Last week at church I had the privilege of serving communion with my wife. The way New City works, we stand there holding a loaf of bread and a cup of juice, and the church comes up, single-file, and breaks the bread and dips it in the cup. Every person, we say the same thing, “The body of Christ, broken for you.”
As I stood there watching person after person tear a piece of bread from the plate, my own words began to beat into my head. I must have said “The body of Christ, broken for you,” dozens of times. Slowly, it lodged in my head, and I was filled with a deep and overflowing joy, running deeper than any other week. The truth, the full enormity of it all, demanded dozens of repeats before it even began to sink in.
The body of Christ, broken for you. The body of Christ. Broken for you.
The body, the body, the body, the body, the body, the body.
Broken. For you. For me.
The words continued worming their way into me, settling in my heart with a glowing passion that can often-times get covered up in the press of everyday life. I was reminded that this is my anchor, my foundation throughout all of this life. “Do this in remembrance of me” is the soul-balancing reminder we give ourselves every week to remember: Christ’s body, broken for us.
Our writing will inevitably reflect whatever is undergirding our soul. It can’t help it: whatever defines and marks us will come through in our writing. Whether it’s the cross or another thing altogether, what’s at the core of your soul will bleed through in all your writing. It will revolve around it. Is that anchor the truth? Or is it something else? I had to ask myself this question.
Good writing will ooze with whatever you ooze with. May we always be writers who are anchored, echoing what we’re built around: the body of Christ, broken, for you.
Published on 2 November, 2015. Last updated on