In the cup of love here offered, affirm what we believe.
In the word of God proclaimed here, the good news of
truth is heard.
In the telling of the stories, be open to God’s word.
---James Chepponis, 2002
Been there. Done that. I
admit it. I am the first to make the jaded comment, or, on choking it back, to
think it. This again? Or maybe,
like Yogi Berra, It’s like deja-vu, all over again. And it’s kind of true.
Each time we gather and take communion, there is a
familiarity to the elements, a sense of ritual in the setting. If I’m not
careful, I can coast through the serving of the elements, the doing this in
remembrance, on autopilot. If I am not present
in the moment and attending to the story of my friend Jesus’ sacrificial love
for me, a high holy moment can be, instead, just another holy snack pack and
some pretty mumbling.
And those Bible stories? For heaven’s sake, I’ve been coming
to church now for, well, for a long time. I have heard them all. Twice. What good does it do me, really,
to be here with you, listening to the stories again? To sit and listen to the
same old words and phrases over and over, till they are so burned into my soul
that I could tell them myself? To know them so well that the words spring,
unbidden, to my mind at unlikely times during the week? What good are
a bunch of stories?
I have to be careful. I wouldn’t want to mix up being transformed
with being done. Because being transformed? That could take a
lifetime.
