A couple of weeks ago in church, our pastor taught on the Last Supper. I grew up in church. I’ve heard that story about a thousand times. But recently I find myself being amazed at the earth-shattering power of the tales we know like a favorite sweater.

Now as they were eating, Jesus took bread, and after blessing it broke it and gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.” And he took a cup, and when he had given thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink of it, all of you, for this is my blood of the covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. I tell you I will not drink again of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father's kingdom.”

Our pastor turned to us and said, “No one in the history of the world has ever said these things before.” The words went through me like electricity.

No one in the history of the world has ever said this before.

And from then on, nothing would ever be the same.

One of my favorite things about the Bible is the way it casually transforms the molecules and microscopic and mundane of our lives into something totally other. Otherworldly. Ethereal. Like gravitas and fairy dust floating through our coffee shops and offices and practice rooms and hallways.

We are told that the God-Man broke bread and drank wine, saying to us, This is My body, My blood — and now we cannot sit down to a simple lunch together, or even a cup of tea, without being reminded that the breaking of bread together is a sacred thing.

We learn that He said, I am the Light of the world, and suddenly a candle becomes a small reminder of our Creator. The wooden wick on my favorite candle crackles — or is that the sizzle of the very air in the presence of God?

We hear, Come to Me, and I will give you rest — and suddenly the soft covers on top of our beds become a place to meet with the Divine.

I have come that they may have life, and have it abundantly.

We are inundated with the everyday.

We are stuck in what feels like the suburbs of life — mundane, ordinary, always looking for the next thing to shake us up.

We do not know that for the Redeemed — for we the elect — our lives are sacred in ways we cannot possibly fathom.

When our feet hit the ground in the morning, there is a ripple in the world.

When we sit down to have coffee with a friend, the air fizzles with the presence of the very Divine.

When we walk outside, tilting our heads just ever so slightly up to see the trees, we can almost sense the Spirit of God filling the cracks and wide spaces between the branches and clouds, like sparks of gold and silver swelling until we are breathing them into our lungs.

When we are alone, we can feel the effervescent, grandiose weight of God’s nearness — pressing on our skin, filling the emptiness we cannot possibly access.


For us, nothing is ordinary anymore.

Everything is sacred.

I am possessed with this idea.

I drove to school in the fog this morning. It was the thickness of mystery and the joy of knowing all at once. Mist was sacred to me. I walked to the library to print handouts for a short presentation — and I was overcome with the silence and the chirping of the birds, calling to one another overhead. I was intrigued by the blossoms on the pear trees: they did not wither in the morning chill, but misted the air with their sweet scent, delicate white flowers pressed into the silver-gray mist.

God is with us, and in every aspect of our lives, and we cannot possibly fathom the depth to which every fiber of our lives has been made new and whole and adventurous and consecrated totally to Him.

But I want to notice.

I want to look up and around and walk a little slower and realize that it’s true, all of it, down to the last drop, down to the breath of spring air on my face, unafraid to banish winter at last.

I want to start treating my life like it’s sacred — sacred because Jesus is in it.

It’s all true. All of it.

May we live like it is true.