I was raised nominally Catholic for the first 11 years of my life. I remember next to nothing about that history, except for the box of notecards from CCD (just the box, not the cards) and the Super Importance of Doing Communion Right--to the point where I fretted over if my left or my right hand was on top when I cupped them to receive the elements.
When I became a Christian two years later, I became decidedly Protestant, and learned a new way of doing communion that allayed all my fears about doing it right: pick up a tiny chiclet thing of a gluten product and a plastic shotglass of juice from the golden plates passed around. (Well, all except dropping the dang thing!) No person directly in front of you, judging your hands and/or the response you gave.
In the intervening time, I have been exposed to a lot of theology and a lot of different methods of taking communion. I have my beliefs about the theology of it (akin to consubstantiation), and a few opinions on the ways in which it should and should not be practiced (it should be done in community, with words spoken over it for us, and it should be given by another). I have been taking communion for close to twenty years. Yet, despite all this, communion remains a place of uncertainty for me. And it is precisely through that uncertainty that Jesus has been able to meet me in it over the years.
A few weeks ago, I attended the ordination of a woman I knew from college. I was so happy to participate in communion with her. I was intent on honoring her in my receiving communion--a fair number of times, the power of communion to me has come from my recognition that the person serving me communion recognizes me. I was intent on giving that experience to her, participating in the first communion she serves, and having her give it to people she recognizes. I was so focused on giving that experience to her. And still, the Holy Spirit gave to me.
I walked up to her, acknowledged her and smiled, and I reached out to tear off a piece of the bread from the loaf and...the bread just kept coming with my fingers! It was massive. And I felt appalled at its size, embarrassed. But I was reminded that that bread was and is for me. He calls me to take deeply of him, not shyly nibbling at the edges, but to eat of his body fully and to drink of his blood deeply. There is enough.
When I became a Christian two years later, I became decidedly Protestant, and learned a new way of doing communion that allayed all my fears about doing it right: pick up a tiny chiclet thing of a gluten product and a plastic shotglass of juice from the golden plates passed around. (Well, all except dropping the dang thing!) No person directly in front of you, judging your hands and/or the response you gave.
In the intervening time, I have been exposed to a lot of theology and a lot of different methods of taking communion. I have my beliefs about the theology of it (akin to consubstantiation), and a few opinions on the ways in which it should and should not be practiced (it should be done in community, with words spoken over it for us, and it should be given by another). I have been taking communion for close to twenty years. Yet, despite all this, communion remains a place of uncertainty for me. And it is precisely through that uncertainty that Jesus has been able to meet me in it over the years.
A few weeks ago, I attended the ordination of a woman I knew from college. I was so happy to participate in communion with her. I was intent on honoring her in my receiving communion--a fair number of times, the power of communion to me has come from my recognition that the person serving me communion recognizes me. I was intent on giving that experience to her, participating in the first communion she serves, and having her give it to people she recognizes. I was so focused on giving that experience to her. And still, the Holy Spirit gave to me.
I walked up to her, acknowledged her and smiled, and I reached out to tear off a piece of the bread from the loaf and...the bread just kept coming with my fingers! It was massive. And I felt appalled at its size, embarrassed. But I was reminded that that bread was and is for me. He calls me to take deeply of him, not shyly nibbling at the edges, but to eat of his body fully and to drink of his blood deeply. There is enough.
