Back at the church I grew up in, we took communion once a month. And I don't think I ever really looked forward to it.
The elements would be distributed while contemplative (bordering solemn) music played, and the pastor would then declare that this was Christ's body and blood, broken and shed for our sins. At some point after my baptism at 14 years, someone had taught me that communion was a time to reflect on Christ's death, and for my sins which required such a sacrifice. So for as long as I can remember, each communion I bowed my head in silent grief for the countless sins I knew I had committed in the last month (or longer). I tried to dredge up sufficient regret and repentance for my iniquities by imagining how torturous these mistakes of mine had been for Christ on the cross. Then as the offering plate came my way, I quickly gulped the grape juice and swallowed the dry saltine with heaviness in my heart, trying to believe that Christ's sacrifice wasn't all in vain since it felt like I was crucifying him over and over by my stubborn sinfulness.
I rarely left those particular services feeling any positive emotions, aside from determination to not repeat those same sins over again. But in these past few months with the Fellows, I've been starting to look at communion differently.
Each Sunday at Church of the Redeemer -- after the praise songs, the readings of the Word, the sermon, the recitation of the Nicene Creed, the prayers, the confession, the peace -- at the very end and climax of the service, the congregation is finally invited to participate in a feast. The members of the body are called up to the front of the room, from their kneeling positions of confession into a tall, bold walk towards the altar. Men and women in both clergy robes and lay-person attire offer me the bread and cup with a knowing smile, as if sharing with me a gift of sweets they had recently enjoyed themselves. The music is bright and joyful, swelling to a roar as the congregation gradually returns to their pews, the warmth of wine still on their tongues that are together exalting God for his mighty work and His anticipated return. And though the celebration is brief, the sweetness lingers as we leave the sanctuary, knowing that we will celebrate once again in just seven days - and ultimately at the wedding banquet, when Christ returns for his bride.
In our Church History course readings, I've learned that Eucharist has been practiced with different emphasis throughout history. The early church saw it as a foretaste of the heavenly joys to come, and in fact celebrated Eucharist with a full meal. (The word Eucharist is in fact literally translated "thanksgiving.") Around the Middle Ages, however, the focus of the service shifted to death, sin and repentance, and the manner of partaking was more akin to a funeral service than a feast.
My early communion experiences had more of that Middle Age vibe; now, however, I actually feel like the elements are actually nourishing me as "spiritual food" with peace and joy. I haven't made up my mind on exactly what I'm consuming when I take communion, but I can appreciate how a physical, tangible thing like ordinary bread and wine can be of great spiritual value. It allows me to thank God with both my mind and my body for the grace He has provided and is still actively providing. It reminds me of the fullness of joy that will come someday with the fullness of Christ's kingdom, and that I am sharing the same hope of saints throughout the ages. And it is a greater and greater mystery each time I obey Christ's command to "do this in remembrance of me..."
