World Communion Sunday

Philippians 1:27

        I am so delighted our lectionary schedule has turned to Philippians during the month of October.  It is a precious jewel often overlooked because it is not one of the gospels and some folks are put off by the Apostle Paul. Never the less, it might be my favorite New Testament book.

        Paul loved the congregation in Philippi. They were gracious and loving in every aspect of ministry. Unlike his letters to Corinth, Paul was not trying to calm turbulent complications. The folks in Philippi seemed to genuinely like each other. Unlike his theological treatise to the Romans, Paul was not writing a doctrinal analysis on grace.  It was just a letter written to friends he greatly missed. Sometimes Paul can come across sternly. Sometimes he takes the role of a disciplinarian. To the Philippians he writes, “I celebrate you just as you are.”

        I wish we would share those words more often. We often place such high expectations on others. We impulsively evaluate folks based on their economic status, the number of degrees on their wall, their political leanings, their cultural background, their sexual orientation, their marital status, and the list goes on and on. We hang out with folks who reflect our image of perfection and then wonder why we are so bored. What did Paul have in common with the folks at Philippi. They were raised in a Greek culture dominated by a Roman political system.  Paul was born a Jew and trained in a synagogue. They lived their entire existence within a radius of ten miles. Paul traveled the world. They were shopkeepers, he was a missionary. They raised families, he never married. They had nothing in common except a belief in the transformational grace of a God who defied death and redefined the very meaning of life.

        When did you first discover God celebrated your uniqueness? My epiphany happened on a Sunday morning at Memorial Presbyterian Church in Greensboro North Carolina. I was seven years old. In 1957, 99.9% percent of all Southern Presbyterian churches served communion four times a year. In 1957 no one was allowed to take communion in the Southern Presbyterian Church unless you were a confirmed member. Confirmation class usually happened when one turned 16. Seven year olds were never invited to participate because someone at the General Assembly office in Atlanta Georgia decreed no seven year old could fully understand the significance of the sacrifice of Jesus for the sins of the world. That is understandable because today I am 70 and I am still not sure I understand it.

        63 years ago, on World Communion Sunday, the minister stood before his congregation and boldly declared we were more than just Presbyterians. He probably quoted Paul, “In Christ there is no distinction between Jew and Gentile, male or female, free or slave.” Then he began to adlib, “On this special day there is no division between Presbyterian or Baptist, Catholic or Methodist, Church of Christ or Lutheran. In Christ we are all accepted as part of God family.”

        I do not remember the minister, who happened to be my father, say when it comes to communion God makes no distinction between a child and an adult but that is what was running through my mind.        The bread was distributed to the congregation. The body of Christ, broken for me, was passed right under nose. I tried my best to grab a piece of bread but my arm was frozen by a longstanding tradition excluding anyone who did not meet the criteria established by the office of ministry in the city of Atlanta Georgia.

        But God, who will not be deterred by denominational practices, works in mysterious ways. God, who speaks a thousand tongues, whispered into the ear of the woman sitting beside me. While everyone else was praying silently she said, “Did you want to take the bread?”

I nodded.  

“Do you know what it means?”

I nodded a second time.

She responded, “Then take the cup.”

        I looked at my father standing behind the communion table. I looked at my mother sitting in the choir. I looked at the elder bringing the communion tray to my pew. Then I turned and looked into the eyes of God. She smiled and said, “It’s OK.”

        Getting those cups out of the communion tray is not always easy under the best of circumstances. When you are seven and defying a sacred edict of the Church it is almost impossible. My hand was shaking so bad I spilled half the juice onto my white shirt. The rest reached my lips. My earthly thirst was quenched; my spiritual journey launched.

        When I got home, there was a lot of explaining to do. My efforts to remove the stains had been less than successful making my sin self-evident. Mom and Dad read me the riot act but then, simultaneously, they acknowledged something holy had happened. They realized even seven year olds are eligible to be permanently stained by God’s grace.

        On World Communion Sunday the church puts aside it’s institutional rubrics and simply accepts that God celebrates us just the way we are.  Male/female, rich/poor, straight/gay, young/old, republican/democrat, red, yellow, black, white, come together to break bread and lift the cup. We, who are stained by the grace of God, come to the table.