In these pandemic-cautious years, I’ve missed taking communion in the front of the church. Now we sit in our pews and pass individualized cups and little baggies with bread inside. It’s a sweet, personal experience, but it’s not the same.
In recent—but pre-pandemic—years, I started to keep my eyes open throughout communion. I didn’t pray a personal prayer of confession or even thanksgiving. Instead, I watched as everyone approached the altar, received the bread and the wine and the words that these represent Christ’s body and blood, given for them.
It helped me remember that God looks on each of these people—the young, the old, the wobbly, the strong, the cranky, the spirited, the one struggling with addiction, the one enduring a divorce, the one celebrating a new job, the one mourning a friend who died—God looks on each of these people and loves them. The ones I would be tempted to disregard or avoid or judge. Those are the ones God welcomes. Those are the ones God longs to embrace.
Looking at all those varied people, helped me remember that I was one of them. Bedraggled in some way or another, needy, sometimes grumpy and anxious and occasionally grateful. And always beloved.
And maybe that’s what that bread and wine is all about. The simplicity of abundant and generous love.
More with Amy Julia:
- S5 E22 | Disability and the Speed of Love with Dr. John Swinton
- Really Good Bacon and the Expansive Love of God
- FREE RESOURCE: 5 Ways to Experience God’s Love and Practice Peace
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