Refusing the Eucharist

They have a Methodist service every Tuesday at St. Catherines.  Other denominations have other days, but Tuesday is ours.  Since it's near the first of the month, the pastor had communion for the group that was there.  I refused. Normally, I'll take communion when it's offered, but with spring making the trees bud, I've been having a terrible allergy attack today and yesterday, so I figured I should refuse.

I refused to take communion on all occasions for many years.  It bothered my wife to no end.  "Why can't you be normal?"  She'd ask.  That's a good question, actually.  I wish I had an answer.

David Elliot and Minka Sprague would try to bring the cup to me in case the problem was that I didn't want to walk down to the front of the church, but I'd cross my chest and refuse.  David's spent the better part of fifty years trying to save me.  He's still trying.  He's taught me a lot about not giving up.

My problem with communion began when I started to seriously consider what the eucharist suggested and what it represented, and what sort of man I was.  A man, who I never knew, who owed me not even a kind glance, sacrificed his body and his life for my sake.  Even if Jesus wasn't real.  Even if Jesus was just some misguided soul who believed he was the son of God, the idea that anyone, divine or not, would suffer on my behalf made me feel extremely unworthy and ungrateful.  The idea that he might actually be the personification of God made it so much worse.

"This is my body, broken and whipped.  Pierced by a spear and nailed to a cross, a cruel Roman Cross,  to die--for you"

"This is my blood, spilled on the ground and pulled from my body by inconceivably cruel people--for you."

Not for me.  Not for me.  Not for ME! I'm sorry.  I'm not worthy.  Not for me.  Please, not for me.

Break your body and spill your blood for these people I love; I will too, but not for me.  Please!  Not for me.

I take communion now.  It still bothers me more than you can imagine, but I began to consider that my master has commanded me to do this, and I should make some effort at obedience,  so I do it, but always with regret.  Maybe the humility that comes from regularly facing my own unworthiness is good for me.  I try not to question it.

"This is my body.  I chose to break it for you."

"This is my blood.  I chose to spill it for you."

"Eat this, drink this, in remembrance of me.  In remembrance of what I chose to do--for you."

Being a Christian shouldn't be easy.  You have to make hard choices.  This is one.