Communion
The music is flowing around and through me as the line moves forward. Now I’m at the front. I extend my cupped hands to him. He breaks off a piece of bread from the loaf on the plate, and cups my hands in one of his. He rests his right hand, holding the piece of bread, in my palm as he looks into my eyes and smiles... the gentle, knowing smile of a soul-friend.
“Katrina, the body of Christ, broken for you.”
“Amen.” I smile and nod at the woman holding the plate of bread, and step toward the woman holding the large chalice-shaped cup.
“Katrina, the blood of Christ, shed for you.”
“Amen.” I dip the bread into the deep purple grape juice, and quickly put it into my mouth as a trickle of juice escapes into my palm and down my wrist. I blink back tears at the sheer beauty of the ritual. So rich, so personal, so intimate. The Communion is served with a tender love evocative of Christ himself. I walk to the small table filled with votive candles and light one, saying a silent prayer for a friend in crisis. I kneel at the rail for a few moments, thanking God for this wonderful church family I still can’t quite believe exists. Holding my son’s hand, I walk along the side aisle to our pew, touching hands and exchanging hugs along the way.
I grew up Mormon. From the time my memory begins, my family went to church each Sunday. We sat in our pews, children strategically placed between parents, younger children next to older children, in hopes of reducing the inevitable sibling squabbles. Mothers of babies and toddlers were out in the halls, walking their too-noisy children and trying to catch bits and pieces of the talks. The occasional father ventured into this woman’s-land, usually to deal with an unruly child who would not obey his mother.
About a third of the way into the main service, or Sacrament meeting, we took the sacrament. Inch-square pieces of Wonder Bread and tiny cups of water, prepared by 14- and 15-year-old boys, were carried in trays of white plastic or stainless steel by 12- and 13-year-old boys in white shirts and ties. (A suit coat is preferred, but if weather or finances don’t allow, slacks, tie, and a white shirt with a collar are sufficient.) Sixteen- and 17-year-old boys said the prayer for the bread. The church leaders, seated on the dais in their business suits, were served first. Then the group of younger boys spread through the congregation, passing the trays along the pews in a synchronized, orderly fashion. One boy took a tray out to the mothers in the hall. Take a piece of bread with your right hand, always your right hand. Why, Mommy? That’s the way Heavenly Father wants us to. Put the bread in your mouth, take the handle of the tray in your right hand, hold it for the person next to you. Help the small children, though the sacrament has no real meaning for them until they turn eight and are baptized.
Then the water. Again the prayer, the leaders, the deployment of the boys. If the water tray is too heavy, you may support it with your left hand. But always use your right hand to touch the handle, and the cup of water itself. Take a cup, tip the water into your mouth, drop the cup into the recessed center of the tray. Hold the tray for the next person, your right arm trembling with the weight of it.
Remain silent during the sacrament service. Shush the children. Dear, no, coloring books would be irreverent. Teach them to think silently of Jesus. Older children, youth, and empty-nesters read their Scriptures. Breathe a sigh of relief when it’s done, and the boys slyly escape to the halls. Rustles as children are re-situated and given their treats for having sat quietly during sacrament.
As a girl, I always knew I’d never participate in the serving of the sacrament. Why would I? I was a girl. The priesthood was for boys. That’s how Heavenly Father planned it. Women had their divinely appointed roles, as mothers and wives. Men, more accustomed to taking care of such things, took on the heavy burden of running the church and officiating in its rites. We women were relieved, of course, not to have to worry about having such heavy responsibilities. We didn’t want to hold the priesthood, no sir! Once in a while, a particularly brash woman would assert that yes, she did want to hold the priesthood! The rest of us looked at each other uncomfortably. Poor dear, she just didn’t understand God’s plan. The closest I would ever get to preparing or serving the sacrament would be purchasing the Wonder Bread at the store when I had a 14-year-old son in charge of its preparation.
We’d been attending services here for nearly a year, and my son, James, had been sitting with me for six months, having outgrown the nursery. Each time I went up to take Communion, my extremely self-conscious oldest son was too intimidated to go with me. The first few months, he’d even hide under the pew, in case somebody thought to persuade him to go up front. Each time, I asked him, “Would you like to go up with me today, and take Communion?” Each time he answered no. But today, he nodded and smiled. I hugged him and congratulated him on his courage. I explained to him what to expect when we reached the front of the line. He nodded sagely and said, “I know. I’ve taken Communion before. We do it at school.” I was reasonably sure that this wasn’t the case, but was curious where he was going with it, so I sat quietly. “We do Communion at home, too.” I knew that wasn’t the case, so I asked him how he did Communion at school and at home. He quietly looked into my eyes, and with his wise little look, replied, “By being kind to each other, and showing love.” I caught my breath and held him, knowing that this was not a memorized or parroted response, but a spark of God in my child.
