Mark 14.12-31; Matthew 26.17-29; Luke 22.7-20
The first time I served communion was on Ash Wednesday 2015 in a beautiful service at Vanderbilt Divinity School. After accepting the invitation to traverse the small all-faith chapel, reminiscent of a cave carved out of the rock, and become anointed with oil, water, soil and ashes, the worshippers arranged ourselves in a sacred circle and offered the sacrament to each other. As a younger person, I had passed the silver tray holding tiny cups of juice to the person seated next to me in the pew, but I had never held the bread in one hand and the wine in the other and offered it to a neighbor. I had never said, “the bread of life, given for you” and “the cup of grace, given for you” to another person.
As the bread and cup approached me, I found myself trying to swallow my tears, hoping no one would see the characteristic reddening of my nose as I realized that this was going to be the first time I served the Lord’s Supper to anyone. In a way, I had dreamed about this moment, when I’d be a good enough person and minister to offer something so sacred to be partaken of by a fellow human. When my neighbor offered me the sacrament, I met her eyes and smiled, accepting the grace. I turned around to offer it to the next person in line, a friend of a friend and a United Methodist pastor, and I felt the eyes of everyone in the room on me. It wasn’t a scary feeling, ebing watched–rather, it was comforting and warm, being held all together in this holy space.
“The bread of life, for you.” “The cup of grace, for you.”
Just like that, the moment passed as the receiver of my blessing accepted it, turned and offered it to another. But in my heart, in the core of my being, something had shifted. What did it mean for me to be able to offer the sacrament to another person? Some cosmic meaning had attached itself to my hands, the hands holding carefully kneaded and baked bread, lovingly pressed grapes, my holy hands, the ones God gave me, the ones God created for this purpose of offering myself, and the holy, to another person.
Henri Nouwen writes,
“As we recognise Jesus in the breaking of the bread, we recognise him also in our brothers and sisters. As we give one another the bread, saying:”This is the Body of Christ,” we give ourselves to each other saying: “We are the Body of Christ.” It is one and the same giving, it is one and the same body, it is one and the same Christ.” (Nouwen, Henri. “Christ’s Body, Our Body,” in Bread for the Journey. San Francisco: HarperOne, 2006.)
In 1968, Senator Robert F. Kennedy and farmworker organizer César Chávez shared the eucharist (literally meaning “thanksgiving” with a connotation of shared grace), the first meal that Chavez ate after fasting for 25 days in protest of the treatment of farmworkers in California. It was appropriate to break a fast in honor of justice by the sacred meal of bread and wine, the same meal that Jesus shared with his disciples the night before his death. In sharing this meal, Kennedy and Chavez together recognized the presence of God within the current struggle for justice for migrant farmworkers. In partaking of this holy symbol of love and community, they recognized Jesus’ witness of love for the poor, marginalized, oppressed and exploited people in this world. In eating, they witnessed the sanctity of the earth which produces food and sustenance.
Dr. Jennifer Ayres writes,
“As God in Christ has entered into the human situation, so eucharistic liturgy is near to the concrete and particular situations of men and women.” (Ayres, Good Food, 61.)
Consider how you will partake of the Eucharist on Easter morning. How will you, in your acceptance of the bread and wine of the earth, remember those who don’t have enough food or drink? Make room to witness the radical abundance of God in the fruits of the earth into forms which humans partake. Come to the table and share the grace with your neighbor.