A Short Treatise on the Miracle of the Sacrament of Holy Communion

Lance taught our class on Sunday, and his topic was miracles:  how they occur daily and how we know this; how believing some things means we automatically believe certain other things; how we in the Church are recipients/participants in regular miracles i.e. the Mysteries or Sacraments of baptism and communion.  Today we are going to speak of communion.  And I'm going to make it personal.  Buckle up.

If there is truth in Christ's words about His body broken for us and His blood shed for us, then communion is a miracle.  Even if we don't go so far as to believe, as the Catholic Church teaches, that the bread and wine actually become the literal flesh and blood of the physical Christ, the miracle is no less for that.  The miracle lies in the manifold purpose of the sacrament.

Communion is where my self-examined soul is cast at Christ's feet and acknowledgement is made of my very real need of His grace.  His gift of sacrifice.  His flesh.  His blood.  Without them, my wretched soul is worthy of nothing better than hell because of my misdirected life and wicked choices.  My freely chosen sin.  My open and repeated choosing of self above all.  Self determination has only one end:  destruction.  So in communion I quiet myself, look into His face - His beautiful face full of love and forgiveness, and choose to accept His gift. I confess my need for it, my unworthiness to receive it on my own merit; I have nothing - nothing - to offer but filthy rags.  Then I consciously and thoughtfully step forward, saying "These are my sins, these are why You died.  So I could do these stupid, selfish things, and yet live." and "Yes, I will cast my pitiful lot with You.  I will bear Your banner.  I will pledge You my loyalty.  I will accept Your death to cover and wash and clothe me in righteousness.  I covenant myself to You again."  Then I eat that bit of bread, thinking and saying "Your flesh, Your body, for me."  And I take the cup and drink, thinking and saying "Your blood, for me."  This is communion for me; my coming into community with God through Christ.

That's part of the miracle.

I have heard many times from the pulpit that communion is not meant to be private or individual, but a public family feast.  Here's a bit more of the miracle:

Communion must be private in order to be meaningful.  Every soul must be washed anew and joined anew to the heart of God.  Every heart must be turned Godward.  No-one can do that for you but you.  No-one can do it for me but me.  If I really partake of communion meaningfully, thoughtfully, and prayerfully, I will emerge a better person because I will have been with Jesus, and have asked and received Him into myself.  If you thoughtfully, truly take communion you will emerge a better person.  We will be better citizens of His kingdom, and better neighbors in the world.  We will be a more Christlike Church.  We will care more for each other as members of His body.  Because we love Him better, we will love one another better.  We just will.  We will be in community.

Here's another part of the miracle:  Although I am doing this dance alone with Jesus and you are doing your dance alone with Jesus, we are dancing together, along with every other Christian alive or dead, past, present, or future, because His Church exists beyond time.  I imagine this thought is too Catholic for our protestant brotherhood to swallow, but it is still true, it is still a miracle, and it is still very very cool.

Having written thus, I think I have a better idea what the good vicar is trying to achieve with the idea of the communion "family meal."  I can see here a bit of what we get a picture of in those medieval books (I am thinking here of the Redwall books) where the Badgers and Squirrels are having a meal together on the eve of a hopeless battle; a battle in which many of them will die.  In this scenario, they are sharing a deeply meaningful repast, likely passing bread hand-to-hand, sober, mindful of coming death, but alight with a flame of sacrifice for a shared and holy cause.  They are devoted to one another, pledging to one another their lives.  They are focused.  They are communing.  This is not what happens at College Heights communion stations.

Pastor has also spoken of how, as he has grown older, it has become so sweet to watch the generations of his family interact.  They care for each other with such tenderness, there is so much joy at just being together.  This is not what happens at College Heights communion stations.

Obviously I cannot be inside every head at communion time.  I cannot read anyone's heart.  I do know what I see and what I hear.  What I see is a lot of people not sure where they are supposed to go, when to go, or what to do.  What I hear is gossip, flirting, scolding, and lunch plans being made -- about what you'd hear in any queue.  I can't say that the use of stations isn't or can't be a meaningful way to stage communion.  I can say that isn't so for me.  I find it awkward, chaotic, distracting, and loud.  I don't take communion on communion station days because  of this Scripture:

Whoever therefore eats from the bread of THE LORD JEHOVAH and drinks from his cup and is unworthy of it, is guilty for the blood of THE LORD JEHOVAH and for his body. Because of this, let a man search his soul, and then eat of this bread and drink from this cup. For whoever eats and drinks from it being unworthy, eats and drinks a guilty verdict into his soul for not distinguishing the body of THE LORD JEHOVAH. 1 Corinthians 11:23-29, Aramaic Bible in Plain English


Number Three Son suggested I carry a flask and a loaf of Wonder Bread so that, if it's a communion station day, I can go off to a quiet corner and do my communion in the way that fits my conscience.  One problem with that idea; College Heights does not have a quiet corner.  Anywhere.  Ever.  But that's a rant for another day.

