From Passing the Cup to Taking It: A Reflection After Easter

Last week was Easter Sunday.

For many, it’s a celebration—bright colors, music, family, and a message of hope. For me, it’s also something quieter. More internal. A kind of checkpoint where I reflect on how far I’ve come—and how much I’m still trying to understand.

This isn’t a theological argument—just a personal reflection on how my understanding has changed over time.

Because Easter, for me, doesn’t just bring up the story of Christ.

It brings up a table.
A cup.
Bread.

And a childhood where I was taught to pass both without ever touching them.

I don’t think most people fully understand the psychological weight that can follow someone into adulthood after growing up in a religious structure like the one I was raised in—and the ripple effects that can come when you begin to step away from it. I was taught that others could lead me away from the truth—and that I should always be on guard.

Finding God again—truly finding Him—was not a simple return. It was a long and often difficult path. Even now, I sometimes feel like I’m standing just outside the space where others seem most comfortable in their relationship with Him.

But I’ve come to understand something along the way: as long as I keep the door open, Jesus meets me right where I am.

The Only Holiday I Knew

Growing up, I went to the Kingdom Hall with my dad. We didn’t celebrate Christmas, Thanksgiving, Easter, birthdays, or even Mother’s Day. Those were considered worldly—things to be set apart from.

There was only one annual event.
We called it Passover.

It took place at sunset, sometime in early spring. Everyone dressed up. The room was quiet—almost heavy. A plate of unleavened bread would be passed from person to person.

No one ate.
Then a cup of wine would follow.

No one drank.
Not even the elders.
We simply passed the emblems along, one after another, in silence.

No music.
No celebration.

In the tradition I grew up in, only a small group—often referred to as “the anointed” or “144,000”—were believed to partake. Everyone else observed respectfully, but did not participate.

As a child, I didn’t have the words for it, but something felt incomplete. The entire ritual centered around something no one was expected to take part in.

Year after year, I sat there wondering:

Why are we doing this
if no one can take part?

Over time, the words themselves began to feel distant—like they were meant for people who weren’t in the room.

Walking Away

A few years into high school, after we had moved to West Virginia, I stopped going.

I remember one evening clearly. I sat in the back seat of my dad’s brown Gremlin and told him I didn’t want to go inside. He didn’t argue. He went in without me, came back out after the meeting, and we drove home.

That was the last time.
No dramatic break. No confrontation.
Just… silence.

Returning — And Seeing It Differently

Years later, in my 40s, I walked into a church again.

What caught me off guard wasn’t the sermon or the music. Well, it did, but I can talk about that another time.

It was Communion—an unfamiliar, almost “churchy” word to me.

At first, I didn’t connect it. But then I saw the trays—small cups, pieces of bread—and something clicked.

This felt familiar.
But everything about it was different.
People actually took the bread.
They drank from the cup.
No hesitation. No restriction.

Instead of being told to observe, they were invited to participate. And everyone did.
That was the moment something began to shift for me, and soon enough, I followed suit.

Observer vs Participant

Over time, I started to notice a deeper difference.

In my childhood, the ritual seemed to reinforce distance.

You are not part of this.
You are not worthy of this.
This belongs to someone else.

In the churches I’ve attended since, the tone feels very different.

This is, without question, for you.
You are invited.
Come and take it.

That shift—from observer to participant—sounds small. But it changes everything. It changes the meaning.

What the Words Actually Say

Each time Communion was served, I heard a familiar phrase—but reading it for myself, in different translations, made certain words stand out in a way they hadn’t before:

For I have received of the Lord that which also I delivered unto you, that the Lord Jesus the same night in which he was betrayed took bread: And when he had given thanks, he brake it, and said, Take, eat: this is my body, which is broken for you: this do in remembrance of me. After the same manner also he took the cup, when he had supped, saying, this cup is the new testament in my blood: this do ye, as oft as ye drink it, in remembrance of me. For as often as ye eat this bread, and drink this cup, ye do shew the Lord’s death till he come.

1 Corinthians 11:23-26 (KJV)

For I received from the Lord what I also handed on to you, that the Lord Jesus on the night on which he was going to be betrayed took a loaf, and after giving thanks, he broke it and said: “This means my body, which is in your behalf. Keep doing this in remembrance of me.” He did the same with the cup also, after they had the evening meal, saying: “This cup means the new covenant by virtue of my blood. Keep doing this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this loaf and drink this cup, you keep proclaiming the death of the Lord, until he comes.

