The Body of Christ, Broken for You

Those of you who read this blog know of my struggles with the Lord's supper in churches I visit. I don't know whether to go forward and risk an uber-awkward moment (will the pastor say, "I'm sorry, your mysterious cracker doesn't count!"?) or sit in my seat and forgo one of the most beautiful sacramental experiences in the Christian life. When I'm traveling, we often don't know where we'll be attending until the night before, so I can't email the pastor and let him or her know of my dietary issues. So I usually just sit in my seat.

I don't want to put the pastor on the spot, or have one of those terrible moments you read about in the Worship Ordination exam in the Presbyterian Church (You are the pastor of a large church. One Sunday a visiting congregant comes forward for communion with their own cracker. He/she will not willingly participate in sharing the bread with the congregation, for some reason. What do you do?).

Before this week, I hadn't participated in the Lord's supper in months. Four months, to be precise. At my church in New Jersey the pastoral staff was fine with me bringing my own cracker, plus we did the pass-the-tray sort of communion where it wasn't obtrusive in any way. But I haven't been there since April. It's been a long summer.

In the chuches I've vistited this summer, I faithfully brought my own little cracker along only to be faced with the dreaded intinction. I don't know when this became the worship fad, but when the congregation dips their bread into the cup of wine it only means that I can't have the wine either. Not to mention it's kinda germy (think about it: most people's fingers at least graze the surface of the wine. and those fingers have been wiping noses and in mouths and... ew...). And when my sacramental experience all comes from my own pocket, I'm not participating in the sacramental life of the church in any meaningful way. I'm Presbyterian, but still sacramental enough that I think that's... not very sacramental.

My husband and I are in Nashville now, and after fighting the "we're-new-to-town-and-don't-know-anyone-and-don't-much-WANT-to-go-to-church-today" feeling, we decided to revisit our roots in the Anglican church.

We're staunchly Presbyterian (Reformed and always reforming, according to the Word of God!) now, but we both love, love, love the Anglican tradition. We found our way in an Anglican church in Illinois, and Jesus met us there in some powerful and amazing ways. The pastors who married us and did our premarital counseling were Anglican. Many, many of our friends are Anglican. In addition, I love the liturgy and the trappings of Anglicanism - the robes, the music, the reverence. In a week where I have trouble meeting Jesus, I find that the liturgy and the Anglican church calendar both help carry me there.

This Sunday we went to an Anglican church in Nashville that my husband had visited once or twice before and loved. I am so glad we went. The service was truly wonderful. The musical worship leader did a fantastic job. The people we met were friendly and welcoming. The sermon was beautiful and Christocentric and thought-provoking. But then came the Eucharist...

I read in the church's guest brochure during the announcements, and it mentioned that they practice intinction, so I knew that participating would probably be a no-go for me. I decided to stay in my seat, though I so, so wanted to come forward. As we began the liturgy for the Eucharist, I suddenly felt a weird impulse to go up. I didn't want to put the pastor in an awkward spot, but I just couldn't wait another Sunday. I felt (sorry if this may sound odd) like God wanted me to go forward. So I did.

I went up and knelt at the altar rail.

"The body of Christ, the bread of heaven," the pastor said, holding a wafer above my cupped hands.

"I-I'm allergic," I stammered, showing him my little piece of cracker. There was a second's pause. I began to doubt myself. I shouldn't have gone forward! I've put this wonderful pastor in a totally awkward position! What have I done!?

Then, he smiled.

"We have wafers for you!" he exclaimed. "Completely gluten-free! I usually have them in my pocket, but..." He quickly walked back to the sacristy and produced a small case with a few gluten-free wafers. He held them out to me, even knowing that I should take my own after his hands had touched so much wheat.

What did I do? I took the body of Christ, broken for me.

"The body of Christ," he said. "The bread of heaven."

Then I began to cry.

I was so touched by his kindness, by the church's thoughtfulness to include those of us for whom the bread of life (when it contains gluten) becomes the bread of sickness, and by his willingness to pause in the middle of handing out the body of Christ to go and get a piece of gf-bread for me.

I went back to my seat and finished the service with tears streaming down my face. The body of Christ, broken for me.

The only thing that would have improved this church's care for the gluten-intolerant among them was to advertise the option. I went up to the altar rail scared and hesitant when I could have gone up with joy. I mentioned this to the pastor, and he said he's going to make a note of this option soon.

Thank you, church. Thank you, body of Christ. Thank you, Jesus.