It’s been an unusual year for communions.
In late January visiting a supporting church we had communion. I remember because they invite people to go up by family. Unlike many churches with a very somber feel as we reflect on the cross of Christ, this church’s communion is soaked in the joy of what the cross achieved for us, the joy of being welcomed into the family of God. As I watched couples and families go up, I felt a twinge of insecurity and sadness. I guess I would go up alone? Communion had never felt lonely before. The mission intern who had invited me to sit by her smiled at me as her husband started to stand, “Take communion with us?” I was doubly invited to the table, and my sadness vanished. This, too, was my family, my people. There was a place for me at this table.
I think that just might have been my last communion before I flew back to Japan in March in what I thought was the middle but turned out to be the beginning of a global pandemic.
This year communion is not a given that blurs together, but distinct, in all its unusualness.
I remember the one when I was quarantined. Participating in church from my laptop, and the friend who brought me groceries a few days earlier thought to include a bottle of grape juice.
I remember the time instead of bread I used a chunk of a cinnamon roll (I was experimenting with just how much my rice cooker could do). How I’d exit full screen mode to see the number of how many others were online now, and felt a bit more like we were taking the bread and cup together. But how I was also kind of glad they couldn’t see me because who knows who might be appalled or distracted (or most importantly, think less of me) by my untraditional cinnamon sweet body of Christ broken for me.
I remember being quarantine free and participating in online worship with my pastor’s wife and her son. How she poured tiny glasses of wine and set out a wooden board with chunks of bread as we listened to her husband officiate on the screen. How wonderful it felt to take communion with real live people again.
I remember getting to travel a few hours away where an older church in a smaller city had their own building and was able to have worship in person. A special treat to me this year. I remember how we picked up mini juice boxes of grape juice and individually wrapped square sweet cookies. It was the only social-distancing-appropriate thing the church could find. I grinned behind my mask as I heard little amplified slurps of mouths leaving straws popcorning up from here and there across the spaced out sanctuary. After the service we stood around chatting, pulling down masks to finish off juice boxes and pop in last bites of cookie.
It felt familiar. This church I had never been to before suddenly felt warmly nostalgic. It reminded me of the preschool Sunday School class at the church where I grew up. How we always sat around the table in mini wooden chairs and were served little apple juices and sweet graham crackers. It wasn’t communion, of course. Just a special treat to get us through until lunch. But it had a similar feeling. A feeling of being served, cared for, welcome, at home.
I remember my only communion in person at Grace City Church this year. In addition to those running the service, 10 people are allowed to go in person each week. After they stop the live stream we take communion together. Carefully opening the thin top lid to first slip out the tiny tasteless wafer before opening the full lid to swallow the plastic thimble of juice, sliding our masks down for just a moment. There’s a rustling as we fumble with the lids. It stands out because with this small group, ¼ being the worship team, they don’t play any music during communion like they used it. But it feels good, right somehow. We are together, and with the more casual feel of no song nor powerpoint slides nor waiting in line, it somehow feels even more like family. It is precious for being so rare.
Today as I again had communion "alone" with my pastor on a screen, I thought back on all the communions above. The textures, the tastes, the people I was with. In that moment the taste of bread and grape juice brought back an old memory, when I was a very little girl. How sick at home one day my parents convinced me to get some more calories by upgrading from plain saltines to saltines with a spread of grape jelly on top. I was suspicious, but apparently Dad liked crackers with jelly. Now so did I.
It may not be a particularly fascinating story of a memory, but I remember it. I remember my Dad and what he likes and what I need and how I liked the idea of being a bit like him in some way. I thank God that he connected tastes and memories. And one more time today, closing out 2020, I do this in remembrance of Him.
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