I walked into the sanctuary with my oldest son and sat in our usual pew. My younger son and daughter were playing in the nursery, cared for by a gentle saint of a man who made it possible for parents of small children, especially single parents like myself, to hear and attend to the service. I would soon be getting rebaptized (because I had been Mormon) and joining this United Methodist congregation, and my sons with me. A clause in my second divorce decree prevented my daughter from joining us in our joining. James settled in, drawing and coloring his children’s program, tracing out a dot-to-dot of Jesus, finding the disciples, spelling out “Love.” During the service he’d be wiggling around on the pew, smiling and holding hands with the people in front of or behind us, driving his toy motorcycle along the carpet, the small noises he made taken for granted as what children do.
My pastor came and sat next to us in the pew. From the first time I saw him preaching, I loved the fact that he wore a white linen vestment. It was just right. Why would he wear anything else during worship services? The kids loved it when he joked about wearing a dress. I, on the other hand, was still trying to get my head around the idea of wearing slacks, rather than a dress, to church. He smiled and hugged me, as he always did, then asked, “Would you like to help serve Communion today?”
My jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding.” I wasn’t even sure of my reasons, but the thought that I could help serve Communion seemed... outlandish! Unheard of!
“No, I’m not kidding. Would you like to help serve Communion? We need some extra people, and I think you’d be wonderful.”
But I hadn’t joined the church yet! I wasn’t a member! I was even going to be rebaptized! I stuttered for a few more minutes, as another friend came and sat behind us, and was also asked to help serve. Linda accepted gladly, and Pastor Steve turned back to me and again asked, would I like to help serve Communion? With Linda’s encouragement, I dazedly agreed, and got a briefing on what to do. It was agreed that I would stand between the two other women, holding the plate of bread, so that I wouldn’t have to say anything. My oldest son is not the only extremely self-conscious one in the family.
The service started, and soon it was time for Communion. Pastor Steve said the prayers over the bread and grape juice, and those who were helping to serve went forward to get their blue earthenware cups of juice and plates of bread. We took our positions midway back in the sanctuary, near the side aisle. The line of people moved forward, and I smiled and received pats on the cheek and hands from friends as they murmured their thanks and amens, receiving the bread and dipping it into the cup. Person by person, piece by piece, Linda broke a chunk of bread off the loaf and placed it in the hands of the waiting friend. “The body of Christ, broken for you, Jane.” Then Teresa, holding the cup: “The blood of Christ, shed for you.”
The line ended, and we three women, trusted friends, turned to one another. Linda broke off a piece of bread for me and met my eyes, with her unique way of peering into my soul. “The body of Christ, broken for you, Katrina.” I turned to Teresa and dipped the bread into the cup. “The blood of Christ, shed for you, Katrina.” I held the cup for Teresa, then she took it back, and Linda held the plate. I broke off a piece of bread for her, and placed it in her open hands. “The body of Christ, broken for you, Linda.” Meeting her intense, deep-set eyes again, I saw her gratitude for the act I was performing for her. I saw her love for Christ, for the church, and for me. She held my hands for a long moment before moving to dip the bread into the cup. In that moment, I realized the enormity of what was happening. There we were, three women, serving Communion. Participating in the re-enactment of the last supper and the reminder of Christ’s sacrifice. The thing I had never imagined I would be a part of in any way. There I was, serving Communion.
I’ve been asked to help serve Communion again. These days, James stands next to or behind me when I do this. Today, he’s anxious to help. He looks up, silently asking permission to break off a piece of bread for me. I smile, and for a while he’s happy to break off chunks of bread and hand them to me. I place the pieces of bread into the waiting hands of friends. Soon, though, he wants to do more. He glances up at me, and decides that asking permission will get him nowhere. Besides, he knows what he’s doing. He looks up at the woman before him and smiles. She bends down and cups her hands. He lisps quietly, “The body of Christ, broken for you.” She kisses his cheek, murmurs amen, and dips the bread into the cup of juice. There’s no stopping him now. I step back and let him do his thing, feeling at once immensely proud of my son, and a little misplaced. It now appears I’m here for decoration! When the line ends, we serve each other, then return the cup and plate to the table and walk back to our pew, hand in hand. I’m sure his feet aren’t touching the floor. He belongs here, and is valued, as much as I am.
-- 30 April 2001
Elusive Gorgons: my writings