Receiving Communion

Scenes from a pastor's life by Zack Eswine

Photo by Rey Proenza on Unsplash

I stand, holding gluten free bread, baked fresh for the morning, by Jen, who “loves to bake it for us.”

This particular Sunday morning, I am one of a quartet. My trio of fellow servers holds out glutened bread, homemade, like the rest. Each of us are holding pottered cups and plates, filled with purple juice, and hand-torn bread pieces. Our hands are holding the pottery that Brian’s hands made.

I’m watching each person, each with their own story, slowly maneuvering out of their pews, or ambling down from the balcony. Each is finding their place in line. It’s newly October, and the scene has the feeling of a festival in fall. Strangers and friends, waiting our turn together, to taste pumpkin spice or cinnamon apple, whipped cream, or hot cider. A chili cook-off of flavored recipes, brought from home, and made for our tasting.

My son, Noah, six years old, comes running from a side door. He’s taken the shortcut to where I’m standing. He’s giggling and grabbing hold of my legs. He’s hugging and wrestling me all at the same time.

“The body of Christ broken for you,” I say, trying to hold the pottered cup steady for a woman, as little Noah lets go of me, so he can hop, hop, hop.

As the woman steps back toward everyone, I don’t let go of the pottered cup and plate, but lean down and say, “I love you, Noah.” “I know,” he says smiling, and he bounds out into the festival line.

For a moment, I’ve no one taking my gluten-free invitation, and Malachi, seeing his opportunity, bounds up and surprises me. With smiling purpose, Malachi is chewing the bread he’s just received from another member of the quartet.

“You won’t believe it, pastor. We’re 3 and 2.”

Malachi is tall. A high school senior. I glance up to him but I’m keeping my eyes forward in case someone steps toward me with their hands open for God. Malachi is talking about the football team.

“That’s awesome, Malachi!”

Malachi is happy not to hurry. He’s looking out at the supping congregation.

“I prayed in the endzone after the game, by myself, just me and God, you know? But then, (Malachi is chewing his last bit of bread), guess what! The next game, others joined me. The next game, like, the whole team came to pray. We were together. We were seeking God!”

Malachi is nodding his head savoring the present joy of a praying memory. His body is awkward but his eyes clear.

I’m thinking to myself. “These thirty years, have I ever had a conversation like this while in the act of serving the Lord’s supper to his people?”

Steph strums her guitar quietly but with no hesitation. “We will feast in the house of Zion.”

Malachi puts his arm around me. Leans down and almost whispers. “I see someone’s coming. We got to get together again soon. I got stuff to tell you.”

“I’d love it,” I say. “Let’s do it.”

Malachi pats me on the back and bounds off, threading down into the oncoming congregation, bumping a knee, saying he’s sorry about that, and climbing back toward a seat somewhere.

This has my eyes noticing Guy leaning down to the wheelchair and giving bread to Jason, his body broken, till heaven comes.

Two dear people step toward me. With each hand, I gently lift the pottered cup and plate. I don’t always know the names of those I serve. And once I accidentally called Jennifer, Grace. After the service, I scrambled to find Jennifer to let her know, that I know who she is. Her name is known and spoken.

Just as these two who stand before me now. I look into their eyes.

“Ruth, you are a loved woman,” I say. “Walter, you are a loved man.” “The body of Christ broken for you. The blood of Christ shed for you.”

“Amen,” they say. Their accents, testify to good news, that Jesus sets the table of his supper in geographies beyond my own.

As the last person is making their way back up to the balcony, the quartet begins to reassemble. It’s my turn to taste and see that the Lord is good.

I hear Scott offer the plate and cup to his wife of long, good years together. “Jesus loves you” he says. Then he whispers, “and so do I.” Katie is surprised by her laughter and says, “Jesus loves you too, Scott,” like a woman who knows what it feels like to be loved.

Sue has stepped toward me. She offers the pottered juice and bread to me. “Christ Jesus broken for you, Zack.”

I’m tasting the sweet grape juice that Mary bought at Shnucks grocery. My tongue flavored with homemade bread. I’m sliding the wood slat pulpit back to its place. The one Jon made with his own hands.

Steph has begun to add her voice to her strumming, and we, the congregation, begin to add ours. We strangers and friends, broken and shed for, we’re all singing grace words now.

“We will feast in the house of Zion.”

That was three Sundays ago. It’s a distant Monday morning. But I’m still there. Receiving Communion.