On the first Sunday night of the month, we had communion. It was never called Holy Communion, certainly not Eucharist. It was, however, a somber event. Before the service, the deacons’ wives gathered in the kitchen to prepare the grape juice and crackers, which were broken bits of unsalted saltines. Some churches used already cut crackers, which we derisively called chiclets, because they looked exactly like the tiny pieces of peppermint gum. The grape juice was in sanitary individual small glass cups—shot glass size, actually, and heavy. They fit in a round heavy metal tray with a thin metal casing to keep them from sliding. The cracker bits were passed on large patens (not that we knew that word). The service rarely varied. In our churches, the communion table was placed on the floor level in front of the pulpit, which was on a raised platform with a few steps up to it and the choir loft. This placement, I later learned, was to signify that both preaching and communion were of equal importance. In liturgical churches, the pulpit is off to one side (the sermons correspondingly shorter in length), and the Table is the centerpiece. Speaking of centerpieces: on the Sundays that we did not have communion, we usually had a floral display on the table. In summer real flowers created a bouquet; in other seasons, it might be silk flowers (not plastic!) or in November, a cornucopia of fake fruits and vegetables. Memory suggests that these were also the responsibility of the deacons’ wives. We gathered for Communion at seven, our usual hour. The pastor took a seat at a folding chair behind the table and read to us Paul’s account of the Last Supper in I Corinthians 11. You would think he might choose one of the Gospel accounts, but that would eliminate part of the misery of the service. Paul wrote, “Wherefore whosoever shall eat this bread, and drink this cup of the Lord, unworthily, shall be guilty of the body and blood of the Lord. But let a man examine himself, and so let him eat of that bread, and drink of that cup.” We (men, women, and children) were to spend time in examining ourselves while the organ played some appropriately solemn music. The deacons passed the heavy trays; the crackers first, then the grape juice. We held our little pieces of cracker until everyone had received one, and then the pastor said something like, Let us together eat the bread. The heavy trays of grape juice cups were then passed; I was always fearful of not holding the whole conveyance tightly enough, or spilling my juice. I held my cup out over my lap to protect my skirt as I waited. When everyone had a little cup, the pastor invited us to drink together. Then we placed our cups in tiny cup holders that were built into the pew in front of us, with rubber linings to protect the glass. The deacons picked them up later for their wives to wash in the kitchen. The music for the service included standards such as “There is a Fountain.” I’ll give you a taste of the gore we endured. There is a Fountain filled with blood drawn from Emmanuel’s veins, and sinners plunged beneath that flood lose all their guilty stains. The imagery is absolutely medieval, like the woodcuts of the crucifixion showing people holding cups to catch the blood spurting from Jesus’ side. In no other way did we mid-twentieth century people mimic that period, but once a month, we sang that song and others with similar sentiments. Later, when I found the Episcopal Church, I liked walking up to the railing—kneeling as we are able—to receive the bread and wine. It is an active sacrament; we do not wait passively in our pews to partake of the grace of bread and wine.
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Baptist GirlI was a conservative Baptist girl who grew up to become a career Christian, working first in a Baptist school and then in a Baptist college. For about three decades, it was very good until it wasn’t, and I had to leave. But the Baptists formed me. This is my homage to the good times and good people of the world I left, finally, at forty-three, when I became an Episcopalian. These are my memories; others might disagree with my recollections. So be it. Archives
January 2024
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