Communion

Over the summer I told my son I thought he shouldn't receive communion.

This was not a decision made lightly. You may remember when I posted about Alex's doubts; they intensified, until he said, "There is no God." Whether or not you are Catholic, you know that receiving communion is a Big Deal for Catholics. We believe that the Eucharist is Jesus Himself, body, blood, soul, and divinity. Because of John 6 we reject the idea that it is merely a symbol or a memorial. To receive the Eucharist is to receive the Lord.

After a lot of soul-searching, I took a deep breath and said, "Alex, you can't treat the holy Eucharist like a goldfish cracker. It's fine to have doubts. It's fine to receive the Eucharist saying, 'Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.' But if you explicitly reject what you've been taught about the Eucharist, if you say it's just bread and nothing more, then you shouldn't receive communion." It was a bit of a bluff. I knew that receiving communion had been really important to Alex, and I half-expected him to say, "You know, I'm being an idiot here." No dice. For weeks we went to Mass and Alex sat quietly in the pew at communion time.

My husband was a little shocked at this state of affairs. I knew he would be, because he grew up in a family where missing communion is something you just don't do. And I was worried that he was right -- who am I to keep my son from communion? I talked it over with Alex's godfather, who would, I was sure, pull no punches if he thought I was in the wrong. Unbeknownst to me, he put his whole family to work after our conversation, praying for Alex.

About once a month Alex and I go out together on a Saturday afternoon. We go to confession and then stop in somewhere for a cup of coffee (me) and something sweet (him). We skipped September because I just didn't want to hear again about his rejection of the faith. I didn't even bring it up. But in October I said, "Let's go to confession, Alex." He said, "But why? I don't believe." I said, "You have to take a shower even if you don't believe in soap." We went.

The next morning at Mass I was in the vestibule with the 2yo at communion time but it looked for all the world like Alex went through the line. "Did he?" I asked Elwood afterward. "He did," said my husband with tears in his eyes. "Praise God." (My husband is not given to saying "praise God." In fact, I don't think I'd heard him say "praise God" in our whole marriage.) I talked it over with Alex's godfather the next day, and he told me that they had been praying faithfully for Alex. His oldest daughter, who is thinking about religious life, had made a special project of interceding for him.

Before I had children I had clear ideas about what sort of children I would have. (My hypothetical children would never, but never, do some of the stuff my actual children get up to, but my actual children are far more interesting than their hypothetical siblings.) I wanted my children to know God, and I had clear ideas, too, about what that would look like. I wanted them to "be ready to give an explanation to anyone who asks you for a reason for your hope." I wanted them to love the Mass. I imagined peaceful family prayer times in the evenings.

The thing I did not anticipate about raising children was how long it takes to teach them what they need to know. I figured I would say, "You must not hit your brother," and they wouldn't hit each other. I would teach them to pray and they would pray. Right?

[insert a pause while I collect myself and stop making those odd noises somewhere between laughing and crying]

I have been slow to learn that the Christian life is a marathon and not a sprint. It is a succession of steady small steps with no pole vault option, or the equivalent of a three-day cassoulet in a world full of canned baked beans. Some things can't be rushed.

That's what I tell myself when we sit together in Mass these days. My hypothetical children would be sitting attentively, praying the responses reverently. My actual children aren't there yet. But this is the pot of metaphorical confit d'oie I have been given to stir, and I am resolved to relish the stirring instead of wishing my cassoulet were already baked.

When Alex's godmother and I were pregnant with our oldest children, I couldn't really imagine the future. I couldn't get my mind around the truth that we were raising up brand new little people, who would have opinions and agency and who would go out into the world to make a mark upon it. I am more touched than I can say that this girl who played with Alex as a baby took it upon herself to intercede for him that he might know the goodness of God. Every week that we are at Mass, straggling through the communion line together again, I am thankful for her prayers.

Writing this post I have been thinking about the origins of the word communion: it comes from the Latin com + munus, meaning shared duty, shared gift. And I have been thinking that raising a family is its own sort of communion -- a life of shared duties, to be sure, and at the same time a life rich in shared gifts.