Sometimes the simplest acts are the best.

Jesus takes bread and breaks it and says a few words. He does the same with a cup of wine. And these simple actions are repeated day after day, decade after decade, across the world, across denominational boundaries.

Yes, we argue about what, exactly, happens with the bread and the wine. We use beliefs about what happens as a way to sort, divide, exclude.

I’m not going to get into that argument.

I’m more amazed that this simple set of actions, easy to replicate wherever cultures have bread and something basic to drink, survives us.

Generations of us have lived and died. The breaking of bread and the drinking of wine still happens. It is still brand new and deeply familiar. It–the tangible memory–still works on us and in us as we chew and swallow.

Perhaps the wonder of the sacrament/ordinance/ritual that Jesus started quietly that night is that it isn’t about us. It is about his relationship with us. Jesus knew exactly what he meant, even if we can’t agree. He knew that this was a placeholder for himself. He knew that no one would be able to touch him for at least a couple of millenia. He knew that we would need a reminder of what he did. He knew that even if we couldn’t sort ourselves out very well, he would be able to tell who is looking forward to eating with him someday and who is, therefore, anticipating, expecting, remembering.

I don’t want to debate.

Of this, however, I am sure.

Jesus meant for the people who follow him, who are called by his name, to spend time together regularly breaking and eating bread and drinking wine as if he is at the table. Because, of course, he is.