Holy Week | Holy Thursday (1 Corinthians 11)

That night, Jesus took bread and broke it, offering His body. He poured out the cup, offering His blood. He knelt and washed the feet of His disciples—Judas included. In the face of betrayal, Jesus gave a gift: Himself. He knew what was coming. The thirty silver pieces had already exchanged hands. The guards were already on their way. But Jesus didn’t resist. He willingly offered Himself as the ransom for the betrayed, the weak, the unworthy—us. Tonight, we step into that upper room, not as distant observers, but as those whom Jesus still serves. He knows our failures, our unfaithfulness, and yet He invites us to the table. Here, in bread and wine, body and blood, we receive what we could never earn—His life, given for ours.

Transcript

The night was heavy with meaning. The oil lamps flicker, casting long shadows across the walls of the upper room. The air thick with the scent of unleavened bread and the sharp tang of wine. The disciples sit in uneasy silence, the weight of Jesus’ words pressing down on them. “This is my body.” “This is my blood.” This is no mere symbol, no abstract ritual. It is a moment of unspeakable intimacy, a lasting gift from the Savior to His people. A taste—real and present—of what it means to be with Him, until the day when faith becomes sight. Tonight, on this Holy Thursday, we gather to receive that same gift. But first, we must pause. We must examine ourselves as our God calls us to.

In many ways, we are not so different from the men reclining at that table centuries ago. We bring with us a mix of faith and doubt, courage and cowardice, devotion and sin. Some of us feel unworthy. Some of us are self-assured. Some of us barely made it here at all, clinging to faith by a thread. But Jesus does not invite the worthy. He invites the weary. And yet, He calls us to come with eyes open—to examine ourselves before we receive what He so freely gives. Turn to page 295 in the hymnal. These are not abstract questions. They are a mirror, revealing the state of our hearts. Tonight, we’ll consider three questions directly tied to the ones in the hymnal: Do I believe that I am a sinner? Do I believe that Jesus gives me His body and blood for the forgiveness of sins? Do I intend, with the help of the Holy Spirit to live a more God-pleasing life?

At first glance the question: Do I believe I am a sinner seems like the easiest question to answer. Of course, I’m a sinner. We say it every Sunday. But do I really believe it? Judas sat at the table that night. He had already made his deal. Thirty pieces of silver rattled in his pocket, yet he sat there, dipping bread in the same dish as Jesus, blind to the depths of his own sin. How often do we come to this table without truly reckoning with what we carry? How often do we minimize our sin—excusing it, justifying it, comparing it to others?
Holy Communion is not for those who have it all together. It is for those who see, with clear eyes, their desperate need. We do not come to Jesus as people who merely need a little improvement. We come as those who would be lost forever without His mercy. Tim Keller once said, “The gospel is this: We are more sinful and flawed in ourselves than we ever dared believe, yet at the very same time we are more loved and accepted in Jesus Christ than we ever dared hope.” To examine ourselves rightly is not to despair. It is to be honest about the sickness so that we might receive the cure.

Here is where mystery meets reality. The disciples that night did not fully grasp what Jesus was doing. “This is my body. This is my blood.” These words have been debated for centuries. Some have tried to soften them, to make them more palatable. But Jesus does not offer metaphor. He offers Himself. This meal is not a mere reenactment. It is not a hollow symbol. It is an encounter with the living Christ. Mark Paustian describes the Lord’s Supper as “a crack in time, a place where heaven and earth touch.” Here, the infinite bends low, the eternal reaches into the now, and Jesus places Himself into our trembling hands.

The next question: Do I believe it? Do I take Him at His word?
So often, we come to the table as if we are doing something for God. As if we are proving something. But the Lord’s Supper is not about what we bring to Jesus—it is about what Jesus brings to us. He gives His body. He pours out His blood. The hands that would soon be nailed to a cross press the bread into His disciples’ palms. The lips that would cry out “It is finished” offer them the cup. He does the same for you.

This question stops us short. Do I intend to change? To examine ourselves is not only to look back—to confess what has been. It is also to look forward. To stand at the foot of the cross and recognize that the One who died for us is also the One who calls us to live for Him. This does not mean perfection. It means repentance. It means the ongoing, daily turning of our hearts toward Jesus. Peter was at that table, too. He had made his bold promises: “Even if all fall away, I will not!” Hours later, his denials would echo in the night. Yet, in the end, Jesus restored him. What matters is not whether we have failed. We have. What matters is whether we come to this table ready to be changed. Not by our own strength, but by the Spirit’s power. So we ask ourselves: Do I intend to leave here different than I came? 
Holy Thursday is not only about remembering what Jesus has done. It is about anticipating what is to come. The table in the upper room points forward to another table. Revelation 19 calls it the wedding supper of the Lamb. A feast beyond anything we can imagine. A table where sin is no more, where suffering is no more, where every tear is wiped away. A table where the risen Christ, scarred hands and all, welcomes us home. Tonight, as we take the bread and the wine, we taste the future. We receive a down payment of the feast to come. Jesus is here. His body given for you. His blood poured out for you. Examine yourself, yes! But do not stay there. Look up. Look forward. And come, for all things are now ready. Amen.