“Those who eat my flesh and drink my blood abide in me, and I in them.” – John 6:56
I’m a big fan of the Eucharist. So was John Wesley, the founder of Methodism, though you might not know it with the relative non-centrality of the sacrament in most Methodist worship services. Wesley never went more than four or five days in his adult life without celebrating the Lord’s Supper. Today the majority of Methodists get antsy if the bread and cup appear more than once a quarter (every three months) on the altar table.
Before I came to prison, I joined the Lutheran Church, in large part because of the weekly observation of the Eucharist. The body and blood of Christ filled me with a powerful, sustaining dose of grace that I relied on to face my many life challenges. But when I arrived at the county prison four years ago, I had no access to communion. There was an occasional volunteer-led Bible study, but there was no worship service. No Eucharist. And I needed the body and blood of Christ in a way that I had never needed it before.
My Lutheran pastor tried repeatedly to bring Communion to me, but was given the correctional runaround. He spoke to nearly everyone in charge, never realizing how many deputy wardens, assistant deputy wardens, and acting administrative deputy assistant wardens there could be in a county prison. He was told that he would be able to bring me communion. Then after driving for over an hour, he would arrive at the prison to be told that it was not possible to give me communion, as our visits could only be conducted with glass between us. The next time he was told that we could meet together in a room to share communion. Again, communion was not permitted when he arrived.
So without communion during my months at county, I joined my Lutheran friends virtually. While they gathered at the table on Sunday mornings, I communed with them from a distance. I followed the liturgy from worship bulletins that my pastor had sent me. And with “wine” made from water and grape jelly, and a slice of bread from my meal tray, I joined them in sharing in the body and blood of Christ. I think I’ve blogged about this before, but I’m not certain (it’s rough when you have no access to your own blog to see what you’ve written about in the past). It may seem uncouth or even foolish to join in communion remotely, a little like a child having a tea party with pretend tea in plastic cups, but these were vital moments of grace that preserved me in my time of desperate need.
When I moved from county to the state processing facility I was able to attend worship, either “Protestant” or “Catholic.” I started with the Protestant worship services, and I know I wrote about some of these experiences. But in order to accommodate all order of Protestants, the standard weekly worship service did not include communion. So I was back to jelly juice and a saltine cracker (no bread, because they enforced the rule banning the removal of any food from the chow hall).
As it happened, I became friends with a Catholic inmate, and I told him about my yearning for communion, and he told me to sign up for Mass and come along with him. I asked him about the church rule banning non-Catholics from the Eucharist. He smiled and put his hand on my shoulder. “This is prison,” he said. “Do you really think God cares if you steal some grace?”
So the next Sunday I was off to Mass. The liturgy was very familiar, the missal was easy to follow, and the songs in the back of the booklet contained Methodist and Lutheran hymns.
We progressed through the Liturgy of the Eucharist, sitting, standing, kneeling, standing, and kneeling. I love kneeling in worship. It’s different from just sitting in a pew like you are at some sort of performance. There’s something about getting off your butt and humbling yourself before the Almighty as you feel the discomfort of your body weight pressing down on your knees. It’s active participation in the liturgy, as you engage physically in the story of Christ’s suffering, death, and resurrection.
The priest was an older man, very English in appearance. Mostly bald with his remaining gray hair barely at crewcut length, and a body of strong chubbiness, he looked like one of those fanatical English soccer fans that they show on TV, pint of beer in hand, shouting that their city’s team is the greatest in the world. In other words, he was a little intimidating. His face was a blend of sternness and compassion, heavy on the stern side, and I expected that he had some sort of spiritual superpower to detect impostors among his flock of the true faith. Like when the Terminator or Iron Man look out at people with electronic scanners that evaluate them as friend or foe. And when he glanced my way I knew the warning light was glowing red with a message that tagged me as Presbyterian, Methodist, Lutheran, with a smattering of Baptist, Anglican, and Episcopalian.
