
Another argues for his teaching. It feels alive,
almost electric, but also... Dizzying and overwhelming.
You glance around the room and you wonder, is
this the spirit or chaos? Paul's letter cuts
through the noise. He doesn't deny the gifts.
He says they're real. They're from the spirit.
But. He insists the only way you know the Spirit
is really in the room is not when someone speaks
in tongues, not when the preacher nails the sermon,
not when the music swells. The proof of the Spirit
is love. And without it, Paul says it is nothing
more than symbols clanging together in a marketplace,
loud but empty. So imagine again, you're sitting
in that crowded house church, voices rising as
people's voices rise over one another. One insists
on their prophecy, another bursts in tongues,
another debates over doctrines. And like I had
said, it feels impressive, almost like sparks.
But Paul leans in and whispers, without love,
it's just noise. Then he sings them that hymn
we all know, 1 Corinthians 13. If I speak in
the tongues of men and of angels, but have not
love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal.
Do you feel the weight of it yet? Because here's
the truth. Corinth looks a lot like us. We sit
in our sanctuaries with the same divisions, maybe
hide them under nicer clothes and polite smiles,
but they're still there. Some congregations roll
out the red carpet for the wealthy, the loud,
the polished, while the quiet and the poor fade
into the back row. Worship can become a contest,
each voice straining to be noticed, each ministry
measured like trophies. And the table, which
is meant to be the great equalizer, gets twisted
into something other than the Lord's. And if
we're honest, some of us approach this table
starving for God, desperate for mercy like dry
ground waits for the rain. Others shuffle forward,
already stuffed with their own pride, forgetting
how empty we really feel on the inside. Some
arrive carrying nothing but need, trembling hands,
open, hoping for grace. Others clutch their abundance,
guarding it as if Christ's feast was theirs to
control. The Corinthian problem is not ancient
history. It's a mirror which churches look every
single Sunday. We are Corinthians. The letter
wasn't written to strangers. It was written to
us. But Paul's word cuts through the centuries.
The table is not yours to hoard. And the spirit
is not yours to flaunt. Love. is the measure.
So, we've just broken the bread and shared the
cup. And that proclamation that we all agreed
to still hangs in the air. Are we proclaiming
Christ's death? Or are we proclaiming our own
comfort? Do we come to be filled or do we come
to be emptied so that Christ may fill us? And
you hear me say those words every time we gather
at the table. For as often as you eat of this
bread and you drink of this cup, you proclaim
the Lord's death until he comes. But what do
those words mean for us beyond just this moment
of worship? When we say amen at that table, what
are we actually agreeing to? That Christ's death
is not just remembered, but lived in us. That
the covenant written in his blood demands something
of our lives. Humility, mercy, and love. and
how all of those work together and how we treat
each other. So the real question becomes not
whether you say amen to what I have to say, but
how does that amen follow you out that door and
into the week ahead? Because this table is not
just about remembering the past. It's about declaring
the future. For as often as you eat of the spread
and you drink of this cup, you proclaim the Lord's
death until he comes. And when he comes, the
laughter of the rich will be silenced if it mocks
the poor. The flash of the gifted will fade if
it overshadows love. But the hungry will be fed,
the broken will be welcomed, and the last will
be first. So here we are. Corinth, Cushing, Drumwright,
whatever, it doesn't matter. Spirit is still
whispering the same thing through Paul's letter.
At this table, grace is the only status. And
love is the only proof. And Christ is the only
boast. But let me press it a bit further. What
are we really proclaiming when we come to the
table? Next time, before you let an amen slip
from your lips because I said it first, stop
and think. What does that amen mean? Because
you are proclaiming Christ's death until he comes.
You're saying his cross has a claim on your life.
That his mercy changes not just this meal, but
your Monday morning. Don't let your amen be a
reflex, a symbol, crashing, echoing someone else's
sound. Let it be a vow that changes how you love,
how you serve. And how you walk out of here different
than the way you came in. And guys, that's no
small amen. So before you echo it, let it sit
heavy. Because I assure you, that confession
will change you. And there are times when following
Jesus will cost you. Cost you pride, cost you
comfort. Maybe cost you relationships or reputation.
But will also give you life you could never,
ever, ever earn on your own. Amen? Amen. Well,
you've just heard Paul hold up a mirror. And
if we're listening, we see ourselves. Corinth
wasn't a church long ago and far away. Corinth
is us. We dress up nicer, but we still divide.
We still boast. We still let worship slip in
like clanging cymbals. And the Lord's table still
asks us, are you proclaiming Christ's death for
just your own comfort? That's the question chasing
you out the door, down the street, and into Monday
morning. Don't let your amen be cheap. Let it
cost you pride. Let it break your grip. Let it
shake the way you love. Because the Spirit is
still whispering. Grace is the only status. Love
the only proof. And Christ the only boast. If
this word pressed on you, pass it along. Like,
share, subscribe. Not for numbers, but because
someone you know is hungry for this bread too.
Amen.