Monday, September 9, 2019

Communion, First and Otherwise

17C, 2019
Readings, here 


I received communion for the first time when I was 8 years old.

It was the rule in my house. You went to catechism until you got your first communion—then you didn’t have to go anymore.

So, I went.

Because, it’s what you did. It’s what my Dad had done and before my Dad, his Dad, and before him his Dad’s Dad and so on and so forth.

Church until the age of reason…and then the body and the blood…and then, you were done.
At least until confirmation. But that was a long way off, and in catechism I’d already learned the Lord’s prayer, altho’ a mishearing of it had me thinking God had more children coming instead of a kingdom come, and I knew that the bread and the wine would be body and blood, and I knew that if I dropped my Bible I would need to kiss it better, and I knew about bloody Mary and had honed my fear of the dark.

And knowing all of this, I stood alongside all the other 3rd graders, hands extended for a wafer we dared not chew in a moment that seemed, somehow, anti-climactic after you’d worked the dry wafer off your palate and down your throat.

But, I rejoiced—knowing that I had Jesus in me, and that my parents wouldn’t make me go to church anymore!

I was 8, I’d eaten Jesus, and the world was my oyster!

We laugh…we laugh because so many of us share this story. Whether it was baptism, first communion or confirmation, an altar call or an immersion, we did the thing they made us do and then we politely declined the invitation to come back for more.

I couldn’t possibly, I’ve had my fill, no, no thank you…

Somehow, despite all our preparations and the hoops we were made to jump through just so that we might extend our hands so that they might be filled, many of us didn’t come back for more—some not ever, some not for a very long time. 
What happened?

(pause)

For me, it was simply that my parents didn’t go to church and didn’t make me either. Beyond what seemed their overly invested interest in that first bit of bread, my parents didn’t seem to care much about communion—first or otherwise.

But, that first communion was clearly not my last communion…and here we are. Here we are, mere minutes away from the table and the bread and the wine and the invitation.
The gifts of God, for the people of God!

So, what happened?

(pause)

What happened that we came back or showed up for the very first time? Hands extended, hands ready to be filled.

(pause)

For me, it was an invitation.

An invitation from a priest who could see past my adolescent angst and who welcomed me—me, the gay kid, the unpopular kid, the chubby kid, the poor kid. Me! 

I was welcomed without any condition—and in defiance of a world that had told me I was unworthy, I held my hands out and they were filled!

And, this, this is why I break the bread. This is why I extend the invitation. Because, no matter who you are and what the world has told you, what I tell you is that you are welcome and that God’s invitation is the only one that matters! That God’s love for you is larger than the hate of the world. That God’s abiding presence does not discriminate.

Take, eat, this is Christ’s body, broken for you!

Eating is an act of resistance. Standing alongside each other, an act of hope. The real presence, holy and mysterious, is our continual affirmation that death did not win at the cross and that evil will never triumph.

The body of Christ, broken for you.

A means of grace.

The body of Christ, our heavenly bread.

The means of grace for the hope of glory. (BCP, General Thanksgiving)

Jesus, the Christ, said, "When you give a luncheon or a dinner, do not invite your friends or your brothers or your relatives or rich neighbors, in case they may invite you in return, and you would be repaid. But when you give a banquet, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. And you will be blessed, because they cannot repay you, for you will be repaid at the resurrection of the righteous."

Jesus shared the bread with saints and sinners. He ate and drank with those deemed unworthy by religious and cultural norms. And this is why, this is why, the profligate invitation is made,
“This is God’s table, and all are welcome here!”

Here, here, at St. Clement’s. All are welcome here. For here at St. Clement’s we practice what is known in the church as “open table”. This means that you, each of you, gets to decide for yourself if you wish to receive the body and the blood. You get to decide if the time is right and you are ready to encounter God through the form of the Eucharist. There are no requirements for first communion or confirmation. You don’t need to be a member. You don’t even need to be baptized.

You just need to put out your hands in order for them to be filled.

And, with full hands and open hearts, experience may precede belief.

Belief in Christ’s presence, trust in God’s love, a table for all.

Open table has grown to be standard practice in many Episcopal Churches and Diocese—including the Episcopal Church in Minnesota. At the same time, it’s important to note that the canons of the Episcopal Church (our governing documents) restrict communion to the baptized and that clergy and congregations that practice open table are disobeying the doctrine and discipline of the church.   

Therefore, the decision to offer open table is not one made lightly and represents the movement of much of the church towards inclusion based on scriptural precedent, the evolution of theological thinking on the matter, and the centering of pastoral needs.

In short, sometimes the Spirit moves before the paperwork catches up!

That said, all that is asked of us by our own Book of Common Prayer is that, prior to receiving communion, we “examine our lives, repent of our sins, and be in love and charity with our neighbors.”

That’s a tall order but, if you think about it, repentance means we’re trying and Jesus never turned anyone away.

Open hands, full hands, open heart, full heart.

Amen.




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