Recoiling from Communion

In our quest to find out more about Dallas churches since I retired in June, we recently entered a magnificent place. The people were friendly who greeted us in the foyer. As folks entered the sanctuary they became quiet. It seemed to be a holy place. I liked it immediately. At the time for Passing the Peace, the mother and daughter in the pew ahead of us complimented John on his singing.  We felt at home.

Then the liturgy began. Masculine words for God and humans grated on me. I struggled. "Forgive it, Diana. Let it go," I said to myself. 

Thankfully the music was exquisite. The sermon was well prepared and right on the mark for Advent. "Be open to God," the preacher observed. "Take time to be quiet. Take time for God." I was thrilled we had come, and tried to imagine myself as a member there.

The Great Thanksgiving began. We stood. I struggled to balance two worship books and the bulletin on the top of the pew ahead of us. Trying to find my place and worrying that one of the books would drop, I missed out on quite a bit. But then came our turn to go down the aisle. "Ah, partaking," I thought to myself, "that's familiar!" 

My first Sunday at Grace UMC

"The body of Christ, given for you."

(I remembered all the years of offering communion as a pastor. How it was a time of relating to the person standing or kneeling in front of me, that golden cord connecting us. You know how it is when you squint your eyes looking at a candle flame? That's what it is like, relating to the people you're serving. The golden light is that fragile bond asking us to connect to God in a way that perhaps we never had before. Sharing the sacrament. A holy time, communion. A precious time of connecting.)

I cupped my hands and was given a wafer ("The body of Christ, given for you"). Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a server offering the chalice to the person on my right. I quickly thought, "I don't want to drink from the common cup today. I'll just do what I've done a hundred times before: intinction." 

When the woman came to me ("The blood of Christ, given for you"), I proceeded to dip the wafer in the cup. As if I were a RATTLESNAKE ready to attack her, she stepped back, recoiling in horror, guarding the chalice from me....

"Do I belong here?"

I can't begin to express what this did. I don't even know all that it did. All I know is that when we returned to the pew, I said to John, "I'm done with this church." After hearing an elegant postlude on the organ, John asked me what had happened. As I explained what I've just told you, tears rolled down my cheeks. I struggled hard to collect myself because I wanted to tell the preacher how much I appreciated her sermon. 

When we got to the foyer and shook her hand, I told her what happened. "Was there an unwritten rule that that I broke? Something that wasn't printed for visitors?" I asked. She said, "Yes, you are supposed to..." I didn't hear the rest of her explanation because by this point, I couldn't control my tears. "I will tell the other clergy about this," she said. "I hope you'll come back."

Could I "forgive it and let it go?"

****

In November we docked at the Haifa port. It was going to be a long day as we traveled by bus to Jerusalem. I was exhilarated at walking the streets of the Old City again. Magnificent! But I also knew that not everyone has the same rights of passage as we did.

We entered the outskirts of the city. I reached for John's hand. We hadn't been in Israel since The Wall had been built, keeping Palestinians from free access of their homeland.

Many of the Palestinian Christians and 

Muslims have emigrated. The struggle to remain connected was too fierce a struggle. It is a complicated situation, made worse by actions taken on both sides that make the other side recoil in fear or anger or tribalism or habit or unwritten rules that The Other isn't following.

Can they forgive and let it go?

****

I am reminded of the birth of Jesus. No room for him in a dignified hotel. 

I am reminded of the flight to Egypt. There was no room for him in ancient Israel.

Old City of Jerusalem: Holy Land for Christian, Jew, Muslim

I am reminded of the thousands and millions of people every day who have no place to belong. Who are not welcome. Who are kept out by the recoiling of someone else. 

I wonder what can be done? What do you do? Do you say, "I'm done with this ______?" (Fill in the blank.) But what if this Church, this Universal Church, is all we have? What if this country, this tenement, this family, this amount of resources is all we have? What then?

Who do we block out?
Who blocks us out?
Why?

There's got to be a way -- a quest -- to make "holy land"/"communion" available for everyone. Where everyone is welcome. Where resources are shared, not guarded for oneself only. There's got to be a way to let that gold light of Love shine between and among people everywhere. Not just for some. But for everyone. 

Isn't there?

Holy Land/Communion