Dove Sermons

1 Corinthians 11:23-26 (NRSVUE)

Sermon for September 6, 2026

Did you know 1 Corinthians 11:23-26 is the earliest written account we have of the night before Jesus died? It’s older than Mark. Older than Matthew. Older than Luke. Paul is writing in the early 50s C.E., telling a young church in Corinth something they’ve heard him teach before, and he’s doing it in language that’s stripped down to its most basic elements. Just the bread, the cup, and the words.

Paul says he handed on what he received about the night Jesus was “handed over.” That’s the same word, twice, in the Greek: paradidomi. Our English translations don’t always pick up on that wordplay, translating one instance as “handed on” and the other as “betrayed,” which lets us collapse the whole story onto Judas’s betrayal.

Judas is in the story, of course. But Paul elsewhere uses this exact word, paradidomi, to describe God handing Jesus over for the world (Romans 4:25; 8:32), echoing the prophet Isaiah (53:6, 12b). So, right out of the gate, Paul has already told us something important: what looks like a betrayal from ground level is, from above, a gift being given away on purpose.

Nobody stole this from Jesus. He was handed over, and he handed himself over. That’s the whole meaning of the gospel in summary.

It also helps to remember what kind of meal this was. This is a meal during Passover, which means the bread on the table was unleavened, baked in a hurry, because the night Israel left Egypt there was no time to wait for dough to rise. Every year the Jewish people ate that bread again to remember that God moves people out of slavery fast, decisively, without waiting for permission. So when Jesus takes bread on this night and calls it his body, he’s picking up Israel’s oldest story of deliverance and saying: this is happening again, right here, in me. New exodus. New freedom. Same God.

Now, why is Paul repeating a teaching for them? Well, because he is upset. 1 Corinthians 11:17-22 confirms that Paul is upset about something specific: how the church is eating together. Or rather, how they aren’t.

Picture it. There were no church buildings yet in the first century. Believers in Christ are meeting in homes, and usually one of the wealthier members is hosting. They’ve got the space, so everybody gathers there. But by the time the day laborers and the small shopkeepers can get away from work and walk across town to join the gathering, the host and their higher-status friends have already received the bread. Already had their wine.

The people arriving last, the ones with the least social capital to begin with, show up to find the bread used up and the wine gone, and they stand there, in front of everyone, empty-handed, while their already-fed neighbors watch. Paul tells them: this is not the Lord’s Supper. You can call it that, but it isn’t.

Those people who ate early? They weren’t bad people. They probably thought they were being considerate. In that culture, inviting poorer people to a meal without the ability to reciprocate could be its own kind of insult. So the “normal” thing, by the manners of their world, was to keep your circles separate.

Eat with your own kind. That’s how every dinner table in the Roman Empire worked, split by class, by ethnicity, by status, no exceptions. The Corinthian Christians were just copying the world’s table manners into the church’s most sacred meal, and calling it worship.

Which is ironic, because that’s exactly what Jesus didn’t do. He ate with tax collectors. With sinners. With people who had no business being at a respectable table. One New Testament scholar puts it bluntly: Jesus basically died because of how he ate. His table was a standing threat to a world organized by who’s in and who’s out, and Rome eventually decided a table that welcomed everybody needed to be stopped.

Which brings us to the words of blessing themselves. “This is my body that is for you.” Not just given; for you.

FOR YOU!

Jesus’s whole ministry was a body positioned (or, we could say handed over)  for other people, spent on their behalf, serving them, loving them. Now that same “for-ness” gets handed to a loaf of bread so it can be handed to us, one broken piece at a time, generation after generation.

“This cup is the new covenant in my blood.” Paul’s reaching back to Jeremiah (31:31-34) here, to God’s old promise that someday the law wouldn’t just be written in scrolls, it would get written on the hearts of people. That meant knowing God became something every person, from the least to the greatest, simply had access to. There is no hierarchy of who gets God and who doesn’t. That’s the covenant Jesus is starting at this table, and it’s the exact covenant the Corinthians were side-stepping every time they let the order of that meal work like the order of the world.

