The Open Table

The recent General Assembly of the Presbyterian Church (USA) surfaced all of the rows and sniping and argumentificating that I'd anticipated.

In our ever dwindling fellowship, there was the inevitable kerfuffle about homosexuality, as once again conservatives and progressives had at one another around the issue. There was argument about our approach to the endless fustercluck in Israel/Palestine, as leftists and right wingers did their thing. Not that what we say or do has any meaningful impact on the conflict, but squabbling over stuff keeps us from getting into any real mischief. It was, in terms of the disagreements that manifested themselves, pretty much same old, same old. It was familiar turf, and utterly expected.

With one exception.

One issue that I did not anticipate was a discussion about who can and cannot receive the Lord's Supper. For Presbyterian congregations that circulate the Christ-Crouton and the little plastic shot-glasses of Welches, the question was: who may and may not receive communion. Yeah, it wasn't the big flash point issue. It didn't strut down the middle of the event drawing attention to its fabulous self like some ecclesiastical Priscilla, Queen of the Desert. But theologically speaking, it was at least as big a deal as the flash-point [stuff.]

Where the PC(USA) is moving is towards an "Open Table," meaning it doesn't place any boundaries between folks who want communion from getting it. That doesn't just extend to other flavas of Jesus folk. We now won't even forbid an unbaptized person who desires to take communion from doing so.

This is something of an inversion of the traditional process by which individuals enter the Christian faith. Baptism is the moment of entry into the Christian faith, when through water and the Spirit, we are reborn. The Lord's Supper is our affirmation of Christ's willingness to share in the suffering of all being. In order to partake of the Lord's Supper, we need to have been Baptized into the faith. Right? That's what Jesus taught, right?

Problem is, when I look at the core texts that establish the Lord's Supper in the Gospels, I see no evidence in Christ's teachings that give credence to that as a requirement. Matthew 26:26-29? Nope. Mark 14:22-25? Uh uh. Luke 22:15-20. No siree. The synoptics, unsurprisingly, all concur in the absence of any razor wire fence around the table. They make no explicit mention of limitation at all.

John 6:51-58 significantly elevates the practice, making it sufficient for eternal life...yet with no requirement for baptism pre-stated. In fact, where Jesus talks about the communion meal in John, it almost seems...well...sufficient for establishing right relationship with God in and of itself.

Where Paul echoes Luke in 1 Corinthians 11:17-34, he lays in to those Corinthians about their abuses of the meal. But those abuses had everything to do with the Corinthians obsessive one-upsmanship, their creating power imbalances at the table. Unlike in the Gospels, there is guidance from Paul that would indicate who should or should not take the eucharist. We find that boundary in 1 Corinthians 11:27-32. There, Paul says nothing of the community excluding or forbidding or fencing or checking baptismal certificates. He says, instead, that those who partake should "examine themselves." For what? For whether or not they perceive and desire the body of Christ in the bread and the cup.

That's it. That's the guide and measure of whether or not to participate. If an individual seeks and hopes and desires participation in the Body, then they are welcome. Otherwise, they should feel free not to partake.

Acts 2 also talks about the Lord's Supper, and it is in two verses there that we take our pattern for the relationship between the two sacraments. It's clear from Acts 2:42-43 (and elsewhere) that we enter full participation in community through baptism. It's also clear that a defining aspect of that ongoing participation is the communion meal.

Yet there appears to be nothing within our defining texts that would prevent a seeking soul from sitting down at that table with us. So long as they want it, feeling moved by what it means and did and is, then the table is open.

The eucharistic meal is something that exists for disciples, true. But as I see it, you begin being a disciple of Jesus of Nazareth when the Holy Spirit begins moving you towards Him.

Since I started in ministry, I've always pitched that out as the requirement. Any table I'm responsible for will be an open table. Yes, baptism is the sacrament that marks full entry into the life of our community. But the Supper stands on its own. If you feel the Spirit move you to partake, if you discern that in this sacred moment, something important and transforming is happening, then I can see no warrant to forbid it.

As far as I'm concerned, the meal we share is not just something that we do after we're "in." It nourishes us and strengthens us for full participation in our fellowship, but also...as I see it...can do the same in preparing us for that participation.

Fencing the Table

My Presbytery today moved over to a completely different approach to handling our meetings. For the past several years, the National Capitol Presbytery has run meetings like, well, business meetings. We had an agenda. We used parliamentary procedure. There was debate and dissent and political maneuvering...and the meetings could go on and on and on. It wasn't something I tended to look forward to.

Today, the Presbytery meeting was part of the new model, meaning mostly worship. We gathered in small groups at tables. There was a lecture on Scripture, and then small group discussion, followed by a sermon, and more discussion, after which we shared Communion. It was actually sorta fun, and the discussions were both intellectually and spiritually engaging. The focus of the day was Mark 14, and as part of our conversations about the dynamics of the Christian communion meal, I bumped into something I can't quite recall having encountered before.

Meaning, I probably have encountered it, but I just don't remember. One of the great things about getting older is that I get to experience so many things again for the first time.

As we discussed the meaning of the Lord's Supper in the context of Mark and the other synoptic Gospels, I popped over to 1 Corinthians 11 to make sure that the Apostle Paul's perspective was included in our small group conversation. What whapped me upside the head about Paul's description of the communion meal was the very particular way he "fenced the table."

