Frozen Jesus

Over at the Anglican neighborhood known as "HOB/D" (House of Bishops/Deputies Listserv), the conversation shifted from "Hate the Sin/Love the Sinner" to swapping recipes, to talk of putting together a HOB/D recipe book and selling it as a fundraiser for ERD / MDG.

At the moment, we're continuing with the effort to let tempers subside and hurt feelings heal and we're swapping recipes and stories about using 'real bread' verses communion wafers for Eucharist.

Here's my story:

I was hired as Chaplain at the University of Lowell (MA) in January, ordained Deacon in April and priest in October. Until I was priested, I had to rely on the generosity of local clergy for reserved sacrament in order to provide weekly Eucharist for my students. No one at that time (1986) and in that Diocese was using bread - only wafers.

A friend had been ordained to the priesthood and her family had made the communion bread. There were three consecrated loaves left over and she asked me if I wanted to take them home, which I gladly accepted.

My beloved Ms. Conroy, still in recovery from her RC days, was troubled.

"That's a lot of bread," she remarked. "How are you going to store it?"

"Oh," I said, "I'll just put it in the freezer."

She was horrified. Completely horrified. "YOU CAN'T PUT JESUS IN THE FREEZER" she yelled.

Well, here's one of the first rules of a committed relationship: When your beloved lets you know what will disturb her, especially at the crossroads of the sacred and the profane, you have an absolute obligation to use it to torment her.


So, I did.

I brought the consecrated bread home, wrapped it carefully (and in fact lovingly) in several layers of aluminum foil, and put it in the freezer.

The next morning, while she was sitting at the kitchen table, drinking her coffee, I opened the refrigerator, and in a high, squeaky voices said, "Barbara. It's me. Jesus. I'm right here behind the chicken and in between the packages of frozen broccoli and peas. Help me. I'm so cold."

Ms. Conroy, thoroughly disgusted, got up, took her coffee and snarled at me as she left the room.

The next morning, I did the same thing, much to her disgust. When she left the room she called over her shoulder, "You're going to rot in hell for that."

On the third morning, I did it again, but this time I bumped the torment up a notch. I did my impersonation of a very cold Jesus, ending with, "Barbara, help me. Save me." I opened the freezer door wide and yelled into it, "If you are really the savior, save yourself!"

At which point, Ms. Conroy slapped her hand on the table, got up and took the two loaves of consecrated bread out of the freezer and tucked them under her arm. "Where are you going with that?" I asked.

"To feed the birds!" she replied, adding over her shoulder as she walked out of the room, "I'd rather they ate of the real presence than to have Our Lord go through this!"

We laugh about it now, but she didn't talk to me for a week after that.

Yes, we still torment each other. Regularly. Perhaps that's one of the reasons we'll be celebrating our 33rd Anniversary this year.