monday milk & honey: breaking and belonging

"Then they told what had happened on the way, and how Jesus was known to them when he broke the bread."

- Luke 24:35

When I read this passage, I picture a dimly lit room, the day's journey finally ended, three figures gathered around a simple table. Dusty hands reach for warm bread, calloused fingers breaking the golden crust. Steam rises like incense in the lamplight. And suddenly—recognition. The stranger they'd walked with, were taught by, had listened to for hours becomes known in this most ordinary of acts.

Not in profound teaching. Not in miraculous signs. In the breaking of bread.

The disciples on the Emmaus road had heard Jesus explain the Scriptures, felt their hearts burning within them as He spoke. Yet they didn't recognize Him until He took bread, blessed it, broke it, and gave it to them. In that moment of sacred sharing, the veil lifted. Heaven touched earth through flour and water transformed.

This is the miracle available to us still—every time we gather around our tables, every time we break bread with intention, every time we pause to remember that Christ dwells in the simple act of sharing what sustains us.

Jesus was recognized in the breaking of bread—not the eating, but the breaking. This deliberate act, this ceremonial tearing apart to share, becomes a moment of revelation. Breaking requires intention, presence, the willingness to transform the whole into portions meant for others.

Every time we break bread intentionally—whether homemade loaves or store-bought rolls—we participate in this ancient act of recognition and communion. We echo that sacred moment when the ordinary became extraordinary, when Christ made Himself known through the simplest of gestures.

The disciples couldn't contain their joy. They rushed back to Jerusalem to tell the others: "He was known to us in the breaking of the bread." Our bread-breaking can be these same moments of revelation, where Christ is recognized in the sharing, where community is born in the breaking.

Simple Saturday Morning Bread

No-knead, beginner-friendly, makes the house smell like heaven

This isn't just bread—it's an invitation to participate in the ancient alchemy of transformation. Flour and water become the staff of life. Patience becomes presence. Simple ingredients become sacred sustenance.

Sometimes the simplest breads create the deepest connections. This is the recipe for people who think they can't make bread, for busy families who want the experience without complexity, for anyone who's ever wanted their kitchen to smell like home.

What You'll Need:

• 3 cups all-purpose flour (the foundation—ground grain, humanity's oldest staple) Note: I recommend substituting bread flour if you have it on hand

• 1/4 teaspoon active dry yeast (the miracle worker—tiny granules that awaken to transform)

• 1 1/2 teaspoons salt (the preserving agent—what keeps and enhances)

• 1 3/4 cups warm water (life-giving—the element that awakens everything else)

• 1 tablespoon honey (optional sweetness—the land flowing with milk and honey)

The Sacred Rhythm:

Friday Evening - The Preparation: In a large bowl, whisk together flour, yeast, and salt. These dry ingredients wait, dormant with potential, like seeds in winter ground. Add the warm water and honey, stirring with a wooden spoon until a shaggy, sticky dough forms. It will look rough, unlovely—this is faith in the unseen, trust in transformation yet to come.

Cover with a clean kitchen towel and leave at room temperature. No kneading, no fussing. Let time do what time does best—work slowly, thoroughly, mysteriously.

Saturday Morning - The Rising: Eighteen hours later, peek beneath the towel. The dough has bubbled and grown, doubled in size, alive with possibility. It will smell yeasty, tangy, full of life. Turn this living dough onto a well-floured surface—it will be sticky, soft, full of air pockets like prayers waiting to be answered.

With floured hands, fold it over itself just three or four times, gathering it gently into a rough ball. Don't knead—just fold, shape, gather. Place seam-side down on parchment paper, cover with the towel again. Let it rise 2 more hours until it doubles once more, growing round and full of promise.

Saturday Afternoon - The Fire: Thirty minutes before your dough is ready, place a heavy Dutch oven with its lid into your oven and preheat to 450°F. Let the pot get blazing hot—this creates the steam that will give your bread its golden, crispy crust.

When the pot is ready and your dough has doubled, carefully remove the hot Dutch oven. Using the parchment paper as a sling, lower the dough into the pot. Listen for the gentle sizzle as dough meets hot iron—this is the sound of transformation beginning.

Cover with the lid and bake for 30 minutes. Then remove the lid and bake 10-15 minutes more, until the crust is deep golden brown and the loaf sounds hollow when tapped on the bottom.

Saturday Evening - The Breaking: This is perhaps the hardest part—letting it cool completely. Your kitchen will smell like heaven. The crust will crackle as it cools, singing its bread song. Resist the urge to cut it immediately. Good bread, like good things in life, requires patience.

When it has cooled, gather those you love. Hold the loaf in your hands—feel its weight, its warmth, the rough texture of the crust your oven created. Break it deliberately, generously. Watch the steam escape from the tender crumb within. Share it with intention, remembering that Christ is known in the breaking.

The real recipe: The joy isn't in perfect technique—it's in the anticipation, the waiting, the sharing. This bread teaches patience and rewards it with belonging.

Bread Reflection: Why Bread Matters…Beyond Food

Bread is the most basic food in human history, yet Jesus chose it to represent His body. There's something profound in this choice, something that speaks to the very heart of what it means to be human, to be in community, to be sustained by more than food alone.

Bread requires time—it cannot be rushed. The yeast must work slowly, the dough must rise at its own pace, the oven must do its transforming work. In our instant world, bread teaches us the value of waiting, of trusting processes we cannot hurry.

Bread requires transformation—flour becomes something entirely new. What was once grain ground to powder becomes food that can sustain life. This is resurrection in miniature, death becoming life, the broken becoming whole.

Bread requires breaking—it must be torn to be shared. The whole loaf is beautiful, but it feeds no one until it's broken apart. In the breaking, it multiplies to feed many. In the breaking, it becomes communion.

Bread requires community—it's meant to be broken together. Solo meals can sustain the body, but bread broken in community feeds the soul. It creates belonging, builds bridges, makes strangers into family.

When we make bread—even simple bread like this—we're participating in creation itself. We're taking basic elements and transforming them into nourishment. We're saying to those who will share it: "You're worth my time. Worth my effort. Worth waiting for."

The smell of baking bread calls people home. The act of breaking bread together creates belonging. The sharing of bread builds community that transcends the meal itself.

The heart question: When was the last time you broke bread with someone—really broke it, with intention, with presence, with the recognition that this simple act connects us to Jesus and to each other?

This Week's Heart Invitation

This week, break bread with intention. It doesn't have to be homemade (though if you try the recipe, I'd love to see your loaves!). It could be dinner rolls from the store, a baguette from the bakery, or even leftover sandwich bread.

The invitation is deeper than the bread itself. It's to pause before breaking it. To remember that Jesus was recognized in this simple act. To look at the faces around your table—whether family, friends, or strangers—and let the breaking of bread remind you that this is sacred space.

Christ is here, in the breaking. Community is here, in the sharing. Belonging is here, in the simple act of tearing bread apart so that all may be fed.

Ready to discover more ways your kitchen can become a place of communion? The Table Scripts includes conversation starters designed specifically for meal times that matter.

Prayer

Lord Jesus, You chose the simple act of breaking bread to reveal Yourself to Your friends on that dusty road to Emmaus. Help us see You in our everyday meals, in our kitchen moments, in the breaking and sharing that happens around our tables.

May our bread—whether homemade or store-bought—become a means of grace, a tool for recognition, a bridge to belonging. Give us eyes to see the sacred in the simple, hearts to recognize You in the breaking, and hands willing to share what sustains us.

Transform our tables into altars, our meals into communion, our homes into places where heaven touches earth through flour and water, through love and intention, through the ancient, sacred act of breaking bread together.

Amen.