I could tell you why I have taken communion three times in 6 days (how un-presbyterian),
but it does not really matter.
Nor does it matter that the first time
a man named Paul held my elbow,
and looked me smiling,
knowing that between 10 and 10:43,
some kind of spirit scraper had entered me
and ground the black tar off my heart.
He knew it, I knew it, and communion
was a celebration of sorts.
Nor does it matter that the second time
the bread and wine came with an
optional anointing of oil.
That I had no idea that the holy cross
would smell so fresh, better than any
Aveda shampoo and that I wanted
to rub the oil into my hair and then
my very brain, making my mind
more sacred than what it has been,
scared or scarred.
What matters is this last time,
the third time. At the Covenant Network,
a gathering of people working to make ordination
possible for all of God's children.
Nearly everyone in the large church
had already taken the cup,
but the instant I approached,
the server ran out of small strips of pita.
Ten years ago I would
have taken it as a sign:
see I do not belong.
But what happened was this,
the elder ran to the communion table,
and picked up the whole loaf of bread,
the one that the minister had raised above his head,
and blessed saying, "On the night of His death,
Jesus took this bread and said,
'This is my body broken for you,
eat this and remember me.'"
She picked up the loaf of bread that was passed
2000 years ago, the loaf that sat on the table,
the loaf that the disciples shared,
the loaf that Jesus ate.
And she ran back down the aisle,
as I stood there, more than 300 people watching,
and tore a hunk off of that loaf,
then gave it to me.
The real loaf.
The Jesus loaf, the loaf that was lifted up.
That's the piece of bread I got.
And, yes, I know I might be reading too much into it,
but, I know that that bread was meant for me.
On that day, in that place.
That piece shouted at me,
that piece ordain me,
consecrated me worthy.
Absolutely, completely,
someone who belongs.
No comments:
Post a Comment