Over the weekend, I shared a meal with a group of friends. Every month we gather together, fellowship, eat, and then have communion.
Communion has always been a special, but sometimes confusing time for me. Growing up, I attended a church where we had communion once a quarter. We passed the silver trays of miniature saltine crackers and plastic thimbles of juice. I ate, I drank, but felt little.
In my college years, we traded the crackers for 99 cent loaves of French bread from Wal-mart. But it was a Baptist college, so we held onto the Welch’s grape juice. There, the act of communion began to take more shape. I vividly remember a time when we tore off the bread, dipped it into the juice, then served it to someone else in the room. I cupped my hand under the dripping, purple-stained bread and offered it to someone who I had struggled to love in the past. I ate, I drank, and felt a little more.
As an adult, I still struggle to know how I should feel when I take communion. Sometimes I hold the wafers with the edges biting into my fingers, wanting to feel the tiniest fraction of His pain. I have taken communion in a common cup, felt the bitter wine in my throat. I have picked up crumbs of crackers while tears streamed down my cheeks. Stared down at the tiny cup of juice in my hand, feeling too burdened to even raise my head.
Which brings me to this weekend. We passed a small styrofoam plate filled with broken crackers. We ate, in remembrance of Him. Then a little girl walked around with a small tray of Dixie cups. Each cup held an inch of juice. We drank, in remembrance of Him.
And what happened next changed how I felt about communion. That little girl who had passed around the juice held her cup to her lips. She gulped it down, brought the cup away from her mouth, and uttered the most satisfied “ahhhhhhhh” I’ve ever heard.
It was the sound of thirst quenched. The satisfied sound of Living Water on a dry soul. It may have been socially inappropriate, but it was the most appropriate response to communion I had ever heard.
And suddenly what kind of bread didn’t matter. Juice versus wine was irrelevant. Even my emotions were unimportant.
It was really all about a hungry heart and the Bread of Life. A thirsty soul and the Living Water.
And the satisfied “ahhhh” of a child cared for by her Father.
