The Feast of Mystery

“It’s a feast!” Since when have those been calming words? I can just imagine Garrison Keillor scripting an entire “Lake Wobegon” monologue about the disdain his practical Lutheran neighbors would have for a feast as it could be interpreted as overindulgent and gluttonous. It would be more prudent to be practical and cut back on the choices and the servings and opt to have a potluck instead of a catered feast. The elders might even try to have “Babette’s Feast” banned from the Wobegon video stores to protect the youth from bad influence and films with subtitles. “It’s a feast!” Calming???

In our faith tradition, during Communion, we tear our own serving from the broken bread as it is passed from person to person. And there is much thought and concentration trying to find the best place to tear the bread that will result in a moderate, safe serving. During the Worship service for our Women’s Retreat, I faced the precarious position of tearing off more than a respectable portion. I was aghast at the piece in my hand. It was huge! My eyes involuntarily gave away my shock as they widened to the size of saucers and I looked in panic to the ones who had handed me the bread. Who better to have at hand than two ordained ministers (I guess some people need more help than others). I was frozen. What was I supposed to do with all that was in front of me? I faced my own liberal serving, the loaf of bread, the Communion cup and the need to share with the next person. “Pass the bread,” Anne offered as guidance. I obediently took the loaf and turned to share with the person on my left. I fumbled with words of “This is the body broken for you.” Then I turned back to confront my circumstance of how to address this random act of plenty. Anne looked into my eyes and spoke words of simple authority. “It’s a feast!” I calmed down immediately. How many times had she encouraged us to take a generous portion? I dipped the bread into the cup, took my first bite, swallowed, and offered the cup to the next: “This is the cup of Salvation,” I could say with more assurance. Then I returned to my feast, and couldn’t help but notice that I was still engaged with the Eucharist as the elements finished across the room. But I didn’t rush and I no longer felt embarrassed. I was nourished.

Perhaps the hiatus is an extension of this experience. Whether the correlation has more to do with the act of reaching for more, or being offered a reserve for a journey is still a mystery, but I am thankful for my guides along the way.