Take, Eat, and Remember

I have a distinct memory of the very first Sunday I took communion. I wish I could say I remember it so well because I caught a glimpse of the holy wonder of Jesus through participation in this timeless sacrament or that I had some recognition of what this mystery meant. I should confess, however, the memory has little to do with Jesus. I was in the backseat of my father’s car, sitting surreptitiously behind the driver’s seat so that he could not see what I was up to.

My father, a faithful Episcopalian and Eucharist partaker, had decided that that Sunday was the first Sunday that I would take communion. Because my mother was at home with my younger, sick brother, it was up to him to impress upon me the importance of this day and this meal. I, on the other hand, had a different agenda in mind. With my mother distracted with illness and my father focused on imparting Eucharistic wisdom to his impressionable daughter, I saw this car ride as a unique opportunity to try out the red lipstick I had stashed away in my white, paten-leather purse the previous Easter. As my dad eloquently spoke of Jesus’ life, death and last meal with his friends, armed with a pocket mirror and Estee Lauder, I proceeded to paint the lower part of my face bright red. It was a least two days before my face returned to its normal hue. But, after a vigorous scrubbing in the bathroom and many amused looks from those who witnessed my make-up artistry, I joined my father at the communion rail, cupping my hands in the sign of a cross, ready to receive the bread of life. I will never forget that morning.

Our celebration of World Communion Sunday was a reminder to me of the great diversity of those who are hungry to be fed. From the youngest ones who join the meal without care or pretense to the ones who have come to the table, again and again, year after year, growing in the knowledge that this food, which binds together saints of the past, present, and still to come, is the only food which truly fills us. That’s not to say that there have been some seasons in my life when taking communion has felt less significant to me. I have often thought fellowship meals and coffee dates on random afternoons which help relationships to grow into intimate, close friendship, are even more important than any ancient tradition of the church. In part, I may have even been right. But I don’t think one precludes the other. Perhaps they go together, hand in hand, our holy meal which celebrates the love of our Savior providing the framework for all of our other encounters. Coming to any table to break bread is given deeper meaning because we have been taught how to commune rightfully with one another with unconditional love, respect, and care.

When we celebrate holy communion, we acknowledge that this morsel and drop of bread and wine are a foretaste of the fulfillment of God’s promises to us and to the whole world. Last Sunday, from East and West and in every tongue, we joined with countless others to be reminded of the abounding hope found at the Lord’s table. With this memory fresh in our hearts, we are sure to experience this hope elsewhere, around other tables, holding hands and saying grace, or even as we marvel at the signs of the season’s shifting. God’s presence abides with us-- in our worship and in our world, always steadfast, faithful, and true.