Holy Week Article Series Part 5 – Communion in the Fire

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“Do this in remembrance of Me.”

On Thursday of Holy Week, Jesus gathered with His disciples for one final meal.
Not just to eat—but to prepare them. To serve them. To love them until the end.

He washed their feet. He broke the bread. He passed the cup.
And He told them the truth.

One would betray.
One would deny.
All would scatter.

And yet—He invited them all to the table.

Even Judas.

Jesus knew the storm that was coming. He knew the agony of the garden, the lashes of the whip, the nails, the silence of heaven. Still, He chose to sit. To bless. To pour out.

The world was about to turn upside down. But the table remained.

And it still does.

Across the globe today, Christians kneel beside makeshift altars—in burned-out churches, in refugee camps, in secret rooms—and they remember.
They break the bread. They pass the cup.
And the presence of Christ fills the room.

Because this table cannot be burned down.
This table cannot be banned.
This table cannot be taken away by tyrants or regimes.

Not in Gethsemane.
Not in Congo.
Not in Syria.
Not even in the darkest corners of the persecuted Church.

The body of Christ is bruised—but not broken.
Poured out—but not empty.

And on Maundy Thursday, we remember that it was Jesus who offered Himself first.

He called His disciples to love as He loved.
To serve as He served.
To remain faithful—not in ease, but in suffering.

The world is at war. The Church is under siege. But the table still stands.

In Cuba, a priest was barred from leading his Good Friday procession—so the faithful gathered quietly in a church courtyard.
In Nicaragua, Holy Week celebrations have been banned, and pastors are under surveillance.
In Ukraine, churches have been shuttered and clergy detained—some simply for refusing to align with state-controlled religion.
And still, they gather. Still, they remember.

In war zones and jungle camps, in silent sanctuaries and shattered cities, believers still gather to break the bread.

In northern Nigeria, a woman who watched her husband beheaded by extremists now leads underground communion services—risking death to remember the One who died for her.
In Congo, pastors in hiding still carry the elements in cloth-wrapped bundles, delivering them to believers too terrified to gather in public.
In Iran, new converts whisper the words of institution over grape juice and torn bread beneath flickering bulbs—knowing they could be executed if discovered.

This is not religious tradition. This is resistance.
This is how the persecuted Church fights back—not with weapons, but with remembrance.
With a table.
With a promise.

When we take Communion, we are proclaiming not just what Jesus has done—but that He is coming again. That the cross was not the end. That the blood was not spilled in vain. That every martyr will rise.

And this Maundy Thursday, we must ask ourselves:

Do we cherish the table like they do?
Do we remember the cost of grace in a culture that treats it casually?
Do we wash feet, break bread, and forgive like Jesus did?

Because this world is trembling.
And the table still stands.

Scripture references: Luke 22:14–20, John 13, John 17, Matthew 26:36–46