Food for My Worn Out Self. Every Week.

Consistently I am moved by the final twenty minutes of my church service. Every Sabbath we take the sacrament of the Lord’s Supper. Every week we confess our sins. And every week we are reminded of the unconditional acceptance of Christ for His people. My pastor will consistently stress that this meal is not for people who have life tied with a bow, rather it is for those who have failed and fallen flat or at times are so hopeless they can’t see two steps in front of them. This supper is not for the ones who have "pleased" Jesus and can come and sit at His table because they are shiny and clean. This table is for the crippled, poor, and blind, for those left starving as a result of misplaced love. It’s the one church I have been to where people actually choose not to take it. They understand they either need to come to Christ first or they have to resolve a festering conflict brewing with someone around them. They stay seated and, thankfully, feel safe enough doing so. Finding a church free from shame and judgment is a feat in itself.

Today I had a bird’s eye view as I sat in the front, available for people to stop and receive prayer if they needed it. Sitting in a chair off to the side, I watched the long lines form. Poor and rich, black and white, young and old, tattooed up and yuppie to the core. Some physically limb and some barely able to lift their heads. The confident and the cowardly. All walk ahead to humbly partake of this transforming tradition. "Do this in remembrance of me," Jesus said. It hits me fresh week to week. We are a mess, a mod-podge of individual lives who are shuffling to the front of the church looking for a windfall of grace to fill our beat-up insides and give us what we need for the week ahead. This is a means of God pouring out on us the gifts of His forgiveness, peace, hope and motivation to endure the darkness. Undeserving, we limp forward with our hands reaching out and open to receive this meal that changes us over time. I cannot help but be reminded over and over again, “You are mangled and bruised by the fall, but you are healed, loved and free.” This is a sermon, a tangible picture each and every Sunday that the deficit I have accrued has been accounted for. I walk forward, slowly, in contemplation...here is my balm. I have been rescued.

“Dawn, this is His body and blood shed for you...”

They say my name, they look me in the eye and I return to my seat, knowing all is well with my soul.