It saddens me to say that I'm just not enjoying the Lord’s Supper the way I used to, pre-Covid. The case can be nimbly made, of course, that the Supper (or Communion, as many refer to it) is not there for me to “enjoy” – it’s there to remind me of crucial things, both somber and joyous.
And it does remind me of these things: Christ’s death for my sins, the love that prompted that sacrifice, the repentance that calls me to share in His death and embrace His forgiveness.
Trouble is, the Supper now reminds me, too, of other things, like the taste of cardboard and vinegar, and whatever else goes into making the elements cheap enough to produce in bulk and cram into a tiny plastic, peel-the-lid cup.
“The Miracle Meal,” these newly compartmentalized Communion cups have been christened by those who make them – the miracle being that anyone can get the contents down without gagging.
It’s not just the elements. Everything about the ordinance changed with the panic of the epidemic. We no longer pass the plate up and down the rows like we used to. I miss that. As a deacon in an evangelical congregation, I liked seeing the faces of people as they reached for the little wafers, or quietly contemplated the depths of that little cup. I liked the small graces people showed as they reached across empty seats to take the plate from their neighbor, or balanced it for the child or older person sitting beside them.
I liked the respectful silence that came over people as they sat waiting for the prayer and the minister’s cue to partake. It’s really something to see, in these days of din and shouting and restless frustration: whole roomfuls of people, lost in thought. Giving careful consideration to the state of their souls.
Something restful in that. Something hopeful, too.
But now, we pick up the tiny packages as we hurry into the sanctuary, fumble for them when the moment of commemoration arrives, fumble with them as the minister speaks … row after row of men and women, squinting in the half-lit shadows as they try to peel back the thin plastic covers on the cups. No meditation, no heartfelt repentance, just a lot of dim grappling with the would-be efficiencies of modern ecclesiology.
My wife, long accustomed to my combination of klutz and curmudgeon, just sticks her hand out, now, when the minister steps forward – taking the cup I’ve reluctantly accepted from the usher at the door of the sanctuary. She ignores my face, squirmed up in anticipatory disgust, and peels the lid off for me, before I grope and juggle and send the thing rolling under the seat in front of me.
“Do this in remembrance of Me,” Jesus said, but what I’m actually recalling is how vile this stuff tastes these days. My beloved patiently waits for the grimaces I’ll make, chewing the leathery cardboard and swigging the shot of vinegar. Neither of us, I suspect, is meditating much on the larger implications of the ordinance we’re acknowledging.
It does sometimes pass through my mind that Jesus didn’t much care for what they gave Him to drink on the cross, either ... so perhaps these new, abominable flavors lend themselves to the actual spirit of the occasion in ways the more palatable elements of yesteryear did not. I try to let that thought lead me back to the true meaning of the moment, but in truth it doesn’t help much.
This past Sunday, came the monthly bitter pill to swallow and, as usual, I grudgingly handed my wife the little plastic cup to de-peel. I gnawed through the “bread” all right, but lifting the juice my hand twitched, and I spilled the purple battery acid all over my hand. I sat there, irked, trying not to drip on the carpet, working on the problem of fishing my handkerchief from my pocket without smearing my clothes.
My wife weighed the prospects of drying my hand with the worship guide against the commotion of going into my pockets herself, then suddenly reached out and just rubbed the juice from my hand onto hers. Now she had the wet mess, instead.
I rose, retired as quietly as possible to the foyer and the men’s room, washed off my fingers, wet a paper towel, and returned to give it to her. As she dabbed at her red hand, it occurred to me that this, after all, is what the Lord’s Supper calls us to remember.
Jesus willingly taking the stains off our hands, and onto His own.
I gave thanks for His sacrifice. I gave thanks for a wife who models Him so faithfully. I could not, in all honesty, give thanks for the Miracle Meal.
But I am appreciative of the miracle.
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