Table Graces
Gary A. Fritz on the Blessings of Serving Communion to the Saints
Although my father wasn't a pastor, I grew up with the ever-present knowledge that I was a "PK" of sorts. For me, that meant that dad was a principal, in this case, of a Lutheran school. Though that didn't carry the moral burden of being a parson's child, I certainly was raised and grew up under the scrutiny of our entire congregation, a large parish of nearly 2,000 souls. Consequently, going to church was non-negotiable, an unspoken duty that was fulfilled without question, argument, or any form of dissent. And being a compliant child, it never even crossed my mind to consider otherwise.
Thus, I attended church. A lot. By the time I was confirmed, I had undoubtedly sat through over 800 services, with roughly half of them culminating with the Sacrament of the Altar. Though I was a believer and cannot recall being without faith at any time during my growing years, I was never a fan of Communion Sundays. Inevitably, we would sing at least three extra hymns or slog our way through all fifteen stanzas of "I Come, O Savior, to Thy Table" (#315 in The Lutheran Hymnal). I suspect that "Lord, may Thy body and Thy blood / Be for my soul the highest good" just might be my deathbed mantra as I breathe my last. All told, not a bad final thought with which to enter glory.
But I digress. Of course, in a congregation our size, with pastors who would not shorten their Communion Sunday sermons to accommodate the fidgets of ten-year-old boys, these services could easily last an extra fifteen to twenty minutes. Consequently, I would usually groan when I saw the Communion "hardware" dominating the altar at Trinity Lutheran Church.
An Awe-Filled & Humbling Ministry
Fortunately for my faith-life, one's perspective has a way of changing. Now, having reached my fifties, the sacrament is dear to my heart, a part of worship that I look forward to and greatly desire. Moreover, the entire experience has grown from perfunctory to near-mystical. The very notion of the "communion of saints" permeates my sacramental imagination as I envision the worldwide body of Christ gathering, in homes and in churches, in secret and in the open, under plain thatched roofs and under grand cathedral domes, to celebrate this sacred meal. I see black and white folks, city and country dwellers, variously standing, sitting, or kneeling as the bread and wine are tasted. And in my mind's eye I reach back into history and see the whole Church, stretching down through the centuries, gathered together around this sacred table.
Thus, several years ago, when my congregation sought laity to assist with Communion, I jumped at the opportunity. Now, I would not only be a communicant but would also participate in the holy and humbling act of giving to my fellow believers the very same nourishment Jesus gave to his disciples so very long ago in the upper room.
I still recall my first Sunday as a Communion assistant. Having donned the requisite white robe, I stepped to the front of the church, the lay minister at my side. After receiving the wafer and wine, it was up to me, in turn, to administer the elements to my pastor. In moments such as these, unsolicited thoughts often rear up in my mind, and I suddenly saw that horrific scene in the film Luther when the young monk is saying his first Mass and spills a chalice of wine on the altar, right there in front of family members and congregants. I trembled then, and to varying degrees still do so today whenever this role is mine, not because I fear doing as Luther did in that scene, but simply because the sacrament is so profoundly powerful, so holy, and so filled with the depths and riches of God's mercy, grace, and love. And there I am, chief of sinners, providing this tangible message of forgiveness and life to fellow travelers on this journey of faith. What a truly "awe-ful" ministerium.
But that which is so profoundly disturbing remains equally invigorating. When called to serve in this manner, I get to speak words of comfort and to provide assurance of God's love and eternal salvation to the broken, the hurting, and the hopeful. It is not unusual then, to consider these things while at the altar.
The layout of our sanctuary and the size of our congregation are such that, when I stand at the front, every face in attendance is clearly visible. Often I have been moved by compassion as I gaze out at my fellows, whose faces I know so well, and yet . . . Do they understand? Do they recognize the power, the significance, the promise? I, who so often battle the demon of pharisaical pride, find myself longing for these parishioners to recognize and embrace the bounty that God is laying before them. And strains of that old, lengthy hymn once again come to mind:
Thy heart is filled with fervent yearning
That sinners may salvation see,
Who, Lord, to Thee in faith are turning;
So I, a sinner, come to Thee.
Moreover, from the altar I see in those same faces a certain unmasking as they rise from their pews and step forward, sometimes with eyes downcast, but eager to receive, desiring to hear, craving to know that, yes, there is a God who loves them, whose Son has given himself that they might have life truly to the full.
With that, I take up my tray of small cups of wine and go from person to person, offering them this delectable promise. As I speak, I watch as hands reach forward to grasp that promise—some trembling, some tired and worn, some confused about the direction their lives have taken, but all in need.
Sharing Holy Moments
I come to L. I first knew her when she worked at the college I attended. But now this vivacious, wonderful woman's mind is gradually being darkened by that feared enemy, dementia. Wafer in hand, she is unsure of what to do, so she places it on my tray. Her husband, ever loyally by her side, helps her through the difficult moment. I smile, knowing that the eyes of faith cannot be dimmed by the ravages of time and that, despite her faltering, she has just tasted heaven.
This feast is manna, wealth abounding
Unto the poor; to weak ones power,
To angels joy, to hell confounding,
And life for me in death's dark hour.
