Grace in the Air
One of the first things I remember learning when I got serious about The Episcopal Church was how careful you were supposed to be with the communion bread. Having grown up in two different church traditions that didn’t have such a reverent view of communion, I was taken by surprise the first time I saw a wafer fall to the ground and a priest stoop to grab it and eat it.
“5-second rule,” was all I could think when I saw it.
But, I asked about it later, and he explained that the sacred nature of the bread meant that the only way to be appropriately reverent when a piece dropped on the floor was to consume it. And that made enough sense to me, so I went with it.
But once I became a priest, I noticed something that didn’t quite fit into that view. It’s this thing that happens, nearly every time I lift the bread and break it in two—the fraction, is what we call that—and when I raise the bread for the fraction, as the host breaks in two with a snap, I see these tiny flecks of bread that sort of float off into the air.
And I just can’t help but think—that’s the body of Christ, too. Right? Shouldn’t we do something to capture it, to try to consume it, to make sure we treat it with the appropriate reverence? But, of course, we can’t. Those flecks of bread are off, no way to catch them. No way to treat them with appropriate reverence. And this is happening all over the place—at so many churches with altars just like ours—with little bits of the body of Christ flung out into the air all over creation.
And who knows what happens next? Who knows how far those molecules float, where they are carried, or where they come to rest. Who knows if some unsuspecting person somewhere far from the church’s altar—where we celebrate and too often seek to confine these holy mysteries—without even suspecting it, might inhale them, might consume them?
Someone, walking down the street, breathing Christ in without any intention or awareness of him and with no sense of reverence at all.
Maybe they consume him with despondence or sadness—in the wake of some tragic news, in the midst of an argument with a spouse, in the tediousness and frustration of everyday life. Or maybe, it’s not that. Maybe it’s consumed with exhilaration—out on a first date, during some joyous time with good friends, or maybe while dancing.
Lucky for them, lucky for all of us, reverence isn’t a requirement for a meeting with grace.
Grace just floating out there. Grace beyond the church’s bounds. Grace that is far from our ability to control it. Grace just in the air.
This is the vision of the season we now enter, Epiphany Season. It’s teaching us that the grace of God is made known in all kinds of unexpected places in this world. That God’s goodness and presence extends far more widely than we could be comfortable with, far beyond our ability to control it.
Rejoice in that, and breathe deeply. Because the wideness of God’s mercy isn’t just a gift for those on the outside of the sacred boundaries we try to draw, it’s for all of us. The unknown particles of the sacred reach even you and me.
