Many of our liturgical practices and beliefs rest upon a slander of God’s character. We say things about Him that are certainly true in the abstract, but in context they are completely out of whack.
For example, in the course of Israel’s religious calendar, God appointed for them one fast day, the Day of Atonement. He also appointed 80 feast days. That is quite a ratio, and the fact that most Christians would be surprised by this indicates that we have been bringing certain hidden assumptions about God the Killjoy to our reading of the text.
Those same assumptions have driven us to interpret this meal as a time of mourning, sadness, and virtual fasting. Since we think it is a fast, and yet because the ceremony inescapably consists of a meal, we split the difference and so we nibble and sip, minimally.
But this is a festival. We are to keep the festival, Paul says, by getting rid of the yeast of malice and wickedness. We are to turn away from those who would pollute the feast with their licentiousness, Jude tells us.
The word Eucharist comes from the Greek word for giving thanks. Were our November holiday of Thanksgiving celebrated in the first century, they would have called it the Eucharist.
What does this mean? Among other things, it means joy, overflow, gladness, thanksgiving, contentment, peace, and harmony.
If you need to kick yourself around a little bit for your sins, feel free. But do it before you get here. This is not the place for it. For those procrastinators among us, we take a moment to confess our unconfessed sins early in the service. A doormat at the front door does not accuse you of tromping in the mud, but it recognizes the possibility. Take care of business then. Here, rejoice in the fact that God has accepted you. He delights in you. He wants you here. Stop sulking at His dinner table. Smile. Enjoy the company.