Hey, welcome back here to the Semi -Seminary,
and I'm Pastor Jim, preacher, storyteller, and
fellow traveler on the long road between hunger
and grace. Today, we're talking about what happens
after the meal, that holy quiet when the cup's
empty but the taste still lingers. Today is the
first Sunday in October. That means it's World
Communion Sunday. So, from Stillwater to Seoul
to San Paolo. Somebody just whispered the same
words Jesus said in that upper room. Do this
in remembrance of me. Somehow, cross time zones
and tired souls were all sitting at the same
table. If the spirit moves while you're here,
and she just might, go ahead, like, share, subscribe.
Not for fame, not for clicks. But so this gospel
in the static might find somebody who still believes
in the taste of grace. to linger long after the
service ends. I'll see you on the other side.
Maybe you can still feel it in your mouth, the
faint sweetness of the grape juice, that last
crumb hiding by a molar. The room hasn't quite
remembered how to talk yet. Cough, a sniffle.
The rustle of bulletins, but mostly the kind
of silence that's earned, not enforced. You look
down at your empty hands. You still remember
the weight. Bread pressed into your palm, the
cup toward your lips. And you heard the story
again, the one from Luke 22. You saw it land
in real time, just now. He took bread, gave thanks.
broke it, and gave it to them, saying, this is
my body given for you. Do this in remembrance
of me. And you did it. You remembered. You participated.
And now, in the soft hum that follows, you realize
remembering isn't always about just nostalgia.
It's about digestion. You taste mercy while you
breathe. Maybe the air smells a little like lemon
oil and candles. Welch's grape juice and furniture
polish. The pew beneath you is warm from your
own weight. For a heartbeat, you think, this
is what presence feels like. You came in hungry.
You're still here. Not quite full, but satisfied
enough to remember what hunger's for. And maybe...
Maybe if you listen close, you can hear the echo
of kitchens and sanctuaries all across the world.
Someone in Nairobi is washing the chalice. Someone
in Seoul humming a hymn. A pastor in Peru is
drying the plate with a linen cloth. The same
smell of grape and bread has crossed oceans.
You realize you are one heartbeat in the global
pulse of Thanksgiving. Maybe you close your eyes
for a moment and imagine that upper room. The
table there wasn't fancy. The air smelled like
sweat and oil lamps. Maybe one of the disciples
still chewing on some olives. Maybe another staring
down at his feet, ashamed. Jesus looked at that
ragged circle of friends, fishermen, zealots,
tax men. Jesus looked at them and he called them
beloved. And you sit in a pew here in Oklahoma
and you realize you're part of that very same
circle. Their bread is your bread. Their redemption
is your redemption. Their table is your table.
When you open your eyes, you see the same Christ
looking back through the eyes of the people around
you, the young, the old, the ones who sing too
loud, the ones who don't sing at all. And most
weeks, you chase meaning like wind -blown paper.
You scroll, you drive, you plan, you hold a phone
more often than someone's hand. You fill the
hours, but not your soul. You know the taste
of busyness, but not belonging. And there are
tables everywhere, kitchen counters, coffee shops,
conference rooms. Hardly any of them feel like
this one. Out there, you pay for your meal and
clear your own plate, but in here, the meal is
handed to you like mercy you can't afford. And
you think of how Luke told it. The Son of God
taking bread in his own hands, giving thanks
when he knew betrayal was already walking the
hallway. You can't help but swallow hard at that
detail. He gave thanks anyway. He broke the bread
anyway. He poured that cup anyway. You realize
how easily you can skip Thanksgiving when there's
pain in the room. How quick you are to reach
for distraction instead of doxology. You remember
times you bowed your head before a meal and muttered
thanks like a reflex, but not a revelation. But
here, at this table, Thanksgiving isn't a prelude
to anything. It's the point. The table unmasks
you. It shows the gap between how often you say
you trust God and how rarely you pause to taste
his provision. Maybe you think of those first
Christians in Acts. They devoted themselves to
the apostles' teaching and fellowship, to the
breaking of bread and the prayers. They weren't
building cathedrals. They were building communities.
One loaf of bread at a time. You think of the
time the table has saved you, the weeks you nearly
gave up, but the bread reminded you you are still
invited, the time someone pressed the cup into
your trembling hand and you knew you belonged
even if you couldn't sing the hymn right now.
So this meal exposes you, but gently reminds
you what's been missing, not food, but fellowship.
Not talk, tenderness. Table confronts us with
the simplicity of grace. No screens, no slogans,
just bread and the cup. A promise that does not
expire when you mess up again. You sit there
tasting confession without words. Lord, I forget
how to be grateful when I'm afraid. And you feel
the answer come back to you, quiet but sure.
That's why I keep inviting you week after week
to dinner. You've heard that line over and over
again. He gave thanks and broke it. Maybe you
caught it this time. Gratitude comes before the
break. The fancy word for communion, Eucharist,
means Thanksgiving. And maybe you're beginning
to understand that now. Every loaf starts with
praise. When you whispered thank you before eating,
you weren't being polite. You were participating
in the divine order of things. Blessing before
breaking, gratitude before giving. You can smell
it even now, yeast and grace rising together.
Maybe you remember how your grandmother gave
thanks over cornbread or how your grandfather
bowed his head before supper, even when he'd
lost that job. Thanksgiving like that is resurrection
rehearsal. It's hope baked right into the crust.
Gratitude is rebellion against despair. Every
thank you you utter. defies the lie that life
is somehow meaningless. Every loaf shared is
a small act of resurrection. You realize that
Jesus' thanksgiving wasn't optimism. It was trust
in the Father's goodness even when the cross
had begun casting its shadow. He said, this is
my body given for you. You felt that for you
slide across the room like light across water
until it reached you. For you. Not the crowd
in general. Not humanity in principle. You. You
took that bread knowing the same Jesus who handed
it to Judas is handing it to you too. You understand
now that grace doesn't discriminate by performance.
