Communion

As the men begin to pass the trays with the small wafers and the thimbles full of grape juice, I close my eyes and cry out to Jesus that I'm here once again, humbled and badly in need of the forgiveness He promised would be mine. Because I've made it through another week without keeping Him, His Father, and the Spirit first and foremost. I've made it through another week having spoken harsh words, passing judgment, wasting precious time and resources. I've hurt people, I've missed opportunities to "be Jesus" on the street, and I've just generally exemplified what it means to be fallen. In short, I have been exactly what He knew I would be when He did what He did.

Many look at the time of communion as a pause to reflect on what didn't go as it should have, what could have been done differently, and to offer up a heartfelt apology for falling so short of disciplined servanthood. It's also regarded as a time when the body of the church comes together in a brief and shining moment of solidarity. The historical context of breaking bread together was that all ill will, all tension in the relationship, and that all significant disagreements will be finished, moving forward in a renewed relationship. For that 5-10 minutes set aside for our devotional communion, I think maybe that happens.

But my mind always turns to the sacrifice aspect of communion. How for thousands of years, it entailed cleansing oneself through immersion in water, finding an unblemished animal to offer in lieu of one's own transgressions, the act of slitting the throat of said creature and feeling the hot, sticky blood flow while knowing that young sheep or goat or dove should, by all rights, be frolicking on a hill instead of dying because of what is essentially selfishness and rebellion. I've held a young, white, unblemished goat kid born here on our own homestead and thought of having to go through this action. Then thought of doing it week after week, as my own ego constantly overrides His plan and direction for me. It was a sobering insight.

And as I hold the sliver of wafer and the little thimble cup, thinking of Jesus' words, "do this in remembrance of me," my mind goes to an image.

It's me, standing at the gate to the Temple. I've got a whole herd of suitable young goats, each chosen to stand for all the times I turned from Adonai's way this week. But I can't enter because I'm not one of them, one of the chosen, a member of the nation of Israel. I'm not even a ger. I have no business here except for my love for Adonai and the knowledge that I've fallen far short of what I could've been. I'm overtaken with sadness that not only do I carry this crushing awareness of all the good I didn't do, I can't even approach G*D to speak with Him about it.

But then I see him. A man a ways down the wall. He's at a small gate and he beckons me. Looking at the herd following close on my heels, he inquires about them.

"This one is for all the times I showed greed and covetousness instead of sharing. This one for the many judgmental remarks I passed in my head. This one for yelling at my husband, and this one for yelling at my child. That one for not being entirely truthful. These ten for my complete inability to show humility." And on and on as I name the embarrassingly large herd that I have brought as an accounting and to sacrifice on my behalf. "But I can't get in," I say, verging on tears.

He takes my hand and begins to lead me inside. At my hesitation, he says, "It will all be different now. I've made a place for you. You can come to my Father, I'll see to it." I begin to follow, making sure the herd is still trailing, but he shakes his head, a look of kindness and melancholy all in one.

"You won't be needing those. I've got that part covered, too."

It's usually about this time I begin crying in earnest. Those around me hear me sniffling, and I've learned to carry tissues in my Bible cover's pocket. And as I come to the present moment, surrounded by my brothers and sisters in Christ, I hear a whisper from my fading "vision"…

"…I've got that part covered, too. Now please don't waste it."