At the Rail

Hands reaching, heads bowed, the murmurs of “The body of Christ, the bread of Heaven” repeated again and again.  Each time I get to serve at the rail, distributing the broken body of Christ to cupped or crossed hands I am exhilarated and humbled.  There is an incredible amount of joy in breaking bread together and yet, I am also aware of the deeply sacred and intimate act that is our sharing in Christ’s body and blood. 

Everything in our liturgy orients us to this place—the sharing of bread and wine as communion with God, with one another, with all those who have gone before us and all who will come after us, with those present and with those who are absent.  It is the crescendo of the liturgical movement, the climax of the story, it draws us together into the body of Christ.  The truth of the Eucharistic feast is that we may all partake—rich and poor, black and white, republican and democrat, conservative and liberal.  It is the place, both physically and spiritually, that we all come together as one because it is not about us; it is about God.

The Methodist have a hymn, “Be known to us in breaking bread but do not then depart/Savior abide with us, and spread thy table in our heart.”  When we celebrate The Great Thanksgiving, we are not only recalling Jesus’s words and actions at The Last Supper or even simply giving voice to the sacrifice that he makes upon the cross, we are being made one body filled with the grace of Jesus Christ, that he may dwell in us, and we in him.  As God abides in us and we are nourished with the spiritual food, we then go forth into the world carrying this renewed sense of being—not as individuals, but as the body of Christ brought together in this sacramental act of worship.

We live in a time when our differences do not simply threaten to divide us, they threaten to annihilate us.  Our desire to be individuals, to be right, to be powerful has become stronger than our joy in the bonds of common life.  It has become increasingly difficult not only to “cross the aisle” of governmental politics, but to “cross the street” of social politics as well.  We hear buzz words like “gun control”, “presidential campaign”, “police shootings”, and “gay marriage” and flock to our corners ready to fight and defend our cause.   We no longer listen to one another, but throw words at one another as if we were catapulting boulders on some medieval field of battle.  It is at this point, when we can finally recognize and understand our own behavior, that we must turn to our liturgy for guidance and support.

We come to the rail and kneel in the recognition that we cannot trust ourselves to be right nor worthy.  We come to the rail because we believe there is something greater than ourselves and words alone cannot express it.  We come to receive—not to give or even to take.  And when we cannot come, others come to us—in the pew, in the hospital or nursing home, or even in our homes.  They come bearing Christ that we might all be part of the great communion—the body of Christ.  Because as the Body of Christ, we recognize that it is not our differences that divide us.  Our differences unite us.  What is the heart without the lungs?  The hand without the fingers?  The ankle without the foot?  The body is made up of vastly different parts, united as one in its ability to function not because all the parts act in the same way, but because each part is tasked with its own unique work.

As the body of Christ, we are each unique but we are all the same.  This is the great paradox of who we are as Christians.  We do not have to agree, believe, or act the same.  Instead we recognize that our differences are not cause for division and fear, they are cause for strength and hope.  That is what we do at the rail each week—we come together to remember our strength and our hope.