Communion
My theology grew up around the kitchen table. I didn’t know it at the time, but those hours spent with pots of pinto beans, bowls of fried potatoes, and pans of buttered cornbread served as the basis for my understanding of the Lord’s Supper. That’s what it was called in the church of my youth. Back then, I knew it as the thing that happened on the Sunday before Easter. My country congregation didn’t follow what I now know as liturgy so there was no procession of palms or distribution of ashes during the week that led up to the resurrection. What we did have on the Sunday of Jesus’ return to Jerusalem included small cubes of unleavened bread passed from neighbor to neighbor through every pew, followed by small plastic cups that held a sip of grape juice.
I loved the Lord’s Supper. Even as a child, I understood what it meant to share food and drink with everyone in the room. Looking back, it’s the only time I knew that everyone actually was welcome.
My experience in the Catholic Church was a little different.
When you know what is happening during Mass, what to say and when to say it, when to stand and when to kneel, and how to receive the bread and wine, it really is holy. The prayers and movements that have been repeated by millions of believers over almost two thousand years of worship connect you to a congregation that expands far beyond the walls of the church. The reverence for the sacrament of bread and wine invites you to step into a heavenly meal. It is mystical, magical, miraculous.
And it is exclusive.
When I made the choice to convert to Catholicism, I understood that I would not be able to participate in Communion until I was fully received in the church. This meant time spent in study and reflection, conversations with male deacons, confession with a male priest, and a sponsor to walk with me through the whole process, known as the Rite of Christian Initiation for Adults. For the last part, I asked for, and was paired with, a woman.
On the day of my confirmation, I was joined by graduate school friends, back home friends, and my ex-husband. Among the group, there were pastors and priests in the making, though none in the denomination I would soon claim as my own. There were members of the Methodist and Disciples of Christ churches, current and former Baptists, and an atheist. There was a farmer, a teacher, and a grounds worker. And there was one Catholic.
It looked a lot like the kitchen table theology of my childhood.
Around that table, my mom, sister, and I would browse through old cookbooks, looking for the most disgusting recipe. Better Homes and Gardens, Taste of Home, Betty Crocker, Good Housekeeping, and a collection of church and school compilations—often issued as fundraisers—led us to JELL-O salads (with and without meat), ham and bananas hollandaise, and too many opportunities for Miracle Whip.
Around that table, I shared meals with my parents, siblings and their partners, aunts and uncles, cousins, friends, coworkers, mission workers who built a handicap-accessible ramp on my parents’ home, county jail inmates, and my ex-husband.
Around that table, I contributed more than one but less than five pieces to the array of puzzles my dad and mom completed over 35 years of marriage. I wrapped Christmas presents, finished homework, drank coffee, and smoked cigarettes.
Around that table, I took my first Communion a la biscuits and red eye gravy.
As I stood in front of priest and answered, “I do,” to the many things he asked me if I believed, thus professing my faith to the congregation, I was anointed with oil and sealed with the gift of the Holy Spirit. After the study and reflection, conversations, confession, and a sponsorship that turned into friendship, I was in. It was mystical, magical, miraculous.
And it was exclusive.
When I was finally able to take in the blessed bread and wine, I was joined by my one Catholic friend and the former teacher whose time in a Catholic school taught her to cross her arms in front of her chest to receive a blessing. Out of respect for or a lack of familiarity with the rules, everyone else stayed in the pews. They were who I saw when I made my way back from my first Holy Communion as a Catholic.
They could see the table, but they could not pull up a chair.
They could smell the biscuits and red eye gravy, but they could not taste.
They could celebrate for me, but they could not celebrate with me.
My final initiation into the Roman Catholic Church became the starting point for my eventual departure.
What we did share after Mass was Mexican food. Chips and salsa, dishes served with hot queso, frozen margaritas, and a lot of laughter. The pastors and priests in the making, the Methodists and Disciples of Christ, the current and former Baptists, the atheist, the farmer, the teacher, the grounds worker, and the two Catholics ate and drank and celebrated my version of the Lord’s Supper. Everyone actually was welcome.
It looked a lot like the kitchen table theology of my childhood.
I know there are theological justifications for the rules, but I disagree. With every decision made to exclude someone from receiving Communion, I disagree. This is admittedly risky to say out loud, but I do not believe that religious affiliation (Christian or other), baptismal status, stance on abortion, political party, sexual orientation, gender, or favorite basketball team should keep any human from God’s bread.
It is the most ungodly thing to do, to say, “No, not you.”
I recently saw a small Jesus figure laying upside down on the sidewalk outside a basilica in Asheville, NC, and took him home as a souvenir. My husband joked that I literally found Jesus at the Roman Catholic Church. I remembered the days when I would have entered through the doors and repeated the prayers and movements that connected me to a congregation that expands far beyond the walls of the church. I will always, always, always be grateful for those mystical, magical, miraculous pieces of my story. I will always, always, always wish it could be different. If, or when, it ever is, I will pull up two chairs. One for me, one for you.
The Bus Parables 