Not my usual entry, but something that came to me one Sunday afternoon!! Short, but sweet if I do say so myself.
Communion Sunday, what a farce; for me at least. To spend long elapsed moments of time remembering a life that saved ours thousands of years ago, it’s agonizing. Yet there I was for the love of my parents, listening to the words of the pastor. Note I called him not my pastor, but simply pastor. He held no precedence over my life; he was after all just flesh and bones, same as me; he was just as much a sinner as I. And the way he carried himself made him that much more tangible.
Grey disheveled hair sat atop a greasy round face that had seen many more sunrises than I. In a button down shirt more appropriate for a trip to the Bahamas he stood; every button ready to burst under the pressure of his heft. Yet there he was, sweat dripping from his brow proclaiming salvation through a measly stale cracker and a shot glass worth of bitter juice. I could not fathom it one bit.
If you’ve come to the conclusion that this is my first communion, I assure you it’s not. I’d been before this proceeding, a number of times, which is why it is with eloquence that I can regale such a time and place.
There I was, pondering my life’s transgressions and staring at what was referred to as “the elements” before me. 1 Corinthians 11:27 had been hammered into my psyche, “Whoever, therefore, eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty concerning the body and blood of the Lord.” Why partake if I’m but to fail Him again? The monotony of it all had me shaking my head in disappointment.
The pastor preached on, Ephesians 2:8 “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith--and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God…” All this talk of grace had the congregation, a mass of a mere hundred exalting a deity only by faith we knew to be real. Don’t get me wrong, I believed, I still believe, but that’s not what was eating away at me. That’s not what gnawed my insides nor churned my stomach. I had my demons, and oh were they ever beautiful!
I was linked to them and they to me through this invisible tether that extended as far as my feet could carry me. Even in the confines of the most Holy places one could be, they were admitted. They sat beside me, their names engraved in my mind, lust, coveting and fornication to name a few least the entire pew be taken. And as much as the pastor spoke on the redemption in His name, they just as much smiled back at me and waved.
A part of me wanted to chuck the cracker and juice in my hands, for I knew I was not worthy. No one amongst me was worthy either, but I of all felt the most condemned and the thought of partaking in such sacrilege seemed a sin in and of itself.
It was a struggle simply to lift the bite of cracker to my lips for it weighed heavy on me as you can already attest to from having read this far. Its rough coarse texture scraped my tongue and rightfully so. I may have choked on the piece had I not had the juice to wash it down, but even that seemed to get stuck in my throat. It lingered for what seemed like an eternity, this taste, perhaps it was God trying to reach me through my taste buds, saying to me, “Let’s see how long you can go without sin this time.”
Then the ordeal was over.
Confessions
Communion Sunday, what a farce; for me at least. To spend long elapsed moments of time remembering a life that saved ours thousands of years ago, it’s agonizing. Yet there I was for the love of my parents, listening to the words of the pastor. Note I called him not my pastor, but simply pastor. He held no precedence over my life; he was after all just flesh and bones, same as me; he was just as much a sinner as I. And the way he carried himself made him that much more tangible.
Grey disheveled hair sat atop a greasy round face that had seen many more sunrises than I. In a button down shirt more appropriate for a trip to the Bahamas he stood; every button ready to burst under the pressure of his heft. Yet there he was, sweat dripping from his brow proclaiming salvation through a measly stale cracker and a shot glass worth of bitter juice. I could not fathom it one bit.
If you’ve come to the conclusion that this is my first communion, I assure you it’s not. I’d been before this proceeding, a number of times, which is why it is with eloquence that I can regale such a time and place.
There I was, pondering my life’s transgressions and staring at what was referred to as “the elements” before me. 1 Corinthians 11:27 had been hammered into my psyche, “Whoever, therefore, eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty concerning the body and blood of the Lord.” Why partake if I’m but to fail Him again? The monotony of it all had me shaking my head in disappointment.
The pastor preached on, Ephesians 2:8 “For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith--and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God…” All this talk of grace had the congregation, a mass of a mere hundred exalting a deity only by faith we knew to be real. Don’t get me wrong, I believed, I still believe, but that’s not what was eating away at me. That’s not what gnawed my insides nor churned my stomach. I had my demons, and oh were they ever beautiful!
I was linked to them and they to me through this invisible tether that extended as far as my feet could carry me. Even in the confines of the most Holy places one could be, they were admitted. They sat beside me, their names engraved in my mind, lust, coveting and fornication to name a few least the entire pew be taken. And as much as the pastor spoke on the redemption in His name, they just as much smiled back at me and waved.
A part of me wanted to chuck the cracker and juice in my hands, for I knew I was not worthy. No one amongst me was worthy either, but I of all felt the most condemned and the thought of partaking in such sacrilege seemed a sin in and of itself.
It was a struggle simply to lift the bite of cracker to my lips for it weighed heavy on me as you can already attest to from having read this far. Its rough coarse texture scraped my tongue and rightfully so. I may have choked on the piece had I not had the juice to wash it down, but even that seemed to get stuck in my throat. It lingered for what seemed like an eternity, this taste, perhaps it was God trying to reach me through my taste buds, saying to me, “Let’s see how long you can go without sin this time.”
Then the ordeal was over.
