This Sunday, I get to serve Communion at church.
I am, perhaps, over-excited… but after all, it’s been eighteen months!
Another sharp, bitter gift from the pandemic: I will never, ever again take for granted those words, “The body of Christ, broken for you; the blood of Christ, shed for you.” Even just typing them, now, brings tears to my eyes.
Why?
Why does this ritual distribution of meager mouthfuls matter so powerfully to the faithful?
At its foundation, Communion is a re-enactment of Christ’s last supper with his disciples.
It was a Passover meal, that last supper, celebrated in a rented upper room. In attendance: the Messiah, his betrayer, and eleven clueless friends.
The Lamb of God, about to be offered for the sins of the world, led his dearest through the ceremonial eating of foods that pointed to other lambs, offered for deliverance in another time.
The layered historicity of the Last Supper makes Communion similarly complex. It is Passover, twice over. It is the connecting tissue, binding Old Testament lambs to the New Testament Lamb of God. It is God’s promise fulfilled – and also reiterated, for some future fulfilment.
Of course, Communion recalls Jesus – specifically, tangibly, materially; but Communion also underscores that Jesus was Jewish… that Jesus’s story continued the longer story of God’s chosen people, that Jesus widened the lens without changing the narrative: saved from sin, saved from death, saved in love.
Communion grafts participants into that story – makes us “chosen people”, too – nourishes our forgiven-ness and eternally alive-ness – connects us to Christ and, through Christ, to all who have ever been saved.
At the same time, Communion also prefigures the “marriage supper of the Lamb”, that penultimate consummation of Christ and the Church of which the apostle John writes in Revelation. (19:9)
The past (Passover and the Upper Room) and the future (that heavenly banquet) are therefore supernaturally present in the present moment of Communion.
The elements themselves are more than bread, more than wine – they are God’s self-giving, God’s atoning sacrifice.
Even the giving and receiving between those serving Communion and those partaking of Communion is simultaneously a repetition of an ancient ritual and a direct prefiguring of the not-yet.
Bread and wine – the “Communion elements” – are, themselves, layered symbols and ties to ancient days. When Jesus called himself “the bread of life” (John 6:35) and assured his listeners that those who came to him and believed in him would never hunger nor thirst, he was re-stating a principle God had spoken through the prophet Isaiah centuries before:
“Ho, everyone who thirsts,
(Isaiah 55:1 – 3)
come to the waters;
and you that have no money,
come, buy and eat!
Come, buy wine and milk
without money and without price.
2 Why do you spend your money for that which is not bread,
and your labor for that which does not satisfy?
Listen carefully to me, and eat what is good,
and delight yourselves in rich food.
3 Incline your ear, and come to me;
listen, so that you may live.”
Communion demonstrates our ongoing dependence on God for satisfaction, delight, and life. The single handful of bread or paper-thin wafer, the single sip of wine or teensy cup of juice – these specifically small tastes are meant to whet our appetites, not sate them. Communion cannot fill our bellies, but it can and does remind us how profoundly hungry we are for God.
It occurred to me as I was thinking about Communion this week that Jesus made specific choices about the elements for this act of remembrance. He would have had access to all kinds of different foods at the seder table; roasted lamb – bitter herbs – fruit and nuts – there were many available options for him to designate as the symbol for his body.
So… why bread?
Perhaps because of the rich scriptural context for bread – manna, the “bread from heaven” all the way through to Jesus’s own miracles of multiplication for hungry crowds?
Perhaps because making bread requires thoughtful preparation and human skill – another layer of participatory commitment for us?
Perhaps because bread was the staple food in first century Palestine – available to poor as well as to rich?
Missionary friends of ours, Tim and Martha Matzke, work for Wycliffe Bible translators. They’ve shared the challenge of making the Communion liturgy (and other biblical bread references) come alive for people groups for whom bread is not a staple food – or even a food at all! Ponder the challenges of serving Eucharistic sweet potato… or rice cake… or banana. (I imagine Jesus delights in such creative substitutions, because they the same lavish invitational inclusiveness motivates them as he, himself, modeled.)
And wine. Why wine?
Honestly, I think that’s easier to suss: wine, throughout scripture, is the beverage of celebration!
Wine is offered to God in corporate thanksgiving (Numbers 28) and personal gratitude (1 Samuel 1); wine is part of God’s promised blessing (Deuteronomy). The prophets condemn over-indulging in wine, but quote God himself as saying,
“I will restore the fortunes of my people Israel,
(Amos 9:14)
and they shall rebuild the ruined cities and inhabit them;
they shall plant vineyards and drink their wine,
and they shall make gardens and eat their fruit.”
David extols God’s goodness in similar terms:
“You cause the grass to grow for the cattle,
(Psalm 104:14 – 15)
and plants for people to use,
to bring forth food from the earth,
and wine to gladden the human heart,
oil to make the face shine,
and bread to strengthen the human heart.”
It’s fascinating to consider how secular culture privileges bread and wine in an almost religious fashion. Even today!
Oenophiles travel the world for tastings and debate the merits of various climates for diverse varietals; sommeliers are de rigueur in posh restaurants; the less cosmopolitan buy their vino in boxes or cans and relish “wine coolers.” But drink it we do – 241 million hectoliters in 2019 alone.
In the early days of the pandemic, when everyone was locked down at home, a “run” on yeast and flour left store shelves empty and proved that bread was still the ultimate Comfort Food – the staple which folks craved when life was scariest.
What other Bible-time food and drink is still consumed, routinely and with gusto, worldwide? (Locusts and wild honey – curds – pottage – none of them have quite the same fan base anymore.)
Perhaps the associations of bread and wine – comfort and celebration – complement the associations of Christ’s body and blood – salvation from sin and death – in a way that no other combination could?
Perhaps even a people who have forgotten God remember deep in themselves the gladness and strength God provides, and seek to find them in the bread and wine God provided for that purpose?
Ultimately, perhaps even these questions are meant to draw us in closer… closer to the One who offers the bread and the wine, who offers us nourishment for body and soul, who offers us Himself…?
As I think about tomorrow – about Communion – it is anticipating this closeness that thrills me most.
Bread and wine – Lamb of God – the goodness of the Lord, there for the tasting.
