DENYING ME SUPPER

Growing up in the sixties as a Roman Catholic was no easy feat, despite my father leading the way.  I attended Mass every Sunday at St. Gabriel’s in Brooklyn.  I fell to my knees on cue to the nuns' clickers and ate broiled flounder on Fridays. I went to religious instruction classes on Wednesdays while all my Jewish classmates stared in envy as I left school early.  On Saturdays I went into that scary, dark booth to confess my sins and say penance (though this always was unsettling to me).  I even went on retreats regularly, becoming quite friendly with the nuns and priests.  And, I became president of the Catholic Youth Organization. The sixties was a time of great unrest in the Catholic Church with many clergy members throwing in the constraints of celibacy and marrying or having healthy yet forbidden relationships. We won’t discuss the dark places that some went to, because that is not what this is about.

I cannot say that I loved the church or its doctrine.  I cannot even say that it brought me great sustenance or comfort.  The message was mostly punitive; where if you did this or that, punishment awaited you.  It was always hard for me sitting through Mass though because my mother, a raving Atheist, gagged in disgust, whenever she came to church (why did she come?). My father was excommunicated because he had divorced his first wife who cheated on him.  I suffered interminably seeing him unable to receive communion when my sister and I, along with our friends, did receive the blessed bread of Christ.  I hated that and I visited many priests begging them to find a way to forgive this honest, giving, and somewhat depressed (being married to my mother!) man.  I never made any headway with that plea, and he continued attending church but not receiving sacraments, much to my chagrin.  I suspect that he died believing he would be punished in eternity forever.

For me, receiving communion was always the highlight of the service and I imagine that is the case for most folks who attend church.  It was solemn and soulful and when I returned to my pew, I got to close my eyes and pray fervently for God’s good graces to be bestowed upon me, and those I loved.  I was always struck by the beauty of repeating all the elements of the Last Supper right there in front of me, in which I got to participate.  This ritual brings comfort to most. 

Like many, I wandered away from the Catholic Church when I was in my late teens and early twenties.  None of my college friends were attending church, after all.  I was married in what was called a con-celebrated ceremony with my husband’s Episcopal priest and my Catholic priest sharing the service.  That seemed right at the time and it pleased my father.  However, I lived in Texas when I had my first child and had him baptized in the Episcopal Church.  It wasn’t a particularly deep decision made for any particularly ecclesiastic reason. Truth be told, I really liked my childbirth teacher and her husband was an Episcopal priest, so this made perfect sense to me!

In the eighties I moved back from Texas to Long Island, and attended an Easter service in St. Mary’s Episcopal Church in Hampton Bays.  It was lovely and the priest was fun and contemporary.  When we went to communion, he had jellybeans in the chalice and he thought is was great fun.  I did too, and after the joke was over and he served communion in the normal bread and wine fashion, I knew I was hooked.  Imagine a church with a sense of humor and one where the priest was not only married with kids, but in the process of getting a divorce! I attended that church for the next 12 years and was confirmed as an Episcopalian as well.   Each of my babies was baptized there and I grew to love the liturgy and the modernistic, sophisticated, nurturing, all welcoming ways of the Episcopal Church. 

So, here is my complaint.  All are welcome at God’s altar.  This is said in most Episcopal Churches before anyone comes to the altar rail.  Some priests mention “all baptized Christians” but many do not, and communion is for everyone.  This makes complete sense to me, because Jesus would not have been picking and choosing who can and who can’t have some bread and wine. 

I understand the whole Catholic “transubstantiation” thing and that Catholics believe that this wine becomes the “precious blood” but do they really, really think they are drinking blood?  Of course not.  So, when a Catholic priest stands up on the altar before serving Eucharist and announces that only “Catholics who have received First Holy Communion are invited to receive communion” I am deeply insulted.  I am insulted not for myself, because disregarding my “conversion,” I am in fact a legitimate “Catholic” under those stipulations.  But, how dare any man, despite having been ordained and gaining four “magic fingers” deny anyone the symbolic bread and wine that represents this historical last meal of Jesus and his 12 best friends?  I mean, where did this designation come from?  It is certainly not in any bible I’ve ever read. Why would it be?  After all, would Jesus have said, “Hey, you can have some bread and wine tonight, but not you or the guy next to you. Only certain ones of us qualify.” This is an arbitrary man-made rule and I say, “all are welcome at God’s altar. “

So, when I march up to communion along with my Anglican husband and I suspect many a Lutheran, Presbyterian and who knows who all else, know that I mean business and I will not be denied the bread and wine that symbolize the goodness and generosity of much of what is right in this world.  So far, I have yet to see an authenticity checker at the Catholic altar, so only God would know who is who and I believe with all of my heart that no matter what, He is so glad to see you and honored to have you share  in His meal.