The Retreating Woman

My friend is in the middle of a month-long sabbatical.  She has gone to the woods to meditate on her life as it is and as she wills it to become.  She is recently diagnosed with fibromyalgia and several other conditions; she needs to take some time to figure out how to live as a person with physical challenges. She is also facing a looming empty nest; she wants to explore what opportunities this could bring over the next few years, to balance well her gains and losses.  She does not want to become a lonely pea rattling about in an empty pod.

She has been preparing for this retreat, as she calls it, for several months.  She packed books, art supplies, exercise dvds - she is ready to make it a really productive and worthwhile time.

I miss my regular weekly coffee hour with her, having her beside me in worship, the occasional impromptu girls' outing.  I admire her for taking the initiative to arrange this for herself, the courage to carry it out, and the value I know she will derive from it.  I could say I envy her opportunity, and that would be true, but I also know that what she manages to get done with her month of June and what I would achieve under the same circumstances are two vastly different things.

She will rest, as she needs to do, but she will also make good use of the time she now has to use her art supplies without inhibition, to journal for hours without interruption, to walk in the woods and commune with the Maker, to eat good plain food, to exercise.  I would not.  Which may well be why she received this gift and I did not, aside from the tiny detail that she asked and I didn't.

If I were dropped in the woods alone I would hide in the cabin and sleep.  I would venture forth only as far as the nearest convenience store, where I would load up on my carb-of-the-day.  I would read fluffy novels - nothing challenging, certainly, although I would take a metric ton of serious-sounding books with me, to impress . . . me?  I don't know.  I would also take a large boxful of silly movies.  For me, it would be just one long lost weekend.

I would not walk in the woods because nature scares me.  It is, I have discovered, not at all like Uncle Disney portrayed it.  I've never received much help from the little furry or feathery creatures, even though I have been known to wander about, clutching my white throat with my tiny hands, sighing and tearful.  Usually I've done this after I have discovered that one of the furry creatures has eviscerated one of the feathery ones, and left largish gory bits strewn about.  I find this distressing.

I did hear from my absent friend this week.  She borrowed a computer to send me her mailing address, as I intended to write.  It took her half of her month away to accomplish this, and I am delighted; I want her to do just as she feels will benefit her and accomplish the significant goals she set for this experience.  I was writing to her anyway, and was going to letter-bomb her when she returned.  I'm thoughtful that way.

Have you ever thought about a sabbatical?  Have you ever seriously considered one?  Seriously enough to pray for circumstances to allow one?  Where would you go?  What would you plan to do?  What would you really do?  My friend intends to return completely renewed.  Can you top that?

Boys of Summer

I've always felt a certain sadness at the phrase The Boys of Summer.  It has an ephemeral quality that I find very affecting.

Little League season has come and gone, at least for our local teams, and none of my boys played this summer.  I miss Little League terribly because its absence marks something that was a large part of our family summer but has now passed into history unmourned by any but me.

The end of our Little League era is a small part of the boys' moving away from me.  Their learning to drive is part of this, first jobs, college classes.  It is all good and right, and I'm glad for it because they need to do it.  They are becoming more and more the men they were meant to be, and I am inexpressibly proud of them.  I love the men they are; godly, strong and independent, marvelously creative, loyal to their friends and devoted to their beliefs.  I love the men they are, but I miss the boys they were.

Down the block stands a house where I have never seen anyone about.  There's a screened room on the side that for three years has held a baby's exersaucer, but I've never seen a baby in it.  Last week I saw those folks putting up a swing set.  I nearly stopped to comment on how fortunate - how blessed - they are to have a child in their lives.  I so miss the swing set days.

After the tornado, my little Rosebud and her family moved away, but she had already stopped coming to our house every day.  By the time she was four she had three younger siblings; her parents felt the need of a family nanny.  She went away quite suddenly after four years of daily visits.  I thought I would have another year to let her go.  She telephoned me on a recent morning on her way to preschool.  I felt I would bleed to death right there on the phone.

I don't currently have any children in my life under the age of fifteen, and it is a poverty.

I'm glad I didn't have more children for their own sakes, because I am a world-class bad parent.  But oh, I wish I had had more.  I wish I could have more now.  Mostly I wish I could go back and be a better mama to the ones I had.  And yes, I sometimes wallow in these regrets.