It finds you where you sit, and it feeds you
before you've earned it. You can feel the loaf
in your memory, the grain soft but solid, a texture
that says incarnation. God became chewable. Heaven
put on flesh so you could touch it. You remember
the way it stuck to your tongue, how it dissolved
into... sweetness, and salt. That's what grace
does. It dissolves self -hatred into belonging.
And maybe you think of all the saints who came
before you, those who served this mill when lights
were dim, with whispered prayers through tears,
carried trays through hospital rooms and prison
wards. You realize every time You take and you
eat, you're joining that unbroken procession
of grace bearers. When he lifted the cup and
he said, this cup is the new covenant in my blood,
which is poured out for you. That sentence did
not stop at the upper room. It kept pouring until
it hit this sanctuary this Sunday. This, you.
You remember the taste, sweet and warm. It's
what covenant tastes like. Joy, honesty, perseverance.
You know now every time you swallow it, you're
signing your name again on a promise that he
has already sealed. And the aftertaste isn't
guilt, it's glory. Sign the truth that went down
deep. You realize maybe. for the first time,
that the table isn't about what you did this
week. It's about what Christ keeps on doing.
This is not a museum meal for saints. It is a
refueling stop for sinners who've run out of
strength. So you whisper to yourself, grace doesn't
run out, it refills. You hear chairs move. Someone
breathes out the long sigh of the satisfied.
The pastor says a few words of prayer, but you're
not done praying. You're praying with your senses
now. You look around. Every face carries that
same quiet glaze, the calm of people been fed
by something they didn't cook. See their farmers
tan, the nurses' tired eyes, students' handbook
half open, widows' hands folded like wings. and
all of them smell faintly like grape juice now.
That's the perfume of belonging. You think about
the road that waits outside, gravel, sun, the
sound of wind in the cottonwoods. You drive home,
maybe fry some okra, maybe watch a football game,
maybe call someone you've been avoiding. But
before you do, you let the truth settle. Worship.
Didn't end when the cups got put back into the
tray. Worship started when you swallowed. And
you realize you've been given a portable altar,
your very own body. Every kindness you extend
this week will be an echo of what you just did.
Every word of patience will be a drop from the
cup you drank. Every act of mercy will taste
just like that bread. You remember Jesus' table
manners. He fed the betrayer, forgave before
confession, thanked before rescue. You promise
yourself you'll try that kind of thanksgiving
out there in the wild. Maybe you picture yourself
in the grocery store line behind someone short
on change. and you hear a whisper, break bread
again. You imagine this same congregation scattered
by Monday teachers, welders, nurses, caretakers,
each of them carrying crumbs of grace into their
own corners of the world. And maybe, maybe that's
the real miracle. Meal doesn't stay put. It multiplies
as it's remembered. When you step outside, the
sun hits your face like benediction. The wind
smells faintly of dirt, maybe even distant rain.
The taste in your mouth meets the taste of Oklahoma
air. The combination feels like communion continuing.
Smile because you know the truth. You're leaving
the sanctuary, but the sanctuary isn't leaving
you. Maybe you understand something now you didn't
understand when you walked in. The do this in
remembrance of me doesn't stop at bread and cup.
It keeps on going. In the way you greet that
cashier by name, in the way you slow down for
the man crossing the street, in the way you forgive
before anyone asks you to. You can almost hear
him saying it again, but this time it's invitation,
not instruction. Keep remembering, keep doing,
keep tasting. You take one more deep breath of
the sanctuary before you go. The air hangs that
strange blend of grape and wax and old hymnals
that could only smell like church. Your eyes,
you shake the preacher's hand, still feeling
cups cool echo against your fingers. Someone
says, see you next week. And you smile because
you know exactly what they mean. You'll come
back to eat again. You need to. Not because you'll
lose your faith between Sundays. Because you'll
get hungry again. And this is the place that
feeds what hunger really is. And the table will
be there. Waiting like an old friend. Same smell,
same story, same grace. And when you reach for
that bread next time, you'll remember this moment.
The one where you realize the taste lingers because
the host stays. You walk out into the light with
gratitude caught in your breath. The gravel crunches,
the sky stretches. And the words, he started
it all, kept echoing soft and sure in your soul.
He took bread, gave thanks, and broke it. Gave
it to them, saying, this is my body, given for
you. Do this in remembrance of me. And you whisper
back, we did. Then, because that taste still
lingers, you add the only thing left to say.
Amen. Amen. Well, you've been listening to the
Semi -Seminarian, and maybe right now you can
still taste it. A hit of grape, a crumb of bread,
that small reminder that grace is real enough
to chew. Don't rush past that. Let it sit a while.
The miracle isn't that you took communion, it's
that communion keeps taking you. The taste that
lingers isn't nostalgia, it's covenant. It means
the host stays. So wherever you go this week,
into a job that drains you, a home maybe is a
little too quiet, a world that forgets to say
thank you, remember the feel of the bread in
your hand. Remember that you were fed by something
you didn't earn, invited before you were ready.
And when you see someone hungry for food, for
hope, for forgiveness, break bread with them
again. Because that's how the gospel travels.
One crumb of kindness. One sip of mercy. One
quiet you belong. Right time. If the meal meant
something to you today, help set another place
at the table. Like, share, subscribe. Not just
to grow the audience, but to grow the circle
of the fed and forgiven. Because grace doesn't
run out, it refills. Until next time, come back
hungry, leave forgiven, and remember. Taste lingers
because the host stays. I'll see you next time.