myopic pilgrim

I wrote this a couple of years ago when it was just Mateo and me in the morning.

It’s morning. I’m feeding my son breakfast. He likes cinnamon waffles. He can’t say waffles, but he can say nana (for banana), which I feed him first while the frozen waffle toasts.

The bell on the toaster oven rings and I pull out the warmed disc. I hold it up so my son can see it. I hold it high like a priest raising the Holy Host up to heaven. He sighs ah like his mother taught him to do when he’s happy. I give thanks for my son and his mother and break it in two. I save one half for later and tear the other half into bite-sized pieces.

He receives the first piece from my hand. Ah, he exhales, content. Ah, I intone.

Do you know how silly I feel saying crackers and grape juice when referring to communion elements? Even more silly than saying bread and wine when referring to crackers and grape juice.

Our first communion at Ascent: we invite people to examine their hearts before rising out of their seat to go to the communion table which was set off to the side. We encourage people to invite those sitting near them to celebrate the rite. Communion is, in part, our celebration of the unity between the Church and the Christ. It was never meant to be performed alone. One or two approach the table alone.

I don’t have the opportunity to participate. I’m too busy playing guitar. I shouldn’t be so concerned about setting the mood, but I can’t help myself. In my effort to create a place of active worshipers, I’ve placed myself and others in a position of passive spectators. We sing and we watch as others experience and engage God.

There are some leftover cups of Welch’s grape juice at the end of the evening. Three people, tray of tiny communion cups in hand, are drinking the grape juice that wasn’t used. It reminds me of the Roman Catholic practice of priests consuming the leftover wine (if one believes the bread and wine are truly Christ’s body and blood then one can’t just leave it lying around). Something in me cringes as they (we) guzzle the deep purple liquid down, throwing them back like frat boys downing shots of tequila, when only moments before, the juice was part of our sacred remembrance.