“Christ our Passover is sacrificed for us.
Therefore let us keep the feast.” -The Book of Common Prayer
The yellow table, covered in a blue scarf for a table cloth, set with flickering candles and a loaf of bread and a coffee mug full of juice, stood in the center of the room. The power was out, and the ring of plastic chairs around the edge of the common area cast weird shadows from the candles and headlamps flickering in all directions. My squad, all 35 of them, sat in silence as the the last chords of the song faded away.
Nothing but the blood of Jesus.
Breathing deep, I opened my mouth and started to speak.
//
In South Africa, standing outside the national bank after ministry, a man named Willie looked at me and said, “Stand tall. God has given you words. You’re so scared of offending someone, so scared of missing it, but the Lord has given you the words for people. So say them, and don’t worry so much. You’re good at journaling, and all that, but say the words.”
I looked over his shoulder at his wife, Anita, sure she had told him about my English degree or my blog. But she laughed and shook her head no, and I looked at the ground and tried not to cry in public.
Willie didn’t know- couldn’t have possibly known- that I am a grade-A people pleaser, who holds in her opinions and her words for fear of offending or not speaking out of the Lord’s truth. That public speaking is my public enemy number one, and silence had become my safety net and security blanket, offering me a simple way out of situations that threatened to break my heart in two.
But his words would come back to me a month later, in Swaziland, when Meggie suggested I lead communion and I choked back the immediate “no”. Say the words, I heard in the back of my mind, in a heavy Afrikaans accent, and I bit my lip while Meggie kept talking.
//
Kneeling beside the yellow table, I watched my shaking hands tear bread in half and lift the trembling cup.
The communion liturgy is a part of me, words ingrained like the Lord’s Prayer or John 3:16, but I had scribbled it in my journal in case I forgot. But I didn’t, even though my lungs felt like they couldn’t get enough air. Even though I was on my knees in front of my whole squad, my whole heart naked in front of them.
I spoke the words that are so precious to me: This is my body, broken for you. This is my blood of the new Covenant, poured out for you and for many for the forgiveness of sins. Do this in remembrance of me.
My friends passed the bread and juice around the circle, receiving communion and then serving it themselves, murmuring the words over the acoustic guitar Caleb played in the background.
It shouldn’t have been so scary. But it was. I was finally speaking the words the Lord had given me, and I was scared to death from the vulnerability of letting them see into my heart, into the sacred spaces God made with bread and wine.
//
Here is what I learned from leading communion with my squad: I’m selfish with the feast.
My selfishness makes me reluctant to let people who believe differently than me into the space that the Lord has made holy, for me and for all people. It’s selfishness and pride mixed with fear: that if I do let my squad in, every single person, some won’t love me or like me anymore; or will think I’m wrong; or will see me as inadequate. My strong opinions and wild heart come into conflict with the part of me that wants to please at all costs. The part that hates being wrong, that is terrified of being judged and found lacking, the part that wants to shut down emotions because it might hurt people or cause them to look at me, really look at me, and see that I am not exactly who they want me to be.
But that is the point of communion. The Lord saw our inadequacies, our pride and fear and selfishness, and gave us his body anyway.
Jesus poured out his blood for me and for many, even though he saw it all, right from the beginning: my prideful heart and doubtful head and sullen, snaggletooth soul, all riddled with desire. He did it even though he knew I would go right on trying to change people’s opinions, or trying to change myself to fit their opinions.
The realest things in this world are so simple- bone and rock and blood and wine- that all the complications I put around them seem faded when I really start to look. I can’t change anyone else’s heart: only mine. Only mine to trust the Lord, and keep coming back to the feast where all are welcome.
