When I signed up for Blog Action Day on Monday
morning I had no idea what I was going to write about. I also had no idea when
I was going to find the time to write a blog post this week. This week marks
the halfway point of my first semester at seminary. If someone had asked me on
Monday if I was going to write about the Church for Blog Action Day I would
have responded, “no.” I wanted to take a break from talking about God, church,
and well anything that would require picking up a Bible.
Things changed late last night. I found myself
angry. Not the kind of angry I find myself feeling when someone says something
stupid in class. Not the kind of angry I find myself feeling when people are
late for class. Not the kind of angry that I find myself feeling when there
aren’t pop-tarts in the vending machine. I found myself feeling the kind of
anger that comes out of deep hurt.
I am a recovering fundamentalist. I carry a ton
of baggage with me to the pew each week. I am damaged and scared from 20 years
of being told that God’s love was conditional. While it sucks to admit it, it’s
the truth.
The anger that I was feeling was on the surface
caused by an email about communion. However, under the surface it was so much
more than that. My anger came from 20 years of not having an open table of
communion. My anger came from being promised an open table of communion, to
later find out that it really isn’t all that open.
Blog action day is about social justice. So is
God. So is Jesus. So is communion.
Communion. I love communion. I did not always
love communion. I hated communion in the church that I grew up in. Communion
made me feel guilty. We were taught that if we had not asked God to forgive all
of our sins or if we had doubted God’s power and did not ask for forgiveness we
should not take communion. Talk about seriously flawed theology. There were
weeks when I would not take communion because I hadn’t asked God to forgive me
or because in the time leading up to communion I had silently questioned why
any of it mattered. These weeks were problematic. Everyone watched to see who
took communion and who didn’t. It sucked to be the person who didn’t take
communion. It was inevitable that someone would ask you why you didn’t take
communion; as if you weren’t feeling guilty enough. Each communion Sunday I
found myself silently debating on if I was going to take communion. I got to
the point where I was taking it to simply prove to myself that even if no one
else knew it not everyone participating in their closed communion table was
straight; and shockingly lightening was not come down from the heavens to
strike me.
It wasn’t until college and the year and half I
spent in the UMC that I feel in love with communion. I still wasn’t sure how I
felt about the church thing. I was asked to help serve communion one week. I
was shocked. Not only had this community of faith welcomed me unconditionally,
but now they wanted me to help serve communion. I said, “yes.” I didn’t really
know what I was doing. I’m pretty sure I forgot to say anything to a few
people. I served communion randomly for the next year.
Yet, it wasn’t until I presided over the table
that I fell in love with communion. And while I’m at, I need to say how much I
hate the term “preside over the table.” I think that we should just say, “serve
communion” and if we really want to step up to the plate and be the fucking
Church say, “practice radical hospitality.”
Of course saying, “practice radical hospitality”
only works if the table is truly open for all people.
Because that my friends is what the table is all
about. Radical hospitality. Truly open tables say, “fuck you” to everyone who
says the table is only for certain people. Truly open tables say,
“fuck you” to tables that claim to be open but only allow certain people to
“preside over the table.” Truly open tables say, “fuck you” to communion
theologies that make people feel guilty; there is a reason the gospels are
called the “Good News.”
So I often I hear someone say that their church
practices an open table of communion. I find myself wanting to respond,
"Are you sure about that?"
An open table of communion means:
1. anyone can practice radical hospitality
2. anyone can be served
3. no one leaves feeling guilty
This isn't rocket science. Although there are
days where I swear explaining rocket science would be easier than explaining
what it means to have a truly open table of communion.
Communion keeps coming up in all of my classes-
welcome to seminary. I keep finding myself defending what I believe about
communion. I keep finding myself silently and sometimes not so silently screaming,
"Would your church serve Jesus communion? or even better "Would your
church allow Jesus to serve communion?"
How many churches do you know of that would
allow a homeless Jewish man to serve communion? See what I mean about
"radical hospitality" and truly open tables of communion? Even more
thought provoking would your church allow a homeless Jewish man to serve
communion? How many of you can honestly answer yes to that question. I know
that I can answer yes to that question. But can you?
How many of you would take communion if the
person practicing radical hospitality was a homeless Jewish man? I know I
would. Truly open tables of communion would extravagantly welcome a homeless
Jewish man to the table.
Because here is the best thing about truly open
tables of communion, and really all communion tables: no matter who is serving
and participating, God is present. GOD IS PRESENT. God is with the
people. God is with us in our brokenness. God is with us in all the baggage we
carry to the pew each week. God is with us in the doubts that we take to the
table. God is in each person at the table. GOD IS PRESENT. And that my friends
is the best fucking news ever.
