Yum!

It was Communion Sunday, a day when this large parish shared bread and wine in remembrance of what Jesus did with his disciples at the Last Supper. Christian denominations vary in the way they view communion. Some see it as a remembrance, others as more than a memorial - that Christ is made present through the bread and wine.

However a church views communion, it’s always a solemn and important occasion which is why this particular parish worked with military precision to make sure everything was done “decently and in order.” A crew of dedicated volunteers helped before, during, and after the service. (They even had training sessions, or rehearsals, to make sure things ran smoothly.) As always, everything was in place before the service began. The silver was polished and the bread and wine sat in the back ready to be brought forward at the appointed time.

A family with two small children entered and, without thinking or asking, one of the children reached over and took a piece of bread and popped it in her mouth. Her parents and the usher were horrified, but it was too late. “Yum,” she said with a mischievous grin as she proceeded to strut down the aisle like the beloved child of God she was. There’s a brushstroke in that, I thought to myself when I heard the usher’s account of what happened.

The Last Supper must have been an amazing moment in the disciples’ time with Jesus. Although tensions outside the upper room were high, when Jesus took bread and wine and gave them to the disciples no one knew how important such a meal would become. Once he was gone, the meal became a way to connect to Jesus, to feel (as if to taste) his presence, and throughout the ages, churches have sought to continue this practice in hopes of experiencing Christ’s presence in their own time. Unfortunately, this led to people feeling they needed the Church to experience Christ’s presence or that it is only in the eucharistic bread and wine that God’s presence can be found.

The child who didn’t wait for the church’s permission took the bread because it was there. It looked inviting. What a vivid example, and poignant invitation, she gave to all of us who seek Christ’s presence. We don’t need polished silver, nor dramatic liturgic rituals for Christ to be present. His presence awaits us all. All we have to do is reach out and grab it.

Christ can be known in the breaking of the bread and in the breaking of our lives.

He can be tasted in the wine and in the water of a cold stream.

He can be felt in our hands as we lift them at the altar and as we lift them to hold a loved one, stranger, or someone who’s hurting.

Life, after all, was created by God. Everything (and everyone) in it has the power to bring forth the presence of God. Like the girl in the back of church, we need only look around and reach for the “bread” that’s in front of us.

We’ll feel God’s presence when it is made known to us, and maybe our prayer of thanksgiving when that happens will be as simple and sincere as the young girl’s: yum!

Wedding Lessons

On my calendar was an event that loomed so large it occupied my thoughts for months. It was both an exciting event and one that filled me with dread, or as they say in AA, “impending doom.” Gathered there would be dear friends and others I’d not seen in years. Given all that had happened in my life, there were bound to be people glad to see me and others who were not. I had no choice but to board the plane and be as present as I could, and it has led me to want to share how I made it through.

Step one: Put one step in front of the other. I’ve heard others say, “Feel the pain/dread and do it anyway.” Every bone in my body wanted to turn and run away, and yet that was not an option, so I had to keep walking forward. I needed to take deep breaths and be present as best I could through whatever might come.

Step two: Modify my focus. When thinking only of myself, the anxious waters rose above my nose leaving me unable to breath, but when I thought of others, they receded. “It’s not about you; it’s about them,” was my mantra and that reminder transformed the experience. There were times I started drifting back toward a self-centered way of looking at things, but remembering to focus on others made all the difference.

Step three: Remember, my worth is not found in others. A wise soul once said, “There’s an audience of one.” By that, he meant God, whose opinion is the only one that ultimately matters. We live in a world where we often fall victim of living for the approval of others. That works well for those who live impressive lives, but it is hell (literally) for those of us who have not. People see things (and people) not as they are but as THEY are, and we do not have the ability to control what others see, think, do, or say. Everyone has wounds and those wounds influence the way they see the world and those around them. To remember that everyone has their stuff, whether they’re willing to admit it or not, can bring fresh air for one’s soul at life’s most challenging moments. Like so many things, it’s easier to say than do, but with practice it can lead to a freedom beyond compare. Suddenly rolled eyes, snarly smiles, and overt dismissiveness lose their power.

As you can imagine, there were wonderful surprises during that special event, and other moments and people who challenged me at my core. In the aftermath, I can only look at my part and own what I did well and what I could have done better, but it’s clear that the entire weekend – the good and difficult – was a microcosm of this thing called “life.” Most of my days are not as dramatic as the ones that have just occurred (thank God), but these taught me important lessons.

Maybe they’ll help you, too.

Not about the buildings

It isn’t about the building. For the longest time, I thought it was. Like an early human scratching a drawing on a cave wall, I wanted to leave some sign that I’d passed this way. With some very special people, I was a part of designing and building a chapel that now sits prominently at the center of a school campus, but it wasn’t until my recent visit that I realized the building was never the point.

It was a bright, clear morning, and I arrived early for the annual Founders’ Day service. I hoped to wander through the space alone before the students and guests arrived but was surprised to see two old students of mine already there. One, the guest speaker, was in the pulpit practicing his sermon, the other, a dear friend of his, offering insights and suggestions. We greeted one another like long-lost friends and soon I was also listening and instructing like I used to.

As people began arriving, I took my seat in the back and was surrounded by retired teachers with whom I once worked. “It’s like the band’s getting back together,” someone joked, and my heart took a deep breath as I remembered how sacred our time had been.

A dear parent from my days at the school arrived and sat beside me with her daughter who now had a child at the school. They’d recently lost their husband/father, and I shared an idea I got during his funeral - the kind of idea that made me squirm like a child on Christmas morning. It was a way to remember him forever, and she loved it as much as I hoped she would. We sat by the aisle so they could beam as their handsome son/grandson made his triumphant entrance. It was as bitter and sweet as life gets. I was so glad they were here to see it; I was so sad he was not.

The organ began and we sang in a way that made the students turn around and take notice. The sermon was delivered with poise and brilliance as he spoke from his heart of his days at the school and how they had shaped the man he’d become. I don’t remember much else about the service because I was sitting back taking in the beauty - not of the building but all that was going on inside it.

“I guess that’s the point,” I said to myself. “I guess it always was.”

I left the service recalling all the other ways I’d forgotten that important lesson along the way. I thought about the houses I focused on and not the conversations at the dining room table, the parties and not the nights reading before bed, the titles and not the work, the life goals and not the daily moments.

I doubt I’m unique, but I now see I’ve had it all wrong: It’s not so much what we build or achieve in our lives, but what happens within them that matters.