Thoughts on serving communion for the first time

I went for decades without taking communion. That's because I went for decades attending church extremely sporadically. And that, in turn, is because the trajectory of my outlook on spiritual matters was typical of an American of my generation during the last four decades of the twentieth century. I cut all ties to the mainline Protestant training I'd received in my youth and rushed headlong into every esoteric approach to spirituality I came across. I even, as a result of some relationships I entered into along the way, spent some time in the pop-mysticism "transformational' trenches.

At the end of that portion of my journey, I was basically a secular agnostic. I wasn't an atheist, but I felt as if the whole matter of a creative force and its relationship to the universe didn't warrant a high priority among my list of concerns.

Then I noticed something interesting: The people I admired most in my life, the ones who seemed to exude the most maturity, wisdom and humility, were Christians. That aroused my curiosity. I began attending church. My first foray was a nondenominational community church. I don't know if this speaks to the lack of depth I was bringing to the quest at the time or not, but I bailed basically over the music. (I still have a problem with the way music is approached in many, if not most, worship settings.) I'd be kind of caught up in the exuberance of the atmosphere and then I'd find myself thinking, oh, sheesh, here come the jangling guitars.

So I tried Catholic Mass for about a year. I liked the ritual of it - the robes and incense, the lectionary readings from the Old and New Testaments and something from one of the Gospels. I liked the hierarchy, the assurance of structure.

Still, my remaining sticking points (something I've written about her at LITD and may have occasion to again) weren't getting answered. I suppose if I'd attended any of the open-to-the-public Catholic informal-discussion groups around town (one met in a pub), it may have helped. But what I did was bail.

Then I became friends with a student in one of the classes I teach at our local community college, a recovering addict with similar music tastes to mine. We talked a lot, about a wide variety of things, during break. He had become a lay minister, and intended to attend divinity school upon graduation. After he graduated, I'd see him around town and give lip service to coming to hear him preach. He was ensconced in a small, rural Methodist church the congregation of which skews older.

In January 2015, I finally made good on it.

To cut to the chase, I found my home, and, more importantly, I found myself being drawn in by what I can now see was the Holy Spirit. I went all in - contributing dishes to pitch-ins, helping with vacation Bible school, occasionally performing during the special-music portion of the service.

I'm not a member of that church or even a Methodist, but I'd take communion, as one is welcome to do in that denomination, and with every passing first Sunday of the month, it came to mean more to me. I'd take my small glass and my bread cube and kneel at the rail and let myself be fully exposed, to the depths of my being, to my bone and marrow, to Him who knows the number of hairs on my head.

I still considered myself a fledgling Christian until earlier this year. Part of my sense that I'd grown past that designation was the realization that crud like sin and doubt wasn't something one put away after the initial stages of the journey. Mature Christians are as besotted with foibles as the babes.

Still, I wasn't ready for what was suddenly thrust upon me a couple of weeks ago. The gentleman who generally helps the pastor with communion was out of town, and as the service progressed to the point for communion, I wondered what the pastor was going to do. After reciting the recounting of what Jesus did at that Last Supper, he gestured to me and asked me to come up and help.

I collected as much composure as I could and came forward. I held the tray with the glasses and as each congregant came forward, I looked him or her in the eye and said, "This is the blood of Christ, shed for you."

Maybe there are people in this world who can carry out that task perfunctorily, but the sense of responsibility I felt must surely be akin to that assumed by most surgeons an airline pilots. There was also the matter of trying not to let them see that I was on the verge of blubbering like an emotional mess.

To pass on the substance of the Word made flesh to one's brothers and sisters is an honor and a solemn assignment. You are passing along the truly mystical intersection between Heaven and Earth.

I did do a bit of blubbering when I got to my car after the service. I felt as if I'd taken a step onto a new level of the ascent towards the throne.

This is serious stuff. I never could jive God, even when I thought I could. But now that I've asked Him to show himself at work in my life, I truly understand there is no hiding place. I asked for his guidance, and I got it. He'll know instantly if I turn back.

In a way, it's really simple, as Pastor Dereck said this past Sunday. You just say "yes" to him.

But once you do, you're going to start getting grownup assignments. You don't want to flub them. Although he'll still love you if you do. Ask Peter.

By the way, my pastor graduated from divinity school Saturday. I'm one proud former teacher.