I see sadness as well. One gentleman, sitting alone, comes forward. I haven't seen his wife with him for ages and don't know the details, but surely they are painful. A certain melancholy seems to shroud him, but he is here. He steps forward and receives the promise of presence, and in that there is strength.
Thou here wilt find a heart most lowly
That humbly falls before Thy feet,
That duly weeps o'er sin, yet solely
Thy merit pleads, as it is meet.
One joy is being able to share this sacrament with my own students, past and present. Kids who sit in my classes, who turn in papers, who put up with my lectures, now step forward, stripped of teenage pretensions, and I get to say to them, not as my charges but as my brothers and sisters, "Take the blood of Christ given that you might have life." Sometimes eye contact is made and a smile shared—a brief but holy moment.
By faith I call Thy holy Table
The testament of Thy deep love;
For, lo, thereby I now am able
To see how love Thy heart doth move.
It is one thing to stand side by side with one's family at the Lord's Table; it is profoundly moving to serve them. My youngest, recently confirmed, is still new to participation, and presenting her with the wine gives me a chill. As with my older children, I stiffen to repress the inevitable emotional tension that rises within me. She takes her cup, and I say my words and utter a silent prayer for her spiritual well-being. This isn't just my little girl growing up; this has monumental, eternal ramifications. I pray that she remains faithful to her Lord and that the sacrament remains an integral part of her lifelong journey.
Thy body, given for me, O Savior,
Thy blood which Thou for me didst shed,
These are my life and strength forever,
By them my hungry soul is fed.
A Final Prelude for the Dying
While looking out over the congregation and waiting for the next table, I have moments to muse, moments made more poignant if the right hymn is being sung. Any anthem that evokes images of Christ's return or of the glory of heaven is sure to stir up a response from me. Tears often well up as I recall saints who "in glory shine" while we "feebly struggle." I think of my father and of a dear friend, both of whom now see more clearly on the other side.
I also think of Dr. M, a beautiful, dignified woman who also served at my college and in her later years attended our church. I did not know her well, but she was always highly regarded, an exemplar of excellence and integrity on our campus. Even as her health failed and she became a mere shadow of her former vibrant self, she remained faithful and cheerful. She continued to come forward for Communion, and each time I offered her that which Jesus gave for her, I was aware that it might be the final prelude to the "feast of victory" that she earnestly desired and has now entered.
Though death may threaten with disaster,
It cannot rob me of my cheer;
For He who is of death the Master
With aid and comfort e'er is near.
There are others whose journey here is nearing its end. For them, to "feebly struggle" is a daily call to endure. There is Mrs. R, who is now a bent and tired woman. Her family lovingly guides her to her pew every Sunday for worship, but she can no longer approach the table for Communion. And so, prior to anyone else stepping forward, our pastor takes the Eucharist to her, and in a quiet moment that the rest of us are blessed to witness, she, in her weakness, quite literally receives the strength that Paul was quick to laud. Time seems to stand still as her eyes sparkle with anticipation, and there seems to be a visible rejuvenation of life. Perhaps this is mawkish romanticizing, but on the other hand, we do have a "mystic sweet communion" not only with those "whose rest is won" but also "with God the Three in One." It should be not be surprising, then, to see a physical response to the real presence of God taken on the lips.
Sharing the Evening in the Upper Room
I've often been puzzled by the conflicting doctrines and the centuries-old schisms surrounding this simple yet profound meal. I am even more puzzled when I observe among some Christians a kind of indifference to this means of grace. Perhaps this stems from an indifference towards the plight of the human condition. Or maybe we have too often drunk from the chalice what Dietrich Bonhoeffer would call "cheap grace." Without God's mercy we are lost, but rather than waving some magic wand to make things all right, God steps directly into our broken world and in Jesus' death transforms that condition. What is more, in the sacrament, we, this motley crew of wretched, undeserving sinners, actually get to take part in that transformative act!
So much depth and substance, so much richness, is found in the Lord's Supper. This meal is indeed sacred. To be sacramental is to step into the holiness of the event. To step forward and hear the words of Jesus, to taste something akin to what the disciples tasted "on the night on which he was betrayed," is to be a part of the holy and to glimpse the consummation of the kingdom of God.
At the end of C. S. Lewis's tale The Last Battle, King Tirian steps into a ramshackle shed and discovers "blue sky overhead, and grassy country spreading as far as he could see." In short, he realizes that the shed's "inside is bigger than its outside." This scene has contributed mightily to my apprehension of and appreciation for the sacrament of Holy Communion. Stepping forward to participate, whether receiving or providing, takes us beyond the tangible physical world of sanctuary and elements. Together with our fellow saints around the globe, and with the vast cloud of witnesses who have gone before, we share the evening in the upper room, hearing the promises of Christ, tasting the meal he has provided, and embracing the reality of forgiveness and life, freedom and salvation. And so,
I come, O Savior, to Thy Table
For weak and weary is my soul;
Thou, Bread of Life, alone art able
To satisfy and make me whole.
Lord may Thy body and Thy blood
Be for my soul the highest good. •
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