I don’t remember who I was
talking with a couple weeks ago but the subject of communion came up and the
person I was talking with mentioned that people treat communion with a special
kind of reverence around here; that most of the time people are pretty lax
around decorum and are fine with subtle changes to the way church is done or
how the pastor wants to do things, but the one exception is communion where
there is a kind of solemn reverence that we don’t have in the rest of worship. I
think this is a good sign, because communion is, as much as anything, what our
worship should be about. It is the one thing, above all other things, that
centers our worship on God’s presence with us. Communion is at the heart of
what we do.
When I visit with people in their homes, in the nursing
home, in the hospital, or in a time of upheaval in their lives the most useful
thing I bring is typically communion. My presence is fine, but the reminder of
Christ’s intimate presence and in, with, and under the bread and wine is what
is really, truly needed. I think sometimes people imagine that the pastor knows
magic words to say to people to make them feel better or that a good pastor is
a counselor for a person who is lonely or distressed, but my experience has
been that the best pastors simply make known God’s presence, especially through
the bread and wine of communion.
Communion connects us with one another and with God in
ways that are difficult to explain. This also is as it should be. If it were
easy to explain communion it wouldn’t be the powerful, mysterious thing that it
is. If someone asked you “What does communion mean to you?” it’s perfectly OK
to not have a ready answer. This is not something that needs to be explained;
it’s something that needs to be experienced. With the said, it’s good to
remember that different people show reverence in different ways. For some
people their feelings around communion are fearful; there is an honest sense of
anxiety around doing communion the right way or presenting one’s self
appropriately. Others of you take it with a sense of joy—an anticipation that a
fitting response to God’s grace is to live joyfully. There is no right or wrong
way to do it; all of it is good; all of it is appropriate. You can dress up or
dress down, keep your head down or lift it up; you can smile or frown. You can
feel humbled or exalted. You can come with a heavy heart or with eager
anticipation. You can sing along with hymns or wait in silence. There is no one
way to prepare yourself for communion—all are valid—and none of us should look
down upon any other for the way they prepare themselves. Neither should we feel
bad, or raise our eyebrows, at the parent with children running all over the
place. Even this is a form of preparation—communion works through our
distractions as well as our intentions.
When Jesus instituted that first Lord’s Supper he didn’t
give a lot of specific instructions for us. He said, “This is bread—my body…
This is wine—my blood… Do this in remembrance of me.” He didn’t say how often…
once a day, a week, a month, a year, a lifetime? He didn’t say who could take
it—disciples, members, youth, children? He didn’t say who could preside over
it—pastors, deacons, lay people, parents? He didn’t set a bunch of rules.
Instead, he simply said, “Do.” And here we are.
The one thing he did do, after communion, was to correct
the disciples’ poor understanding of who was the greatest. Can you imagine?
Jesus just offered his body and blood at his Last Supper on earth and the
disciples first discussion following the meal was apparently locker room talk
about who is better than the rest. In the highest, most holy of places, where
Jesus instills a religious practice still done millennia later, the disciples
revert to childish quarrels about how awesome they are. It’s amazing God didn’t
just swoop in at that moment and say, “I give up! Let’s forget about this cross
business. These incorrigible people deserve what they get!” It’s amazing, but
it’s true, because communion doesn’t have the effect on us that it probably
should. We come forward with reverence but before long we return to arguing
about silly things. We come forward desperate for something we can’t begin to
put into words and then we return to groveling about first-world problems. We
come hungry and then, having been fed, we put the walls back up around our
vulnerability.
That’s what I tend to believe communion does: It makes us
vulnerable. And we should be vulnerable; it’s healthy to be vulnerable; it’s
necessary to be vulnerable. Being vulnerable allows us to love; it allows us to
be open and honest and humble. But Jesus calls us not only to be vulnerable
when we come forward to the rail, but to take that vulnerability out with us
from this place. The disciples started arguing about who was greatest in order
to escape the question of vulnerability, but Jesus turns it around on them and
says that what they imagine about greatness is 100% backwards. It’s not the
master who is great but the servant. What greater example could they have of
this than Jesus himself standing in front of them—Jesus who was heading to the
cross, to his death, for their sake?
At communion we’re honest about this. It breaks through
the walls that divide us and helps us see that there is something more
important than being served; that being a servant is the greater path. The
greatest must become the least. The richest must become the poorest. The strong
must become weak. Communion has that effect on us. What I wonder—and I have no
great answer to this though I think it’s well worth pondering so I’m going to
leave you with it tonight… What I wonder is what it looks like to take the
attitude we have toward communion and live the rest of our lives that way. What
would that look like? What would change?
It seems to me that Jesus begs of us to consider that
question. Tonight, on the eve of the betrayal, is a great night to start.
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