I want to tell you a story today. Actually, it is a story from Sue Garrison Meyer who is a Presbyterian minister serving a church high in the Rocky Mountains of Colorado. It is titled “Drop by Precious Drop” and was published in the 2015 book, There’s a Woman in the Pulpit [Rev. Martha Spong, ed. There’s a Woman in the Pulpit: Christian Clergywomen Share Their Hard Days, Holy Moments & the Healing Power of Humor. (Woodstock, VT: SkyLight Paths Publishing, 2015)]. It goes like this.
I always peek. “Bless these, your gifts.” I pray, and I always look down to make sure my hand is hovering safely and is in no danger of sending the pitcher flying. On some Sundays, we could have laughed at something like that, but we had just lost a woman dear to us all. Our hearts were hurting.
Most of the saints of our church die elsewhere. Winters in the Rocky Mountains are too long and too hard for our older members, so they leave in October, after they’ve seen the aspens flame one more time. And in the dark days of January and February, the phone calls come.
The rituals that might comfort us usually are conducted far away. All winter, the frozen ground of our cemetery lies under several feet of snow, so the funerals mostly take place elsewhere, in the communities where children and grandchildren have moved because our town has few jobs. Maybe in the summer there’ll be a memorial service, a scattering of ashes, but usually it’s just us, the faithful remnant now reduced by one, huddled in the chilly sanctuary on the first Sunday morning after sad news.
On those mornings, it seems especially poignant to share communion with the faithful of every time and place, in a church where we’ve shared communion so often with those who’ve gone before.
Ours is an old church for this part of the country, built in 1892, and lacking indoor plumbing until 2002—yes, the twenty-first century. It’s an austere, barnlike building, with a soaring ceiling and thin, clear glass in its windows, because the beauty of God’s creation here outshines any stained-glass artistry. The stove warms the air, at least to a point at which we can no longer see out breath, but throughout the winter the building’s bones remained chilled.
The communion table is reputed to be the only one ever used there. It’s a dainty piece of Eastlake furniture, and its marble top, cool to the touch even in July and August, has survived more than 120 years without a chip. On communion Sundays, we cover the bread with a good linen napkin while we hold choir practice and Sunday school. That way nobody’s bustling in with bread and juice at the last moment. There’s no danger of forgetting.
The system had never failed us, until that Sunday in February when I slowly understood that I was peeking down at a lovely, crusty loaf—and purple ice. Not just a delicate tracing of crystals across the surface of the blood of Christ I was preparing to pour out for us all, but a solid disk of frozen juice.
In panic, I risked a glance at my husband in the front pew. For once, his head was properly bowed. Still staying in the prayer, I picked up the pitcher and wiggled it gently. The ice didn’t budge. I tipped it over the chalice. Nothing dribbled out. I thought, almost hysterically, that I had found the one challenge that Christ never had to confront. On a day when the promise of resurrection was so important for my congregation to hear, I held the Popsicle of salvation.
The prayer had to end, and when I raised my head and looked out at the faces gazing back at me, I realized that I could trust the body of Christ in this place. I didn’t have to solve the problem of the frozen juice. All the while, I cradled the pitcher close, and I walked, first as close to the stove as I dared and then to the opposite side of the sanctuary and back.
Then I pronounced the words of institution and raised the pitcher and the cup so that the whole congregation could see whatever was going to happen.
Thanks be to God, the juice poured. Not all of it—chunks of ice came too, splashing dark droplets on the white linen.
The blood of Christ, poured out for the many.
I thought this was a timely story as we move past Thanksgiving and into the Advent and Christmas season for a couple of reasons. First, it is no secret that our building is aging. We have been blessed this year with a late start to the fall and winter-like temperatures. It wasn’t until a couple of weeks ago that we even had to think about turning the heaters on, and when we did, we discovered that not all of them are working. Yes, I know it is cold in the Fellowship Hall and in parts of the sanctuary, but the story I shared reminds us it could always be worse. At least we don’t have to worry about serving a Popsicle of salvation, nor do we have to gather around a wood-burning stove hoping to be warmed up enough that we can’t see our breath as we sing praises to Jesus. We are fortunate to live in a place where the inside temperature rarely drops below 55 degrees.
As I write this, I have just received the news that our heaters for the Fellowship Hall need some new parts to keep operating. This is not a quick turn-around. The heaters are old and parts to fit them are hard to come by. We will get them, but it could be another several weeks before they are here and installed. I know that it is chilly in the places where we congregate, but we are not freezing. So, throw on your layers, your favorite chunky sweater, and your coat. If you chill easily, go ahead and bring a blanket. And remember, we could be worshipping in the frozen beauty of the Rocky Mountains instead of in the New Mexican desert.
The second lesson, and the more ‘Godly’ one, is that we don’t have to be the ones to solve the problem of the frozen juice. As Rev. Meyer said, we can, “trust the body of Christ in this place.” We heard several times in the sermon series on the book of James that God is in control and we are not. Can we trust the body of Christ in our church, our homes, and wherever we find ourselves. Frozen juice and other inconveniences are not that big of a deal in the whole scheme of things. Sure, they might disrupt our (notice I said our and not God’s) normal way of doing things. They might even disrupt our way of life, at least temporarily. But is it the end of the world if the service of Holy Communion is reduced to a chunk of cold and crusty bread with nothing to wash it down with? Communion, as the term implies, is supposed to be about meeting with Jesus—communing with Him. We can do that anytime and anywhere. It doesn’t have to be about bread, juice, and some words that are 150 years old. Communion has to be about the condition of our hearts. Communion needs to be about putting God first, honoring God’s breath in our lungs and the imago dei in our souls, about finding the joy, and perhaps even the humor, in the things that otherwise would make us cringe and complain, and making the time to eagerly meet with Jesus. Communion is not about our comfort. It is about our blessings.
So, in the advice of the hymn writer let us all make it a priority to:
Count your blessings, name them one by one;
Count your blessings, see what God hath done;
Count your blessings, name them one by one;
Count your many blessings, see what God hath done.
May God’s blessings abound and Christ’s peace fill our hearts and souls during this holy season.
Pastor Koreen