Communion: (n) the service of Christian worship at which bread and wine are consecrated and shared.
I get the same sensation when I go to Red Lobster with a friend and he or she insists, with a giggle, as the cheddar bay biscuits arrive, and they gleefully take one from the basket, that, “This is what Red Lobster is all about!”
I nod (knowing that soon I will probably nod off.)
Red Lobster is not about the cheddar bay biscuits. It’s about the seafood.
Just like baseball games are not about the peanuts and the Cracker Jacks. There’s a ball, a bat and a game.
And marriage is not about starting a family. It’s really about how much you enjoy having sex with this one person and hope you can keep it up for the rest of your life while you have a family.
I find myself going to church from time to time–reluctantly.
I don’t like that about me. It seems jaded. In this season of agnosticism it smacks of the predictable.
But you see, in church there’s just too much emphasis on the cheddar bay biscuits, the Cracker Jacks and the family.
Many of them center their whole agenda around communion–a symbolistic representation of the blood and body of Jesus Christ, which he gave for the sins of mankind.
It’s disconcerting to me.
First there’s the thought that I am such a piece of shit that God had to kill His own kid to try to make up for my buffoonery.
Then there’s the notion that a dynamic spirit which walked in the flesh among us for thirty-three years only gained significance in the last few hours that he hung, as an alleged criminal, on a cross.
What an insult to all things loving and eternal.
Yet if you lodge an objection, somehow or another you become apostate–which, if you don’t know what that means, is the religious system’s way of telling you that you don’t belong.
The truth of the matter is, I admire the hell out of Jesus.
Long before he bled, he led me into an understanding of how we might begin to see God’s will done on Earth as it is in heaven.
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