1 Corinthians 11:23-26 (NWT)

For I received from the Lord what I also passed on to you: The Lord Jesus, on the night he was betrayed, took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it and said, “This is my body, which is for you; do this in remembrance of me.” In the same way, after supper he took the cup, saying, “This cup is the new covenant in my blood; do this, whenever you drink it, in remembrance of me.” For whenever you eat this bread and drink this cup, you proclaim the Lord’s death until he comes.

1 Corinthians 11:23-26 (NIV)

That phrase—do this—stuck with me.

Not observe.
Not pass.
Not sit quietly while it goes by.

Do this.

And then: “For whenever…”

Not once a year. Not tied to a specific date.

Just… whenever it is done, it is done in remembrance.

That idea felt unfamiliar at first. I had always associated it with a specific moment in time, on the night of Judas’ betrayal. But here, it seemed less about timing—and more about meaning.

I also have an Interlinear Bible that translates the Greek word-for-word, to the best of its ability, into English. However, this reads as if it’s not in English, and I’m not familiar with the period’s phrases and tones to capture the original meaning. I don’t read Greek, and even the translators acknowledge the difficulty in capturing its full meaning. I’ll provide it here for context, given its significance, along with a Greek source.

What I found interesting is the literal translation italicized “is” and “as,” highlighting my earlier observations in the differences of the various translations for “is”, but now recognizing that “as” may have a significant meaning as well.

The passage goes on, chastising the church for having full meals together where people were eating everything early, others were going hungry, and some were getting drunk, while the poor were being left out and shamed. Paul was writing to correct the church in his original remembrance of the meal. There is another verse of interest:

Wherefore whosoever shall eat this bread, and drink this cup of the Lord, unworthily, shall be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord.

1 Corinthians 11:27 (KJV)

Therefore, whoever eats the loaf or drinks the cup of the Lord unworthily will be guilty respecting the body and the blood of the Lord.

1 Corinthians 11:27 (NWT)

So then, whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord.

1 Corinthians 11:27 (NIV)

Rather than asking, “Am I good enough?”

The question becomes:

“Am I approaching this, and the people around me, with the right heart?”

I keep thinking back – all Jesus wants is my heart, and this verse ties directly to that.

Who Is It For?

This is where things began to open up for me.

Growing up, I understood this to be for a specific group. Others could observe, but not participate.

But then I read:

Your glorying is not good. Know ye not that a little leaven leaveneth the whole lump?

Purge out therefore the old leaven, that ye may be a new lump, as ye are unleavened. For even Christ our passover is sacrificed for us: Therefore let us keep the feast, not with old leaven, neither with the leaven of malice and wickedness; but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.

1 Corinthians 5:6-8 (KJV)

Your boasting is not good. Do you not know that a little leaven ferments the whole batch of dough? Clear away the old leaven so that you may be a new batch, inasmuch as you are free from ferment. For, indeed, Christ our Passover lamb has been sacrificed. So, then, let us keep the festival, not with old leaven, nor with leaven of badness and wickedness, but with unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.

1 Corinthians 5:6-8 (NWT)

Your boasting is not good. Don’t you know that a little yeast leavens the whole batch of dough? Get rid of the old yeast, so that you may be a new unleavened batch—as you really are. For Christ, our Passover lamb, has been sacrificed. Therefore let us keep the Festival, not with the old bread leavened with malice and wickedness, but with the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.

1 Corinthians 5:6-8 (NIV)

Reading this, something unexpected stood out to me—not just that Christ is described as our Passover, but what comes next:

“Therefore let us keep the Festival…”

That phrasing stayed with me.

Not remember it.
Not observe it.
Not reenact it once a year.

Keep it.

And not with ritual alone, but with something much more personal:

“…the unleavened bread of sincerity and truth.”

That began to shift how I saw everything.

Growing up, the focus had always been on a specific event—something tied to a date, a structure, a carefully observed pattern. But here, the emphasis felt different.

It wasn’t centered on a calendar.

It was centered on what you bring with you.

Sincerity.
Truth.

Not distance.
Not exclusion.

And that raised a question I hadn’t really considered before:

If the feast is something we are to “keep,” not just observe—then how is it meant to be lived out?

For All (People)

And then I came across another passage that wouldn’t let go of me:

For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus; Who gave himself a ransom for all…

1 Timothy 2:5–6 (KJV)

For there is one God, and one mediator between God and men, a man, Christ Jesus,  who gave himself a corresponding ransom for all…

1 Timothy 2:5-6 (NWT)

For there is one God and one mediator between God and mankind, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all people…

1 Timothy 2:5–6 (NIV)

For all.

