take and eat

Communion Sundays terrified me for most of my life. I knew the minute of soul -searching they gave us—“Now everyone take a moment to examine your heart before partaking”—was not nearly enough time to catalogue and confess every sliver of sin that splintered every piece of me. I knew there were sins I repeated, sins I cherished. I knew by rights God should strike me down—and I was warned he would, if I took communion “in an unworthy manner.”

My church now, it has this portion before we all file down to the front where our pastor repeats a series of verses over us about our forgiveness. It’s called “the comfortable words.” As in, comfort. Comforting.

Oh yes, we spend time in confession before we get to that part. Many of us kneel (it’s one of those churches). But confession is the prelude to comfort, not the final destination.

Our pastor is solemn and there is glory in the air as he raises the cup before us. Then his face breaks into a smile just as the bread in his hands broke in a symbol of sacrifice and he lifts his hands over us and proclaims:

Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

God so loved the world, that he gave his only-begotten Son, that whoever believes in him should not perish but have eternal life.

The saying is trustworthy and deserving of full acceptance, that Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners.

If anyone sins, we have an advocate with the Father, Jesus Christ the righteous. He is the propitiation for our sins, and not for ours only, but also for the sins of the whole world.

Mercy falls on us like golden confetti and we are shining with the reminder of our forgiveness and it hits me: this is a feast.

This is not penance, it is a celebration of freedom.

There is so much more I could say about communion, so much more I have yet to explore and learn and experience. I know it is a holy mystery. I know its practice varies in significant ways among the different branches of Christianity. But I also know this: This ritual is a reminder we hold in our bodies that our God has delivered us out of darkness into the kingdom of the Son of his love.

And that should comfort us.

“Comfort, comfort my people…”

Anyway, this wasn’t supposed to be a sermon, it was supposed to be a poem. Here you go:

 you gave us a feast so we
printed gilded invitations
and passed them out to our friends
and locked the doors so only
the light leaked through
onto the hungry streets
and we said: rejoice! 

you gave us comfort so we
hemmed its silk with chains
and covered it in a cloak
as heavy as all our pasts
and made up secret codes to see 
who was fit to wear it 
and we said: rejoice! 

and now we come to these your gifts 
the bread and the wine
and we—

argue about wine and fear for our daily bread
and we eat too much or eat too little or do not 
let our neighbors eat and we sit at your table
and shake beneath the weight of your hand
and pray no lightning bolt comes to take us
straight to hell or pray it’ll take us quick 
before we are exposed before everyone and
there is no feast and
there is no comfort and
there is no joy

and you say let the children come to me
your sins are forgiven
take and eat

you scatter the food 
on the streets 
you lay your hand on us 
only to raise us up 
and you say: rejoice! 

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If you want to share, I’d love to hear: what’s been your experience with communion in the past? What about now?

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Bible refs: unworthy manner | come to me | God so loved | that saying is trustworthy | if anyone sins | delivered out of darkness | comfort