My friend's grandchildren were talking about a recent communion service at their church. The little girl wanted to know if Jesus' blood tasted good. Her mama said it did. The little boy said he thought the most amazing part was that Jesus' skin was made out of bread. The mystery of communion.
During World Communion Day a few years back, I gathered the children around the altar table. We talked about the different ways people in other countries might be observing this day - how their idea of bread and juice might not look like ours. I brought a loaf of white bread, a few circles of naan, some flour tortillas and matzo crackers for them to taste. We had our usual Welch's grape juice and they helped to pour it into the chalice. All the while, I was holding the littlest one so she could see over the spread. We each sampled the selections and she pointed to the fragments of the familiar white loaf, asking for more. I obliged. She shimmied down my side and ran around the table. I though she was headed for the back pew where her parents waited. I was wrong. She ran straight for the cup sitting at the edge. The closest boy held it down to her level and she dunked her whole hand - clutching the bread - into the juice. She popped it into her mouth, grinned, and returned for me to pick her up - juice running purple down her arms and onto mine. I wept. I was not alone. This child's eyes opened the eyes of a whole congregation to the beauty of the Lord's table. The joy of communion.
My Daddy spent his whole life handing out bits of Jesus to all who came near him. His witness was legendary. How many he guided to the Savior, I can only imagine. If the song is right about there being lines of thankful people in heaven, Daddy's queue is surely strung out as far as the eye can see. I'll wait my turn when I get there. There came a moment when the tables turned. I was a communion server that day and he a recipient. I had not yet mastered the art of getting through this service without crying the whole time - still have that problem. I would break off a hunk of bread and wipe the tears with my sleeve. Sidenote: I may be the reason many churches have instituted the practice of dispensing hand sanitizer to the servers. Here came Daddy, in my line this time. I cried all the more as he approached. He smiled and tucked his ever-present white handkerchief into my hand as he cupped his palm for the bread I broke. The legacy of communion.
One rare morning our whole little family was gathered together for worship. The church we attended observes the Lord's Supper at the close of every service, this day was no different. Except that our granddaughter was to receive her first communion that day. This is not a planned event in our faith. It was not a planned event in our family either. But on this unexpected day she lined up with us, surrounded by her Mama and Daddy, her Gran and PeePaw and her Aunt and Uncle, held out her little hands and partook of the bounty of God's grace. The wonder of communion.
She shyly asked one day, this dear friend who is usually not shy, if she might bake the bread for our congregation's communion services. She had this bread machine, you see. And so it began. The first Sunday of each month, here she came with her offering. The recipe varied and fit the season. A hint of cinnamon, almond, orange, cherry. Whole grains, pumpkin, challah. Over the coming years we came to truly know the meaning of the invitation, O taste and see that the LORD is good: blessed is the man that trusteth in him. (Psalm 34:8) When a wedding came about, and the bride and groom chose the service of bread and wine as their first act as husband and wife, she braided the dough and baked a perfect circle. The love of communion.
It is borne upon pottery plates and tumblers, golden trays fitted with little bell-shaped glasses, woven baskets and elaborate goblets. It is fresh or fermented, leaven and un-leaven, store-bought sweet Hawaiian, octagonal crackers, thin wafers or home-baked by Mrs. Jenny. Served by trembling congregants, practiced clergy and yes, trembling clergy. Inside and outside boundaries of faith and tradition. Unique and universal. We may not all approach the table of God in the same way, but can we agree that it is a holy pilgrimage? That it smooths the sin-shame pockmarks. That it slakes the soul's-thirst to belong to something-Someone. That it cleanses sorrow's bitter palate and leaves behind the residue of forgiveness? That in breaking it breaks-through. And in sharing it, we who are many become one. And we become like One. The communion of communion. Selah.
Comments