That phrase stayed with me. Especially the NWT, where it was a “corresponding” ransom. A one-for-one exchange. Jesus, a perfect human life, in exchange for Adam, a perfect human life. The “original sin” was paid in full. The focus was more on the mechanics than on who benefits.

Growing up, I understood things differently. There were distinctions—roles, groups, and boundaries around who certain promises applied to.

No one participated.
All observed and passed.
Even the elders – the leaders – did not partake.

But in other translations, the wording felt… broader. The NIV takes it a step further – not just for all, but for all people. There is no question of specific groups.

Not restricted.
Not tiered.
Not reserved.

Just:

for all.

I started noticing how small differences in wording could carry very different weight. A phrase added, a phrase softened, a phrase expanded—and suddenly the meaning shifts, even if only slightly.

And yet, across these translations, that core idea remained.

For all.

Reading it now, it feels more inclusive than I had previously understood it to be. Not because everything suddenly became simple—but because the invitation felt wider than I had once believed.

Communion… or Connection?

Another word that stood out to me over time was this:

The cup of blessing which we bless, is it not the communion of the blood of Christ? The bread which we break, is it not the communion of the body of Christ?

1 Corinthians 10:16 (KJV)

The cup of blessing that we bless, is it not a sharing in the blood of the Christ? The loaf that we break, is it not a sharing in the body of the Christ?

1 Corinthians 10:16 (NWT)

Is not the cup of thanksgiving for which we give thanks a participation in the blood of Christ? And is not the bread that we break a participation in the body of Christ?

1 Corinthians 10:16 (NIV)

Communion & Participation.

Not sharing.

The word carries a very different weight than simply observing.

When I first heard the word “Communion,” it sounded foreign—almost like insider language. Something formal. Something reserved.

But reading this, it started to feel less like a ritual word—and more like an invitation into something shared.

Not just remembering.

Not just observing.

But participating. Connecting. Doing something more than just listening or singing hymns.

Faith, Charity, and What I Didn’t See

One of the things I’ve come to appreciate through Masonry is the idea of caring for the household of the faithful.

Not just in belief—but in action.

In supporting one another.
In showing charity.
In making sure no one is left behind—spiritually or otherwise.

Looking back, I’ve started to question what that looked like in my childhood.

There was structure.
There was order.
There was a strong sense of being set apart.

But I don’t remember much emphasis on charity—either toward others, or even toward ourselves.

Spiritual nourishment often felt restricted rather than encouraged. I don’t remember much emphasis on caring for the sick or the poor as I’ve come to understand it today. Medical decisions were often shaped by interpretation, and community efforts felt more inwardly focused than outwardly. Blood transfusions would lead to shunning and disfellowship, so many surgeries were refused. Once you pass away, there is no heaven or hell, so there is nothing to think about after people pass away. I didn’t see much emphasis on serving the broader community as I understand it today. Most efforts were inwardly focused, centered around teaching and maintaining the organization.

And that raises a quiet question for me:

What does it mean to be faithful if people are present, but not being fed?

A Moment in the Tech Booth

Unworthy… or Invited?

One passage I had heard before took on new meaning when I revisited it:

But let a man examine himself, and so let him eat of that bread, and drink of that cup.

1 Corinthians 11:28 (KJV)

First let a man approve himself after scrutiny, and only then let him eat of the loaf and drink of the cup.

1 Corinthians 11:28 (NWT)

Everyone ought to examine themselves before they eat of the bread and drink from the cup.

1 Corinthians 11:28 (NIV)

I already mentioned the context in which this was taken: Paul chastising the church for people eating full meals before church, getting drunk, and letting others go hungry. However, let’s dig a little further. What stood out to me is the examination/approval and what comes after it, compared to the translation I grew up with.

Not exclusion.
Not silence.
Not scrutiny.
But participation.

For most of my life, I had understood this moment as a reason to step back.

Now, it feels more like a moment to pause—and then step forward.

After Easter

Easter used to be something I didn’t acknowledge at all.

Now, it’s something I sit with.

Not just the event—but what it means.

For a long time, I didn’t realize what I was feeling. Looking back, part of me wonders if I had been standing near something important—but never told I could take part in it.

I don’t see that now as something taken from me, but as something I hadn’t yet come to understand.

And maybe that’s the difference between being told what something means… and discovering it for yourself.

And maybe that’s what changed everything—
not the table,
not the bread,
not the cup—

but realizing I was invited.

I spent years passing the cup in a different house.

Now, I’m learning—slowly, imperfectly—what it means to be told about a meal versus taking it.

There has always been a place at the table for me.

I just hadn’t realized I was allowed to sit down and eat.