When I think about coming to the table for communion and the words,
"This do in remembrance of me," a concept that comes to mind is that
of vastness. Think about an open field, a desert, the ocean, the horizon. All
wide open spaces, extending beyond what the eye can see. If the eye can't see
it, then there is something a bit terrifying about it. That is something that
all these spaces have in common. There is a simultaneous beauty, awe, and
inspiration that comes when you are standing on a beach looking out at the
ocean. There is grandeur in lying on the ground and looking up at the sky.
There is, on the other hand, a deep sense of smallness that comes with being
enmeshed in these spaces. They are beautiful, yet terrifying. This is called
"the sublime." I find that, for me, the space of the Lord's Supper is very similiar.You see, I view the Lord's Supper not so much as a fixed event or as a "time," but as space--a space suspended between opposite poles, suspended between natural human responses to an act from a divine being. On one hand, there are feelings of gratitude, thankfulness, relief at the thought of grace and mercy shown us through Jesus' selfless act, His body willingly broken. On the other hand, there is sadness, guilt, remorse, a voice echoing in the back of your mind, repeating the youth group propaganda: "Can He still feel the nails every time I fail?"
The space of the Lord's Supper is a point of contention. And
it is vast. The image in my mind of the Lord's Supper's vastness
confers grandeur on intensities that seemingly have nothing in common. The
space at the table is so vast, so immense, welcoming all, inviting everyone to
partake and commune, to eat and remember. Intimacy with the Lord in the midst
of this vastness feels incompatible, but in all of the Lord's goodness, we
access an intimate immensity here, a paradox that, despite itself, displays the
grandeur of the Lord's design for "communing," a cosmic form of what
we, alone, cannot create or perfect. This space, in which we come to the table
and bring a spectrum of complexities to dine with us, is a space that is open
enough, broad enough to hold our inner turmoil, our hidden and exposed sins,
our joy and hope and longing for the love of the One who was broken for us.
This space is vast enough to bear our silence, our swift thoughts and
occasional tears. It is vast enough to hold all of our present grapplings while
simultaneously making room for our rememberings, for personal memories and for
memories molded and shaped by phrases like, "This is my body," or,
"This is my blood," and, the culmination of it all in, "It is
finished."This space beckons us into ritual, covenant, community, confession as we, week to week, hear the echoes of past gatherings at tables or at the foot of a cross, breaking bread and drinking, and letting our thoughts whisper into this vastness, "Yes, Lord. We believe."
Press into the vastness. Open your eyes to the Lord's grace
and mercy and love extending beyond the confines of a plate being passed around on
Sunday mornings. Delve into this imaging of what it means to gather at the
table day in and day out. This space of communion is not just for Sundays. It's
for discipleship.
Erin Daugherty, Abilene, TX.
