Casting Bread
Read Romans 12:1-21
Sometimes bread makes me cry . . .
One of the marks of being “married to the ministry” is that people outside our church doors talk to me about religion and what they want it to mean. They talk about faith and their problems with it. They tell me stories of leaving the church as young adults, stories of feeling abandoned, stories of being lost. They ask me what I think about organized religion, television evangelists, salvation for sinners. And, inevitably, they ask me, “Just what do you get out of going to church?”
I want to tell them it all started when I was a child; I went to church to feel the warmth and the responsiveness of the people I loved. Going to church was never an issue in my family; we went to church because everybody went to church. It was a small town, and that’s what people did on Sunday mornings. I sometimes went with my grandma and my Aunt Aurelie to sit in their glass-fronted-sanctuary in a nestled-in-the-woods United Methodist church. My grandma kept candy in her purse, buried under Kleenex and her glasses. I chewed the candy and always wondered how much longer the prayer or the sermon would last. My aunt would lean over from her aisle seat and whisper, “There’s a cardinal in the tree,” or would point to rabbits hiding under shrubs. Grandmothers love us unconditionally of course – mine still does – and Aunt Aurelie made me feel that I could do anything, that I was supremely special just for existing. I felt especially golden sitting between them in church, even as an adult.
My aunt was one of those people who turned ordinary occurrences into great moments of entertainment. I always knew we were on some kind of excursion to make memories anytime I was with her. She used to walk me to the corner store for bread. We walked to the river; we sat on the dock with our feet dangling over the water. We threw day-old bread to the river ducks under hot summer sun. I remember how the ducks would crowd in a circle and quack contentedly as they ate. They moved as a frenzied group and quacked louder as they half swam, half flew to the next bite of bread. Sometimes I fed them the crust and kept the middle section of the bread for myself, liking the way I could pinch it into a cube in my hand before throwing it in my mouth.
Just what do I get out of going to church?
I want to tell the people who ask about the connection I feel between being that loved little girl when I was with my aunt and being a loved adult when I walk through the sanctuary doors of a church. I want to tell them that sometimes when I take communion, the smell of the bread makes me cry. It reminds me of the ducks and those summer days with my aunt, the times of being small and safe and untouched by the storms of life. I am standing in church holding bread in my hands; I am sitting at the river’s edge with my head on my aunt’s shoulder; I am throwing bread on the water. I am feeling that inexpressible gift of knowing God’s Son, and that gives rise to this belief: there are times when eating bread is the only thing that matters because it means you’re safe. I want to tell them that even if there never was an Auntie in your life, there can always be a God, and he is found in every church where someone believes and waits and prepares a table for you.
I want to tell them that what I get out of going to church sometimes defies explanation. I am often without the right words when I try to talk about God, when I think about his gifts to me, when I hold that small bit of bread in my hands as communion begins. I think in some ways it comes down to this: that belonging to a church is receiving a gift every week of knowing that one person can make a difference; it is the gift of knowing that what you give comes back to you; it is the gift of understanding that even as a grownup, when you feel small and unsafe and ravaged by the storms of life, there is a God who gives you other people’s stories to teach you the best things he can. He throws the stories right in front of your face. He pulls at your sleeve with his great big hands and points his finger toward the guy in the pew behind you at church or nods his head toward the woman three feet to your left. God elbows you in the side like an annoying older brother and pulls your hair long enough that you finally twist your head to look in his direction and you see so many people who have overcome tremendous heartache or have survived seemingly insurmountable odds that you can’t help but try to put your life back together. Look around you, God says. You can do this. Life is still about living and they’ve already given you plans.
Just what do I get out of going to church?
I want to tell the people who ask that we throw bread to the world . . . and we wait . . and someday it will make a difference. I want to tell them you are always left with the hope that moments will continue to arrive where the people you love are free and running with their arms open wide . . . you are always waiting for that spirit of people being children again . . . you are willing that spirit to land in your lap to reward you; you are receiving the world and accepting a wonderful gift each time you open your heart to the warmth of God. You offer yourself; you cast your bread and your time and your talent on the water never knowing . . . and one day it comes back to you, and the world is a better place.
Just what do I get out of going to church?
I want to tell them everything I can . . . and that’s the answer.
Everything I can.
Jenneth Wright
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