In my early days as a Christian, I was full of zeal—but also full of pride. That subtle kind of pride that slips in through the back door of newfound devotion. The kind that plays the Pharisee well. I started to think I was “above” certain things—rituals, traditions, external signs of religion. Saying a prayer before a meal? That felt like a show. I remember rolling my eyes inwardly at people who made a visible production out of “saying grace,” thinking, Come on, is that really what Jesus meant by a living faith?
That’s a dangerous place to be—when you start looking down on others in the name of spiritual purity. Pride dressed in religious clothing is still pride.
Somehow I had missed the point. I had forgotten that rituals are not the enemy. Rituals can become empty, yes—but they can also become anchors. They're reminders. They are rhythms. They are means of grace.
And then I learned something that changed how I saw it all. I came across the word “Eucharist” and followed it back to the Greek. Eucharisteo. It means “to give thanks.”
That’s what Jesus did, on the night He was betrayed. He gave thanks—before breaking the bread, before pouring the wine, before walking into Gethsemane and all the suffering that would follow. He gave thanks.
“He took bread, and when he had given thanks, he broke it…” (Luke 22:19)
That moved me. Deeply.
Saying grace is not about performance. It’s not about who’s watching or checking a religious box. It’s about remembering. About orienting the heart toward gratitude, even in the middle of a busy day, even over a simple sandwich. It’s a way of choosing to live with open eyes.
Especially when we come to the Lord’s Table—Communion, the Lord’s Supper, the Eucharist—we are called to remember.
“Do this in remembrance of Me,” Jesus said.
Christians hold varying views about communion—the frequency, the elements, the mode—but at the core, we’re invited into a shared act of memory and thanksgiving. Some see it as a symbol. Others as a sacrament, a mystery. But all of us, if we listen closely, hear the same heartbeat in it: gratitude.
And that spirit of thanksgiving shouldn’t be reserved only for the sanctuary. It belongs at the breakfast table. In the break room. At the roadside diner. When we stop to say grace, we’re not just blessing the food—we’re letting ourselves be blessed by the awareness of grace itself.
So now, I stop. Most meals, I try to pause—even briefly—and give thanks. Not just because I should. But because I need to. I need to be reminded that I live by grace. That everything before me is a gift, even the hard parts.
Rituals may become routine, yes. But I’ve found that a routine with roots is better than a clever soul always adrift.
So I say grace now—at every meal, and especially at The Meal. Not as a show, but as an act of remembrance. As a way of entering into the Eucharist—the thanksgiving—that started in an upper room and still echoes at every table where hearts remember Him.
Next time someone says or you read - "Eucharist" think about how it literally means "good grace", and the picture Jesus giving thanks for the bread.... it is good for us to do that as well.
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