On Communion

On my final Sunday at Robinson Evangelical United Methodist church I was permitted to consecrate the elements and serve communion to the congregation. It was an honor and a joy. It is so good to belong to a church with an open table. While I have had the joy of worshipping and working with a variety of Christian traditions, I always am thankful to end the day belonging to a tradition that readily shares the good news that God's grace is available to all through the symbolic act of allowing all to come and eat. While I am certain that every church has their doctrinal reasons and a proper theology for limiting who may recline at the table with Jesus; I rejoice in the United Methodist churches choice to welcome all.



On that Sunday, a visitor and her children sat near the back. As they came forward for communion, she was in tears. Her children had never experienced communion. They didn't know the ritual or tradition. They had never seen it before. We offered the bread to the small child and gladly proclaimed, "Jesus loves you!". I had been licensed and appointed for one Sunday only. As I left the tiny town with the hearty Methodist church, I had to turn in my certificate granting me permission to serve communion.



It hurt more than I thought it would. I knew that I would serve communion again soon, but I didn't know when or where,



With little feeling left in my thumbs from the pressure of the tightly secured handcuffs, I sat in a holding cell with more than a hundred others who had been arrested for protesting the extreme wealth inequality and level of corporate influence in government policies. We had occupied the Brooklyn Bridge to give voice to our movement and the millions of people who go to bed hungry every night in America. 700 of us had been arrested for our actions.



The boy sitting next to me was visibly terrified. He was slight and young. Like most of us, he had never been arrested before. As the hours passed, the police officers brought us food. The word "prison" is used as an adjective to describe food for a reason. The peanut butter sandwiches were meager at best. The milk was warm. The crust was so hard I wasn't even sure it was bread. I ate my sandwich in peace as I talked with Steven. He was from Florida and came up to New York city for the protests. He had thought that he could make a difference.



I asked him when he had eaten last, and he couldn't remember. Without thinking I opened the bag containing his sandwich and proceeded to pull the crusts off. I handed him the edible part of the sandwich and encouraged him to eat something. I pried open the milk carton and placed it in his hand. In my head I said a small prayer. I thanked God for opportunity to experience what so many Americans know as daily life. I thanked God for the meager provisions, and the way at they would be transformed through the act of thanksgiving and the great miracle of the living banquet. I took a deep breath and explained to Steven that I was a missionary; and that if he needed to talk about anything I was here. As he ate the bread and drank the milk one long tear fell from his face and we began a conversation about life and hope.



In the largest Methodist Church I have ever attended, I was one of many serving communion this Sunday. The pastor had taught me months before that when serving communion to a child, you always crouch down to their level. She makes certain that everyone serving is able and willing to look every child in the eye as they come up to receive communion. It's a simple thing, but one that I had never thought about before, but it makes all the difference. So many children passed through the line that my knees ached with exhaustion for lowering myself to their height.



I hope that communion doesn't lose its mystery and joy for me any time soon. We spent an entire class session during college trying to "figure out" communion. Trying to quantify in which way God works through the elements. In hindsight, this expenditure is laughable. Even if we could understand how God works through this holy mystery, I would ctainly hope that it would take more than a 45 minute class to figure it out!



As I reflect on communion, I am overwhelmed by the sheer beauty of the miracle and the grace that it embodies. It is good to welcome all to this table, in every setting, all in God's grace.