They were filing into pews when someone realized what we’d forgotten: communion bread and grape juice.
We had come to this Iowa sanctuary on a Saturday morning to take communion. This was how we would prepare ourselves — through His body and blood — before beginning a day of planning and praying for an upcoming spiritual retreat.
There were 60 of us in the room, maybe more — but none of us had remembered to buy an oval loaf or the crimson-colored juice. Could we even have Holy Communion then?
But What do I know of Holy? What do I really know?
What do I know of the ways that Holy God can reach down to Grace-Hungry Us in the most ordinary, white-bread ways?
Someone ran to the kitchen, pulled a basket from the shelves and filled it with hamburger buns. Someone else found leftover white-grape juice in the refrigerator, and poured it into a water pitcher.
They placed this humble, ordinary meal on the altar, and they counted on God to to reach down to us in an extra-ordinary way.
The music began, and we lined up, one by one ripping chunks off of a hamburger bun and dipping it into leftover juice.
And then, it was my turn to receive and remember. And fresh tears stung my eyes at this extraordinary moment in which God would stoop to meet me.
“The body of Christ, broken for you, Jennifer,” he said to me as I tore a chunk from the ordinary-made-extraordinary.
“The blood of Christ, shed for you,” he said, as I dipped and remembered how I’m just an ordinary leftover, too, set apart as holy.
And it buckles my knees every time … Holy God having anything at all to do with