The worship service I attended this morning concluded with Holy Communion. Despite the winter weather and the rampant germs, the method was “intinction.” One is given a broken off piece of bread from a server who presumably has clean hands (and a pure heart?) and then one dips it in the cup, hoping that the fingers of others have not previously entered the juice. While it is the form of communion that is most symbolic of our unity in Christ, many people balk at this kind of intimate sharing, especially during flu season. I will take my chances. We have, after all, just passed the peace. Every trace of active bacteria in the village already belongs to every one of us!
As the odds would have it, I was wearing a white fleece vest. My piece of bread was somewhat ragged, and the blood of Christ did indeed drip down my front, not such that anyone else would notice. Not to worry, I believe the vest is scotchgarded, and it wiped off quickly before I reached my seat. Nevertheless, in the quiet of the meditative moment, the kind woman in front of me pivoted around in her pew. I thought she was speaking to people-in-general, but it was to me. DID YOU GET SOMETHING ON YOUR CLOTHES? In her hand was a trusty orange Tide stain remover pen which she extended toward me. I gestured that all was well. I was fine. Clothes spotless. Soul, body, and garments washed in the blood.
