She said she wasn't sure she knew the right words to say. I assured her that she did: she has been hearing these words her whole life. She was sure she would do it wrong. I assured her that it was impossible to do it wrong.
The ashen cross on her forehead was expressed in her words as I asked if she would give me communion. Having heard the words "the body of Christ, given for you," and "the blood of Christ, shed for you" at least once per month for her sixty-odd years of life, it seemed strange to me that she would be afraid that she would say the wrong words or somehow offer me communion wrong.
But I'm not really so sure she was afraid of doing it wrong. Underneath there reverberates the reminder of our mortality, the reminder of our brokenness, the reminder of how easy it seems to get it wrong, to go off course, to fail. Underneath reverberates the reminder that we are only ever Christ for each other unworthily, brokenly, perhaps only half-understanding - if understanding at all - this gift.
I think we can only ever offer it unworthily. We can only ever receive it unworthily. This blessing is a blessing of brokenness, a blessing of boundedness, a blessing that reminds us that we cannot be Christ for ourselves, that the words, "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return," are as much a blessing as they are a threat to the notions that we can somehow escape our own unworthiness.
Unworthiness can be easily misinterpreted or misconstrued. To be clear, in this case, it is not meant to be a description for (or act to advocate) low-self esteem. It is not a category of false humility designed to generate compliments or the sympathy of others. Neither is unworthiness a synonym for humility. Unworthiness does not so much mark the lowliness of the recipient as it marks the astonishing extravagance of the gift. Perhaps paradoxically, our unworthiness marks our belovedness, just as the cross on our foreheads simultaneously marks our mortality yet echoes the words proclaimed over us at baptism: "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever."
The words "the body of Christ, given for you," and "the blood of Christ, shed for you," can only ever be spoken and heard unworthily because they are the words of a gift so extravagant it cannot be fully comprehended or properly received. These are the words of the great mystery of how a humanity that is so broken could be so beloved in the eyes of its Creator.
Her words are a reminder to me: they remind me that I, finally, do not know how to say the words of Institution, nor do I know how to properly say, "the body of Christ, given for you," or "the blood of Christ, shed for you." These are the words that cannot be properly said; they are the words that are just beyond our language, with meaning just beyond our grasp. These are the words that remind us of the immensity of the gift that, though we can never say or receive them properly, still the words come:
This is Christ, given for you.
The ashen cross on her forehead was expressed in her words as I asked if she would give me communion. Having heard the words "the body of Christ, given for you," and "the blood of Christ, shed for you" at least once per month for her sixty-odd years of life, it seemed strange to me that she would be afraid that she would say the wrong words or somehow offer me communion wrong.
But I'm not really so sure she was afraid of doing it wrong. Underneath there reverberates the reminder of our mortality, the reminder of our brokenness, the reminder of how easy it seems to get it wrong, to go off course, to fail. Underneath reverberates the reminder that we are only ever Christ for each other unworthily, brokenly, perhaps only half-understanding - if understanding at all - this gift.
I think we can only ever offer it unworthily. We can only ever receive it unworthily. This blessing is a blessing of brokenness, a blessing of boundedness, a blessing that reminds us that we cannot be Christ for ourselves, that the words, "Remember you are dust and to dust you shall return," are as much a blessing as they are a threat to the notions that we can somehow escape our own unworthiness.
Unworthiness can be easily misinterpreted or misconstrued. To be clear, in this case, it is not meant to be a description for (or act to advocate) low-self esteem. It is not a category of false humility designed to generate compliments or the sympathy of others. Neither is unworthiness a synonym for humility. Unworthiness does not so much mark the lowliness of the recipient as it marks the astonishing extravagance of the gift. Perhaps paradoxically, our unworthiness marks our belovedness, just as the cross on our foreheads simultaneously marks our mortality yet echoes the words proclaimed over us at baptism: "You are sealed by the Holy Spirit and marked with the cross of Christ forever."
The words "the body of Christ, given for you," and "the blood of Christ, shed for you," can only ever be spoken and heard unworthily because they are the words of a gift so extravagant it cannot be fully comprehended or properly received. These are the words of the great mystery of how a humanity that is so broken could be so beloved in the eyes of its Creator.
Her words are a reminder to me: they remind me that I, finally, do not know how to say the words of Institution, nor do I know how to properly say, "the body of Christ, given for you," or "the blood of Christ, shed for you." These are the words that cannot be properly said; they are the words that are just beyond our language, with meaning just beyond our grasp. These are the words that remind us of the immensity of the gift that, though we can never say or receive them properly, still the words come:
This is Christ, given for you.
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