What "table-fencing" means, for thems of you who don't follow the in-group talk of Jesus people, is keeping out the folks who don't belong. The bread and grape juice that comprise the Lord's Supper are part of something sacred, so we need to boot the unworthy. It is, quite literally, excommunication.

Many churches set and enforce particular standards based on Paul's assertion that eating and drinking the Lord's Supper with the wrong attitude is "sinning against the body and blood of the Lord." People who run afoul of those standards are not welcome at the Lord's table. Keep 'em out! No Christ for You!

But if you get past our human love of sticking out our tongues at people we don't like, and actually read Paul, that isn't what he tells us to do at all. He never says, not ever, that our task is to judge others worthy or unworthy of the communion meal. What he says is this:

A man ought to examine himself before he eats of the bread and drinks of the cup. For anyone who eats and drinks without recognizing the body of the Lord eats and drinks judgment on himself. That is why many among you are weak and sick, and a number of you have fallen asleep. But if we judged ourselves, we would not come under judgment. (1 Corinthians 11:28-31)

It is not "figure out who doesn't meet our standards." It's "take a hard look at ourselves, to see if we meet Christ's standards."

There's a huge, huge difference there.

Is It Just Me, Or Does that Look Like Blood?

So I'm standing in front of my congregation, and I'm halfway through.

I take up the humble brown stonefired ceramic jug. I take up the matching cup. With the cup held close to the microphone before me, I utter the same words I've uttered hundreds of times, evoking memory and invoking the Spirit. I speak the words looking out to the flock, the exchange from container to container coming from sense memory alone. As the fruit of the vine cascades from jug to cup, the sound of cascading fluid should fill the room, an electronically augmented pouring out that stirs Him in the ears of His people.

But...there is no sound.

I glance down, still speaking. The "fruit of the vine" pours thick and deep purple-red from ceramic to ceramic, flowing silky silent, the consistency of a low viscosity motor oil. The smell that rises from the cup is very wrong, missing all of its usual jelly-jar Welches overtones. I continue to speak, intoning the words and performing the required actions as a subroutine, while my higher functions go elsewhere, scrabbling for a response to this unexpected event.

My first response is Dear Lord, it looks like thickly congealed blood. This is quickly dismissed, thus saving me from having to reconsider my Reformed position on transubstantiation. The scent that rises from the cup in my hand is sharp and heavy, not salt and meat. It is the pungency of turned fruit. The grape juice for our Lord's Supper is kept in cans, and those cans are kept for a long, long while. Occam's Razor chimes in happily: It has gone bad.

The question is: how bad?

I am now walking and speaking on autopilot, moving towards the station where those gathered for worship will receive bread and cup. Is this dark fluid just a little sour, slightly off, a tich more bitter than it would be normally but otherwise fine? This is acceptable. Or is it riddled through with bacteria who have their hearts set on turning our parlor fellowship into an impromptu vomitorium? This is not acceptable.

Can I bail? Can I hang a hard left and walk suddenly out of the sanctuary, dump the strange stuff, refill the cup, and come bounding back in to continue as if nothing had happened? Problem is, there is no guarantee that any potable fluid remains. Perhaps if I just silently turn and flee.

I decide to stop, and taste it myself. A desperate breach of protocol, to be sure. I'm not quite sure where the Apostle Paul would come down on it, although if we still had the long missing Fifth Letter to the Church at Corinth, I think he'd approve.

It's...well...not utterly foul. Only slightly foul. It tastes like a blend of prune juice, Night Train, and blackberries. As something to serve with a meal, it leaves a great deal to be desired. If it's only a strange flavor blackening the end of a small dunked rectangle of bread, it should be fine. I ask an elder to taste it, and she...utterly baffled at the peculiarity of my request..does so, indicating that it's not so bad. I ask a young congregant, and he shrugs and mumbles that it's fine.

And so we continue, and other than a few puzzled questions during the fellowship hour, all is well.

Unfenced Tables

This last Sunday, as I served up the Eucharist, I found myself presented with what for some pastors would be a bit of a dilemma. The elder who was serving the Lord's Supper with me had in her charge an insanely cute two year old. She was endearing, and totally working it...but by two year old standards, she was surprisingly well behaved. When the time came for communion, she had to tag along with us as we served up the bread and the Welches.

As the line came to an end and the congregation had partaken of the elements, she wanted some too. She held her hand out. Not demanding or snitty or imperious in that I'm-Two-And-The-Universe-Revolves-Around-Me sort of way. She was just asking.

So we gave her some. We did the dipping for her, and she ate.

This, of course, would mortify many Jesus people. She's a tiny child! Little better than an infant! She has no idea what she's doing!

Did she comprehend what was going on? I'd doubt it. Then again, I'm not sure how many of my congregants entirely grasp the conceptual foundations of the Eucharist. The distinctions between the Aristotelean substantive approach, the Zwinglian mnemonic understanding, and the Reformed pneumatocentric model aren't often topics of my sermons, and my efforts to impose a multiple choice clearance test at each Lord's Supper just made the worship way too long.

Then again, I'm not sure any of us totally grasp what's going on with the Eucharist. It's something we take on faith, with the same kind of hopeful trust that that tiny one showed last Sunday.