I’ve just finished eating lunch, but I’m still hungry. A different kind of hungry.
I didn’t get to commune Sunday, you see. In my fellowship, we celebrate eucharist each week. Sunday morning, my 12-year-old son was feeling queasy right after his Bible class and we went home before worship.
How do folks of other fellowships get by without that communal meal each week?
It’s all a matter of what you’re used to, I suppose. If I were reading this as a Catholic, I might be thinking, “How can he stand to not go to confession? I would feel so guilty; so dirty.” If I were from a church that sings with an organ or an ensemble, I might be thinking, “How can he bear to just sing, and not hear the fullness of the music? It would feel so incomplete.” If I were from a charismatic church, I might be thinking, “How can he pray only with his head bowed in silent assent? I would feel like I wasn’t participating.”
I could have sneaked a wafer and a cup later, I suppose. But it wouldn’t have been the same. It would have been like standing at the cross alone; or at the tomb by myself. Lonely. Empty.
When I drink and eat this special meal, it’s a tiny fellowship meal that recognizes the body of Christ in all of its meanings – including my church family around me.
And it seems that with each passing year, when I miss a chance to recline at that table, the hunger goes a little deeper.