I can't remember why I decided to go to the training for new Eucharistic ministers, and I can't remember how long ago it was, but I do remember that I was consumed by anxiety about the role.
Whether or not you're Catholic, you know that communion is a big deal for Catholics. We believe that when Jesus said "my flesh is true food and my blood is true drink," that's what he meant. Ditto for "the one who feeds on me will have life because of me." Before I was a Catholic I thought this was the most preposterous wackadoodle bananapants idea that anybody's brain ever spat forth, even though my own Bible had John 6 in it. It was an issue for me even in the week before my entry into the Church in 1992, but I encountered the Lord powerfully in the Adoration chapel after that Holy Thursday service. And oh-- when I received communion two days later, I went back to the pew and trembled with the magnitude of what I had done.
So I am still totally willing to acknowledge that it sounds like the most preposterous wackadoodle bananapants idea anybody's brain ever spat forth, but I also believe it is the truth.
The very idea of the Eucharist creates some logistical difficulties. What should we do if someone drops a full chalice? If it's plain old wine, you sop it up with a dishrag and toss it in the wash. If it's the Precious Blood, it's more complicated. What do you do if a kid takes the host but stashes it in his pocket instead of consuming it? What do you say to someone who wants to receive but doesn't seem to know the drill? Imagine my scrupulous tendencies as a pack of yapping foxhounds. The prospect of distributing communion was like a hunting horn, sending them into a frenzy of baying and yipping.
It's a little weird that I went to this training. And it's also weird that I stuck with it, because my first few experiences were stressful. On the one hand, I want everybody who comes to our church to feel welcome there; on the other, I feel protective about the Eucharist. When someone responded, "Yeah, thanks" instead of "Amen," I would second-guess my reaction, no matter what it was. But you guys, distributing communion became a channel of palpable grace. People would come through the communion line and I would get this flash, this brief intense glimpse, of how much God loves them. Sometimes I couldn't even say the words "the Body of Christ" aloud, because the immensity of God's generosity literally took my breath away. So I would mouth the words and look at them with love, and the whole thing would leave me a little weak in the knees.
Here is the thing I am finding: I can't switch back and forth between the baying-foxhounds vigilance and the recognition of God's tender personal love for each person in my line. A couple of weeks ago I was in that happy groove where I just wanted to sing out "BEHOLD YOUR GOD!" to every person who came forward, and I was too slow on the uptake about a person who was almost certainly not Catholic. If I am focused on vigilance, on preventing the next PZ Myers from obtaining a host in my particular communion line, I cannot see the transcendence of the moment. There must be a middle ground. I am sure there is a middle ground. It's just that I seem to yaw from one side to the other.
I am finishing the gospel of John this week, and I am thinking again about Our Lord's willingness to pour himself out for those who did not understand his generosity -- which is all of us, really. I was struck tonight by this post at Where Peter Is, about God's choice to become vulnerable. If it were not November I would hide this post in my drafts folder, because drafting it has left me feeling vulnerable. It could inspire some capital-O Opinions about the right amount of vigilance for a Eucharistic minister. Mostly the point I wanted to make was this: I am learning to see how much God loves my neighbor, and her neighbor, and his neighbor. It takes my breath away. It's all too easy to lose sight of it.
Recent Comments