This morning I took a risk. I surprised myself. And I’m glad I did.
For this narrative I must give you a bit of backstory. All my life I have not shared any food. No arms entwined with my loved one to feed a forkful of meat or vegetables from each other’s plate. No taste of a drink or sip of a milk shake. No giving my child a lick of my ice cream cone. Even if it is my favourite flavour. You want a lick, you can have the whole cone. I think you get the picture. So now my story from this morning.
I have gone to the 8 a.m. Sunday service at St. John’s Anglican Cathedral several times. Usually there were 20+ people in attendance at this early service. Today I was one of 5 plus the priest and the on-duty deacon. All times previous, I have slipped out quietly (other than when I tripped on the step going down to the exit door) and avoided participating in the Communion service. It was an escape motivated by fear. Even medical pamphlets on display during the intense COVID years weren’t enough to keep me there.
What was I afraid of? The act of sharing the wine from a common cup (actually a finely-crafted goblet). The individual wafers were fine. Straight from the hand of the priest onto the palm of the penitent’s hand. Not at all threatening like each person plunging their hand into a large loaf of bread and ripping out a chunk. But the common cup was too much. I read the pamphlet with research data intended to encourage me to participate. It affirmed that my fear of bacterial, viral, or any other contaminant was not based in fact. I had more danger of getting sick from sliding my hand along the pew railing and sticking my finger in my mouth.
So, today, why didn’t I get up and run? As I looked around at the other people in attendance, something happened inside. The widow limping up the aisle to place the collection plate on the altar. The bearded middle-aged man, in dress suit, fulfilling his duties as the active deacon, reading the Scripture passages with clarity and conviction as if to 100s rather than just the faithful 5. The elderly couple – now that I am almost 76, by ‘elderly’ I mean in their late 80s – who were clearly sitting in their ‘reserved’ spot every week. Whose left? Another single person near the front. And yes, there was also the pianist at the piano, a newer addition to Anglican worship.
Perhaps the ‘icing on the cake’ to entice me to stay rather than flee was the priest herself. She cast me a welcoming smile when I entered the sanctuary five minutes late and purposefully sat well behind everyone else. Her sermon focused on Philip and the Ethiopian eunuch who, when given insights by Philip, said, “Here is water, what prevents me from being baptized?” With more contemporary points of reference, she teased out the question, “What prevents us?” from loving God and showing love for one another. A sermon only 10 minutes in length and read from a manuscript. Yet the priest’s passion for the subject at hand, and her increasing connection visually with each of her listeners, drew me into the landscape she was painting.
By the time it was all over and the tiny group was heading to the front for Communion, I realized that I was an integral member of an organic micro-community gathered in that place at that time. We were pilgrims sharing a common journey even though none of them knew me and I knew none of them personally.
And so, as I answered the question, “What prevents me?” from participating, I realized that I wanted to and must do so. Forgetting my fear for a moment, I lined up with the other 5. The deacon was serving the wine after the priest served the wafers. Never having previously taken Communion in an Anglican church, I watched the 5 to see when they ate the wafer and didn’t quite get the timing right. But no one was assessing my performance so I was okay.
Then the deacon approached with extended cup, looking kindly into my eyes and reciting the appropriate words. I was second in line so just one set of lips were on the cup before me. Other than I think he and the priest may have taken their sip while preparing everything at the altar. He wiped the rim of the cup and shifted it a quarter-turn so my lips would touch a new spot. I looked at him, looked inside the cup, and saw that it was white wine not red. I don’t know why I expected it to be red – well, I guess I do know. As I looked at him, and he looked at me, I realized this had the makings of what I have heard is called a ‘Mexican standoff.’
A lot can go through a mind in a few moments. I relived all my fears. I reviewed my new fellowship of humanity with the 5. I revered the devotion of the priest and deacon. And within that few moments, I recanted my fear, took hold of the cup, and sipped. He moved on to number 3. I looked around at the beautiful cathedral and realized what I had done.
As I write these words, I have a fresh sense of what was a significant moment of release, of inclusion, and of expression in my life this morning. They received me without question. And I was finally able to come alongside them without reservation. I am blessed. And a better person for it. At least until I am hit with another fear or bias in a new incident of life.