I mentally ran through worst case scenarios. If I went forward to receive communion he might throw a question at me from the catechism, or ask me to name the Bishop of the diocese. And when I failed to answer correctly, he would quote the relevant provisions of canon law and motion for the CO’s to haul me off to the bucket to perform a 90-day act of contrition.
But then two things happened. During the Invitation to Communion, he proclaimed, “Behold the Lamb of God, behold him who takes away the sins of the world. Blessed are those called to the supper of the Lamb.” To which we responded, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.”
And immediately I recognized this as rooted in scripture. It’s from one of those great teaching miracles of Jesus. A Roman military officer, called a centurion, comes to Jesus to ask for healing for his servant, who is paralyzed and in terrible distress. Jesus, who is a Jew, a subject of the Roman Empire, offers to come and cure the man. The centurion replies, “Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof; but only speak the word, and my servant will be healed.” This Roman could not be more of an outsider to Jesus and his band of Jewish disciples. And yet he is bold enough to recognize the power and authority of Jesus and to come before him humbly asking for grace. And Jesus replies, “Truly I tell you, in no one in Israel have I found such faith.” Jesus answers the man’s request and heals his servant. (Read the whole story in Mathew 8:5-13)
And in that moment of hearing this scripture incorporated in the liturgy, “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof, but only say the word and my soul shall be healed,” I realized that while I might be the outsider, with a combination of boldness and humility I could step forward and receive this sacramental grace for the healing my soul needed.
The second thing that happened was the choir started to sing a song while people came to the priest to receive the Eucharist. And while it might have been a song well known among Catholics, I did not know it. But the words pierced my soul.
“I will come to you in the silence, I will lift you from all your fear.
You will hear my voice, I claim you as my choice, be still and know I am here.
Do not be afraid, I am with you. I have called you each by name.
Come and follow me, I will bring you home. I love you and you are mine.”
The first rows of inmates were filing forward to receive the wafer, the Body of Christ, with an orderliness and beauty that is sometimes lacking in Protestant worship, where the irregular frequency of the sacrament of communion makes us forget how we are supposed to move from pew to altar rail and back. The song continued.
“I am hope for all who are hopeless, I am eyes for those who long to see.
In the shadows of the night, I will be your light, come and rest in me.”
This song was amazing! Full of grace and truth. It was as though God was speaking right to me.
“I am the strength for all the despairing, healing for the ones who dwell in shame.
All the blind will see, the lame will all run free, and all will know my name.”
And then it was time for my row. Inmates were moving to their left toward the center aisle. I sat in the pew, trying to summon a go/no-go decision, as I heard this verse of the song.
“I am the Word that leads all to freedom, I am the peace the world cannot give.
I will call your name, embracing all your pain. Stand up now, walk, and live!”
I looked up towards heaven. There was no doubt. I don’t know who else was experiencing the power of that song that day, but I knew that God had a direct message for me. “Stand up now, walk, and live!” So I stood up, and joined the procession towards the priest. I held my hands together before me, overlapped and open to show both emptiness and the expectation of receiving something. I remembered a professor telling me one time that we all come as beggars to the feast. And I truly felt I had taken on the part of a beggar, scrounging for the body of Christ.
Once in motion, everything passed quickly and uneventfully. The priest placed the wafer in my open hands. “The body of Christ,” he said. He watched to see that I placed the wafer in my mouth. I learned later that there had actually been incidents of inmates claiming to be satanists taking the wafers with them for desecration.
It was when I was back in the pew and kneeling in prayer that I got the grace rush. Warmth, goosebumps, some light-headedness, along with calmness and contentment. If you’ve never had a grace rush, I hope that someday you get one. It was simultaneously exhilarating and peaceful, the peace the world cannot give. It was what I had been longing for. It was the real presence of Jesus himself, reminding me that the words was speaking right to me.
“I am the strength for all the despairing, healing for the ones who dwell in shame.
All the blind will see, the lame will all run free, and all will know my name.”
“Do not be afraid, I am with you. I have called you each by name.
Come and follow me, I will bring you home. I love you and you are mine.”
And until God would bring me home, I knew that I was loved, and I was his.