When I was in the seminary, one of our professors asked the class what communion means to us. Most of us tried to answer the professor quoting some well-known theologians. Others answered it by using some deep theological words to impress our professor. Having served a lot of churches, I have come to realize that communion could mean differently to different people.
As we celebrate the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper today, let me share with you pictures of what may be going on around the Lord’s Table at different places. A minister stands behind the rail, looking like a judge in his black robe. He is sweating for the temperature is so hot and humid with no air conditioning. It had been a busy week for him–a funeral; two members in the hospital; and he just received some news that his mother is going to have surgery. As he was serving, he is reminded of Jesus sweating with blood running down his face and on his side as he was hanging on the cross. The lady he is serving wears a scarf on her head. She is just a regular middle class working woman. Under the scarf there is no hair. She is bald from the chemotherapy. You see, she had a mastectomy, a breast removed by surgery, the only way to deal with her cancer.
Her hands were shaking as she reaches for the bread. She does not remember the juice or the blessing. All she hears is her name and the words, Angelique, “My body, broken for you.” She bites down on the bread as the tears came rolling down her checks.
In another church sat two little girls in pigtails, one seven, the other eight, giggling. As the elder hands them their bread and juice, they flash sweet smiles that seem to say; thank you. As the seven-year-old puts the bread in her mouth, she remembers the camote that she just ate for breakfast. Even now, she can feel the texture of that camote in her mouth. As the eight-year-old drank the juice, for an instant the sweet smell of the juice captures her. Her mind flashes to the day when she and a friend after playing went back to her friend’s house and her friend’s mother gave them some juice. The juice was warm, warm like the communion grape juice, and the warmth seemed to add to its sweetness.
Somewhere in a small village church with a roof made of palm leaves, the minister moves on to a balding man with crutches, with one leg missing. He is never been much of a churchgoer–at least not after he left Sunday School in his early teens. When he returned to his village after a car accident, a friend invited him to church. And as he hears the words, “My body, broken for you; my blood, shed for you,” he begins to cry. But they are not just tears of grief and sorrow and loss; they are also cleansing tears, tears of gradual healing.
In a large urban church with beautiful stain glass windows, an old lady kneels. Her arthritis makes kneeling difficult. Whenever the minister says, “My body broken,” she always thinks first of her knees. But this day–there was something in those words that made her feel God’s empowering love–just what she needed when she needed it most. At the other side of the church, kneels a young mother, her baby asleep in her arms. This infant a week earlier at his baptism was squalling and squirming. As the elder hands her the bread and juice, all she hears is: “My body…for you.” And she recalls the excruciating pain of the birth, and yet afterwards looking at the baby, there in this exquisite feeling that it was all worthwhile. And she smiles, a wide, loving smile.
In a small rural church, a young man in his twenties with mongoloid features sat on the pew made of bamboo as the bread and the juice were distributed. With a broad grin that sweeps across his face, he looks around like a curious child, to see what everyone else is doing. The smile widens even more when the elder offers him the bread and the juice. The words don’t mean much to him–juice is juice and bread is bread–but it is obvious that he enjoys being a part of something bigger than himself. After he eats and drinks, he looks at the persons on either side of him and shares his grin with them.
In some ways the young man is not so different from a young widow sitting in another church. Her husband died a few months ago after a bomb exploded in the market while he was buying groceries–and the wound, though healing, is at times still fresh. Like the mongoloid boy, she too has felt wrapped in the loving arms of this body of Christ, this body of believers gathered in Jesus’ name.
I could go on and on, because there are at least as many communion experiences as there are people around the Lord’s Table today. The point I am making is that through this sacrament, God comes to us. From beyond time and space, down past the galaxies and the entire heavenly firmament, God has come down offering himself to us in Jesus Christ. If we want hope, Christ is hope; if we want peace, Christ is peace; if we want love, Christ is love. And it is up to us whether we will let him be part of our lives in the midst of our suffering and our celebrations.
And in our worship today, who knows–some words from the scriptures, a hymn, or even the silence may encourage you to offer yourself to our God who comes down to us. The bread and the juice or just the taste of it may trigger something that will remind us of God’s presence. Our experience may bring pain and pleasure, healing and forgiveness, a release from guilt and the strength to risk. Or it may bring simply a feeling that we are part of a family with a sense of being loved and cared for. It can be a time to cast out fear and doubt, to be comforted as we walk through the valley of dark shadows. For whatever reason, God will meet us with open arms of love. It is at this table when the human spirit comes face-to-face with the divine.
Thus my friends come and share the bread and the cup. “This is Christ’s body, broken for you. Take, eat. This is Christ’s blood shed for you. Drink of it, all of you.”
