A Place at the Table

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.