Earlier this week I had the privilege of celebrating Eucharist for Lent at L'Arche Ottawa. As I prepared my heart and flesh for this feast, words from Sara Bessey were continuously swimming through my consciousness: I want to be outside with the misfits, with the rebels, the dreamers, second-chance givers, the radical grace lavishers, the ones with arms wide open, the courageously vulnerable, and among even—or maybe especially—the ones rejected by the Table as not worthy enough or right enough.
The celebration of Eucharist is serious business for me - not because I am a slave to liturgical law, ecclesiastical etiquette or canonical conformity - but rather because hosting a feast at the radically open table of Jesus Christ keeps me grounded. Any haughtiness immediately exposes my divided loyalties, any deference to status or power crucifies the presence of Jesus that is tenderly enfleshed in the least of my sisters and brothers gathering together to break bread. In her wise and well-crafted little book, The Sacred Meal, Nora Gallagher helped me connect the parables of Jesus with the bread and cup of the sacrament: "Jesus' parable are as clear as water in regard to power: don't be absorbed in who is sitting at the head of the table. The last shall be first. The meek will inherit the earth."
Early in this journey, I took these stories as difficult admonitions, slightly accusatory reminders of how I should always remember those on the margins. But what I am coming to understand is that Jesus meant to say these things to himself, as much as to me. He said these things to himself because he understood that choosing the vulnerable path was the way to keep his soul alive, and protected, from the harsh realities of power. He sought out the vulnerable because they helped keep him vulnerable. And he finally came to identify with them. Jesus' compassion for those who suffer because of the powerful is, as the theologian Walter Brueggemann puts it, "a radical form of criticism," for it announces that "the hurt is to be taken seriously, that the hurt is not to be accepted as normal and natural but is an abnormal and unacceptable condition for humanness." (Gallagher, p. 20)When we gather to bless and share bread and wine in Christ's spirit, not only do we practice living into the image of God as the sacred intended - in unity, trust, humility, faith, hope and love - but we do so with a reverent playfulness much like a child. No matter what your sacramentality suggests about what is taking place during the Lord's Supper - high church or low, Roman Catholic or Reformed, consubstantiation, transubstantiation, symbol or historic rite - every person who receives the bread and the wine becomes grounded - at least for a moment. Focused, reverent and still, too. Open and receptive to human and divine love. That is why I used to tell those helping me serve communion: "There is NO wrong way to do this, ok? Because how could we ever be wrong sharing with another the love of God in Jesus Christ?" My friends would often look at me in shock. "Isn't there a correct form? Magic words? Something we MUST do?" they would ask. "Well," I would eventually reply, "you can be helpful and attentive. You can make a real connection with those you are serving. You can remind yourself that you are acting as a vessel for grace like Mary. And you can do it all with love and humility." After a long pause I would add, "But you can't do it wrong. Even if you go blank and silently stand there sharing the cup, you can't do this wrong. So don't worry. God's grace is always bigger and more creative than all our fears and failings."
Don't get me wrong: I love beautiful liturgical words and music. I revel in a well organized liturgy with carefully practiced leaders who can shepherd the faithful to the communion rail with respect and confidence. I think it is better to be well prepared than painfully casual and believe its wise to train worship leaders, too. But, as St. Paul taught, "we always have these treasures in earthen vessels, jars of clay, to show that grace is from God not ourselves." Nothing in this realm is perfect, least of all ourselves, so when something goes south, why not go with it? Laugh. Own it. Go with the flow rather than fight for control. "Remember" as author of Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, Tom Robbins, wrote on his bathroom mirror: "This is not about me." Once, in Cleveland, I was doing a wedding where the bride came from a Roman Catholic family. She wanted Eucharist at the ceremony. One of her nephews had been in trouble with the law and had just been released from a juvenile detention center. She thought it would be a sign of hope if he could help me serve the cup during communion. So I met with the young man, who was sweet but defiant, and helped him walk through the steps of the liturgy. We practiced serving people from the chalice and saying the words, "The cup of blessing poured out for the forgiveness of sins."
Everyone'e eyes were about to pop out of their heads and I thought the younger brother was going to deck his mean-spirited sibling. But in that moment the Spirit hit me - and I put my hand on the chalice bearer's arm and said out loud: "You know, you're right, this cup of blessing IS shared and poured out for all of us sons and daughters of bitches even though we don't deserve it! And that's what Jesus wanted us to know. So how 'bout you help me now and try to keep a cork in it for the rest of the wedding?" The congregation roared with laughter, the tension was diffused, and a truth was revealed about God's love that went way beyond our anything I said in the homily.
None of this is about me. And yet, I am a part of it all, too. It is about grace. And forgiveness. And the presence of the holy within our humanity. The late Brother Roger, founder of the Taize Community, liked to teach the faithful that during Lent we should remember that this "is not a time of austerity or sadness, nor a period to keep guilt alive, but a moment to sing the joy of forgiveness. He saw Lent as forty days to prepare to rediscover little springtimes in our lives." (Taize letter) Eucharist breaks up the hard soil of my heart so that the bounty of spring time might arise within and beyond me. I have seen this happen in community too. That's why I trust going back to the feast over and over again: I have to practice being vulnerable with others who are open to their vulnerability. Nothing helps me do this better than Eucharist.
Henri Nouwen used to say: "The beauty of the Eucharist is precisely that it is the place where a vulnerable God invites vulnerable people to come together in a peaceful meal. When we break bread and give it to each other, fear vanishes and God becomes very close." Maybe just for a moment. But in those moments we encounter a God who aches for us to live in unity and trust. At the feast, we taste a bit of the kingdom in our midst and it nourishes us for the journey.
On Tuesday, before we shared the bread and wine with one another at L'Arche, the liturgy called us to share our prayers aloud and then conclude with the Lord's Prayer spoken in our own native language. As I prayed in Reformed English, I heard French, Hungarian, Spanish, old school Catholicism and Vatican II words along with a few mother tongues unknown to most but clearly loved by the Lord. In that moment I encountered what Calvin believed took place in Eucharist: we are all lifted up into the mystical presence of Jesus by the power of the Holy Spirit of love. For a moment, it truly was holy ground - and we all knew it.
credits: pictures by John Comfort of L'Arche Ottawa.
credits: pictures by John Comfort of L'Arche Ottawa.
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