Yesterday was Easter. It was just the second Sunday to be in our new church building; we’ve been meeting in an elementary school for almost six years. (Sitting on hard metal folding chairs. Oh, my aching back & butt.)
As usual, our pastor had a unique twist on a passage that I’ve heard about a million sermons on. My main take-away was that even if we’re not doing the very best job possible in searching for Jesus, if we are making the effort to find Him, He will not scold us for ‘not being good enough’.
Then it was time for the Eucharist. Peanut was sitting next to me; she always looks forward to taking Communion. I remember being six and eight years old and begging my parents to let me have a bread crumb and little glass of watered-down Welch’s. But I wasn’t allowed, because at that point I had not been baptized, and baptism had to be checked off the list first before you were “approved” to partake of the Lord’s Supper. Since I was too scared to face getting dunked in front of a bunch of people, I was denied my wish.
We haven’t taken that approach with the Peanut. She’s not ready to be baptized (she’s scared too!) but she understands what Communion means.
As we swallowed the juice and Peanut collected our cups, it took me back to when I was a little kid and went around afterwards to collect the cups, too. Only it wasn’t to throw them away. I carefully poured each remaining drop into one single cup until there was enough collected for one swallow.
It might not have been the most germ-free way to take Communion, but it was the only option I had. It was the best way I could figure out to go looking for Jesus and to find Him in the sacrament of His Body and His Blood.