We talk about how Jesus took the bread and broke it and told his disciples (and us) that his body was broken for us on the night that he was betrayed. We talk about how his blood was poured out for us. It is such a brutal reality. And then along comes this plate with sanitised little wafers which aren't bread and aren't broken and are hardly big enough to even feel in your mouth, let alone break, and a tiny cup of grape juice which isn't poured. Maybe I'm particularly thick-headed, but it takes two leaps for me to get from the elements I hold in my hand to Jesus' sacrifice. I hold this little bit of styrofoam which has no taste and no texture, and I have to think, Oh, yeah, this bit of non-food is supposed to represent bread. And the bread represents Jesus' body. This little swig of juice is supposed to be poured. At least there's enough in the cup to actually taste.
I know that technically it's not about the elements at all. I have celebrated communion with real bread and real wine, with wafers and grape juice, with matza and grape juice, with matza and wine, even with some sort of non-descript pap-bread-like substance and strawberry pretend-koolaid. I get that different cultures and different religous backgrounds use different things. I know that some people think the bread should be bread, and others think that the bread should be unleavened. Shoot, we could have a rip-roaring fight over the elements that ought to be used in Communion, and back it up with chapter and verse, and split denominations over it. First White Bread with the Crusts Cut Off and Welches Only Community Church. I'm not interested in any of that.
But I've got to say that one of the most meaningful Communion services I've ever been in wasn't even in a church. It was at school. (Which could start a whole new argument, but I'm not interested in that, either.) There was a single loaf of bread. We were told about how Jesus' body was broken for us, as the loaf was broken in half. But then we were also told that it was because of our sin that Jesus was on that cross, that as I took bread, breaking off a piece of that loaf, it was a symbol of how my own sin broke Jesus' body. I stood in front of the person holding the loaf out to me, waiting for me to rip a chunk of bread off, and I could hardly do it for the breaking of my heart and the tears in my eyes. I felt such grief at the thought of my sin necessitating Jesus' suffering and death. But I also knew I couldn't walk away. To reach out and cause violence to that loaf of bread was not just admitting that my sin caused violence to the body of Christ, it was also confessing I had appropriated the salvation it represented. It was confessing that he died for me, that as surely as I was about to take that bread and eat it, so surely had his body been broken to warrant my salvation, that I was in him and he was in me. In that one moment, I was reminded afresh of both the horror of my sin and the wonder of my salvation. We poured out the wine (it was actually juice) from a pitcher, into Dixie cups. We saw it fall, red, wet, into the cups. It was visceral and real. We drank, more than a swallow. One loaf. One pitcher. One Body. Broken. Poured out. For me. There was nothing magical about it. It wasn't really Jesus' body or blood; it didn't impart to me salvation. But it was profoundly meaningful; reminded me of the wonder and cost of my salvation, and encouraged me afresh to hold on until he comes again.
Oh, I get it. Germs. All those hands touching a loaf of bread. I get the whole 21st century fixation on sanitation and germs. I grew up with a single cup, and while I suppose it might be possible that wine kills germs (although I'm dubious), it sure doesn't wipe the lipstick off the cup. I'm not interested in going back to that. Sharing a cup with a long row of people grosses me out as much as it does the next person. Having someone touch a common loaf after he or she's just blown the nose would turn my stomach as much as it would anyone's. I get the logistics of pouring out Dixie cups with juice (or wine) for an entire congregation. I am not willing to get into fights over grape juice vs. wine vs. water, leavened or unleavened, wafers or crackers or bread or rice balls. I don't know how to change it. But it does make me a bit sad to think that there is so much symbolism that we may be missing simply because we are doing things in a way that makes us most comfortable. We have so sanitised Communion that what was at the first an in-your-face reminder of the sacrifice Jesus made for us has been reduced to a wafer so small I almost need to lick my finger to get it to adhere (and what would THAT do for the germ situation!) and a cup of juice that is barely a mouthful.
The Jewish people at Passover eat the bitter herbs. It's hot horseradish. They have to take a big enough mouthful that the horseradish brings tears to their eyes. It's a reminder of the hard labour they did in Egypt. They dip parsley into salt water and eat it. The water is salty enough to taste, and remind them of the tears they cried in bondage. In Jesus' day, they still watched the lamb be killed. They watched the blood pour out and remembered that it was because of the blood of the lamb that they were saved. They ate the bread and they drank the cup, the very bread and cup Jesus took and said, "This bread is now my body, and this cup is now my blood -- a new covenant." It was an object lesson they could see, smell, taste, touch, and hear. It enveloped all the senses. The symbolism was thick and real. We've come a long way since then.
Communion doesn't just look back. Jesus told his disciples that he wouldn't drink the cup with them he drinks it new with us in his Father's Kingdom. Communion looks forward. It reminds us that he is coming back. Every time we take Communion, we "proclaim his death until he comes". The next time we celebrate Communion, it could be with Jesus in his Father's Kingdom. Next time in New Jerusalem, at the wedding feast of the Lamb.
I hope they serve more than a crumb of a tasteless wafer and a swallow of juice.
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