It's dark now when we take Communion, when the sun has tucked her weary smile behind the horizon and the soft light of the white tapers beckon us forward. We're always late, so we stand from our pew near the back and watch as these stranger-friends, these fellow pilgrims, as they one by one tear, hear, dip and taste the body in the blood.
On this night, I am tired from the tears, but awake in my conviction that even though it's not MY way, it will all be ok.
Take my life and let it be - consecrated, Lord, to thee.
I whisper-sing as the line inches forward.
My hands are empty, because that's all I have to bring. Empty hands, clenched tight with disappointment, frustration, fear.
This is where the Israelites failed so many times over. The sermon reminds us of this - warm food as a slave seems better than dry manna in the desert. But the call was not for comfort, but rather a call to faith and obedience.
Our little journey is in no way as monumental as theirs. We're rerouting a bit, stepping out in faith that He will meet us wherever we go, because that is the promise He made.
The line to the table seems to get longer. Tears splash down my cheeks because I feel the new weight of these words
Take my will and make it thine, it shall be no longer mine. Take my heart is is thine own, it shall be thy royal throne.
I feel empty, which is perhaps the only way to feel on the way to His Table.
"The blessing of sacramental worship is the thrill and comfort of knowing that God meets us where we are, washing us, feeding us, quenching our thirst for grace. We not only believe it, we sense it, see it, taste it, feel it, smell it and swallow it. What my mind doubts, my mouth tastes as the Lord's goodness. When my faith falters, my fingers can touch the truth."