In the early days, the followers of Jesus would gather in homes — sometimes in courtyards, sometimes in upper rooms lit only by flickering oil lamps. You could hear laughter, the warm greetings of brothers and sisters in the faith, the rustle of cloaks as people sat close together – some on stools, others on the floor.

The air was rich with the smell of freshly baked bread and shared meals. There was nothing rushed or cold about these gatherings. People came not because they had to, but because they longed to be together.

They broke bread with joy, holding it up as one of them — often an elder or someone respected in the community — spoke gently, “This is what our Lord told us to do, to remember him” (Luke 22:19). And so, they remembered. Not in silence, but in conversation, in tears, in laughter.

One would say, “Do you remember how he spoke to the woman at the well? How no one else saw her value, but he did?” Another would add, “Or how he wept at Lazarus’ tomb, even though he knew he would raise him?”

The Eucharist

They shared his parables, his clever replies to the Pharisees, his long walks with the disciples. Some who had met people who saw Jesus with their own eyes would speak softly, their voices trembling with wonder, and all would lean in closer.

This wasn’t a worship service; it was a remembrance and thanksgiving service. This is why they called it “Eucharist” which means thanksgiving. They gathered to remember the amazing life of Jesus, and they were thankful for him. They were thankful that God sent him to show us how humans are supposed to live, and to give us the grace to finally be what God created us to be.

Yes, they remembered Jesus and talked about him; they longed to be like him. They wanted to walk as he walked, to speak kindly like he did, to heal wounds with words and with hands. And so, the breaking of bread meant something more sacred than a meal. It was a way of stirring and inspiring each other to be like Jesus.

Why They Were Called Christians

They spoke of Jesus’ humility, how he knelt to wash the feet of others. They reflected on his courage, how he stood for truth. Their eyes would shine when they spoke of him — not just as a figure in a story, but as a friend, a brother, a King unlike any other. They were not called “Christians” simply because they followed teachings. They were called that because people saw Christ in them.

As they passed the cup and shared the bread, they prayed aloud, giving thanks not in set phrases, but from their hearts. “Thank you, Father, for Jesus. Thank you for his love, his mercy, his life.”

Then they sang, not with choirs or instruments, but with voices lifted high. Simple songs, often remembered from the psalms or made in the moment. Their voices blended in homes and courtyards, echoing into the night, full of praise, of longing, of joy.

When The Drift Started

However, by the third century, things had changed. The gatherings moved from homes into larger spaces, and eventually into great halls built for the purpose. Robes appeared. Titles became more important.

The Lord’s Supper was no longer the centre of shared life, but part of a routine. The leaders led from the front while others sat quietly, their voices no longer needed. The warmth that once came from shared remembrance now faded behind formality.

The bread and cup were handled with great ceremony, but not with the same depth of feeling. Few spoke of Jesus’ life and ministry. Few remembered his acts of compassion and humility. Instead, they recited words they did not always understand.

The sermons became flatter, filled with commands and rules, often spoken in stiff tones, distant from the vibrant life of Christ. It was as if the excitement, the hunger to live like Jesus, had been swallowed by a concern for rituals and order.

The Religious Spirit

Now people came because it was expected. They watched, they listened, but few hearts were stirred. The sense of family was thinning. Prayers of thanksgiving became set lines, repeated without thought. The songs were now chants, echoing in cold buildings, but rarely rising from the heart.

They still called it Eucharist, which means thanksgiving, but the spirit of thanks was weak. Jesus’ name was mentioned, but he was not spoken of with excitement, not remembered with joy as before. The beauty of the first gatherings — where people sat shoulder-to-shoulder and shared stories about the one who had changed their lives — was now just a memory.

What once was filled with warmth and light had grown cold and dim. The bread was still broken, the cup still shared, but the soul had gone out of it. No longer did people lean in with shining eyes to hear of Jesus’ love.

No longer did they burst into songs that came from hearts full of awe and gratitude. Now it was a ceremony watched from a distance, handled by officials, surrounded by silence and shadow.

The fire that once burned in their gatherings was reduced to embers buried beneath layers of tradition. The Lord they once spoke of with joy and tears had become a figure of formality — his stories no longer passed around like treasure; his ways no longer pursued with longing.

And as the echoes of lifeless chants filled the halls, one could almost hear the silence where once there had been laughter, tears, and the living memory of Jesus.

This is an excerpt from an upcoming book by David Emecheta, “God’s Purpose for Humanity and the Christian Faith”.