I was nervous.
For weeks my 1st communion class had been studying the Lutheran understanding of the sacrament of communion. As a fifth grader, I had little knowledge of big words in general, but throw in 'communion', 'Eucharist', 'sacrament', and 'Lutheran', and it's a wonder my head didn't start to spontaneously bleed. My parents were fulfilling their baptismal duties (another word that stymied me) by bringing the three of us to learn how the Lord's Supper offered something special to all who ate it. Any time the Pastor said the words "The Lord's Supper," I kept imaging that Charlton Heston would come out from behind the altar with a couple of tablets - it was that serious.
I think the rest of the class - the twelve others, a nice holy number - was feeling the same way. To me, it looked like we were just eating a small white piece of cardboard and a sip of (gasp!) wine, the same stuff we were supposed to avoid like the plague at home. The Pastor (I capitalize the name because we never would call the Pastor by his first name. For years I thought the church could only hire men with the same first name - Pastor.) would speak some words over the bread and the wine and voila! bread and wine turns into body and blood. Magic.
For some reason, when kids are brought up in church, it's easier to explain Jesus in a way that is more magical than miraculous. The stories that are told most often are the miracles but they are told in a way that leaves kids scratching their heads. "Was this guy like David Copperfield? I've seen David Copperfield make the Eiffel Tower disappear, surely Jesus could do that, right?" So, Jesus can walk on water - it must be magic. So, Jesus can turn five loaves of bread and two fish into a valid meal for thousands of people - it must be magic. So, Jesus can curse a tree right in front of the disciples eyes - it must be magic. There is no other possible explanation.
With any hypothesis, which a learned in school (after I learned what that big word meant), it must be tested. The hypothesis was, "Jesus was an excellent magician." So, to test it, I tried to replicate what Jesus did. I soon became drenched by failing to transnavigate the ducks' watering pond made of our old, used plastic swimming pool. I borrowed a loaf of bread and a frozen fish from the freezer in the basement (when my parents were preoccupied with something else, of course) and attempted to have them replicate. I could save my parents a whole lot of grocery money throughout the year if I could just figure out how he did it. Then, of course, I spent an entire afternoon picking out the right tree in the backyard to curse. I didn't use any really nasty words: I didn't think my parents would have approved of that. And, I'm pretty sure the tree didn't die because I was a bit squeamish about actually cursing something so beautiful to death. That one at least I could explain why it didn't work.
But then again, I couldn't explain the mystery of communion either. That is the word the Pastor kept referring to over and over - mystery. It is a mystery how the word added to the elements changes anything. The bread and wine still look the same even after the Pastor raises his hands and says the words. It had to be magic, then. I wasn't prepared to test this hypothesis because it would have been difficult to get my hands on the little wafer things and a nice bottle of burgundy.
I was nervous.
Our first communion Sunday; we were dressed to the nineteens. Slowly our classes was paraded to the front - some excited, some hesitant. The communion servers were very serious. Frowns were plastered on to their faces - very serious - we couldn't mess this up. This wasn't the Olympics - there was no semi-final round. We had already been told that if we didn't take communion seriously, soul-threatening consequences would follow. (I don't really remember that but it sure seemed like it was implied.) The Bread Server came to me and I raised my outstretched hands for the first time to receive the Body of Jesus Christ. I took the small, beige colored wafer in my small fingers and placed it on my tongue. Aghast, I realized that the wafer was stuck to my tongue. With horror, I tried to scrape the wafer off against the roof of my mouth when, lo and behold, the wafer became lodged into the very upper recesses of my mouth. I looked around and noticed that most of my classmates to were experiencing the same problem. Brian Elwood was digging around with his fingers trying to free the wafer. The thought then came to my head, "Jesus is stuck to the roof of my mouth and there is absolutely nothing I can do about it." The Wine Server came next. I looked right and saw that Brian had successfully freed Jesus' body from his upper palate with his finger and was relishing every last drop of wine - in fact, he was slurping the last excesses from the cup as the Cup Catcher was walking by and trying to take the little cup from his hands.
The wine came to me. With shaking hands I received the cup and then, unfortunately, my mind made the assessment, "Jesus' body is stuck to the roof of my mouth and now I'm going to flush it down my throat with his blood." Closing my eyes, I raised the small cup to my mouth, and first tasted the warm wine on my tongue. It's strange tangy sweetness made me shiver but as I swallowed it, I realized that Jesus' body remained steadfastly clinging right behind my teeth. I tried to pry it down with my tongue, but my tongue felt numb from the wine. There was nothing that I could do but return to my seat and hope that the body of Jesus would soon find it's way from the top of my mouth to the bottom of my stomach.
What I learned from my first communion experience was that Jesus was hard to swallow - body and blood - physically in communion. But as I grow older, I realize that Jesus' whole existence is hard to swallow. C. S. Lewis rights in his book 'Mere Christianity,' "We are faced, then, with a frightening alternative. This man we are talking about either was (and is) just what he said or else a lunatic, or something worse." A lunatic or a magician. Jesus is hard to swallow for me, as a ten year old, and me, as a thirty-five year old pastor. How (and why) would God care enough about me, an insignificant cog in the large machinery of life, to preserve me, and everyone else, through one saving act of all time?
I've come to believe that it's a mystery. Faith isn't a sensory input. I am glad that the bread and wine don't actually begin to look like muscles and blood. I am content to physically taste bread and wine but spiritually be uplifted by God's grace-filled sacrifice. I am content to explore the physical mysteries of the universe, how a caterpillar goes in and a winged insect comes out. Science may be able to tell me how all that happens but the mystery is, why it does that happen? And I think that comes from God's love for the entire world and for God's love of mystery. I need some mystery in my life - it keeps things interesting. Mystery inspires people - it sends us out to do extraordinary things. Mystery reminds us that we are not the only thing on God's mind. Mystery allows us to live in expectation of something next. If there was no mystery, there would be no hope or faith. If there was no mystery, life would not be near so interesting.
This week, I am writing down a listen of things that confounds me, causes me to sit up and dream a while. Then, I'm trying to ask the questions "Why?" and "How?" did God do this. By asking these questions, whether I answer them or not, allows me to seek out God's hand in a mysterious world.
No comments:
Post a Comment