Communion

“Touch and taste the symbols of Jesus’ death for you. Touch and taste the reality that you are that valuable to Him.”
- a red piece of paper taped to a mirror next to me

The glass bowl in front of me holds several instant-communion kits. Each little cup has a squirt of juice in the bottom and a little round wafer on top – all plastic-sealed for convenience.

Someone had taped thoughts about communion on the mirror over the desk where I sat. “Remember Jesus broken so that you might be made whole,” the words gently tell me, as I sit alone in this space with my prayer notebook and Bible in hand.

This room is in a part of town I never visit. A homeless man was picking up trash outside – and I almost didn’t come in. I have, surprisingly, disappointingly, become very accustomed to my very clean and slightly affluent suburb full of Targets, Starbucks, and more all-brick homes for sale than I want to think about.

But I did walk in. After all, the afternoon is mine, Hugh said. The prayer room downtown is great, Lisa said.

And I find myself staring at the glass bowl, Bible in hand, wondering if I can take communion alone. Or, rather, one-on-one with Him.

I flip open to Matthew and read the verses about the Last Supper under my breath, amazed again that Jesus knew what was about to happen to Him. That He was about to die and take my place. But before He did, He instructed us in how to remember Him.

“Remember,” He said, looking around at His friends.

“Remember,” He says to me.

I open the top of my little cup. I put the wafer on my tongue, then take it out again quickly.

I want to come, need to come with a clean heart.

For my anger this week, God forgive me.

For judging my friends, God forgive me.

For my selfishness towards the people I love, God forgive me.

For caring more what others think about me than what You think about me, God forgive me.

I put the round wafer back in my mouth; it’s wet and chewy now from my first attempt. I let it melt on my tongue – remembering His sacrifice, acknowledging His forgiveness for my sin.

I read the rest of the Matthew verses out loud, then drink the little juice. It’s bitter and sort of chunky. What if I get sick from taking communion? Surely God will protect me, I think as I chug down some vitamin water to wash the bitter taste from my mouth.

I settle back into my seat, and His Presence somehow fills me more deeply than before.

How long has it been since I have meditated on this? How often do I remember Jesus broken? I so often focus on myself being broken, struggling to live with some sort of victory and success.

But as I remember the Cross, the rest fades. I decrease, and He increases. My life and my focus return to Him – the one who stole my heart fifteen years ago when I first realized that He was broken for me.

And “He emptied Himself by assuming the form of a slave, taking on the likeness of men. And when He had come as a man in His external form, He humbled Himself by becoming obedient to the point of death – even to death on a cross” (Philippians 2:7-8).

For me.

So I sit and I sit in this place, and I don’t want to leave. I don’t want to leave the mirror and the bowl (with one communion kit fewer, now). Like Peter on the mountain with Jesus, I want to say, “Lord, it’s wonderful to be here! I’ll make three shelters as memorials – one for you, one for Moses, and one for Elijah” (Matthew 17:4). Let’s just stay here, remembering, he says.

He doesn’t want to leave, and neither do I.

So maybe just a few more minutes, Lord. I’ll sit for a few more minutes before I, too, leave the mountain, slip my shoes on, and depart the holy ground where I spent time remembering what you did for me.

Just a little longer, Lord.