“Do this in remembrance of me.” It means something closer to re-member, to put the body back together. Not just recall a memory, but to reassemble something that’s come apart. That’s the double edge running under this whole passage that goes through verse 34: discern the body. Discern the bread as Christ’s body, broken for you, and discern the church as Christ’s body too, gathered at that same table. Which means the person who showed up late and hungry is not a complication to your worship. They are a part of your worship, a member in the body.

I don’t think we get to walk away feeling superior to the church in Corinth after reading this text. Every culture throughout time built its own version of that early Corinthian table, its own quiet sorting of who gets fed first and who gets left standing. Ours runs on different lines than theirs did, but the instinct is the same old one: protect your circle, let the rest fend for themselves.

There’s an old African proverb; when elephants fight, the grass suffers. Those in power clash, and it’s always the ones with no power who get trampled. Paul would recognize that proverb instantly. I think it’s the point he’s trying to make.

So what’s the move, for Corinth or for us? I don’t think it’s a clever new idea, but an old one, older than Corinth’s bad habit. Long before any of us needed correcting, God had already decided how this table would work, and the church doesn’t get to improve on it. It is written into what it means to be United Methodist. Our own theology of this table says: the invitation to this meal comes from Christ, not from us. This table belongs to Christ, not to the church, which means we don’t get to decide who’s respectable enough to sit at it.

Our tradition welcomes anyone who comes forward wanting to receive. Nothing should hold you back from what Christ offers you. Not your background. Not your past. Not your doubts. Age doesn’t disqualify you. A disability doesn’t disqualify you. Not having your belief system  sorted out doesn’t disqualify you either. John Wesley went so far as to call this meal a “converting ordinance”, meaning you don’t have to arrive with your faith all figured out to come to this table. Sometimes the figuring-out happens because you came.

I wish my Dad would have received communion. As far back as I could remember, he never took part in it. He would go to worship services often. He spent time reading his Bible throughout the week. He even prayed regularly. But for some reason, communion was a bridge too far for him. At one point, I just asked him straight up, “Dad, why don’t you take communion?” His answer was simple: he hadn’t earned it.

He felt as though his personal sins disqualified him from the realm of folks who did take part in it. He even used a bible passage a justification as to why he wouldn’t do it. If our reading today went one more verse, we’d get to 1 Corinthians 11:27, where Paul writes, “Whoever, therefore, eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be answerable for the body and blood of the Lord.”

But this “unworthy manner” Paul writes about was never a verdict on the person eating. Paul spells out exactly what he means by it two verses later: failing to discern the body… forgetting that the person next to you belongs at this table just as much as you do. It’s a warning about how you treat each other, not a background check on your soul.

So my Dad’s whole theology around communion was pulled from one verse, out of context, aimed as a weapon against himself. He never felt worthy enough, and he let that guilt drive him from a holy moment that was meant for people just like him.

So today, I think about my Dad. Chances are, he’ll never hear this. But someone in here might. Someone in here might not feel worthy, and I want you to hear it from me; this isn’t about worthiness, this is about love. This is about receiving a blessing from Jesus, a holy moment of divine presence, a covenant that he will keep until the time comes when we all receive the gift in full.

And that promise is that you do not live this life alone. The spirit of God abides in us and lives among us. It’s life with the Holy Spirit. We go to live as transformed people in the world, together. We hand ourselves over to the holy and good work around us.

“The grace we receive at the Lord’s Table enables us to perform our ministry and mission, to continue his work in the world—the work of redemption, reconciliation, peace, and justice (2 Corinthians 5:17-21)” (This Holy Mystery, Page 10)

This is my body, given for you, so that your body can be handed over for whoever shows up last, whoever can’t pay you back, whoever the world already decided doesn’t belong.

Nobody gets left behind at this table, and nobody eats alone. Do this, in remembrance of him, until he comes again.

Amen.