March 12
Matthew: 26:26-29
While they were eating, Jesus took a loaf of bread, and after blessing it he broke it, gave it to the disciples, and said, “Take, eat; this is my body.” 27 Then he took a cup, and after giving thanks he gave it to them, saying, “Drink from it, all of you; 28 for this is my blood of the[b] covenant, which is poured out for many for the forgiveness of sins. 29 I tell you, I will never again drink of this fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new with you in my Father’s kingdom.”
Comfort in the rituals
As I entered the church structure I could smell the old wood, feel the tears of sorrow, the cries of joy, the past lives that collectively filled the 200 year old sanctuary. The space was filled with shadows and echoes of the past, it was rich and steeped in it. The old leaded glass was faded, the names of those long ago etched on the lower portion, in honor and memory. Out the transoms you could see the old limestone headstones in the church cemetery. Some marked and others unmarked and long forgotten. One of the first of three churches in a three point charge for the Methodist circuit rider that use to move between them, this church was the only one remaining. Its sanctuary was small, and the structure was dropped down next to a field of crops backing up to the woods. The current members and none members were all related somehow. It was a family church, and it was my first appointment as a student minister. Not much about me said rural north Georgia but there I was, a northern woman, in a southern Bible belt Methodist Church.
This was a place in which the past, as most knew it, was not yet the past. Most would call it quaint as they passed through, but I was not passing through, I was in residence. It was a time of great growth for me and for them as we learned each other’s ways, and pushed each other’s limits.
At the time of my arrival at their door step, they were a congregation divided. Divided just as the center isle of the church divided the pews. Two distinct camps fighting over an injustice long forgotten. And although I did not have a horse in the race so to speak, I was expected to take a side. When I did not, things got tough. It was a tug of war for them with me in the middle, feet firmly planted in neutral territory. And I had no intention of moving, and it didn’t.
What did bring us all together during the 2 years of turmoil was the comfort of the familiar pews and the cadence of the mighty and powerful ritual of the sacrament. As good Methodists do we took to the Lords table once a month. And as we shared the pieces of bread broken from the one loaf, and dipped it in the juice from the one chalice we for an instant were united. All was at rest, all was calm and we all were comforted by the remembrance of the sacrifice of our Lord for each of us.
There can be comfort in the mighty rituals of the church. The comfort of the one body but many parts. It can tear down what divides us. Do this in remembrance of me…
Prayer: Dear Lord, as we enter into the mysteries of the sacrament of Holy Communion, draw our beating heart to a slower pace, our heavy breathing to a restful state and let the ritual wash over us. We pray Lord that it would fill us and unite us as one body with many worthy parts. Unite us to do your work in this world. Let us put aside our differences and GO into the world with renewed purpose. In your precious Sons name we pray. AMEN.
“The deepest of level of communication is not communication, but communion. It is wordless ... beyond speech ... beyond concept.”
Thomas Merton
No comments:
Post a Comment