Few things can remind you of your identity more than returning to your roots. Over the holiday break I was lucky enough to join Norwalk Christian Church not once, but three times for worship. Everyone seems older – from my grandparents’ friends to my parents’ Sunday school class to the preschoolers who are now in junior high – everyone has matured a little. There’s one thing that my home congregation won’t mature beyond … and seeing the sign unearthed most of my beliefs about communion:
That’s right. My home church has a sign on our microwave that says “Please do not nuke the communion bread ~ Thanks!!” For those who would normally be appalled at this sign, please restrain yourself. There’s a reason for it.
Anecdote 1: Mutilated Body
My home church has three worship services and I think about three different ways we do communion.
- Sometimes the words of institution are said up at the communion table and the deacons then take the trays of wafers (they’re in between the size of chiclets and pellets) and individual plastic cups of grape juice and go serve the rows of parishioners in the pews.
- Other times the words of institution are said and the parishioners file down the center aisle to tear off a piece of the one broken loaf and then drink from the individual communion cups.
- And yet other times the words of institution are said and the parishioners tear off a piece of bread and dip it into the communion cup. This method’s name is often touted by those wanting to show off advanced knowledge of the Eucharist that isn’t that advanced : intinction.
Norwalk Christian Church has so many ways of doing communion, and yet there are some lessons it took time to learn. One lesson is captured so well by the above sign. For two years, during my junior and senior years of high school, my congregation got in the habit of freezing our communion bread when we bought it in bulk and then thawing it before church. It would normally make sense for someone to come in on Friday or Saturday and take the frozen bread and put it in the refrigerator so that it thawed at a slow pace. For some reason, a very dedicated church member came early on Sunday mornings and microwaved the then-frozen communion bread so it would be ready for our 8:30am service.
The problem with microwaving communion bread: it changes substance — and not in a good way. It loses its semblance of bread and becomes a crumbly, arid matter that loses shape when grabbed by fingers and, when it absorbs grape juice, loses all self-attachment by falling apart in the cup. It’s not a good thing; hence, the sign that says not to nuke the communion bread. It’s a wonder it took us so long to put up the sign of prevention.
Anecdote 2: Protecting the Eucharist
Two summers ago I attended an FTE conference in Austin, TX for my ministry fellowship the following summer. At the conference, I attended a workshop by David White on drama, games and Christian Education. David’s workshop used curriculum from Augusto Boal that uses dramatic enactments to empower Liberation Theology. During the workshop, one of our games was to have each person act as a cog in a machine. We each did one action repeatedly in response to the rest of the system at work. David gave us the challenging task of creating a machine that reflected “Church.”
I started the group by choosing the Eucharist the center to everything the church does. I stepped into the center of the room, lifted my hands, looked up and said, “This is my Body.” After doing this a couple of times, my roommate from TCU (Richard Newton), also an FTE fellow, came up to me and put both arms out into a < (“less-than sign”) and pointed at me and went “bewwwh” in a high-pitched R2-D2-esque voice. That disturbed some other people and one of them came up between Richard and I and said “No!” every time he did it. That response confused both Richard and I, but the machine kept on going as more and more people added their actions to reflect the church. David tagged several members and had them step out of the scene to observe what was going on throughout the whole system. After we kept it going for ten minutes, David asked the group stop and debrief. He had us explain why each of us chose our actions and what that said about the rest of the system.
One of the best insights came when Richard tried to explain his action. While some people thought he was a weapon attacking the Eucharist, he explained it as the modern phenomenon of using digital projection technology to show the elements of a worship service to everyone. We understood the action, but we also understood the person interjecting and saying “No!” They both were valid actions happening in the church. It became an enlightening interpretive exercise, however, when David asked us who thought the person saying, “No!” was trying to deny the Eucharist to someone. Then we reflected on one of our group’s greatest fruits: while I was acting out the Eucharist, someone was beside me on their knees crying and asking for assistance. I was the cog in motion and had to keep doing my action. But I was very aware of her presence. Then someone joined her on the ground and started singing “Amazing Grace.” The machine with its many cogs subconsciously shifted its pace to match the tempo and cadence of the song’s verses. It was beautiful. From the chaos and routine of the machine came misinterpretations in which people simultaneously supplied and denied the Eucharist. There was the clear image that in giving bread to some, the church forgets to give bread to others. This exercise rattled one of my most central faith beliefs: “there’s no reason to ever be denied communion.” Maybe there are very good reasons to be denied communion, or at least deny it for yourself: when our communion ignores the needs of the world and serves only ourselves.
Anecdote 3: Shut Down and Forgotten
Last summer I volunteered at my denomination’s General Assembly. I was a photographer for our denominational magazine, DisciplesWorld. During our business and worship sessions, I would walk around on the arena floor taking pictures of the assembly – both the leaders on the stage and the church members in the seats. I developed a camaraderie with the other people in the media pool and many of us talked after the worship services.
One evening, one of the videographers came into the room agitated and furious. We’d just finished an assembly-wide prayer service, so this was the last thing we expected to see. He explained to the fifteen media members loitering in the press office that he’d just had a regional minister stop him from videoing the prayer sessions because he was intruding on other people’s right to worship. He was appalled and offended because she implied to him that he wasn’t doing it as an act of worship. Such a statement resonated with many of us photographers and videogr
aphers since it encapsulated why we were volunteering our time, equipment and expertise. Our ministries, even though they involved technology, were acts of worship. This videographer was shut down from his service in fear that he was intruding on others’ chances to worship.
aphers since it encapsulated why we were volunteering our time, equipment and expertise. Our ministries, even though they involved technology, were acts of worship. This videographer was shut down from his service in fear that he was intruding on others’ chances to worship.
The next evening the worship service included a communion service. At this service the conference organizers chose to serve people by rows rather than having them process up to communion stations. This required a large amount of coordination and servers – and for the most part, they did it very well. We saw the servers take care and serve every row and serve the people on the stage. But there was an unvoiced ripple of dismay when the servers unintentionally forgot to serve the entire row of photographers standing on the side of the arena floor. We were lined up against the far wall, flanking the press table, and we were forgotten.
I normally don’t mind not having communion. When I’m in a Catholic mass, for instance, I mentally prepare myself to not take it. I process up for a blessing or I stay in my seat – but there’s never the feeling that I’m not part of the service. Even my absence in the ritual is a sign within the full community that I’m still present and that it’s not a perfect Eucharist. This was not so with the General Assembly communion service. Even though I was present, I was forgotten.
