Miles' ministry

I'd seen Miles many times in the past, usually at the Inner City Way of the Cross and other down town events, but I'd never met him. I think he was part of the parish I grew up in. He's not very tall and wears neat but shaggy not-quite-mullet hair down to his shoulders, which looks right on him. Something about him reminds me of a picture I grew up with at Universal Church Supplies -- Willis Wheatley's Jesus Christ, Liberator -- his genuine smile, I think.

Lee and I ended up attending mass at St. Joseph's Basilica instead of our own parish on Sunday due to last minute chauffeuring duties. The pre-Vatican music left me cold, and I felt a little lost in the cavernous nave full of strangers. So I noticed Miles right away when it came time for communion, not because of his familiar face, but because of his smile. He was off to the side, a minister of the cup, next to an older man performing the same ministry. The difference was that Miles was grinning ear to ear as he offered the sacred wine to communicants. When I stood before Miles after receiving the host from the solemn priest, Miles grinned, looked me in the eye, and offered me the cup, saying, "The Blood of Christ, Sis."

That "Sis" took me aback. The combination of his smile as he handed me the cup, and his term of endearment/familiarity/informality went straight to my heart. I grinned back and said my most heartfelt "Amen!" Then I drank, gave the cup back to Miles, and smiled all the way back to my pew, tears inexplicably filling my eyes. I may have actually laughed out loud when I sat down beside Lee! I closed my eyes and said, "Thank you!" and had a moment of stillness before watching Miles' ministry out of the corner of my eye for the rest of the communion procession, which is a long stretch in such a big church. Miles gave the cup  to everyone with equal joy. At a lull when he was waiting for the next communicant, our eyes met, he smiled a bigger smile, and I laughed again.

What was going on? The thing is, I've taken a course on the Eucharist at a theological college. I've learned about the mystical understanding of communion, its history, and the beauty in God offering God's self to us through the consecration of earthy, daily things like bread and wine so that they become nourishment for our souls. But for some reason, my encounter with this one minister of the cup helped me to really understand that communion isn't just happening because we're all drinking holy wine from the same cup. It's not just about partaking in a meal that represents the banquet in heaven. It's not just about everyone in our own little holy bubbles receiving Jesus. It's also about connecting with God by connecting with each other. Miles knows that we're all brothers and sisters, and he evoked that communion by calling me Sis. His joy in sharing the cup was contagious, and I revel in the happiness that came from that encounter, grateful for what I received from this stranger, my brother, Miles.

I feel like I'm not explaining myself very well. It could be one of those experiences where "you had to be there." But really, communion happens every time I go to church, though it has never touched me quite that way before. I have a sense that if we could all feel that kind of happiness -- that kind of communion -- more often, we wouldn't need churches. The world would be a totally different place. Eucharist means thanksgiving, and after years of "receiving communion" I found myself giving thanks not only for bread and wine, body and blood, but for all my brothers and sisters who were receiving it with me, "in communion" with me -- and everyone and everything else, too.

When Mass ended, I made a beeline to Miles to thank him for his joyful ministry, and he was as humble as you might expect, almost embarrassed by my appreciation. I don't think I was able to express to him how his actions touched me and deepened my experience of communion, but mystical moments are difficult to explain even after a few days of reflection, as you can probably tell. All I can say is that it was a God moment unlike any other, and the gratitude and joy are with me still.

Thanks, Miles, for waking me up!

A Sunday daydream...

As I sat in church on a Sunday morning two years ago, listening to religious language that gave God only one gender and excluded the full participation of 50% of the human race (and would only get worse with the new translation of the Roman Missal), an oft-recurring daydream came to me for the first time...

People come to the church on a Sunday morning, but rather than going into the building, all of the women stay together on the steps and sidewalk outside. One of them brings a guitar, another sets up a small table, two more bring earthenware chalices, and several young girls pass out song books. As mass begins inside the church, the women outside, young and old, raise their voices in joyous song to begin a liturgy that includes femininity along with the masculine.

Inside the church, the men conclude their opening hymn, as the final verse of the women's song wafts into the church, sweet and clear. The men look at one another, confused. Some of them frown, but a dozen or so (who have daughters and wives who have made them well aware of the sin of sexism) smile and slip out the door to join the women.

The Roman Catholic woman priest invites her congregation to begin with the same sign of the cross as the men inside, only with inclusive words that speak of the All-Holy Mystery: "In the name of God, Source of All Being, Eternal Word and Holy Spirit," and the women (and the few men who have joined them) respond with reverence and enthusiasm. They sing Glory to God, scripture is loudly and joyfully proclaimed from the top of the church steps, and as three women sing the verses of the psalm in gorgeous harmony, a few more men and their sons trickle out of the church to pray with their wives, daughters, mothers, and sisters.

After the Gospel reading, the woman priest invites several of the crowd -- who have discussed the scripture with her in advance -- to give the homily together, and comments are invited from the listeners, responsive women  and men who give thoughtful reflections on the lessons they have learned from the Word, and how they plan to live more like Christ in the week ahead.

Then the entire crowd begins the creed, "I believe in God, the Tender Almighty..." followed by the prayers of the faithful, which are voiced by the gathered community as even more men come out of the church to join the women, whose eucharist prayer emphasizes the priesthood of all. The outside congregation prays for the pope and their local bishops, naming both women and men among them.

Inside the building, the male congregation is rapidly dwindling. With every sung eucharistic response that wafts in through the windows, a few more venture outside. By the time the crowd begins to pray "Our Father and Mother in heaven..." the priest and two acolytes are alone in the church. They look at one another, the priest shrugs, picks up the chalice and paten, and the three process through the empty church to the small altar outside -- just in time to share a joyous sign of peace with everyone.

As the communion song begins, the female and male priest stand side by side to offer the chalices to the people, who share them with each other until everyone has partaken of the eucharistic feast. Then two small children bring the chalices back to the priests, announcing, "The Body of Christ." The man and the woman, both of whom have been ordained as Catholic priests (though the woman is not yet fully recognized by Rome) say "Amen," and receive communion last of all, signifying their equality in the community, and their servanthood. Then they wash the vessels with the help of the children while another song of thanksgiving is sung by the congregation.

As the liturgy comes to its conclusion, the two priests pray the closing prayers together, and then briefly confer before announcing that next Sunday, if the weather is fine, mass for all will be held under the trees in the park next door because all of creation is a holy place. If rain is in the forecast, they say, everyone is welcome into the church for an inclusive eucharist, and in either case, both priests will preside together.

And all the people say, "Amen." 

As the final song is sung, young children moved by the Spirit (and others not so young),dance.

I can see it all. Can't you?