Living Bread

 A Sermon preached at St. Paul's Episcopal Church

Georgetown, DE

and live streamed via Facebook Live Sirach 26:10 

Pentecost XIV - Proper 14 - Year B

August 8, 2021

 

Sometimes, we can let the rules get in the way of meaning. Sometimes, some of us think that because we believe we have the “true presence” of Jesus in the Eucharist, we’re the only ones to have “the living bread come down from heaven,” which then can be given to only a select few and only in particular circumstances.  

 

I’ve told this story before. Maybe you’ve heard it. I think it bears repeating:

 

I was a newly ordained priest at my first call as Chaplain at University of Lowell, in Lowell, MA. One of the first mission projects I created was to establish a weekly Eucharist at the Solomon Carter Mental Health Center. I had carefully trained a handful of students how to lead worship and, together, we had decided that two of them would come with me to the Center, on a rotating basis.

 

The third floor of the Center was a 'locked unit' - pretty much a human waste basket for all those people who had been released from psychiatric facilities - where they would stay for a few weeks, be released to the streets for a few weeks and then, readmitted again after a brief stopover at the Lowell Police Station and the City Jail for some obtuse, vague charge as 'disturbing the peace'.

 

I had secured permission to provide a service of Holy Communion, as it would be advertised, making sure the staff knew that I would be bringing in bread (or, hosts, if need be) and wine.

 

"Nope," they said, "can't bring in anything - not hosts, not bread - from the outside. Especially not wine."

 

"Okay," I said, "Can you provide me with a few slices of bread and some grape juice?"

 

"No bread," they said, "We had a 'suicide-by-stuffing-bread' last year. No bread on the ward. And, no peanut butter. That's even worse."

 

"Okay," I said, "No problem with the peanut butter. How about some saltine crackers and some grape juice?"

 

"Deal," they said, "We keep them in packages of two - no 'stuffing' - and you can just open up as many packages as you need."

 

Imagine my surprise when I appeared for that first service and found waiting for me some graham crackers and grapefruit juice. Graham crackers. And, GRAPEFRUIT juice!!

 

"It's all we had," they said without apology, adding, "It's the end of the month. Supplies are low."

 

In I went, to the locked "Recreation Room". I heard the door lock behind me and realized that I was alone in the room with two terrified students and about 25 people who were in all sort and manner of 'altered states' of consciousness.

 

People were walking around nervously, pacing, smoking, muttering to themselves, occasionally shouting out obscenities.

 

I set the table, yelled out what was about to happen, and asked people to take their seats.

 

No one did.

 

I started anyway - said a few, abbreviated opening words, one of the students read the first lesson, the other led the psalm. I went right to the gospel and then said a few words about it.

 

To my amazement, some of the folks actually sat down and were listening to me. The room was not exactly quiet, but the din had certainly decreased a few decibels and was now a dull buzz.

 

As I started to say the Eucharistic Prayer, one woman in the front - Helen, I'll never forget her - spoke up.  Helen's eyes looked like the last 20 or 30 years of her life had witnessed some pretty rough roads. Makeup clung to the deep wrinkles and lines in her face, her eyelids were a bright blue with a crooked line of mascara outlining them, and her lips were a misshapen bright cherry red.

 

She looked like a tragic clown in a very painfully human circus in this "Recreational Room".

 

"Hey, are you allowed to do that? I mean, being a woman and all," she asked in a gravelly voice and then took a long drag on her unfiltered cigarette.

 

"Yes, I am an ordained Episcopal Priest," I said, sounding every bit like a newly ordained and slightly insecure Episcopal Priest.

 

"Yeah, sure you are" she said, taking a drag from her cigarette, "and I’m the Queen of Sheba. Well, I can't take communion. Divorced, you know."

 

"Sure you can," I said, "Everyone is welcome at the Lord's Table."

 

She looked at the oblong utility table where I had set out the starched, white corporal, and had the shiny silver paten and chalice, raised an eyebrow of suspicion, shrugged her shoulders, and lit another cigarette from the one she had almost finished.

 

I got through the Eucharistic Prayer and marveled as most of the people in the room seemed to be paying close attention to what I was doing. Perhaps a memory from childhood or an earlier day was awakened, and they recognized this as a holy moment.

 

Even after the words of institution, the mood in the room remained solemn. As I prepared to distribute communion, Helen called out, "Hey, shouldn't we be singing something?"

 

“Sure,” I said. “Why don’t you lead us in one of your favorite hymns?” 

 

Oh, do be careful what you ask for. I asked her to sing. And so, she did.

 

She leaned back her head, closed her eyes and started singing in the most reverent tones I've ever heard, "She'll be comin' 'round the mountain when she comes. She'll be comin' 'round the mountain when she comes. . . ."

 

By the third verse, about a dozen or so people joined her. "She'll be driving six white horses, she'll be drivin' six white horses (big finish) WHEN. SHE. COOOMMMES!!"

 

You know what? In that moment, when the absurd met reality, and the profane intersected with the sacred, I knew that Jesus was already there, in that locked Recreational Room, on the third floor of the locked ward of the Solomon Carter Mental Health Center, in Lowell, MA. He is the bread (or, in this case, graham cracker) come down from heaven.

 

And, I had this epiphany. Jesus was fully present to us, but not just in the graham crackers and grapefruit juice. I had already figured that out. My epiphany was this: We hadn’t brought Jesus to church. We had only just brought the church to Jesus.

 

The ancient church did not meet in a building they called “the church”. They understood themselves to be the church. They celebrated Jesus in their midst in their homes.

 

And that, my friends, is really what it means to “Invite. Welcome. And, Connect.” Which I’m sure our guests will agree. The heart of this and every program of evangelism is about living out our baptismal vows and “seeking and serving the Christ in others.”

It’s about knowing that when you invite others to church, you are inviting them into a mystery: you are inviting the Christ in them into the church, the Body of Christ. You are inviting them to be in the presence of the living bread come down from heaven.

 

It’s about seeing in the other person the Sign of the Cross and not a dollar sign (meaning, a potential pledge unit). It’s about looking not on the outward appearance – who they are, how they dress or speak or what they believe – but at the contents of the heart.

It’s about knowing that everyone has suffered – is suffering – will suffer and that Jesus calls us into community with each other, because we need each other. That's how we heal.

It’s about connecting the Christ in you with the Christ in others and knowing that, when two or more are gathered together in his name, Jesus has promised to be present.

 

And, Jesus will be there. Is there. The “living bread come down from heaven.”

 

Even at the Solomon Carter Mental Health Center in Lowell, Massachusetts. Even here. In church: where everyone is (mostly) of sound mind and body and well dressed.

 

Author Rachel Held Evans, in her book, “A Year of Biblical Womanhood,” wrote: “This is what God's kingdom is like: a bunch of outcasts and oddballs gathered at a table, not because they are rich or worthy or good, but because they are hungry, because they said yes. And there's always room for more.”

 

Amen.