Pastor Hugh's Monthly Meditation
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Holy Communion: Food for our Journey
What is it about a church that makes it the Church? I’m sure that for each person asked we might find a rich variety of answers. For the Lutheran reformer, Philip Melancthon, the answer given in the Augsburg Confession was:
“The Church is the congregation of saints, in which the Gospel is rightly taught and the Sacraments are rightly administered.
“And to the true unity of the Church it is enough to agree concerning the doctrine of the Gospel and the administration of the Sacraments.” (Augsburg Confession VII, emphasis added.)
Click on image to see a larger view of St. Paul’s "Holy Communion Window", in a separate window.
For a church to be the Church, or a part it, the essential thing is for the Good News of God’s love in Jesus to be proclaimed and the sacraments of Baptism and Communion to be freely given. That’s all we need. That is enough.
Last month our meditation focused upon the first of the two sacraments that we Lutherans recognize: Baptism. This month our focus turns to the second: Communion. Baptism begins our journey of faith by locating us in the midst of a community of faith, giving us a new identity, a new family, and a new purpose or calling. But what happens when, in our efforts to live our calling, we grow weary? What if in the midst of our holy pilgrimage through this life, where we are to be a source of hope and healing for others, we become overwhelmed by life and lose our own direction? Where do we turn for help?
It is no mere coincidence that at the heart of Christian worship is a meal of bread and wine. And while this meal may seem meager in terms of its nutritional value, it promises us a feast for our faith.
The history of Israel is punctuated by meals shared: on the run, as in the case of the original Passover meal eaten just before the Exodus from Egypt; and in the ritual of the Passover Seder, the yearly remembering of Israel’s slavery in Egypt and her exodus and deliverance by God. When, in the wilderness all hope for food seemed lost, manna was provided—just enough and just in time. And when this proved insufficient for a grumbling people, flocks of quail miraculously appeared. These meals and sources of food were signs of a deeper and eternal pledge: God not only makes a promise to sustain us, but also delivers on that promise. God calls us to our pilgrimage and then nourishes us along our way. And the fulfillment of this promise can also be found in what we have come to know as Holy Communion. This sacramental meal began in a Passover Seder that Jesus shared with his disciples, “on the night in which he was betrayed.” And with it came a promise of new life and forgiveness “given for you.”
Recently, as many have heard, my wife and I lost our 17 year old nephew, Zachary. He was killed in a head-on car accident at 6:00 on a Saturday morning. His death has been like a punch in our stomachs, knocking the breath out of us. In the four weeks since his death I have found myself having difficulty caring about the mundane issues of life—or most anything else for that matter. I have learned much in these past four weeks, some of it good, much of it not. I have learned that loss can bring some people together and rip others apart. I have personally learned that grief can lead one to wonder whether anything really matters, whether there is a deeper purpose to life, whether it’s really true what the psalmist promised that “weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the morning.” (Psalm 30:5) And I’ve known a hunger so deep that none of the old stuff, not even the busyness of church ministry, can fill it.
When I am told by my spiritual ancestors that the essence of the church is found in the simple telling of God’s unbreakable love for us in Jesus, in the act of being washed by the waters of our baptism, and in a simple meal of bread and wine—that these are all I really need, that they are enough to feed me—I hunger to experience this truth
St. Paul reminds us that for now “we walk by faith, not by sight.” For now I hold out my hands, hoping to receive a meal given “for me.” I yearn for its succor, for my hope to be renewed, and the fog of loss to be lifted. Some time before his death, Luther wrote on a scrap of paper that he carried with him, “We are all beggars this is true.” I am newly aware of this gnawing poverty. And yet I also cling to the promise that in this meal of bread and wine, I too will experience the sufficiency of God’s grace. For now, that is enough.
Hugh R. B. Haffenreffer
Pastor
November 2007
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