From bread to Body

I grew up in the Church of the Brethren. In the church where I grew up, they only celebrated communion – they called it Love Feast – twice a year. (The twice a year, from what I understand, was a congregational choice rather than a denominational doctrine.) One of these was always Maundy Thursday, and the second, as I recall, fell sometime in October, usually on a Sunday evening. There would be a period of preparation in the sanctuary, after which everyone would move to the Fellowship Hall. All of the women would sit at tables at the far end of the room, and all of the men would sit at tables at the other end. (I don’t know why it was separate. A nod to Old Testament roots? Maybe.) I recall it being a dark event – the lights would be off and there would be several candles on each table.

The Love Feast began with a simple meal. It was some sort of beef with broth. There was white bread mixed in, and while I generally despise soggy bread, there was something amazing about this. I remember thinking it was the best food I’d ever tasted.

After the meal, basins of water were brought out to each table, and we’d wash each others’ feet. (As someone with extremely ticklish feet who risked the disapproving glares of mother and grandmother for giggling, I hated this part.) A basin of water for washing hands followed the foot washing.

Then, it was time for the “Love Feast.” Lined up down the center of each table were a set of wooden blocks. There were four circles cut out of each of the blocks, which held thimble-sized cups of grape juice. Stacked in between the cups were two pieces of unleavened bread.

The bread was made the day before “Love Feast” by the wives of the deacons. (Or maybe the day of. Those details are blurry at this point. )I was never allowed in the church kitchen while this was happening, but I recall some mixing, putting it into jelly roll pans, baking it in the oven, and then cutting it into the pieces that fit snuggly between the two rows of little cups. I think maybe a fork was used to “perforate” each piece. During the “Love Feast,” at the appropriate time, people on opposite sides of the table would each hold an end of the piece of bread while the story of the Last Supper was read from a Gospel. When the reader said, “Do this in memory of me,” we would break the bread, like splitting a wishbone. (Really. It was just like that.) And the bread was very, very chewy. Dense. Strange.
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My first experience of receiving communion every Sunday was in the Lutheran church, with High School Boyfriend. Even though it was more recent, the details are less clear. (By more recent, I mean, nearly ten years ago.) I seem to remember there being one loaf of bread, which Pastor Terri (Yes, a woman.) would tear in half during the prayers (Again, blurry details. It was like the Eucharistic prayer, but Lutheran? ) and then each person would come up and tear off a piece of the bread. Or maybe she would tear off the piece and hand it to us. Seriously, can’t remember. The bread was a normal loaf of bread. I mean, not split-top, sandwich sliced bread. But it was… bread. Fluffy, soft, crusty.

There were the thimble-sized cups again, but these were filled with wine. I do remember the first time I received communion in the Lutheran church, High School Boyfriend said, “Remember, it’s real wine.” I waved him off; it wasn’t a big deal. I may have been from a grape juice kind of church, but how bad could a little wine be? I took the cup, drank the smaller-than-a-shot amount of wine… and I coughed. I thought my chest was on fire. And my ears. And my face was beet read. (Okay, so we know I wasn’t drinking alcohol during my high school days…)
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My first Mass was in the chapel of one of the Marianist houses on campus. I assisted one of the brothers with his class during the first semester of my second year, and he had invited me to dinner as a gesture of gratitude. Mass would take place before dinner, and I was also invited for Mass. I explained that I wasn’t Catholic; that I’d never been to Mass. He said it was okay; they wouldn’t bring out the snakes on my first visit. (Really. He said that.) There were maybe ten people present the first time I encountered the Eucharist. All I remember is being completely overwhelmed by the responses.

My second encounter was just a few weeks later – Christmas on Campus Mass. There were, seemingly, ten thousand people present. (Maybe not 10,000. But a lot. The place was packed.) It was there, in those weeks before Christmas, with a two hundred person choir, (Again, maybe not quite that many, but a lot.) and a poinsettia procession, and liturgical dancers, that I realized there was something different about this communion that I could not receive. I remember watching the people leave their seats, file past me, receive this mysterious wafer, and return to their seats. It was different. I didn’t understand how. I didn’t understand why I couldn’t receive it. But I knew it was different.

About a year prior to my first Mass experience, I had started questioning matters of faith. I never questioned the existence of God. I knew God was real. But I wasn’t sure that I believed everything I had been taught to believe about God. I assumed the questions I was asking would be answered in ways that would affirm that which I had believed my entire life. When my questions kept leading to a comparison between what I was raised with, and what the Catholic Church taught, I figured it was just a matter of environment. I was, after all, at a Catholic university. I was terrified at the first inkling that maybe, just maybe, God was calling me to the Catholic Church.

I was at Christmas on Campus Mass, because my boyfriend’s parents had invited us to join them. Boyfriend didn’t show up. Jesus did.

For the first time in my life, “I am the Bread of Life,” made perfect sense. “This is my body,” did not really mean “This is a piece of bread that represents my body.” It meant, “This is my body.” And that was confusing. Terrifying, even.

As I progressed through RCIA (three times, over five years), Real Presence was not something I struggled to embrace. (The Mass response, “Lord, I am not worthy to receive you, but only say the word and I shall be healed,” on the other hand… that was devastating. ) The journey, the thought process, the whole experience of conversion is another post (or ten), but by the time I received Eucharist for the very first time, I believed that Christ was truly present. It was in my third year of working in parish ministry, however, that I really, in a very real, tangible way, came to understand Christ present in the Eucharist.

One of my responsibilities as CRE was to be a Eucharistic minister during the PREP Masses. As I distributed the Body of Christ on that Monday evening in October, I became very aware of people’s hands.

“The Body of Christ.”

Rough, cracked, calloused hands of the parish maintenance man, slightly stained from the days of working in dirt and grease and grime.

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

Pale, fragile hands of the elderly woman, a matriarch to this parish. Her skin translucent, slightly blue from the visible veins. Her fingers, slightly gnarled from arthritis.

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

Smooth, young hands of a fourth grader. Also slightly blue, but from ink rather than veins.

“Amen.”

“The Body of Christ.”

Thick, strong hands of a farmer. Perfectly manicured, gold and diamond laden hands of the Room Mom. Tiny, hesitant hands of third graders.

“Amen.” “Amen.” “Amen.”

All of these hands reaching out. Reaching for Jesus. Jesus. Not a chewy representation. Not ordinary bread. They wanted Jesus. The Christ. And they were reaching out to him. In the Eucharist.

“I am the Bread of Life.”

“This is the Body of Christ.”

Amen.