The blood

Something was different, but she couldn't figure out what it was. It was distracting her so much she couldn't concentrate on what the priest was saying, though she always tried to. Could he be what's different? It was somewhat unusual for the assistant pastor to be celebrating the 11 o'clock Mass, but he'd done it before. No, that wasn't it. Could it be the first snow they'd had last night? No, that was silly. But there was something different this morning--she felt it. It made her a little uneasy.

Which was annoying, because she loved the liturgy. When it was done well--and it was always done well here--the procession, the music, the readings, the homily, they all led beautifully into the Eucharist. Building to the high point, when all the people approached the altar to share the sacramental meal together. The bread and the wine, so real and earthy. And the prayers, weaving together the most ancient traditional phrases with the most relevant modern theology. With the people responding again and again, drawn into the prayer and drawn together as one. It was really beautiful. And she loved how it quieted her and impressed upon her a strong sense of the sacred. It had taken hundreds and hundreds of years to produce such a liturgy, but she thought it was definitely worth it. When it was done right, it offered an incredible religious experience.

The priest finished his homily and returned to his seat. She only regretted that more people couldn't appreciate the Mass as she did. Those seminary courses had opened up the liturgy for her in ways she'd never imagined. But how many people got that kind of training? Everyone stood to say the creed together, and she noticed Sister Pat two rows in front of her. Of course Sister Pat had received plenty of religious training. But she'd always thought that Pat was a little too traditional, and too pious, to take full advantage of the liberal education the Order offered. Which was unfortunate. Because feminist theology and the church's recent teachings on social justice were revolutionizing the church. Women like her and Pat now had many more opportunities to be leaders and teachers--still not enough opportunities, but even so, the church was becoming so much more relevant and able to promote real social change. But Pat seemed more interested in the "spiritual" world than the real world. It was really a shame. Then she saw the ushers moving her way and reached for her purse.

But as the bread and wine were taken up to the altar and the liturgy of the Eucharist began, her feeling of uneasiness returned. What was it? She couldn't identify what was different, or why she felt strange. Everything was as it should be, as it always was--which was one thing she loved about the liturgy. But something was distracting her.

Which was not good, because she was serving as a Eucharistic minister today. She enjoyed doing it, offering each person the body or blood of Jesus, and she thought she did it as it should be done: sincerely and happily, with a full understanding of its significance. But today she couldn't seem to focus. The priest was already blessing the wine now; she tried to pay better attention. "...Again he gave you thanks and praise, gave the cup to his disciples, and said, 'Take this, all of you and drink from it: this is the cup of my blood, the blood of the new and everlasting covenant. It will be shed for you and for all so that sins may be forgiven. Do this in memory of me.'" She tried to remember what she'd been taught about this in seminary--the word anamnesis came, but she couldn't remember exactly what that meant. Which frustrated her. And made her feel even more distracted as she went up to the altar with the other Eucharistic ministers. But she pushed the feeling away, willing herself to just think about how she would serve communion. Maybe she should try using the person's name when she served them. She'd been working on learning people's names and knew most of them now, and she thought it made the experience more personal, more meaningful. Yes, she'd try using names this time. She finished that thought just in time to say with everyone else, "Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed."

As the priest took the glass pitcher and started filling the chalices, she moved forward to take the first one, reminding herself that she was supposed to serve in the back of the church today. Which meant she needed to get back there pretty quickly. The glass filled and she smiled at the priest as she took it. Then she turned quickly to start down the side aisle.

But one of the ministers, or one of the ushers, must have come in from outside just before communion. With snow on their shoes. Because there was a dirty puddle on the stone floor right in front of the altar--a puddle she didn't see as she turned and stepped quickly. She slipped. Her foot went forward, her left hand went up with the glass chalice, and her right hand went back to break her fall. Just as the priest leaned forward to fill another cup. Her elbow knocked the pitcher from his hands, and it dropped to the stone altar and shattered. Deep red wine, the Blood, splashed and poured like a waterfall over the edge of the altar.

She felt the impact, but didn't hear the sound. The shock was too great. Then she was sitting on the cold floor, with the cup broken in her hand, and her hair and back thoroughly wet. Wide-eyed, and as if in slow motion, she looked to her right and saw Ruth, one of the older Eucharistic ministers, staring at her in horror. Behind and above her, she heard the priest whispering fiercely for someone to help him contain the mess. Then she looked down at herself. Down the front of her blouse was a dark, red stain, and she felt liquid trickling onto her belly. And her left hand... Sister Pat had appeared at her left hand. "You're bleeding a little, but it's not a bad cut. You'll be OK." It stung as the wine ran into the wound. "Don't worry," Pat whispered, "it was just an accident. It happens sometimes. We'll just clean it up and go on." Pat smiled gently at her and carefully took the broken chalice from her hand.

That's when she started to cry. She looked at her blouse again, then at the crimson puddles on the floor. People were hurrying around her, cleaning up, but Pat just held her hand and said, "It's OK." She sobbed and gasped for breath and couldn't speak. Pat moved closer and put an arm around her wet shoulders.

It seemed like they sat that way for a long time, before she finally stopped shaking. Then she glanced at her stained blouse and turned to Pat and whispered, "It's real." Pat paused, then smiled and said yes. "But, I mean," she continued, stammering, "this is all my fault. And it's all real, it's all true, and I caused it... and it's all over me. Oh my God..." She started crying again. Then Pat touched her face and said, "Look at me. It's OK. It's all right." Pat smiled broadly. "It washes right off."

She laughed, and then she nodded. "Yes, I know. I see now... I'm just sorry I wasn't paying attention before. This is the first time..." She looked down at her left hand, and stared for a moment at the cut on her palm and the drops of wine still clinging to her fingertips. Then she slowly raised them and touched them to her lips.