Wholly Bible: A View from the Pew

Communion Rail Drama

By RAY WADDLE

At church the other day I went up for communion, distracted.

My head was a swirl of useless, impatient thoughts far from the matter at hand, the body and blood of Jesus.

The prayers had been said, and now it was time to approach the rail, my wife behind me. Good — I was glad to get up and walk toward the altar, hoping for a spiritual break through my mental fog.

Now I waited on bent knees like so many times before. The minister leaned over to each person in turn, moving competently, dispensing the little beige pieces of bread, heading closer, closer.

She skipped me.

My face froze. What just happened? Cool reason horned in: She’s out of bread, I thought.

No. She continued on to the others; I could see plenty of wafers in her hand.

OK, theory two: She’s mad at me. It was something I wrote in the local paper, where I do a regular column on the world of spiritual trends and religious debates. That stuff is finally catching up with me. She sent the column to a faraway ecclesiastical oversight board, where people in thick robes are even now reviewing my spiritual status, suspending my communion privileges meanwhile.

I glanced at my wife next to me. She gave me a stricken look. I slowed my breathing to keep from panicking. Maybe the minister will reconsider. She’ll double back and forego all the red tape of a theological inquisition.

But this was embarrassing. Did others notice? Now she came around with the cup. Some churches teach that taking just one of the elements has the same spiritual effect as taking two. So I’d settle happily for the blood.

She skipped me again.

This was serious. This felt like excommunication — a passive-aggressive 21st-century version. No formal accusation, no opportunity for exoneration, no confrontation at all. My columns were dispatching me to the lake of fire. This suddenly made sense. Who was I kidding, writing about religious controversy week after week? Not this church. I should find another line of work.

Everyone slowly rose from their spots and filed silently back to their seats. Should I wait there and force a showdown? My defiance lasted two seconds. I turned and trudged back to the pew, heavy, hot-faced, stricken. I’d never felt so alone in church.

After the benediction, I approached the minister in the greeting line. I had to say something. I tried to shrug and smile. “You skipped me.”

Now she looked stricken, hand covering mouth. Oh no! she exclaimed. An accident. First time in 20 years. She simply didn’t see me. I quickly theorized that my blue blazer, in the half light, caused a smudgy momentary blind spot in her ministerial eye.

Others were in line behind me, but she motioned to me to follow her right now back to the railing. I kneeled again and she handed me the bread. I clutched it at last, especially hard, then took the chalice, gratefully.

Now I felt full. A loaves-and-fishes fullness. I had been bizarrely bereft, denied, but now fortified. A few minutes before, I had known panic. I felt a subtraction, an emptiness, all triggered by this small accidental botch at the communion rail. When the frantic moment was corrected, I was part of the story again, the extraordinary story.

After communion that day, I stepped out into the noon breeze and crowded parking lot. In front of me was the church, a buzzing city of people trying to figure things out, and the image of Jesus imprinted on the present moment. Taking those communion elements, I rejoined the story — the Last Supper, Jesus’ outstretched hand, his words, “Come to me all you who are heavy laden, and I will refresh you.” Because of communion, an exuberance fills the empty spaces. It’s what believers carry around inside, the image of God, revived in memory and action.

So I was thankful for the little drama at church that day. But I will never wear that blue blazer to church again.

—Columnist Ray Waddle is author of
Against the Grain: Unconventional Wisdom from Ecclesiastes.